by J. M. LeDuc
“And you’re okay with that?”
Sin shrugged. “It’s who I am.”
Charlie stood and turned to walk up the beach. “We have a lot to do. I don’t want to lose the upper hand.”
“Charlie,” he turned to look at Sin. “I will arrange everything with my men, but I need to stay here with my father. I hope you understand?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Sinclair.” He reached back with an extended hand. She clasped her fingers in his and rested her head on his shoulder as they walked back towards the Johnson place.
48
Six days later, ten of the eleven had been eliminated. The members of Sin’s unit were in the far corners of the country and two were in Germany and the Ukraine. All but one had taken care of their assignment. The final assignment was in motion.
Sin spoke into a headset as she paced the library in Charlie’s lair. “I want an ‘all clear’ confirmation from you, Garcia, as soon as you have a visual.” She turned from the monitors when she heard someone enter the room. She pointed to the open door. “Get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Troy answered. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I know you are up to something.” He glanced around the room. “Where’s Charlie?”
“He’s with my father. I didn’t want him here either. Now leave.” Her ear piece buzzed.
“I have an all clear, Sin, what are your orders?”
Sin viewed the monitor. Her operative was miced and wearing a video feed.
“Where the hell is Garcia?” Troy said.
Sin stifled him with a wave of her hand. Her focus never leaving the monitor. “Is the target isolated? I don’t want any collateral damage.”
“Isolated and very skittish. The news of his friends traveled fast.”
“On my mark, extinguish the target as soon as you have a clean shot. Make sure you have a clear path of egress before proceeding.” Sin counted down from three and gave the word.
Reverberation and amplitude of the rifle could be heard echoing through the speakers. “Mission over,” Sin said, removing her head gear. “Repeat, mission over. Retreat to designated location until you receive new orders.”
Sin slid the earphones off her head and with a slow and gentle touch, she laid them on Charlie’s desk.
With a slight tap of a button, the monitor went black.
Troy slouched in a chair and hung his head. “I can’t believe what I just saw.”
Sin walked straight passed him—eyes vacant and dead—looking straight at the floor. “You didn’t see anything―you were never here.”
Thomas passed away later that same day. Sin sat on his bed, his head on her lap, caressed by her hands as he gasped his death rattle.
Sin cried for the first time since her mother’s funeral.
She cried for her loss.
She cried for all the girls who lost their lives to sin and greed.
She cried―because she could.
49
Thomas Jefferson O’Malley was buried in a plot next to her mother.
When the service was over, Sin thanked everyone for their attendance and good wishes. She stood alone at the gravesite and watched as the workers lowered her father’s coffin into the ground. She looked from the grave to the ocean and then to her mother’s gravestone. “Take care of him, Mom,” she cried. “I’m glad you’re together again, and I promise to visit more often.”
With a final wipe of her eyes and a clearing of her throat, she turned and walked back toward her bike. Waiting for her were two men―dark suits, dark sunglasses, shiny wingtip shoes―Frank Graham and Folsom Westcott.
Sin lowered her shades to cover her bloodshot, puffy eyes. The more focused their images became, the more heated she became. “Get the fuck away from my bike before I kill both of you.”
Graham put his arms up in mock arrest. Westcott leaned against his agency vehicle, hands in his pockets, feet crossed.
“We didn’t come here to fight, Sin,” Graham said. “We just wanted to pay our respects.”
Sin pulled her gun belt from her saddlebag and straddled her bike. “Consider them paid, now leave me alone.”
He placed his hands on her handlebars and stared at her. “Agent, we need to talk.”
“Here? Now? Are you kidding me?” Sin kick-started her bike and twisted the throttle a few times, drowning out any further words.
Graham tried to yell over the rumble of her bike, but Sin twisted the throttle further, increasing the decibels. Squeezing the clutch, she shifted into first and rolled the bike forward. To avoid getting run over, Graham jumped out of the way of Sin’s bike. From the corner of her eye, she saw Westcott pull his handgun. The sound of a shot rang out over the sound of her exhaust causing Graham to pull his weapon and twist towards Westcott.
Westcott stood―gripping his gun hand with his other, his pistol on the pavement by his feet―afraid to move.
“Where did that shot come from?” Graham yelled.
“How the hell do I know,” Westcott yelled back, twisting his head around like a paranoid owl. “Somewhere from behind me. I was just standing here when my gun was shot out of my damn hand.”
Sin shut off her bike and sat on the saddle aiming her Colt at Westcott.
Westcott’s anger amplified as his fear subsided. He pointed toward Sin and stomped in her direction. “Arrest her, goddamn it!”
Sin fired one round at Westcott’s feet, stopping him cold.
“Are you out of your fucking mind!” he screamed.
Graham twisted back in Sin’s direction, aiming his gun at her. “Lower your weapon, Agent. Now!”
Sin shook her head. “Do you really think I wouldn’t have back up?”
Graham looked confused. “Why would you need back up at your father’s funeral?”
“I knew you would show up,” she said. “You’ve been incessant in your calls and texts. Hell, you even knocked on my door.”
“So, why haven’t you answered me or checked in?”
“Because I don’t trust either of you.” Sin eyeballed both men. “The two of you sent me on a suicide mission. Neither of you expected me to live―but I did.” She slowly swung her leg off her bike and drew her other gun, one aimed at each man. “That’s bad news for one of you or both of you. I just haven’t figured out which.”
Graham holstered his gun and put his hands out, trying to make peace. “What are you talking about?”
“You think we’re involved?” Westcott sounded indignant.
Sin rolled her eyes, guns still pointed at each man. “You’re quick for a shit-for-brains politician.”
Westcott ignored her comment and bent down to pick up his pistol. Sin pulled the trigger on her Colt, the bullet striking the shell-rock inches from his extended fingers.
Westcott jumped back, lost his balance, and ended up with his ass on the pavement. “God fucking damn it! Are you insane? That just cost you your career.”
Sin holstered one revolver, reached into her saddlebag, and threw her badge and credentials at Westcott. “You can take these and shove them up your ass. This was your idea, remember. I never wanted to come back.”
Graham eyed the badge and ID and addressed Sin. “May I?”
She nodded.
He picked them up and went to hand them back to her.
“Keep them,” Sin said.
Graham placed them in his jacket pocket.
“What the hell are you doing, Frank?” Westcott roared.
“Shut the hell up, Folsom,” Graham said, eyes still on Sin. “She’s been down here doing our dirty work while we’ve been safe in D.C. I’d like to know why she thinks we are involved as well a few other things.”
Sin answered his question with one of her own. “Have you located the mole?”
Graham shook his head. “No, every time we get close, the lead disappears.”
“What about you?” Sin asked waving her gun at Westcott.
“We’re on the same damn team,�
� he scowled. “If Frank doesn’t have any answers, neither do I.”
“Then this topic of conversation just ended,” Sin said.
Graham huffed a deep breath. “You’re not making this easy, Sin.”
“Good, that wasn’t my intention. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have people expecting me for lunch.”
“We’re not done yet,” Westcott said.
Sin could see a sly grin creep up his face. It reminded her of the way poison oak creeps along the trunk of a tree. She stared a hole through Westcott. “Frank do me a favor and pick up his gun,” she finally said.
He did and went to hand it back to Westcott.
“I’ll take that,” Sin said.
“That’s my gun!” Westcott yelled.
“Stop acting like a whiny baby,” Sin said, taking the gun from Frank. “I wouldn’t trust a pussy like you with a fucking butter knife, never mind a loaded gun.” She removed the magazine and tossed it to Westcott.
“I have back up ammo,” he smirked.
Sin pulled her other revolver, both aimed in his direction. “And I have ten reasons why you will holster your sidearm. Is that clear enough?”
Westcott’s indignation increased with the redness of his complexion. “Tell her, Frank,” he said, holstering his gun.
Sin acted as if she were Annie Oakley and spun her revolvers back into her holster. “Tell me what?” she said straddling her bike.
“We have eleven dead civilians—eleven prominent civilians—scattered across the states and Europe.”
Sin shrugged. “It looks like you have some work to do.”
Graham pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. “They were all murdered with in a one week time frame in a very organized strike.”
Sin lowered her sunglasses and took the envelope from Graham.
He pointed to the envelope in her hands. “We have visual confirmation of these individuals entering the cities where the victims resided.” He nodded toward the envelope. “Open it.”
She did. Inside were pictures of each member of her unit. She flipped through the pictures and handed them back to him. “Am I supposed to know these people? I’ve never seen them before.”
“Bullshit.” Westcott pointed at her. “They are all members of your unit. Fucking mercenaries. The lowest of the low.”
Sin removed her sunglasses, sucked air in through gritted teeth, and shrugged. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And before you get your panties in a wad, unless you can show me documented proof of what you’re saying, I would stifle it before I sue you and the U.S. government for libel.”
“Sin,” Graham stood next to her bike—a look of compassion on his face, “we need to stop fighting and work together to solve this and figure out who the mole is and why these people were killed.”
Sin lowered her sunglasses. “Now, you want to work together? You’re a little late, don’t you think, Frank?”
“So you’re just going to ride away into the sunset?” Westcott yelled. “Just like you, O’Malley. Same old modus operandi.”
Sin started her bike and pulled away, giving Westcott a middle finger salute as she left.
A mile down the road, Sin reached into her shirt and pulled a taped wire from her skin. “Did you get that?” she asked.
“Every word,” Charlie answered.
“Can you match verbal signatures to what we pulled off of the computers from the church?”
“It will take a while, you and Fletcher did one hell of a job taking out the audio feed. I’m having to go back to the old audio messages between the members we found on Heap’s computer to try to get a voice match.”
“Did you hear Westcott’s words—modus operandi. It’s him, I’d stake my life on it. He’s El fucking Presidente.”
50
Three months later
Charlie had reconfigured the mole’s encryption code and was able to stay one step ahead of the bureau. Every time the FBI started to get close to Sin’s men, they disappeared. He had also found a way to untangle the electronically altered voices of the guests and compare them to the recorded voices of Westcott and Graham. Sin was right, the leader of the slavery ring was indeed Folsom Westcott.
Charlie wanted Sin to talk to Frank Graham, but she refused. Her answer was that she trusted Frank, but she no longer trusted the system. Sin’s unit was still at large—still hunted―and she wasn’t taking any chances.
Westcott seemed to be of single purpose. He had made it his mission to bring in Sin and her unit for murder.
“How are you?”
Sin sat on a park bench, smoking a cigarette. “A little chilly,” she said cradling her cell phone to her ear.
“That’s not what I meant,” Charlie said.
“You sound out of breath. Are you pacing the library?” Sin brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. Blowing out the smoke, she silently laughed. “I know what you meant.”
“How’d you know I was moving?”
“We’ve talked so much in the past months, I can tell when you’re pacing or about to pass gas.”
“Nice.” Sarcasm oozed through Charlie’s voice. “So answer my question, how are you?”
“I’m as good as can be expected,” she said. “I have half the bureau looking for me and my men, and I’m tired of watching Westcott.”
“I might have a way to get you and your unit out of that mess.”
“Hold that thought,” Sin said. “Old business before new. Have you had any luck identifying Marilyn?”
“No.” Charlie sounded exasperated. “Whoever she is, she has disappeared.”
Sin leaned forward on the bench, elbows to knees. “She hasn’t disappeared, Charlie. She’s just dug in, but eventually she will surface. Shit always floats to the top.”
“You have a way with words, Sinclair.”
“Whatever. I know if I stay on Westcott, she’ll show. That’s as clear as I can be.”
“You know or you have a hunch.”
“Same thing.” Sin took a final drag off her cigarette and flicked it on the grass. “So, tell me your great idea to get my men and me out of this mess.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Charlie said. “All of you.”
Sin sat back on the bench and waited for the punch line—none came.
The silence was broken by the sound of laughter—her own. “Only the man who found the gun in the grassy knoll could think up such shit.”
Sin hung up the phone and pulled her leather jacket tighter against the wind. She stood up and looked across the street at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue. For the first time in months, the view brought a smile to her face.
51
Sin sat across from Troy and Charlie in an all-night crowded coffee shop in Alexandria, Virginia. She stared over the top of her cup, looking between the wisps of steam. “You didn’t say anything about bringing him with you.”
“You didn’t say not to.”
“Do the two of you mind? I don’t appreciate being talked about as if I wasn’t sitting right in front of you,” Troy said.
“You’re not sitting right in front of me,” Sin replied. “I never saw you.”
“Makes sense,” he smirked, “since I wouldn’t have known it was you unless you were sitting across from me. What’s up with the mousy-brown hair and looking like a bag lady?”
“Not to mention your clothes,” Charlie added. “When did you become Amish?”
Sin sipped her coffee. “Screw you both, but you have to admit, the disguise is good. I purposely bumped into Westcott at the mall yesterday and he didn’t even notice me.”
“That was an unnecessary risk,” Charlie said.
Sin sat back and adjusted her coat. “I’ll be dead in a couple of days. I needed a little excitement before going to my grave.”
“Speaking of which, we need to go over the plans with your unit. How can we reach them?”
Sin turned her head from left to right, peering at the people in the coffee shop. “T
hey’re all here and wired. Everything you say, they can hear.”
Charlie and Troy looked about. The shop’s patrons were either involved in personal conversations or working on laptops. Every one of them blended in with their surroundings.
Charlie smiled and stroked his white beard. “I’m glad I won’t have to repeat myself.”
“Me, too,” Sin said. “We’ve talked so much lately, I feel like we’re dating. So what’s the plan?”
Charlie opened a backpack, pulled out a file, and slid it across the table. “The twelve of you are flying out of the country tomorrow. Different cities and airports. We don’t want it to look too cheesy. Just before you board the planes, I want you to show yourself to the security cameras. In a way,” Charlie emphasized, “that makes Westcott and his men think they’ve spotted you, not like you’re trying to be seen.”
“Where are we going?”
“I figured I would send you someplace you’re familiar with. Nicaragua. I also thought you might be able to clean up a few loose ends down there before your demise.”
“What loose ends?”
“A new ring has started to form. Page three in the file contains a biography and photo of Manuel Juarez, the—”
Sin grabbed the file and tore it open to Manuel’s bio. “There must be some mistake, this man can’t be starting a slave ring.” The words spilled from her lips at a frantic speed. “He’s my contact—a friend.”
Charlie hesitated before answering. “My intel tells me different.”
“Your intel is wrong!” Sin slammed her fist on the table.
Charlie leaned forward and whispered. “Calm down, Agent. I’m just telling you what has come across the wire.”
Sin mimicked his movements and tone. “I’m not an agent and the ‘wire’ is wrong. Do the weapons of mass destruction in Iraq ring a bell?”
Charlie dropped his shoulders as his posture relaxed. “You have two days to figure it out, because on the third day—you die.”
