by Chad Zunker
“Of course.”
Dr. Edgars opened the door, asked his team to clear the room for a moment. Sam was alone with his mom. The machines that were vibrant around her before were no longer beeping. It was quiet and surreal. His mother’s eyes were closed. It looked like she was simply sleeping and not dead. He watched her chest for a moment. It never moved. He felt himself being completely dragged underwater, his chest feeling so tight, he thought he also might have a heart attack. He leaned over her bed. She looked peaceful, a small smile on her face, her hands placed at her sides. He noticed that in her left hand, the one closest to him that had the Samuel tattoo on her wrist, she was clutching her cross necklace in her frail fingers. The tears came fast and furious. He held nothing back.
His knees buckled; his face fell in her lap.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”
TWENTY-THREE
Sam’s new phone vibrated in his pocket. Will Kane’s phone. It startled him. He pulled it out, stared at the screen, felt panic swell in his chest. Tommy. A direct message, which was highly unusual coming from him.
Get out of the airport! Security has flagged Will Kane!
Sam peeked up, noticed the guard staring at him again with narrow eyes. Then the guard took a step forward, leaned over to the kiosk guy. Sam calmly stuck the phone back in his pocket, turned, and started to make his way back through the line. His heart was hammering away. He was halfway through the zigzag of ropes when he took another look over his shoulder. He noticed the same guard who had locked eyes on him now pushing his way aggressively through the security line. Sam cursed. He knew he couldn’t just sprint through the airport—he’d stand out, be a sitting duck, likely be immediately tackled by a throng of security guards. He had to be careful and measured. He moved briskly, like a traveler simply late for a flight.
How the hell did security flag Will Kane? It was certainly possible someone could have matched his face with a picture of the real Sam Callahan. However, the alias was brand-new, created only an hour ago by Tommy, and there was no way that Tommy or the blonde girl in the pool hall would’ve turned the information over to the federal police.
What the hell had just happened?
Sam rushed back to the main concourse, quickly ducked inside a tourist store with T-shirts, caps, coffee mugs, knickknacks. He watched from behind a rack of books. Seconds later, the same guard from the security line raced right past the store. Sam stepped around the rack, peered out. The man stopped fifty feet down the corridor, spun around, searching in all directions. Then he lifted a black walkie-talkie to his mouth and started barking instructions.
Sam cursed again. He knew he had to get out, right away, before an army descended upon the concourse. There was no time to spare. He frantically searched the store. He snagged a gray T-shirt with the Mexican flag printed brightly on the front. Then a pair of dark sunglasses. Finally, he grabbed something that, under any other circumstances, would definitely draw attention to himself. But he thought it might somehow deflect attention in this desperate moment. A big straw sombrero with red fringe. He quickly paid for the items in cash and stepped away from the counter. He pulled the T-shirt on over his current shirt, covered his eyes with the sunglasses, then put the sombrero on his bald head.
He looked like a cheesy American tourist.
At least that was the hope. He didn’t want to be taken too seriously.
He took another deep breath, returned to the main corridor. He was two hundred feet from the nearest glass-door exit. He moved calmly down the corridor, his feet itching to run for it, his mind convincing them otherwise. A security guard suddenly ran right past him. Sam tried not to flinch, just got in a line of traffic moving toward the exit. A hundred feet. He saw three more security guards off to his left, hustling past him like they were on a mission. Activity was definitely picking up. He had to remind himself to keep breathing normally with each step.
At fifty feet, he turned toward the exit, noticed two beefy security guards stationed right in front of the glass doors. They were monitoring each person who passed by them on their way out to the sidewalk. They each held a piece of paper in their hands, which they continued to eyeball—clearly a photo of Will Kane. Sam knew he couldn’t stop. There was no turning back. Every second he delayed from there would only invite more insurmountable odds. He had no choice but to move forward. Play the tourist card and chance it. He willed his body to behave normally. He knew his overall gait and demeanor would say everything.
Instead of trying to veer to the edge of traffic, as far away from the guards as possible, he decided to walk straight toward them. When he was within five feet, both guards put momentary eyes directly on him, his Mexico T-shirt, his dark sunglasses, his goofy hat. Sam never slowed. Instead, he smiled wide, as if half-drunk.
“Buenas noches, amigos!” he said straight to them.
The guards both acknowledged him but said nothing in return, their eyes instantly moving beyond the obnoxious tourist to the next set of travelers. Sam felt the humid night air hit his face a second later. He was on the sidewalk. He kept the sombrero in place as he moved more quickly now all the way up the sidewalk to a line of waiting taxis. He jumped into the back of the first available, instructed the driver to simply drive away. He really didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to get as far away from the airport as possible.
When the taxi cleared the airport property, Sam exhaled and removed the big sombrero, the sunglasses, and the T-shirt. He could feel sweat soaking his back. He wiped some of the beaded moisture from his face, took several more deep breaths, tried to regain his bearings. The driver spoke good English, so Sam asked him to take him to the nearest shopping center. Sam pulled out his new cell phone, hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether he should still use it. Could they be tracking it just like his new ID? He pondered it for only a few seconds before deciding he had no choice. He needed to talk to Tommy and figure out what had just happened. He plugged the small headphones into the phone jack, quickly logged back in to Leia’s Lounge, and summoned him. Tommy’s face was on the screen a second later, as if he had been waiting for Sam to make contact again.
“What happened?” Sam asked, clearly frustrated.
“I don’t know, man. Someone hacked into the airport’s security system and directly flagged the new alias I just created for you.”
“Who?”
“No clue. I’m searching. Did anyone else possibly see your new setup?”
“No one other than you and your contact.”
Tommy shook his head. “Something else is going on here, man; it doesn’t make sense. I covered all my tracks. There’s no way someone cracked my code that fast, unless they were waiting on it. Unless they were waiting on me.”
“You think someone is watching you?”
“Maybe. But you’ve got to ditch the new setup. Will Kane is already dead, as much as I hate to say it. I’ve got to get you something new.”
“What about this phone?”
“Keep the phone. I can scramble it.”
“Are you sure? How do we know it can’t be tracked?”
“It’ll work, trust me. Just give me some time.”
Sam sighed. “I don’t have time, Tommy. I’ve got to get to New Orleans by morning.”
“I hear ya. I swear I’m working as fast as I can. It’ll be much easier when you’re back inside the States for me to get you new paperwork. Can you get to the border?”
Sam thought about it. There were a lot of hurdles. “What do you suggest I do if I get there, Tommy? Without proper papers, they’re not going to just let me drive back through their security checkpoints into the States. They’ll arrest me on the spot.”
“Yeah, we have to find another way.”
“Now is when I need you to be truly brilliant.”
“Brilliance is forthcoming. Just get to the border.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Sam had one new objective: steal the fastest car he could find in the next t
en minutes. The quickest way for him to get to the border was by driving. Flying out of Mexico City was no longer an option. He didn’t have the money to hire a driver, nor did he want someone else knowing he was trying to get there—that would only draw suspicion. He also couldn’t rely on a dumpy bus that crawled along on crummy Mexican roads, even if that was a late-night option. So he was back to stealing cars—his first career and what landed him in juvie. He hoped this go-round would not land him in jail. Under normal driving conditions, the GPS map on his phone said it would take him eight hours. Sam planned to do it in much less than that. With Natalie bound to that chair in that dark room, and the clock continuing to click down, he had no choice but to chance an all-out high-speed pursuit.
The cab driver dropped him in a parking lot outside a commercial retail strip. He had a selection of about fifty cars. He needed something fast but not eye-catching. It would be foolish to steal a shiny red Corvette or a turbo-charged Porsche, even if they were options. He had to be more discreet than that. Something sneaky fast that didn’t stand out. A car where he could stop and pump gas and no one would pay him much attention—yet a vehicle where he could still zip down the road at well over a hundred miles per hour. He walked through the rows of cars, searching. Hondas, Toyotas, Fords, Chevys. He didn’t want a brand-new car, either. Technology had changed so much in the ten years since his glory days as a car thief. He needed a sure thing. He didn’t want to waste any time on a new vehicle where his old tricks might not even work or some fancy new alarm system would blare at full volume.
He spotted it a few seconds later: a black ’99 Saab 9-3 Viggen. Sam had stolen one of these before back in Denver. He’d been surprised at the velocity beneath the hood of the rather simple-looking five-door hatchback. He circled it, checked the tires, making sure they were all in good shape. He had one chance to get this done. He couldn’t be having a flat tire at 120 miles per hour. Everything looked to be in working order. The vehicle was well worn but in good condition.
When stealing cars, a thief had several options to gain entry. One: check for unlocked doors. Two: search for a spare key. Three: pick the door lock. Four: break the window. If a thief was smart, he went about them in that order. Some car owners were either lazy with locking all their doors, or they felt they could hide a key where no one else but them could find it. Sam had stolen more than a dozen cars without ever having to pick a lock or hot-wire an engine.
Sam surveyed the parking lot. There was a young couple walking back to their car three rows over from him. Another man in a suit who was walking toward the commercial strip two rows in the opposite direction. There was no activity in Sam’s current row of cars. He bumped the Saab forcefully with his hip to make sure it had not been armed with a new car alarm. Nothing happened. No beeping. No chirping. He bumped it again, just to be sure. Again, no alarm. Sam put his hand on the driver’s door handle. Locked. He tried the rear door. Locked. He did the same thing on the other side, as well as the hatchback. All locked.
Sam began searching for a spare key. He reached under each of the wheel vents and felt around for a small magnetic box used for just this sort of thing. He found nothing. He then moved to the license plate in the back. No magnetic holder slipped under the plate. Finally, he dropped to the ground, used the flashlight on his new phone to search the full length of the undercarriage. Bingo. He found the small black case near the back bumper. He’d just saved himself valuable time and energy. He would not have to pick the lock, break a window, or pull apart wires under the dashboard. He could drop straight in and start her up. He took one last glance at the parking lot, felt like he was in the clear, and then stuck the key in the door. It unlocked without issue. He quickly sat in the driver’s seat, shut the door behind him, and inserted the key in the ignition slot. The Saab started right up—a gentle rumble that Sam knew could get him down the road in a hurry.
He backed out, put the Saab in drive, and slipped out of the parking lot. One big hurdle down. He set his phone in the cup holder with the map showing on the screen. He had no idea what it would be like to drive more than five hundred miles through Mexico in the middle of the night.
He was about to find out.
He aggressively pressed the gas pedal down and drove north.
TWENTY-FIVE
Natalie heard a door open and shut in front of her.
Then the sound of shoes on the dirty floor. She was still in darkness, the black hood covering her head. The shoes approached. Sounded like only one pair of shoes. They stopped right in front of her. She couldn’t say anything with duct tape covering her mouth. Seconds later, the black hood was pulled off. She squinted in the sudden brightness of the warehouse room. The young bushy-haired guy from the parking garage was standing in front of her—the one she’d mistaken for a political intern. He was still dressed in the same tan slacks and white button-down shirt. Same coffee stain on the front. His nose was swollen from her head-butt in the DC parking garage. He held a paper plate in one hand with what looked like a sandwich on top of it, a plastic water bottle in the other hand.
He knelt in front of her, eye to eye. “I have food and water for you. I’m going to take the tape off your mouth and hands. If you try anything, they’ll be no more offerings of this sort. And the hood will go back on for the duration of your stay with us. Do you understand?”
She quickly nodded.
He seemed satisfied. He reached up and tugged the thick tape off her mouth. Then he unwrapped the tape that locked her arms down to the wooden chair. He kept the tape in place that bundled her wrists together. Natalie licked her dry lips and rolled her shoulders around with the new freedom. The bushy-haired guy then put the plate in her lap.
“Hope you like turkey and cheese,” he said.
She wasn’t hungry, but she wanted to somehow engage this guy. To probe. See if she could find an opening anywhere and gather any new information.
“I do, thank you.”
She took the turkey sandwich in her hands, lifted it to her mouth, and took a small bite. The guy was just hovering and watching a few feet away.
“Can I have the water?” she asked him.
He unscrewed the cap, handed it to her. She took a big swig. She was really thirsty.
“Thanks.” She handed it back to him. She took another small bite. “Why am I here?”
He gave her a fleeting grin. “Sharing that information is above my pay grade.”
“Is there something you want? If I don’t know, I can’t give it to you.”
“Just eat your sandwich, okay?”
Her eyes narrowed. She decided to take a different approach.
“What do you guys want with Sam Callahan?” she asked, studied him.
She saw the flash of recognition. Then he tried to play it off.
“I don’t know that name.”
He was lying. She could tell he was surprised she’d said the name.
“You work for Victor Larsen?” she continued.
Natalie was currently running with a theory that this was somehow connected with Victor Larsen, former head of Redrock Security, who was now in jail for his role in the conspiracy with Lucas McCallister last fall. Sam was central to his arrest. Maybe this was some type of revenge? She knew that—even while in prison—Victor Larsen was still a powerful and wealthy man with the most sinister connections. It wouldn’t take much for a loyal soldier to carry out lethal orders—which was why Sam had been so cautious the past eight months. The paranoia was draining, as if their other struggles weren’t difficult enough.
“Stop with the questions, okay?” the guy said. “Just be a good girl and you’ll be fine. This will all be over soon.”
She nodded, ate her sandwich.
It seemed like these guys had done their homework. They’d smartly lured her with dangling a good lead on the Barnstorm story. They’d created a good setup to grab her off the streets. But she guessed they hadn’t completed their homework, or else he’d have already known—she was any
thing but a good girl.
TWENTY-SIX
“Sam Callahan is missing, Chief,” Epps said, entering the office.
Spencer Lloyd looked up from the papers on his desk.
“Missing?” Lloyd asked.
“We just got done meeting with his boss, David Benoltz. Apparently, Callahan went to Mexico City this morning on a business trip. I guess something went down, and his boss is unsure of his whereabouts at the moment.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Benoltz was vague with details. But he seemed genuinely concerned.” Epps dropped a report on his desk. “It gets more interesting. The federal police are searching for Callahan in Mexico City right now. He was added to Mexico’s suspect list just this afternoon.”
“Why are they searching for him?”
“The report mentions a potential connection to a murder in a hotel suite, a stolen car, a high-speed car chase, and Callahan’s evading custody while under questioning this afternoon. Callahan was nearly apprehended an hour ago while trying to flee the country under an apparent alias at Mexico City International Airport. But he got away.”
Lloyd picked up the report, leaned back in his chair. “How does this lawyer have an alias?”
Epps shrugged. “Not sure.”
Lloyd scanned the report, sighed. “So we’ve got one of the greatest assassins in the world who was brought into the United States to eliminate this rookie lawyer. This guy gets paid millions. And this is the first time we know of that the Gray Wolf has accepted an assignment in the States. That can’t be overlooked. Whoever hired him is a big deal. Not only do you have to have obscene money, you also have to operate in the most elite inner circle imaginable. Very few people would even be able to make contact with a guy like the Gray Wolf. And yet here we are. Gerlach flies into DC today, gets through security with help from what we believe is a hacker on the outside, with a twenty-six-year-old lawyer as his apparent target. Yet Sam Callahan is not currently in DC; he’s in Mexico City. Not only is the kid across the border, Callahan is now on the run from Mexican police in connection with a potential murder. And now we think he’s trying to get out of the country with an alias?”
