by Chad Zunker
While his eyes were mostly on the folder, Sam soaked in movement all around him in his peripheral vision, making sure Agent Mendoza did not sneak up on him. He headed straight toward the main elevator corridor. Although he would much rather take the stairs, he felt that might be overly suspicious should he encounter someone coming up. He sidled up to the elevators along with three uniformed officers. One of them glanced over at him. Sam gave a subtle nod, had it returned. The door to one of the elevators parted, and a small group exited. Sam entered with the officers, and three more men quickly followed. It was a crowded carriage. Sam felt a large bead of sweat drip down his back. He hoped the moisture wasn’t noticeable on his brow. He tried to casually wipe it with the back of his hand.
As the elevator doors fully closed, Sam spotted Agent Mendoza running up to them from the hallway. Their eyes momentarily met, but the doors shut before Mendoza could utter a word of warning. Thankfully no one else seemed to notice the exchange. However, Sam was now panicked. If Mendoza knew he was inside the elevator, he recognized that Sam was on the run. All it would take was a quick call, and Mendoza could have the building go on complete lockdown, with men with guns at every corner.
Would Mendoza make that call?
Would he treat Sam like an escaped suspect?
Sam could take no chances. He knew he had to make alternate plans. The elevator was rapidly dropping. He slid between two officers and punched the button for the second floor. As he slipped back to his spot in the corner, he brushed up against a plainclothes gentleman of sixtysomething in front of him who was wearing a gray suit, said, “Perdón.” In that same moment, Sam stole the black eyeglasses poking out from the man’s left breast pocket, his hands every bit as quick as when he used to do the same thing as a thirteen-year-old kid at the grocery store. He could pass by an old guy reading the cereal boxes and snag a wallet without ever slowing a step. Sam hid the glasses in the palm of his hand.
The elevator stopped on the second floor. Sam held his breath, said a prayer, unsure if a squad of agents would be waiting on the other side to grab him. The doors opened, and he exhaled. All clear. He eased through the others, found his way into a hallway that was nearly identical to the one on the sixth floor. He knew the clock was now seriously ticking. He had to do something drastic to get outside. His guess was that Mendoza would do his own searching at first—only because it might be embarrassing to admit he’d lost a potential suspect inside the building. But eventually Mendoza would call in the full army.
Sam spotted a door in the hallway marked CUSTODIO. He’d noticed a similar door up on the sixth floor. The janitor’s closet. He walked over, put his hand on the knob. Locked. Standard lock with a key slot. The manila folder with the paperwork in his hands was held together by a metal paper clip. Sam slipped off the paper clip, twisted it straight. He took a quick peek left and right to make sure no one was paying attention to him. With his back to the door, he leaned up against it, like he was taking a moment to review something inside the folder, and without even looking, he stuck the paper clip into the lock slot. He wiggled and scraped, felt the sensation of the familiar metal gear of the tiny lock system. Like riding a bike. He was inside the janitor’s room within seconds.
He shut the door behind him, locked it again, hit the lights. There were two metal shelves filled with all kinds of cleaning supplies against one wall, a rolling custodial cart for laundry in the middle, and three tall, gray lockers on another wall that sat next to a small sink with a mirror. He searched the lockers first, finding what he wanted inside the third locker: a standard gray janitor’s jumpsuit. Wardrobe change number two. He quickly took off the black sport coat and pulled the janitor’s outfit on over his clothes, zipped it up tight to his neckline. The janitor’s jumpsuit fit well. Whoever owned it was about his size. The name tag sewn on the front of the gray pullover said CARLOS.
Could he pass for a Carlos? He was about to find out.
Sam pulled out the toiletry bag, unzipped it, and grabbed the items he wanted. A razor blade and a can of shaving cream. He moved in front of the sink and got his first good look at himself in the mirror. He shook his head. He looked like he’d been run over by a semitruck, which was about right. He studied the deep gash on his forehead. It was nearly two inches long. He badly needed stitches or it would certainly leave a permanent scar. There were scrapes all down the left side of his face. Sam noticed that the tiny chip in his front left tooth was legitimate. His eyes took in his wavy, brown hair. It was completely disheveled, like he’d just stepped out of bed. He tried not to think about what he had to do next. It sucked, but he had no time to stall or second-guess himself. Not with Natalie currently bound with duct tape.
He grabbed a pair of scissors from a sewing kit he’d found on the shelf and began trimming his messy hair down to the scalp. It took him several minutes. The scissors were dull, and his hair was thick. It was a real mess. Once he finished that, he quickly wet the remainder of his hair with cold water from the sink and began rubbing gobs of shaving cream all over his head. Next, he took the razor blade and started going to town. Quick strokes back and forth, some of them catching skin. He didn’t have time to do a careful job. He just had to get it all off. Finished, he dried his newly bald scalp with the bath towel, dumped all the hair remnants from the sink into a trash bag, sealed it up tight, and stuffed it into a trash can in the corner.
Sam again examined himself in the mirror. It was the exact same way he’d looked at the very end of his tracker assignment last November. Within days, he’d gone from a full head of brown hair, to black hair, to blond hair, and finally to no hair at all. Staring at himself, he felt chills, finding it hard to fathom that he was in this position again: on the run from assassins and the police.
Why did this keep happening to him?
He put on the stolen black glasses. The final piece of his new look. They were a mild prescription and easy enough to navigate around. He took another peek in the mirror. He was hardly recognizable from a few minutes ago. It was time to make his bold exit.
He returned to the hallway, pulling the janitor’s laundry cart along with him. Carlos the janitor. He hoped no one would ask him anything in Spanish or his cover might be blown. He knew yes and no and little else. When the elevator doors opened, he pushed the rolling cart inside. Two men joined him. No one made a fuss. Neither of them even acknowledged him, his newly bald head, or stared at his misplaced name tag. They all rode down to the first floor together in silence. The doors opened, and the two officers walked out, Sam last. He tucked himself in close behind the rolling cart.
Nearby he immediately spotted Agent Mendoza, who was huddled with two uniformed officers. Sam felt a jolt of nerves but kept steadily moving. Brash and bold. It looked like Mendoza and the two officers were all staring at what was probably a photograph of Sam clutched in Mendoza’s right hand. With his left hand, Mendoza was pointing this way and that inside the lobby, giving instructions. The federal agent glanced up as Sam stepped clear from the elevator corridor. Sam could’ve sworn Mendoza looked straight at him, but there was not a hint of recognition. The agent quickly went back to his animated discussion with the officers.
Sam exhaled, eased right past them without incident.
Up ahead he could see the exit out the front glass lobby doors.
He kept a calm pace, even though everything inside of him wanted to make a dead sprint for it. Halfway there, he slid over to the side, pretended to fiddle with the rolling cart, and then when he made sure no one else was looking, he left the cart there unattended. One more quick peek behind him. Agent Mendoza was still hovering near the elevators. Sam walked toward the doors. On the other side of a roped-off area, a line of people was waiting to get through guards and security detectors. He did not have to pass through security on the way out, only walk by a hulking guard in uniform who was holding a big black assault rifle.
Ten steps. Five steps. Sam pushed through the door, felt a wave of humidity splash against h
is face. It felt good. Freedom felt good.
He thought of Natalie and clenched his fists.
He was not free. Not yet. Not even close.
SEVEN
He was called the Gray Wolf.
His real name was Alger Gerlach.
He was wanted in twelve countries.
He was given the nickname nine years ago by a German reporter because, like the animal, he could adapt and thrive in any environment—whether forest, desert, mountain, tundra, or grassland. He’d made kills in countries with every kind of terrain. He was five foot ten, 160 pounds, with a build that never stood out. He had an everyman face, which gave him the uncanny ability to disguise himself, play just about any role, blend into his surroundings, advance in the shadows, accomplish his task, and then disappear again into the crowd—although a group of college coeds in London had once mistaken him for the American actor Edward Norton. He’d played along because it was the easiest path back to their hotel room. Truth was, after so many surgeries to change his appearance, he wasn’t sure what he really looked like anymore. It didn’t matter. He would change it up again next year.
In eleven years, he had nineteen kills to his name. At least, those were the kills that the world considered significant. Politicians. Ambassadors. Top executives. Powerful people. There were dozens of other peripheral bodies that only family and close friends mourned. And twenty years ago, there were numerous legal kills as a sniper in the German army.
His résumé was established. If you knew the right people, had powerful enough connections, or you were loaded, you could hire the Gray Wolf. Two million dollars was his current rate.
Gerlach exited the cab four blocks from the Lincoln Memorial, a stone’s throw from the White House. He wore a black jacket and a dark-blue wool cap. The goatee was fake. So were the spectacles. His vision was perfect. The sidewalks were busy. It was nearing dinnertime, and people were out and about.
Gerlach entered the coffee shop and stood in a short line. Behind the spectacles, he scanned the counter near the front window. A man wore a maroon windbreaker, jeans, and gray Nike running shoes. He sat on the very last stool. All as instructed.
After ordering black coffee, Gerlach strolled toward the front. There was a stool available next to the man in Nikes. The man in Nikes did not know him and did not know what he looked like. Gerlach slid onto the stool, took a glance at the laptop screen in front of the man. A web browser was open to the Washington Redskins home page.
“Super Bowl this next year?” Gerlach said in perfectly crafted Midwest English.
The man didn’t look up, so as not to lock eyes with an assassin. He said, “Maybe. If our quarterback finally stays healthy.”
It was the necessary exchange in this killing game.
The man in the Nikes quickly shut the laptop and gathered his things. Before leaving, he set a folded newspaper on the counter. Gerlach casually grabbed the newspaper, slid it over in front of him. He unfolded it, found the manila folder waiting for him inside. He took a finger and opened the folder. There were several eight-by-ten color photographs of a good-looking man in his midtwenties. Some shots were of the man jogging in runner’s clothes. In others he was wearing a black suit and tie, holding a briefcase. Gerlach casually flipped through the photographs and then found a stapled report behind them.
A full profile on his target.
Age. Height. Weight. Background information.
Gerlach quickly scanned through the background, found it quite intriguing.
He was an orphan boy just like Gerlach.
The Gray Wolf read the name at the top.
Samuel Weldon Callahan.
EIGHT
Sam found a crowded, lively outdoor marketplace.
It was the perfect spot for him to get lost for a little while, to wipe the trail completely clean from Mendoza and the federal police, to secure a set of much-needed new clothes, maybe some cash, and certainly to borrow a new cell phone from an unsuspecting victim. He sighed, frustrated. Every time he thought he was finally done with his old life of street crime—the only life he knew while surviving on his own in Denver as a teenager—he felt like it was forced back on him by some divine hand. He’d worked so hard physically, emotionally, and spiritually to move forward with his life. So why did he always find himself back in this position? Was God really that cruel? Was he cursed? He was starting to believe it. Every time he thought he was finally finished boxing with God about his tragic past, someone out of nowhere took a new swing at him, and there he was, right back in the middle of the ring. Pastor Isaiah used to say that he shouldn’t be afraid of boxing with God, that it could be a healthy exercise if done right. God can take a punch, Pastor Isaiah used to say to him with a wink and a grin. But Sam’s mentor also warned that God just might punch back if that was the best thing for Sam.
Sam thought of his mom, felt a twist in his gut.
There was no time to think about any of that right now. He kept moving.
He entered the sea of late-afternoon shoppers, began searching for targets. He found his first one almost instantly. Like it or not, Sam had an eye for quickly finding the right victims. The man of fiftysomething looked like he was out shopping with his much younger girlfriend. The designer clothes and the gold watch on his wrist told Sam that he was a good match for what he needed. The couple stood in front of a shop that was selling knockoff designer clothes, and the poor guy already had two hands stuffed full of items as his giggling girlfriend loaded him up with even more. Sam moved in, gave him a quick bump, and the wallet from the man’s back pocket was securely in his palm. The man never noticed, never flinched, never turned around, not that Sam expected him to do any such thing. The old boyfriend just kept smiling away at his pretty girl. Sam knew it would be anything but pretty when the poor guy couldn’t pay for anything at the counter.
Ten minutes later Sam spotted a group of five teenage girls all huddled together, laughing and listening to music on each other’s cell phones, all while making eyes at a group of boys who stood fifteen feet away and were basically doing the same thing. Sam watched very closely for a few minutes and found his opening as a girl in a pink dress on the fringe of the group dropped her cell phone into her large pink bag. Sam had noticed earlier, when she’d pulled out the phone, that this girl did not type in a password to use it—which meant she did not have her phone locked down. A big mistake but one that could greatly benefit Sam. He did not need any extra hurdles right now. When the girl set her pink bag down on the ground next to her, then leaned in to watch something on her friend’s phone, Sam moved in quickly. He scooted in behind the group, making sure he was in a wave of other shoppers, knelt abruptly to tie his shoelace, and then had her cell phone in his left hand a few seconds later. He was in and out of the crowd within seconds, and then gone.
New items in tow, Sam stole away to an isolated corner, away from the crowds, where he quickly pulled the cash out of the wallet. Thankfully, he’d guessed right. The affluent old boyfriend carried quite a bit of cash. Maybe $200 in pesos, which he knew would take him a long way in Mexico City. He tossed the wallet into a nearby trash can, kept moving, eyes now on a few police officers he spotted who had moved into the marketplace.
Were the police out looking for him now?
Had Agent Mendoza put out an alert for his immediate capture and arrest?
He had to keep moving around like he was a wanted man. He hated that.
Farther up the marketplace, he used the cash to purchase a new pair of blue jeans, a gray T-shirt, some knockoff Nike running shoes that actually fit, a small black backpack, a bottle of aspirin, and some toiletry items like deodorant, toothbrush, and toothpaste. He wasn’t sure at this point if he’d ever see his room or his luggage back at the Hyatt again.
He kept checking the planted cell phone with Natalie’s video on it every thirty seconds. He’d already texted the number: I’m out of the building. What now? But no reply yet. He was going crazy. What was the delay? He res
isted repeatedly watching the video. It would only torture and paralyze him. He’d searched the entire phone. There were no other contact numbers. No apps, no pictures, no videos. It was likely a burner phone, meant to be used temporarily and then tossed. He again thought about the female agent who’d given him the windbreaker inside the police building. Was she a real cop? Or someone else? She was probably midthirties, black hair, a dark-gray suit. He remembered that she’d had an official badge, but he didn’t recall seeing a name. He’d replayed the scene in his mind a dozen times and didn’t remember her interacting with anyone else.
Who was she? How did she find him?
He already had a hundred questions. And no answers.
First things first, he needed to get out of this hot janitor’s uniform.
Sam entered a small Catholic church up the street. A group of thirty or so parishioners were sitting up front in the main sanctuary, a priest performing in front of them. Sam slipped into a tiny one-stall bathroom in the back lobby, behind the sanctuary, and locked the door. He took off the janitor’s outfit and his other clothes, gave himself a quick body wash in the sink, trying to get all the sweat and blood off him, used the deodorant and toothpaste, and then put on his brand-new clothes. His third wardrobe change in the past thirty minutes. He was still aching all over his body, especially in his shoulder and ribs—although the handful of aspirin he’d downed was helping.
He left the janitor’s outfit and old clothes in the trash can, exited the bathroom.
NINE
Sam quietly entered the back of the sanctuary and sat in the very last row alone, the small crowd mostly at the front. He stared at the giant hanging crucifix of Jesus on the wall behind the Mexican priest, said another quick prayer for Natalie. He shook his head at his own hypocrisy. One second he was cursing God; the next he was begging him for help.
