Breakwater

by Jack Hardin

  Cruz had spent the majority of his sentence in the maximum security section of Walton Correctional in DeFuniak Springs. Jet’s brows furrowed as he digested the information on the screen. He leaned forward in an unconscious attempt to validate what he was seeing. During his incarceration, Cruz had two cellmates. The last one was a Sam Webster, who was still in when Cruz was released. But the first cellmate… Jet pinched the base of his nose and tried to think through a sudden wave of cognitive dissonance—one of those truly rare moments when you don’t believe your eyes and find it impossible to digest the information in front of you.

  Cruz’s first cellmate had been none other than Alex Serrano, the founder of Hope House.

  Jet stared blankly at Alex’s name. He clicked on Alex’s profile, and a picture loaded on the screen. His hair was cut short, as per prison regulation, a far cry from the ponytail he sported now.

  Jet sat back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. He knew well enough that alliances were often formed in prison; an inmate with a dark imagination and starved opportunity ended up paired with one possessing the means to help him carry his out.

  When Jet first met Alex here in this very office, Alex had presented himself as a reformed killer, someone whose twenty years in prison had given him ample time to reflect on how he could make amends for the wrong he had done. But now, Jet was beginning to think he, and many others, had been fed a false narrative.

  He navigated to Google and performed a web search for Alex Serrano, adding the words “Hope House” to refine his results. The search returned pages of articles. He clicked on the first link. It was from last year. The leading picture showed a proud Alex in front of the shelter, shoulder to shoulder with Carlos Hernandez and several other donors.

  Jet’s mind felt clouded, and he couldn’t understand it. If Alex was working with Cruz, if they were both complicit in Juanita’s disappearance, then why hire him to find her?

  He wouldn’t have to wait long for an answer. At that moment, his front door swung open, and Alex Serrano stepped inside.

  He was holding a gun, and it was pointed at Jet.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The door slammed shut, leaving Ellie and the guard alone at this end of the hallway. He had seen Juanita too, and just as he started to reach for his gun, Ellie slipped behind him and grabbed his wrist while throwing her free hand behind her back and slipping her fingers through her hair. They wrapped around the hilt of the knife just as he threw her hand off of his.

  He froze as the cool edge of the blade pressed hard into his flesh. She applied even more pressure, and a thick drop of blood coursed down his neck, staining the rim of his white collar.

  Ellie pressed her lips close to his ear. “One wrong move and I carve your throat.” He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Her next words came out calm, fully absent of emotion. “Your key card. Where is it?” He winced as she applied more pressure to the blade.

  “Right… jacket pocket.”

  “When you finally get out of prison,” she whispered, “I hope you remember this moment.” With that, she removed the blade from his throat and shoved off of him. Before he could react, she swiveled and entered a backward spin, bringing her leg out straight and into a wide arc. The back of her heel connected hard with his temple. As she brought her leg back down and found her footing on three inch high heels, she watched as two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle crumpled to the floor. She squatted down and quickly rifled through his jacket, coming out with the key card before flipping up his blazer and slipping his weapon from the holster: a .38 Special.

  She didn’t have time to check his pockets for a phone, but she needed to call the police. So with expert speed, she thumbed the cylinder release and checked the load—five rounds of +P ammo—before closing the cylinder. Then she set a knee on the floor, lowered her head, extended the pistol toward the ceiling, and fired off two shots.

  Down the hall, lively chatter and boisterous laughter suddenly morphed into a chaos of panic-stricken, terrified screams. Guests fell to the floor while others scurried down the front hallway, stealing quick glances in Ellie’s direction as they made a frenzied escape.

  Ellie paid them no attention. She stepped to the side as she swiped the key card against the reader. It beeped. She braced herself and flung open the door.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Alex’s steeled expression was as confident as it was apathetic. His hand, clasping a semi-automatic pistol, did not tremble; there was no uncertainty in his eyes, no shake in his voice. He told Jet to lean forward and place his palms on the desk, and then, keeping the gun trained on the PI, he took several steps forward. His smile was twisted, his eyes bright and playful, as if he were enjoying the moment. Jet realized that he was seeing the former convict without his mask. “You don’t look surprised to see me, Jet.”

  “You shared a cell with Victor Cruz.” Jet’s tone resembled more of a question. He was still processing the connection.

  “Yes. And he was a slob. A few months in a cell with that man was enough for a lifetime. But he is a good manager. Quite skilled at operations.” He clicked his tongue a few times. “How did you find Victor, anyway?”

  “I don’t think that matters at this point. Do you?”

  “No. No, I don’t guess it does. That is, unless you told someone else. Then that would be a problem. Did you tell anyone else, Jet?”

  “No,” he lied. “I work alone. And I found Victor through watching that old fire station in Fort Myers.” Jet was silently cursing himself for failing to lock his office door. His concealed carry rested against his right ankle, but with the position Alex had him in, there was no way he could reach it in time. “I don’t understand why you hired me. Why bring in someone to investigate an enterprise you’re a part of?”

  “Yes,” Alex smirked. “I can see the conflict from your point of view. It’s simple, really. Carlos Hernández is one of Hope House’s most gracious donors. When he caught wind that Juanita disappeared and the detective hit a dead end, he wrote me a check and told me to hire a private investigator. I thought with you being a new PI and three hours from Miami there was no chance that you would take my request seriously. So when you showed up at Hope House, I must say I was a bit disappointed. But,” he smiled again, “my mistake.” Alex nodded toward Jet. “You have a weapon on you, correct?”

  There was no sense in lying about it. “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “My ankle. Right one.”

  “Please stand up and turn around. Then move away from the desk and get down on your left knee. Place your right hand behind your back.”

  Jet did as he was told.

  “Now, use only your thumb and forefinger to pull up your pant leg and remove the gun from the holster. Toss it toward the desk.” Jet complied, careful to keep his movements slow and easy. When the gun slid beneath his desk chair, Alex ordered him to return to his feet. “Empty your pockets and turn them out.” Thirty seconds later, Jet’s wallet, a pen, and several coins were lying on the floor.

  “Now stand up and let’s go outside.” Jet came to his feet and slowly turned. “You’re lucky,” Alex said. “I was on my way to your house when I saw the light on in your office and your car out front. So let me just say that if you try anything foolish, I will continue my route to your house when I’m done with you.”

  Jet glared at him. Linda, his wife, was home and two of their small grandchildren were staying overnight. “Don’t you dare threaten my family,” he snapped.

  Alex motioned toward the door with the gun. “Outside.” Jet went out the door and made his way down the steps as Alex flicked off the office light and followed behind him. A white Ford Fusion was parked next to his Maxima. Alex opened the front passenger door and motioned with his gun. “Get in,” he said. “You’re driving.”

  Jet ducked his head and slid onto the seat before maneuvering his legs around the console and sitting into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?”r />
  “Head into Cape Coral. Just stay on Pine Island Road. I’ll let you know where to go after that.” Alex kept his gun trained on Jet and handed him the keys. Jet started the car and pulled into the road, his mind abuzz with possible scenarios that might get him out of this alive. Alex had threatened his family, and he had no doubt that Alex was the kind of man to make good on such a promise. If Jet’s time was up tonight, if this was how it all ended, he was going to make sure this deceptive monster’s life ended too.

  They drove in tense silence for several minutes, passing through the inky darkness covering Little Pine Island before crawling past a tucked-in Matlacha and coming over the bridge into Cape Coral. Jet stopped at the red light at Burnt Store Road, his eyes searching for a police cruiser. The light turned green, and he continued to head east, driving for ten minutes before speaking. “Why?” he asked.

  “Why?” Alex repeated, as if the answer were already painted in the sky. “Jet, the prison system…” He huffed. “It’s broken. They stash you away for a couple decades and expect you to come out reformed. But I did learn something while I was in there. Everyone, and I mean everyone, Jet, loves a good redemption story. The world is thirsty for them, for tangible examples that people can and do change. I’m the poster child—” Alex interrupted himself with a hearty chuckle. “Forgive the pun,” he said. He cleared his throat and continued. “I am the poster child for reform. A man spends twenty years locked up for killing an old lady. Then while he’s tucked away from society, he gets his college degree before getting out and starting a shelter in the very neighborhood he used to haunt. That man becomes the example of what it looks like to turn your life around. Everyone likes to point at a story like that to prove that prison makes men better.” Alex grimaced and shook his head. “Well, you know, it doesn’t work. Do you want to know how many times I got raped before I went to prison?”

  “Alex, I—”

  “None. Zero.”

  “You want to know how many men raped me in my first year on the inside?”

  “I—”

  “Eight.”

  “Want to know how many guards let them? I’ll tell you. All of them. They all just stood to the side smirking, looking the other way while it all happened. So by the time Victor Cruz is thrown into my cell and tells me about a little deal he made with the devil, I asked him where I should sign.”

  “Your suffering in prison doesn’t give you the right to turn around and harm others,” Jet replied angrily. “You’re still responsible for how you choose to respond.”

  “You’re right. And I chose a good path. For me.” He used his chin to point to the sign marking I-75 South. “Get on the highway,” he said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see. I like giving surprises.”

  Jet turned onto the highway and accelerated to the speed limit. “Where is she?” he finally asked.

  “Juanita? Ah. She’s perfectly safe. Not perfectly happy. But perfectly safe.” He chuckled to himself again, making Jet’s chest tighten. And then, empowered by a deep-abiding hubris that has caused the fall of many, Alex made a mistake. “You know, Jet. When all this dies down, and your funeral is well behind everyone, I think I might come and get your granddaughter. She was the blonde in that picture on your desk. Am I right? What is she, about sixteen? Seventeen?”

  The muscle along Jet’s jawline flared up. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and his knuckles lost their color. A vein rose up and pulsed down his forearm like an angry garden snake. His reply needed no words. He slammed his foot on the accelerator. Within seconds the speedometer had moved from sixty to ninety-five. “Stop!” Alex snapped. “Slow down.”

  Jet left his foot in place, where it lay against the pedal like a cinder block. He switched lanes to avoid slamming into the back of a late model Camry. Alex jammed the barrel of the gun into the older man’s cheek and growled through his teeth. “Slow down. Now.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Alex hesitated. He couldn’t shoot Jet. Not at this speed. His weapon was now as effective as poking Jet in the face with a straw. Behind them, blue and red lights pulsed, quickly fading behind them until the police cruiser accelerated enough to match their speed. Alex cursed in Spanish. “You’re making me very angry, Jet.”

  Jet smiled. “You think I care about that, Alex?” The speedometer now read 125, and Jet lifted his foot slightly, maintaining the speed and cautiously avoiding the occasional vehicle still on the road at this late hour.

  Jet could only see one way out of this. If he pulled to the shoulder, there was no doubt that Alex would shoot the officer. He knew that because of their current speed, the cruiser behind them would have already called for backup. Alex wasn’t about to let himself get arrested, and Jet wasn’t going to stand for a shootout. He wasn’t going to put any blue in danger tonight.

  There was only one way to ensure that Alex’s deceptions ended tonight. One way to ensure that Fort Myers’s finest got back home to their families at the end of the shift.

  Alex was done selling precious souls for profit. And he wouldn’t be going back to Jet’s office to cover his tracks. As the former head of the local DEA Special Response Team, Jet had trained his people how to respond in the event they were involved in a vehicle rollover. The time had come to recall his own instruction.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ellie remained in the hallway as the office door swung open, anticipating a flurry of bullets. She was not disappointed. Three rounds peppered the door, ricocheted off the door frame, and bounced off the floor, sending chips of marble speeding through the air. A fresh wave of screams issued from the other end of the hall as hysterical guests continued to vie for a hasty exit.

  Moving quickly, Ellie checked the gun’s load. She had three rounds left. And two men in the room. By the scattered placement of the shots, she immediately deemed the shooter inexperienced and nervous. But even more helpful, they gave away the guard’s point of origin: the far right section of the room. She heard a shuffle and a cry of pain from inside the room, and she knew Juanita was struggling with Cruz.

  Ellie was in a nearly impossible situation. She had to clear that room, but there was only one of her. She had no partner, no help. The rule book and common sense mandated two people to clear an active shooter from a room. Ellie subconsciously recalled the maxim she had learned years ago: Two is one, one is none. There were too many unknowns, too many dangerous angles for one person to clear safely, their individual degree of coverage too limited. The door was the fatal funnel—the singular point of focus for the shooter inside, and where he would concentrate all his attention and firepower.

  Ellie could hear Cruz yelling angrily at Juanita but was unable to make out his words over the commotion coming from the remaining guests still fleeing behind her. With the gun wrapped in her practiced fingers, Ellie took several steps back, a move that offered her a better view of the room while keeping her behind the relative safety of the wall. Finding her axis, she mentally sliced the room into sections, stepping to the side as she cleared each one.

  The door was in the center of the office wall. To the left, with the door blocking her view, were Juanita, Cruz, and the desk with the monitors. To the right, with the wall blocking that view, were the card table, two couches, and, based on the angle of the shots, the guard as well.

  Ellie’s focus was singular now, and she blocked out the noise behind her and Cruz’s struggle with Juanita before her. She breathed in slowly, calmly, and took a step to her left.

  She could see half the card table now, and behind it, a section of a couch against the wall. She took another slow and cautious step. Then she saw it. The muzzle of the guard’s gun—the furthest thing from him as he held the weapon out in front of his body. The barrel was short: another revolver. Which meant he had two rounds left, to her three.

  With all the agility of a former CIA special operations agent, she leaned out and pressed off a shot before moving back into
cover.

  She missed, the bullet flying just past his shoulder, and it was immediately answered by two more. They went wide. Ellie was already out of his angle, and the wall in front of her shielded her from view like a faithful guardian. She heard the click of the empty revolver as the guard tried to fire again. He hadn’t bothered to keep track of his shot count.

  She seized the moment and cautiously stepped into the doorway. The guard looked up from his empty gun, stunned that it was out of ammunition. Ellie stole a fractional glance to her left and saw Cruz. He had no weapon, and his attention was on Juanita. She was on the floor beneath him, scratching and kicking as he struggled to subdue her. Juanita’s head hit the corner of the desk, and she cried out as she continued to fight for her life.

  The guard was wide-eyed and fearful but suddenly smiled as though a dim bulb had turned on behind his eyes. He reached into his pocket and produced a tactical switchblade. Flipping out the blade, he made to throw it.

  Ellie shouted at him to stop, ordering him to put the knife down. He didn’t listen, drawing back instead and preparing to hurl it toward her.

  Her final two rounds hit their mark, both in the chest, the first piercing his lung, the second tearing through his heart. He fell backward and hit the ground, his blood staining the ornate carpet. Then he lay still.

  Out of bullets herself, Ellie dropped her gun and turned her full attention on Cruz. He was on his feet, still struggling to bring Juanita under his control. Juanita’s fingers had found a picture frame on the bookshelf next to her, and she drew it back and hurled it into his face. He howled in pain as a sharp corner caught him directly in his dead eye. Cruz slapped her across the face with the back of his thick hand, and her head hit the floor where it remained as she let out a dazed whimper. Cruz leaned forward and threw open a desk drawer, slid his hand in, and drew out a 9mm pistol, Ellie’s final cue to bring the chaos to an end.