by Chad Zunker
Natalie seemed very pleased. They collected bats and batting helmets. Sam had reserved the same batting cage they’d used their first night together—although he was certainly glad to not have a crowd watching them tonight. They stepped into the cage and did a little stretching and warming up with the bats.
“Okay,” Natalie said. “So what are the stakes?”
“Stakes?”
Natalie frowned. “Well, we’re not just here to goof around, are we?”
He laughed. “Is everything a competition with you?”
“Dang right. So who gets what when I win?”
“It’s a surprise.”
She frowned again. “Enough with the surprises already!”
“You trust me?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “I think so.”
“Okay, good. Punch that red button, and let’s get this party started.”
He stepped outside of the batting cage. Natalie pushed the button and got herself situated at the makeshift home plate, took a few more practice swings as the machine warmed up in the distance. A few seconds later, baseballs started whizzing her way at seventy miles per hour. She swung the bat like a professional, started cracking them back up the middle. He loved watching her swing, so smooth and effortless. There was a reason she’d gotten a softball scholarship to Missouri. She hit nine out of ten balls into the far-off net, but she was seriously frustrated about the one ball she fouled off the end of her bat.
“You left me an opening, Ms. Foster,” Sam teased.
“Shut up!” she said, pouting, stepping out of the cage.
He laughed, entered the batting cage, and pushed the button. He got himself in position and waited for the fastballs. When they came, he pounded them back up the middle, one after another, determined to beat her this time around. When he got to seven straight hits, Natalie started to razz him a bit, with, “Hey, batter, batter! Swing, batter!” But it didn’t work. Sam nailed number eight back up the middle. Then number nine. Natalie got very loud for the last pitch. But he was dead set with focus. Number ten cracked off the bat and flew into the net.
Sam spun around, held the bat up over his head, and yelled, “Victory!”
Natalie gave him a menacing glare. “I hate you!”
“Sore loser,” he said, again poking at her.
She frowned. “Fine, you win. What do you want?”
He stepped out of the cage, stood right in front of her.
“I want you, Natalie,” he said, with firm eyes.
She stared at him, seemed to sense that he was no longer joking around. “You have me, Sam. You know that.”
He shook his head. “No, I want you forever.”
Sam slowly lowered himself to one knee, stuck his hand inside his blue-jeans pocket. Natalie covered her mouth with a hand, stunned at the sudden turn of events. Sam pulled a diamond ring out of his pocket, held it up for her to see.
“Will you marry me, Natalie Foster?”
Her mouth dropped open. “That’s my mother’s wedding ring.”
“Your dad gave it to me two days ago.”
“You went to see my dad?”
“Of course. You think I’d be on one knee right now without asking Thomas Foster for his blessing? I’m not crazy. Well, not entirely. He offered me the ring.”
“I can’t believe it!” Natalie exclaimed. “Yes, of course, I’ll marry you.”
He slid the ring on her finger, and they embraced. In that moment, Sam did not feel panicked. He felt at peace. Pastor Isaiah had said it best. Sam was at a crossroads. He could choose to put the shackles on again and remain in his emotional prison—a place of misery that strangely felt safe. Or he could walk out of the prison cell and finally close the door behind him.
Sam was slamming the damn door shut.
FORTY-NINE
Natalie stood behind a tree, watching the faces of the people walking up and down the sidewalks around the Lincoln Memorial and Reflecting Pool. This was her stomping ground, where she jogged during her lunch hour nearly every day, so she knew who fit in and who stood out. Already hating her life on the run, she wasn’t sure how Sam had gotten through it all last November.
Right on time, a woman in her midthirties with short brown hair, wearing a dark-blue trench coat, sat on a bench across the water from Natalie’s perch. Natalie took a moment to scan left and right, again looking for any watching eyes. When she found none, she left her hiding spot, walked around the Reflecting Pool, and quickly approached the woman. Her name was Michelle Blair, a good friend of Natalie’s who also happened to be a special agent with the FBI. They’d struck up a friendship during Natalie’s first year in DC, right after Natalie had graduated with honors from the University of Missouri School of Journalism and taken the job with PowerPlay. Natalie was doing an investigative piece about a new police program and met Michelle as a potential source. They’d bonded in many ways. Michelle was tough, just like Natalie, with two older brothers, and she had also lost her mother when she was just a teenager.
“You okay?” Michelle asked, looking genuinely concerned.
“Not really. I appreciate you meeting me.”
“Of course.”
“Did you find out anything?” Natalie asked, eyes alert.
“The white van was rented yesterday morning by a man named Curtis Self.” She pulled a piece of white paper out of her trench-coat pocket, handed it to Natalie. “This is a copy of his driver’s license. He look familiar?”
Natalie took the piece of paper. She’d asked Michelle to run a check on the license plate she’d memorized of the white van that was used in her abduction. Curtis Self was the van’s driver—bald, square glasses, and beard. Abe. It was definitely the same guy.
“It’s him,” Natalie acknowledged.
Michelle sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Natalie looked over at her friend. “Why?”
“He’s CIA.”
Natalie was shocked. “This guy is CIA?”
Michelle nodded. “Been with the Agency for ten years. Special Operations Group.”
“What division is that?”
“Special Activities Division. Covert operations. Underground stuff that’s way above my pay grade, where I could get flagged if I try to dig around too much.”
Natalie stared at the face on the paper. “I can’t believe it. These guys really are CIA? I thought they were just pretending to be agents when they showed up at the police station. The CIA can grab innocent people right off the streets and hold them captive?”
“I can’t answer that. The CIA plays by its own rules.”
Natalie’s mind was spinning. “What do they want with Sam?”
“I don’t know. But I have some news there, too.”
Natalie looked over at Michelle. “What? Is he okay?”
“I can’t say for sure. Apparently, we’re looking for him right now.”
“The FBI? Why?”
Michelle shook her head. “There’s an assassin we’re currently tracking in the States. Alger Gerlach, also called the Gray Wolf.”
“I’ve read about him,” Natalie interjected.
“I’m sure you have. He’s on every most-wanted list around the globe.”
“What does that have to do with Sam?” Natalie asked, her brow furrowed.
“Sam is his current target.”
Natalie was stunned. If news of the CIA being behind her abduction was a left jab, the news of a famous assassin hunting down Sam was the right cross.
Natalie shook her head. “But . . . Sam is in Mexico right now.”
“Not anymore,” Michelle responded.
“How do you know?”
“We have security video from just an hour ago showing him in New Orleans, where we think he just barely survived an assassination attempt by the Gray Wolf.”
That was the knockout uppercut. Assassination attempt? Natalie was reeling. “Do you know where Sam is now?”
“We don’t. But we’re
on an all-out manhunt. I’m afraid someone wants Sam dead, badly enough to bring in a million-dollar international assassin to do the job. So we have agents everywhere looking for both Sam and the Gray Wolf.”
Natalie stood on wobbly legs, because she couldn’t sit any longer. “What the hell is going on, Michelle? The CIA kidnapped me, and I know for a fact it has to do with Sam. Now you’re telling me that Sam just barely missed being killed? What’s the connection?”
“I don’t know,” Michelle admitted. “The CIA angle is brand-new to us. It could just be a rogue agent. We can’t be sure it’s an official Agency operation.”
“I have to get to Sam.”
“I think you should come in with me. Let us protect you. Tell your story officially. And let us work on solving it. This is what we do.”
Natalie shook her head. “I can’t do that. I’d go crazy. You already know what I know—there’s nothing else to say. I’ll take my chances.”
Michelle didn’t seem to like her response. “Natalie, this is crazy! You’re in real danger. You’re just a reporter, not an FBI agent. You’re going to get yourself killed trying to save Sam on your own.”
Natalie was already thinking ahead, developing a plan.
“Thanks for your help, Michelle. I appreciate it.”
“Natalie?”
But Natalie was on the move, away from the bench. She heard Michelle call out her name one last time, with grave concern, but Natalie was gone.
FIFTY
The Gray Wolf slipped onto a bar stool at the Old Absinthe House, a two-hundred-year-old saloon on Bourbon Street. Gone were the beard and knit cap. Gerlach was now clean shaven and bald, wearing a loose-fitting purple silk shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. Nearing the lunch hour, the saloon was full and bustling with crowd noise. He ordered the Absinthe House Frappe, the saloon’s signature cocktail, from the attractive blonde female bartender. A TV was on above the bar, a local channel showing news of a shooting in Jackson Square. Gerlach was still seething about his unsuccessful attempt at taking out his target.
“Crazy, huh?” the blonde bartender mentioned, sliding his cocktail in front of him.
“What’s that?” Gerlach asked, practicing a touch of Cajun accent.
She nodded toward the TV screen. “Shooting in Jackson Square.”
“Oh, yeah. Crazy. What’s wrong with people?”
“I know! This world has gone to hell.”
“At least no one was killed,” Gerlach mentioned, only slightly amusing himself.
“You want something to eat?” she asked him.
He eyeballed a menu. “What’s your favorite?”
“The jambalaya.”
“I’ll take that,” he said, smiling and winking at her.
“Coming right up.”
A few minutes later, a man of fortysomething slid onto an empty stool next to Gerlach. He was bald on top and wore the thickest pair of glasses. His shirt was a short-sleeve red polo, and his shorts were light blue. He also wore white tennis shoes with white socks that were pulled up to the knees. A pocket protector would’ve completed the look.
“What happened?” Gerlach asked, not even looking at the guy, his thick German accent returning. They were huddled close together. Closer than Gerlach liked, but it was loud in the place, and this brief public exchange was necessary. Gerlach was not interested in meeting in private with his client. He didn’t trust him. For good reason.
“What do you mean?” the guy replied. “You missed.”
“He was warned,” Gerlach growled under his breath. “Someone alerted him at the last second, and he took off running.”
“You can’t hit a moving target? I thought you were the best.”
It took all of Gerlach’s will to not reach over and break the guy’s neck. But he knew he couldn’t do that. The nerd knew it, too, which was why he was acting so brash and bold. He took a big swig of his cocktail, calmed himself down. The blonde bartender returned, took an order from the nerd, slid his drink in front of him. The two men sat quietly for a few minutes.
“What does he want me to do?” Gerlach finally asked.
“Finish the job,” the nerd said resolutely.
Rising from the stool, the nerd pulled an envelope out of his pocket, set it on the copper-topped wooden bar next to Gerlach’s cocktail glass, and headed for the door.
Gerlach again seethed. He deserved more respect. He took the white envelope, opened it, found details inside of his target’s last location—a time stamp of only ten minutes ago. The bartender slipped a plate of jambalaya in front of him. It smelled incredible. He really liked this city. He stuffed the envelope in his back pocket, decided he would at least enjoy his meal before resuming his hunt on foot.
“You mind changing the station?” he asked the bartender.
FIFTY-ONE
Sam was on the move again, determined to find Rich Hebbard. If he remained still for too long, he’d do nothing but dwell on Natalie, and that would completely suffocate him. He refused to believe what he’d heard in the choppy phone-call recording. Natalie was not dead. No way, nohow. He wouldn’t accept it unless he confirmed it with his own eyes. Not with everything they’d been through the past couple of years. Not with their engagement just last week. Not with their whole future waiting ahead of them. She would fight and stay alive. He said a prayer, put it out of his mind, determined to not linger on these thoughts any longer, and then bolted out of his hiding place in the old cemetery.
According to Tommy’s research, Tom Hawkins had an ex-wife who still lived in the city. They’d been divorced for four years. Hawkins’s ex-wife had gone back to her maiden name: Teresa Pearsons. If Tommy’s info was accurate, Teresa now owned and managed a small thrift store on Frenchmen Street. He was headed there now.
Sam cautiously made his way across town. He darted mostly through alleys, staying off highly trafficked streets and as far away from people as possible. He’d done this before; he could do it again. Off the grid. In the shadows. With the phone recording of Natalie fresh in his mind, he felt an even stronger resolve to attack this thing head-on and get out of it alive. He navigated the dozen blocks to Frenchmen Street before he finally slipped inside a pink one-story building that housed Restoration Thrift. There were currently six shoppers inside the small store. Five women, one man. None of them felt like a threat. Two college-age female clerks were working. He grabbed a men’s dark-green military-style jacket off a rack, found a brown-knit beanie that fit him, and moved to the checkout counter. One of the clerks came over to help him. Claire, according to her name tag, had short black hair with a dash of purple in it.
“Find everything you need?” Claire asked, arranging his items.
“Yes, thanks. Is Teresa here?”
“She’s in the back office.”
“Can you tell her I need to speak with her?”
She looked up. “Sure. Whom shall I say is asking?”
“Ethan. I know her ex-husband.”
He paid for the new items with cash from the roll Tommy had left for him, and then Claire stepped through a curtain into a hallway. Sam took a moment to slip on his new jacket and beanie, hoping it would give him an extra layer of anonymity. He’d been wondering if the shooter was Desperado—the same man from Mexico City. Had he somehow followed him across the border? Or did Sam now have someone else trying to take him out?
A few seconds later, a lady of fortysomething stepped out. Blonde hair, casual black summer dress, sandals, kind smile. “Can I help you?” she said to Sam.
“Teresa?” Sam asked.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Ethan Edwards. Can we talk in private?”
She looked at him with concern but offered a hand toward the hallway. Sam stepped through the curtain into a hallway lined with boxes stuffed with clothes and other items. Teresa led him into a small back office with a wooden desk. He sat in a metal folding chair while she moved behind the desk and sat in a cheap office chair.
> “This is about my ex-husband?” Teresa asked.
“Sort of. I’m actually looking for Rich Hebbard.”
“Oh, sorry, but I haven’t spoken with Rich in probably more than a year. I honestly don’t have much to do with Tom anymore. I only see him here and there if one of the kids comes home to visit, which is maybe twice a year. I assume you tried their office?”
“Yes, neither one of them were at work.”
He didn’t mention that nothing was inside the office.
“Not surprised,” Teresa replied. “Those two guys always liked to play much more than they liked to work. One of the reasons we got divorced. Tom was completely irresponsible with our money. Rich used to own a house over off Governor Nicholls. Not sure if he still does.”
“Yes, I’ve been by there, too. Anywhere else you can think of that I might find him?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
“That’s okay. Thanks for your time.”
He stood, shook her hand.
“How is Tom?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “Tom is Tom, you know what I mean?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
Sam did not have the heart to tell her that her ex-husband was now dead, at the hands of a ruthless assassin who was probably working for a corrupt Mexican politician. At least Tom died trying to do the right thing, or so it seemed.
“Thanks again,” Sam said, turned to leave.
“Wait a second,” Teresa said, stopping him. “Tom and Rich used to go to a lake house over in Saint Tammany Parish near Honey Island Swamp. A real dump of a place, according to my son.”
“Can you get an address?”
“Sure. Just a second.”
FIFTY-TWO
The cab ride took him forty minutes outside the city on I-10, where they crossed over Lake Pontchartrain and into Saint Tammany Parish. Sam tossed an extra twenty-dollar bill over the front seat and asked the old mellow driver wearing the black beret to keep his eyes on the rearview mirror for him, alert him if he felt they were being followed. The driver seemed just fine with that as he hummed along to his soft reggae music. Teresa had given him the address for Hebbard and Hawkins’s swamp cabin—at least that’s what her son called it. It was apparently way off the beaten path and somewhere deep into swamp country. Sam silently prayed that Hebbard would be hiding out there.
