by Chad Zunker
“That has to be our boy,” Epps said to Lloyd.
Lloyd nodded. “That’s him. That’s Callahan.”
Another younger agent with a buzz cut approached the group with an update for Caldwell. “Sir, we think we found a location for the shooter.”
“Show us,” Caldwell ordered.
The group of them followed the agent over to the Pontalba, where they entered and climbed a stairwell up to the fourth level. They crossed down a hallway until Lloyd spotted a group of agents lingering outside an open door to one of the apartment units. They entered the apartment, where more agents were doing forensic work. Lloyd noticed that the balcony doors were open and the curtains were swaying slightly in the breeze.
“You found the balcony open?” Lloyd asked.
“Yes, sir,” the agent replied. “And we found marks on the floor where it looks like a cabinet was dragged in front of the balcony.”
“Any neighbors hear anything?” Caldwell asked him.
“No, sir. Must’ve used some kind of suppressor.”
Lloyd and Epps stepped out onto the narrow balcony, examined the property below them, Jackson Square, and the view toward Chartres Street and Saint Louis Cathedral.
“Definitely lines up,” Epps said.
“Yep,” Lloyd agreed.
They returned to the living space. Caldwell was engaged in an intense conversation with another agent, then he walked over to them. “We got a neighbor four doors down who said she saw a guy in the hallway carrying a large black bag toward the stairwell, right about the time the shooting took place. She thinks he had a beard and was wearing a dark-knit cap, but she can’t be sure. We’re going to have someone work with her to get a sketch.”
“It’s Gerlach. I know it,” Lloyd said.
FORTY-SIX
Returning to the heart of DC, Natalie ditched the stolen Civic in a city lot. She hoped she could eventually get it back to Gloria in Boonsboro. She took all the cash Gloria had in her wallet—sixty-seven dollars—and then left the purse in the driver’s seat. Using the credit card again was too risky. After running away from the police station, and stealing a car and purse, Natalie was unsure what that now meant for her. Was she a wanted criminal? Would the police be actively looking for her? She was unsure what her abductors, who were pretending to be federal agents, told that police officer before she bolted.
For now Natalie decided it was best to stay underground. Although she had some cash stuck in her desk drawer at PowerPlay that she often used to pitch in for staff lunch orders, she wasn’t comfortable going back there yet. Her office was one of the first places the police would look for her. She didn’t want to pull her boss into this deal just yet, either, but she definitely needed help getting some answers. Finding a pay phone outside a convenience store, she quickly dialed Sam’s cell number and listened to it ring, praying that he would simply answer and tell her he was okay. She glanced at herself wearing the dark-blue cap pulled low on her head in the reflection of the store window. The phone rang four times and went to voice mail. She listened to the sweet sound of Sam’s voice on the greeting.
When the line beeped, she left a quick message. “Sam, it’s Natalie. I’m okay. I hope you are, too. I don’t have my phone. I don’t have much. But I will keep trying to get in touch with you. I love you.”
She hung up, not sure what else to say or who else might be listening. She didn’t want to give away her location or any other detailed information that might somehow hurt him or her. If he listened, Sam would at least know she was safe—although she desperately wanted to know the same in return.
Natalie dialed the number for Benoltz & Associates. The front receptionist answered—a pleasant woman named Mary she’d met at a firm dinner last month.
“I need to speak with David ASAP,” Natalie said.
“May I ask who is calling?” Mary said.
“Please just tell him it’s about Sam.”
“Sam Callahan?”
“Yes.”
“Please hold.”
Natalie’s right foot bounced up and down nervously, her eyes on the small parking lot in front of the convenience store. A few seconds later, David Benoltz was on the line with her.
“Who is this?” David said, already sounding concerned.
“David, it’s Natalie.”
She heard David exhale. “Natalie, thank God. I’ve been trying to find you.”
“Have you heard from Sam?” she asked.
David said, “No, I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Is he still in Mexico City?”
“I don’t know. Something happened in Mexico City. One of our clients was shot and killed when he was with Sam. I don’t know any details, but Sam did not feel safe and was hiding out. I haven’t heard from him since late yesterday afternoon. He was trying to meet up with a guy I know who lives down there, but I haven’t heard back from either one of them.”
“Someone abducted me last night.”
“What? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay now. I got away a couple of hours ago.”
“Who was it?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet. But they specifically referred to Sam, so I believe the two events are somehow connected.”
David cursed. “Where are you?”
She was not comfortable telling anyone that yet. “I’m safe.”
“Natalie, let me come get you,” David insisted. “I can keep you safe.”
A Metropolitan Police patrol car pulled into the small parking lot and sent a shiver up her spine. She spun around, hid her face from the parking lot. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two uniformed officers get out, glance over in her direction. David was calling her name repeatedly in her ear, with growing concern.
“I’ve got to go,” she whispered, and hung up.
She didn’t turn around, just started walking up the sidewalk and away from the convenience store. She waited to hear if one of the police officers would say something after her. No words came. Natalie turned a street corner, started running.
FORTY-SEVEN
Tommy pecked away on his keyboard with so much intensity that his fingers were starting to cramp. The direct message to warn Sam that had penetrated his secure system had sent him into a paranoid spiral. He was working all five screens at once, peeling the layers of the onion back, one after another, finding no comfort in what he was beginning to discover. Someone had been inside his system for the past two days, unbeknownst to Tommy, before Sam had ever pulled him into the mix, and had controlled everything. Someone had been playing Oz with him and manipulating everything he’d been viewing on his screens from behind a curtain. No one had ever hacked him like this before—Tommy didn’t even believe it was possible. Had he gotten lazy? He didn’t believe so. But how did someone do it? Who was he? He hadn’t been able to find that information yet. If the hacker was so good that he’d been able to infiltrate his system, Tommy knew it would be a challenge to ever uncover his true identity.
On one computer screen, he continued to monitor news out of New Orleans. There’d been reports of a shooting in Jackson Square. Two were wounded but okay. No mention of any deaths. No mention of Sam Callahan or Ethan Edwards. Sam had survived. Tommy had made the right call. The warning had saved Sam’s life. Even in all the panic of being hacked, Tommy was relieved he’d picked up the phone. Otherwise, Sam would likely be dead.
While he worked intently to search for threads to somehow identify the person who had hacked him, Tommy was also diligently putting up new firewalls and rebuilding his entire network from scratch. He was completely vulnerable at the moment, and that was an awful feeling. He had to rebuild his fortress—and as swiftly as possible. It was no small task after spending so many years doing it the first time, which left him with a dire feeling. How had someone found his way to the inside? Was someone smarter than he was?
Tommy refused to believe that. There had to be a different explanation.
A programmed a
lert popped up on his first computer screen.
Tommy spun around in his office chair, leaned in close toward the screen. The name Natalie Foster had a hit on one of the hundreds of networks he was currently monitoring. Tommy scanned through the list. Surprisingly, the alert came from a channel belonging to a rogue division of the CIA. Tommy typed into his keyboard, finding an audio file—a phone call. Why would the CIA be monitoring a phone call mentioning Natalie? Muting the heavy metal that filled the room, he quickly pulled the audio file up and clicked Play. He listened closely to a brief phone exchange between two men. No names for the contacts, only random phone numbers on the screen. The audio file was full of static, crackling, and distortion. The phone call was brief. Tommy rewound it and enhanced it as much as possible to make out the conversation, turning up the volume to its fullest.
Caller one: “She’s . . . [static] . . . gone, sir . . .”
Caller two: “Who?”
Caller one: “The girl . . . [static] . . . Natalie Foster . . . [static] . . .”
Caller two: “What do you mean . . . [static] . . . dead?”
Caller one: “. . . [static] . . . yes . . . [static] . . . big mistake.”
That was it. Tommy stared at the screen. Had he heard right? He could feel his heartbeat pounding away inside his chest. He wasn’t sure what to do.
A sudden pounding on his front door jarred him out of the moment. More pounding followed a few seconds later, followed by a deep and threatening voice.
“Open up! Police!”
Police? Tommy pecked onto his keyboard, brought up a live video feed from directly above his apartment door. A tiny undetectable camera pointed down at the face of a hulk of a man, maybe forty, with black hair, black goatee, and black leather jacket. Two smaller but equally intimidating men stood behind him. They didn’t look like police. More like Russian mobsters. No way would Tommy open the door. He cursed. He had to get out of there. Although he had heavy-duty locks on the door, they wouldn’t hold forever.
Looking back at the screen showing the audio file, he quickly assessed what tracks he needed to cover before he bolted. He logged in to Leia’s Lounge, a path he’d once again secured by reconfiguring his system, and opened a new video box. He clicked a button that said Record and stared into the video camera above one of his computer monitors.
The pounding grew even louder outside the door.
“Sam, I’m going off the grid. We’ve been hacked. As a matter of fact, I think we’ve been watched the past two days. I’m not sure by whom yet. Someone is outside my door claiming to be the police, but it sure as hell isn’t the police. I’ll try to find a way to connect with you as soon as I land somewhere secure. One more thing.” Tommy swallowed, wasn’t sure how to put this in the right words. “I’m attaching an audio file. I don’t know what to make of it. But I feel like I have to get it to you just in case something happens to me. I don’t know, man. I’m sorry. I’ll see you on the other side. I hope. Peace out.”
Tommy heard his wooden door crack—sounded like the Hulk was trying to knock it down. He clicked off the recording, attached the audio file, and then hit Send. On another computer screen, Tommy pulled up an option he never thought he’d need to use. It was an image of the Hiroshima bombing with the big-ass cloud in the sky. He clicked on the image, typed in a password, and then everything immediately shut down in the room. All the computer screens went black. All the lights went out in the apartment. Tommy knew within seconds that his entire system would be wiped clean, as if it never existed.
The apartment door was about to come down. In the darkness, Tommy jumped out of his swivel chair and raced into the small bathroom. He pulled away a thick rug from the tile floor, revealing a small built-in wooden trapdoor—just big enough for him to slip through. He pried it open with a bony finger and then pulled it fully open. It was dark inside the hole in the floor. Tommy knew that two feet down was another matching trapdoor. He reached down into the hole, felt for a bolt lock, and twisted the metal knob. The second matching door swung open into another dark room—a storage closet behind the arcade directly below his apartment. Something no one else but Tommy knew about since he’d installed it himself.
He heard the apartment door splinter completely apart a second later.
The boys were inside his unit. He could hear muttering.
Tommy dropped into the floor feetfirst. His shoes went through the ceiling of the storage closet. He reached around with his toes until he felt a metal shelf against the wall. Catching his balance, he carefully lowered himself all the way out of his own bathroom. With a hand, he pulled the small door closed. The thick rug in his bathroom was attached to the door in the floor in a way that would allow it to slide back into place, hiding the trapdoor from any visitors.
As Tommy climbed down the metal shelf in the storage closet, he could hear heavy steps directly above him. One of the guys was inside his bathroom. Tommy watched the ceiling, waited. A second later, the footsteps left the bathroom. Tommy exhaled. They hadn’t discovered the trapdoor. He quickly exited the closet into a private back hallway behind the arcade. Moments later, he found a door to a back alley and disappeared into the city.
FORTY-EIGHT
Sam sat on cracked concrete, hidden between two crumbling tombs in the back corner of Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1, seven blocks from Jackson Square. It was as good a place as any to catch his breath, get his bearings, and think about his next move. The cemetery was a giant maze of wall vaults and oversize tombs—with a hundred different creepy hideaways. Sitting there, sweating profusely, his heart was still racing. While most others peeled off to safety after only a block or two, Sam had sprinted for more than five blocks. After all, he was the target.
That was a daunting thought. Someone had taken sniper shots at him.
He could still feel the cold sensation of a bullet buzzing right by him, feel the weight of the impact as it hit his backpack. Who was the shooter? From where was he shooting? Although his brain was flooded with questions, Sam’s adrenaline was running so hot that it was difficult to process answers. Had he been set up by the black-haired woman in the gray coat? He shook his head. That didn’t make any sense. She could’ve had him shot dead when he was meeting with her in Mexico City. Instead, she sent him on a wild-goose chase in search of what appeared to be his long-lost father—all apparently because two lawyers wanted out after a corrupt Mexican oil deal involving two dirty politicians and a crazy oilman.
Sam ran a hand over his sweaty, bald head. He’d lost his ball cap while running. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. If it wasn’t for Tommy’s phone call, he’d be dead right now. How had Tommy known?
Sam pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, logged in to Leia’s Lounge. Once inside, he was surprised to find a video message from Tommy waiting for him. The second time in the past hour that Tommy had broken his own rules in order to communicate with him. Sam pushed Play and watched a frantic-looking Tommy on his phone screen. They’d been hacked? Past two days? Someone outside his door? Sam cursed but then perked up when Tommy mentioned something about an audio file. Below the video message, he found an attached audio message. Sam pressed Play and listened closely. Two men, talking about Natalie? When he heard the word dead, Sam felt a surge of bile in his stomach. He listened to the recording again. Then a third time. The man definitely said the word dead.
Sam felt light-headed, like he might pass out.
He couldn’t hold it back. He leaned over, vomited on the concrete.
This couldn’t be real. Those words couldn’t be true. Not now.
He refused to believe it. Not after everything they’d been through.
Not after last week.
July 2
Eight days ago
Sam picked Natalie up at her apartment. She was dressed casual, as he’d requested. Blue jeans, gray Saint Louis Cardinals T-shirt, running shoes. Her thick, straight brown hair in a ponytail. Just a touch of makeup in all the right place
s. Sam marveled at this woman who could look so beautiful without even trying. He wore something similar: jeans, T-shirt, running shoes.
“Where are we going?” Natalie asked for the fifth time.
“I told you, it’s a surprise,” he said, grinning.
He’d returned from Denver a week ago. The time with Pastor Isaiah had been such a sweet salve for such a deeply wounded soul. Alisha had helped him pack on five pounds with her home-cooked meals, which Sam sorely needed—he’d lost quite a bit of weight after his mother’s death. Healthy again for the first time in many months, both physically and spiritually, he was ready to get right with Natalie. Although Natalie was thrilled about the date, she was curious about wearing something casual.
He drove her in his black Jeep Wrangler, a used car he’d purchased with part of his signing bonus with Benoltz & Associates. It was a warm DC evening, and they had the top down as they eased through the city streets. Sam kept her distracted by asking all kinds of questions about her work. She seemed happy that he was engaged with her life, as it had been many months since they’d had such a conversation.
When Sam pulled into the batting cages, the place where it had all begun for them, Natalie looked over at him and smiled wide.
“For real?” she asked.
He returned the smile. “What? Are you scared?”
She laughed out loud. “Have you not learned your lesson yet?”
“I guess not. I’m a glutton for punishment.”
“That’s the truth.”
He shrugged. “I just thought we could do something light and fun. I know it’s been very heavy between us the past few months.”
