by Deek Rhew
Monica loved this part of her friend’s persona, which had helped forge their lifelong bond. This would make it impossible to try and cover up what had happened. Angel would have just looked at her in that we-are-both-going-to-sit-here-till-you-stop-effing-around way until the truth came out. And out it came.
Angel’s eyes grew huge and round as she listened to Monica’s story about overhearing the conversation in the library, the subsequent trip with the Secret Service, and the interrogation in the little colorless office. “That’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You want outrageous? Look at this.” Monica pulled back the curtain on the window next to their booth. Two humungous, black SUVs sat in the parking lot, each with a driver at the wheel.
“Yeah, I saw those when I pulled in. So they are part of …” Angel turned her attention back to the inside of the diner. Monica watched as her friend’s eyes roamed until they froze on the two suit-wearing men standing next to the entrance. “Is that Crew Cut and Granite?”
“In the flesh. Charming, don’t you think?”
Angel glared at them but neither seemed to notice. She craned her neck looking at the other patrons, pausing on each—several stern-looking men and two severe-looking women scattered here and there. No one else.
The isolated diner usually buzzed with gaggles of people on their way somewhere else. On any given day, at any given hour, the place brimmed with road-weary families, truckers, and bikers. All who came to this humble establishment forged a common bond through deep-fried potatoes and fluffy pancakes that bridged otherwise disparate lives. Save a small scattering of misplaced men in suits, the booths sat empty and forlorn. The kitchen was as quiet and vacant as a cave.
Monica watched as understanding dawned on her friend’s face. “Oh, my god,” Angel said.
“Look, honey, I don’t have a lot of time. There isn’t anyone else I care about, so I made them give me this chance to say goodbye.”
“What? No! Mon—” she started.
“It’s not goodbye forever. Just for now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know, dear.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. They want me to testify against the goons. First with the grand jury, then the trial, but after he’s convicted, it should be safe for me to go back to my life.”
Crew Cut appeared at the end of the table. “It’s time.”
Monica nodded. “Just one more minute.” He walked back to his post, but his eyes never left the two women.
They slid out of the booth and stood. Monica took Angel’s hands in hers. “I’ll always love you, remember that. You saved me over and over, and there is no way to repay you.”
The other girl, tears streaming down her cheeks, looked on the verge of a breakdown. “I love you, too. I don’t want anything from you; I just don’t want you to go.”
Monica pulled Angel into her arms and whispered. “Give me your best poker face. Do it now and listen closely. I’m leaving a small piece of paper in your hand; it has an email address on it. Don’t look at it until you get home. Get a new email and send it to me. This is against all the rules, so put it in your pocket and never, never, never give it to anyone. Do you understand? My life depends on it.”
Angel nodded, and Monica kissed her friend on the cheek.
They broke apart. Though Angel still had tears running down her face, she had sobered.
That’s a girl. Sad but relieved, Monica said, “I’ve got to go now. Take care of yourself, and don’t forget what I told you.”
“Be safe and kick ass.”
Monica forced a brave smile as Granite and Crew Cut escorted her to the door. She threw one last look over her shoulder as she left the darkness of the diner and walked into the brilliant afternoon sunshine.
* * *
For the next few months, Monica remained cooped up in a forgotten house in the middle of nowhere. Her goon squad blindfolded her whenever she came or went—the location so super-secret even she couldn’t know where they were. Besides Crew Cut, Granite, and Driver, other well-armed, suit-wearing, poker-faced men had been liberally sprinkled throughout the house. These protectors-from-foes, the last line of defense from those that wished to do Monica harm, lurked in every nook and cranny, 24/7. Bad Facelift stayed in Monica’s room while she slept, and Monica had spotted several more guards on random patrol of the grounds.
Spare no expense for the star witness.
All of these random people looked identical, like they were bred in an incubation chamber deep in a dark, underground lair. Or perhaps they stamped them out in some factory in Taiwan, the press working overtime to churn out as many soulless, plastic goons—complete with accessorizing pistol and earpiece—as possible.
Late one evening, Monica awoke to find Bad Facelift had fallen asleep in her usual chair. After weeks of diligence, the woman had slipped up. Gleeful like a mouse that had caught the cat napping, Monica crept across her bedroom, careful to not make a sound. The other guards sat in the living room, so instead of heading towards the door, she moved to the window. The goons had tried to make their patrol patterns appear random, but it had only taken her a few days to map out their routes in her head. She held her breath. Granite ambled past, and as soon as he disappeared around the corner, she unlatched the lock. Monica eased the window up. Thankfully the vinyl-on-vinyl of the frame made no more than a whisper as the two pieces slid together.
She tugged the small handle of the screen, and it popped out with a gentle snick. She glanced back at Bad Facelift, but the agent hadn’t moved. A little puddle of drool had pooled on the woman’s stark white shirt. It would have been sweet had the woman not been such a bitch.
Monica slipped on her pants and shoes then eased herself over the rim of the sill. She expected someone to shout an alarm at any moment, but the night remained silent as she landed on the grass.
She half-crouch walked across the lawn, then stood and sprinted for the bank of trees that edged the far side of the property. She’d almost made it when an alarm blared, and the whole world became bathed in brilliant light. Terror stopped her in her tracks as a dog began to bark, and several dark figures carrying what only could be large guns of some kind emerged from the trees.
An amplified voice boomed, “Freeze. Throw down your weapons and get down on the ground. Now.”
Maybe she could make it to the forest anyway. Monica’s heart galloped, and her feet itched to sprint as she glanced at the weapons aimed in her direction and the men brandishing them. She could run fast…but not faster than well-aimed bullet. They’d mow her down and laugh about it while telling the tale over drinks. Defeated, she did as instructed and lay down on the hard earth, waiting.
Black shiny shoes appeared just in the periphery of her vision.
“Get up,” Crew Cut’s curt voice said.
She peered left and right to find several men with guns pointed at her.
“At ease,” Crew Cut told them. As the men lowered their weapons, he pulled her to her feet and guided her back toward the house, cursing and swearing under his breath. She raised her chin in satisfaction and smugness as they marched. At the very least she’d irritated him almost as much as he irritated her. He pushed her into a chair in the living room, pulled up one of his own, and began the lecture she’d heard a thousand times before. “My job is to keep you safe, but I can’t do that if you keep trying to escape.”
“Yes, mom. But I just wanted to go for a walk. Is that so bad?”
“And last time you said you wanted to get donuts. The time before that, you needed your hair done. I don’t even remember what it was the time before that.”
“I needed Maxi pads. Girls sometimes bleed, you know.” Monica gave him a sarcastic grin.
Crew Cut looked at her with an almost pleading expression in his eyes. “Members of your buddy Laven’s grand jury have had an unusually high number of accidents. Three
have died in car accidents. One fell off a cliff while hiking, and another drowned while swimming. This is why you keep having to give the same testimony over and over.”
“I understand that. So the jury’s a little clumsy; are you trying to make a point?”
“We don’t believe those are all accidents. Individually these incidents may not look suspicious, but this group has a very high mortality rate. Look, there are people who want to see you put into the ground. We’ve kept your identity secret for a good reason. I don’t understand why this is such a difficult concept for you.”
“And I want my freedom back. I don’t understand why this is such a difficult concept for you.”
“It’s not just that we have to keep you safe from the outside world. Our guys are professionals, but they’re on edge. Everyone is well armed, we have dogs patrolling the grounds, and they don’t know you from a hitman. Plus, you usually pull this crap when it’s dark, so we don’t know it’s you until we’re right up on you.”
“Are you planning to make a point or just talk me to death?” She had just about run out of patience. If he had planned to kill her, he needed to get on with it instead of blathering like an old woman.
“Mistakes will be made.”
“Did you just threaten me?”
Crew Cut sighed. “No, of course not. But this is the last time we go through this.”
Granite walked up and handed Crew Cut a small box. He opened it and pulled out what looked like a large wristwatch.
“What’s that?” She eyed the gadget suspiciously.
“The latest in babysitting technology.” Crew Cut secured the device around her ankle. He pushed a button, and a small LED on its otherwise blank surface began to flash.
“It’s very stylish, but does it come in pink?”
He sighed again. “You’ve given me no choice. Also for your protection, you will no longer be allowed to be alone.”
“Oh yes, because I get so much of that now.”
“It’s been a long night. Please go to bed.” He stood and walked off without so much as a glance back in her direction. Granite gave her a slight shrug as if to say, He’s the boss. What ya gonna do? and headed out to the yard, presumably to keep the world safe from the terrorists or rogue chipmunks or something. Bad Facelift, who’d been standing in the corner sporting her usual scowl, came over, took Monica’s arm, and tried to lead her back to her room.
Monica yanked free. “I know the way.” And she stomped off.
She soon discovered the truth in Crew Cut’s promise. Someone watched her with a distrust she could taste every second of every day. Perhaps trying to run hadn’t been the smartest move. Could cooperation be the right answer after all? Living in harmony and all that?
The bathroom proved to be the only time she had relief from a chaperone. The little space became her sanctum sanctorum. She would soak in the tub for hours, each time taking her iPad with her. Monica journaled about the goings-on at the house and in the courtroom. She wrote about the night she’d almost gotten away and included a picture of her ankle, complete with the glamorous new electronic tether.
They didn’t allow her access to the outside world—no live TV, email, or Internet—and the movies they brought remained on a shelf, untouched. Instead, she read.
She’d always been too busy for casual reading but now found herself with barrels of free time and whizzed through two or three books a day. Every day she filled out a Multimedia Requisition, Document #995.2, Rev. C, which she turned in to Crew Cut. The first one she’d handed him, he’d examined with the same scrutiny a terrorist would use when reviewing the blueprints for a new bomb vest. He then pulled out a pencil and drew a line through several of the items.
“Hey.” She tried to grab the pencil from him. “What are you doing?”
He smacked her hand away and gave her a half-smile. “Media filtering.”
“That’s complete gibberish. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
“I don’t have to allow you to get anything. You can sit in your room and watch the paint peel for all I care. This is a privilege I can revoke without cause.” He stared, daring her to challenge him.
She wanted to punch him. Grab his arm and twist it around until the bones cracked and his shoulder dislocated. But she took a deep breath, shook her head, and walked away.
From then on, Monica padded the list, adding odd titles that would catch the FBI agent’s attention. And when Crew Cut crossed one or more of them off, she rolled her eyes and glared at him. He would smirk at her but pass on the order to be filled.
Since she couldn’t be at school, Monica requested the required books for each of her classes, including the Criminal Law class that had started the entire fiasco. She studied, taking notes and ordering supplemental material, as though preparing for finals.
She struggled to endure the constant, unbearable tension. If she hadn’t had her reading and her studies, she would have gone bonkers.
After over a year of her being sequestered, a Town Car pulled into the driveway, wheels crunching on gravel. The guards, as always, appeared tense, ready for the worst. As the car came to a stop, the rear door swung open. A gleaming, black-polished shoe touched the ground, then a figure in dark sunglasses stood. The guards had been right to be apprehensive; the worst thing imaginable had arrived.
Jon waltzed into the house, taking off his sunglasses as he did so. Arrogance cascaded off him in waves. “Hello, Monica. How have you been?”
“Just great,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. “I’ve been hanging out here with the fun squad waiting to get killed.”
“It hasn’t been that bad. This is one of our better safe houses,” he said, looking around.
“Oh, yeah, it’s splendid. Let me give you the grand tour. Here’s the kitchen; there’s the living room.” She looked around. “Yep, that’s about it.”
“Always the sassy one.”
“Always the smooth political puppet.” Monica glared at him. “Getting what you want, when you want. You’re good, but I’ve had time to think. You’re not the one pulling the strings. Crew Cut told me there’s nothing in the news about Laven’s potential trial. Why is everything under such tight wraps? Keeping the press away from a story about an infamous mob boss who may be standing trial for his crimes? Not an easy undertaking.”
“You’ve been here too long.” Jon patted her cheek. “You’re overthinking things. Our primary objective is to keep you safe. As a law student, you should already know that grand juries are almost always held in secret.”
“Well, maybe if someone hadn’t yanked me out of school before I got to that part in the curriculum, I would.”
He gave her his best placating smile. “Besides, if the press got word of what was going on, they’d be hunting for you and sniffing out every lead. Eventually someone would figure out who you were, then they’d turn over your life trying to get their two-minute sound bites for the six o’clock news. Keeping this out of the press makes it easier to protect you and your friends…er, friend. One friend. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is the jury is done. It’s time for the next step.”
Monica stared at him in disbelief. “It’s over?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“They delivered a true bill. With your testimony, there’s enough evidence for a trial. Laven’s been arrested. And since the judge determined he’s a flight risk, he’s been denied bail.”
She sighed. “So he’s in jail, and I can go back to my life.”
“Yes and no.”
Every nerve in her body went on full alert. “What do you mean ‘no’? The bastard’s in jail. That was the whole point. That’s why I had to leave school, my friends, and my life. He’s locked away now, so I’m safe.”
“Well, that’s the thing. See, yes, he’s in jail. But even from there, he will still be able to run his operation, just at a limited capacity. Before the trial was set and th
e witness list released, no one knew who you were. But now word is out, and you have a very large price tag on your back. And when we get a conviction, don’t think that goes away. The reward for your head will be there for as long as he breathes. I thought I explained this to you last year? If you go back to your old life, they will find you.”
A sinister wave of having been manipulated washed over her. Monica glared at him. If she could have struck him dead with her thoughts, he would have burst into flames.
“Come now. I bring good news. The trial’s about to begin. That should give you some relief.”
She snorted. “Relief? Really? You kinda failed to mention that I would need to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. It’s something that I would have remembered, special agent. In the end, you get what you want, but what do I get?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I get screwed. That’s what. Any chance at a normal life? Gone.”
“We’ve talked about this. You still get a life; it’s just not necessarily the one you planned. I came here to bring you in. As I said, it’s time for the next step.”
She waved her hand around. “What? What’s the next step?”
“Patience. Let’s go; we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
5
Jon’s driver took them back to the headquarters, or base, or whatever they called it—Monica still didn’t know and didn’t care. The black sedan remained sandwiched between two SUVs full of the security detail that had been assigned to her. Same garage, same steroid-laden guards at the gate, same door and dark, colorless hallway, but this time, he took her to a spacious conference room.
The chairs, crafted of deep leather, stood at the ready next to the dark-mahogany table, whose glossy surface shined in the soft lights. She sat at the head of the table while Jon fetched her a cup of coffee.
He came back with a paper cup. Monica took a sip and grimaced; the black sludge barely met the technical definition of coffee. It tasted like a mix of weak, used motor oil and garden mulch.
