by Alex Ander
“Of course not. She’s my girlfriend.” He launched a quick grin her way. “You’re one of the guys, remember?”
“Lucky me.” Devlin put the binoculars to her eyes. “What do we have?”
Randall dropped his donut into a cup holder and swallowed his food five chews later. “The lights just came on inside, and I saw a figure, possibly two, walking around.”
“How’d they get in? I didn’t see any cars pull up.”
“Could’ve been sleeping upstairs the whole time.”
She recalled how she and Randall had only been able to peek through the windows on the main floor when they had arrived on the scene. She lowered the glasses and gave the surrounding area a once-over. “People are starting to hit the streets, start their day. If those two are our suspects, they won’t come quietly.”
“We don’t have enough for a warrant. Nor do we even know if they’re our suspects.”
“But we can at least knock on the door and ask questions. See what they do. If they’re guilty, we’ll know it.”
Randall faced her. “And how will we know that?”
She smiled at him. “I misspoke. I meant you’ll know...mister CIA man.”
He nodded. “So, I’m your genie in a bottle? You rub my belly whenever you want me to use my skills to sniff out the truth?”
“When you say it like that,” Devlin whipped out her pistol and pulled back on the slide to see brass in the chamber, “you make it sound so cheap,” before holstering the weapon on her right hip again.
Randall verified the status of his 45 ACP Walther PPQ then slid it into his right-side hip holster. “How else am I supposed to make it sound?”
She pulled on a handle, pushed open her door, and half closed an eye at him while planting her right tactical boot on the pavement. “Think of it as your superpower.”
He shouldered open his door and nodded, “I could see that,” before eyeing her. “But I’m not wearing tights and a cape.”
Climbing out of the sedan, she tossed a quick down-and-up his way then turned her back on him, twisted up her face, and mumbled, “Not sure I’d want to see that, anyway.”
Randall unfolded his frame from the car and stood tall. Having heard a few of her words, and extrapolating on the missing ones, he shut his door and spied her over the top of the 300S. “Your inside voice needs work. I could totally pull off tights and a cape,” a tick, “if I wanted to, that is.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 18
Houseboat
Walking down the dock, houseboats on either side of him, Devlin in the lead, Randall went to tip toes, twisted his head a little to the right, and saw half of the target home’s second level was an open-air deck that faced the water.
Devlin made a right-ninety then transitioned from the dock to the gangplank to push a button before knocking on the door a moment later.
Randall moseyed to the end of the parallel decking boards and stopped at a curved ladder, its lower half out of view under the water. He looked right to see the stern of a twenty-five-foot bright red powerboat moored to the target home’s foundation.
She rapped on the door again.
He made his way back to her but stayed on the dock behind her. “There’s a speeder over there. That’s how they could’ve gotten here without us seeing them.” He swayed left. “I’ve got movement inside.”
The door opened a second later.
A six-one, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties filled the archway. His brows formed a ‘V,’ and his dark eyes were narrow slits. His attention darted from one visitor to the other. “What do you want?”
Recalling the description Faith had relayed to her—via the houseboat’s owner—about the men renting the place, Devlin squinted at the tan-skinned man with a close-cropped beard and squared-off jaw. Looks like him. “Tom McGantry?”
“Who’s asking?”
Opting to keep her hands near her waistline, near her pistol, Devlin ditched her usual display of credentials and eased back the right lapel of her navy-blue blazer to reveal her gold-colored badge, a five-pointed star inside a circle. “United States Marshals Service. We’d like to talk to you about a string of robberies that have taken place over the last year.”
Randall noted a slight twitch in the man’s right eye but conceded it might have been due to a ray of sunshine that had emerged from somewhere inside the house to light up that side of the man’s face.
“You got a warrant?”
Randall: Most people don’t normally ask that...unless they’ve had dealings with the law.
Devlin shook her head. “We don’t need one if you invite us in.”
“I’m not accepting callers at the moment.” He swung the door toward her.
“The name Dryden Barnes ring any bells?”
Now out of the sunlight, the homeowner hesitated.
Seeing movement out of the corner of his left eye, Randall saw the man twitch again, Gotcha, before he cranked his head to the left, toward the movement he had noticed.
The powerboat’s stern heaved toward the house.
“Never heard of him.” The big man slammed the door.
“He’s lying, Jessica.”
“Don’t need a genie to figure that one out.” Devlin drew her stainless-steel 1911 Colt 45, one of three identical pistols, the other two belonging to her sister and father. She tried the doorknob. “We’re locked out.”
Randall darted to the end of the dock.
The boat rumbled to life and surged forward.
He drew his Walther. “I got one making a run for open water.”
Devlin backed up and kicked the door twice before firing three shots next to the black knob and putting her boot to the door again.
The barrier flew inward.
She raced into the living room, gun up, and aimed at the fleeing McGantry. “Freeze! Don’t move!”
On her twelve o’clock, facing away from her, his hands hoisting a duffle bag onto his back, McGantry made a sharp left and bolted for a pair of patio doors.
Cutting across the living room on an angle, while holstering her weapon, Devlin navigated around a coffee table, bean bag chair, and an end table before sinking her right foot into a sofa cushion and leaping over the furniture.
McGantry saw her coming and lifted his left arm to shield his face.
*******
Outside, clearing three feet of water, Randall jumped off the dock and landed on the home’s two-foot frontage of weathered boards, the toe of his shoe sending a potted plant into the ‘drink’ with a splash.
The boat slowed, its driver looking back at the house.
The deputy marshal raised his gun. “Stop right there.”
Following another glance at the structure, the driver faced forward and jammed the throttle toward the bow.
The watercraft sped away, ducking behind the cover of the building.
Randall ran ahead, pulling up near one of three white columns supporting the open-air deck above, before he lined up the PPQ45’s sights with the escapee. His focus shifted to the landscape beyond his target. Seeing more homes, and people mulling around, he lowered his weapon and cursed under his breath.
Now more than a hundred yards away, the boat made a wide left and zoomed toward open water.
*******
Devlin ducked under the roundhouse right then sunk her left fist into the right side of McGantry’s rib cage.
The man moaned and took a half step to his left before swinging his right arm back toward her.
She dipped under the strike.
The big man immediately brought a balled left fist down onto the middle of the hunched-over agent’s back.
Pain radiated out from her torso in all directions, as she dropped to hands and knees.
He reared back his right foot and kicked her in her left side.
Bellowing, she rolled onto her back while holding her right hand to her rib cage.
McGantry hurdled her.
Devlin threw up her left arm and caught his trailing foot.
Stumbling, he took longer strides to try to regain his balance, his momentum carrying him toward the patio doors.
*******
Out on the deck, his gun pointed at a downward angle, Randall squinted at the speedboat while waffling over whether to take the two-hundred-yard shot now that the craft had cleared innocent bystanders.
The patio doors burst open, the glass in one shattering, the pane in the other spider webbing, as that door banged into the siding.
McGantry staggered a few paces then face planted onto the rough wooden boards.
Randall pivoted his body, and his forty-five, clockwise toward his two o’clock.
The man got to his feet.
“Hands! Show me your hands!”
Spotting the red speck on the horizon, his shoulders slumping, McGantry let go of the bag. In the next instant, he turned his attention toward Randall and balled both hands.
The deputy marshal noticed and touched the Walther’s trigger. “Give me a reason...any reason at all.”
Devlin charged through the patio archway.
Observing the look on her face, one he had never seen before, he lowered his gun.
Deep creases in her forehead, her eyebrows coming together to form a unibrow, the marshal jumped into the air and drove her right boot into the back of McGantry’s right knee.
The man’s leg buckled, and his upper body arched backward, as his right knee thumped down onto the hard surface.
Devlin delivered a right elbow to the back of his head.
He sprawled onto the decking.
On his port side, she planted her right knee in his lower back.
He screamed, threw a backward left elbow, catching her on the outside of her left thigh.
Grunting at the onset of a charley horse, she thrust her right hand into his crotch from behind, got a handful of clothing and body parts, then squeezed and twisted.
McGantry bellowed.
Randall grimaced, recoiling a bit, before shaking off the empathetic pain and springing forward to help his fellow agent.
The fight leaving him, McGantry let his forehead fall onto the deck.
Randall buried a knee into the man’s neck and held out a pair of handcuffs.
Devlin wrenched her suspect’s hands to the small of his back, accepted her partner’s offering, and affixed the manacles. She stood up, only to grimace and bend over in the next moment while holding her left side.
Rising to his feet, subconsciously moving his free hand to cover himself, “I pity your husband when,” Randall looked up to locate the escaping boat on the horizon before whipping his head left and right, “when you come home in a bad mood.” He ran away from her, jumped onto the long dock, then jumped to the deck of the adjacent houseboat.
Still making faces, Devlin righted herself and stretched her back muscles before massaging her left thigh. She hauled out her cell phone, tapped the screen a few times, then studied her handiwork lying at her feet, huffing a moment later. “Prima donna, my as—”
A female voice: “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“This is United States Marshal Jessica Devlin.” She gave the houseboat’s address. “I need you to send a police officer to this location to collect a prisoner and...”
A motor revved.
“...hold him for...”
A boat lumbered from around the adjacent home and pulled up alongside Devlin.
She faced the man at the helm. “...me.”
Randall: “Are you taking a break, or do you want a piece of the action?”
Her lips curling up at his words, words akin to the ones she had said to him, earlier, after he had almost been run down by a truck, Devlin turned her attention back to her call. “I’ll be back later to question him.” She clicked off, stowed her phone, and retrieved from her pocket a pair of interlocking black plastic rings. “Give me a hand with this guy, will you?”
The deputy marshal helped her lug the prisoner toward one of the pillars where the two marshals wrapped the man’s legs around the vertical support and secured his ankles with the restraints.
Devlin: “That’ll keep him until the police show up.”
Randall got behind the controls of the white, fifteen-foot pleasure craft. “Let’s go.”
She joined him, standing on his left.
“Hang on.” He ran the throttle forward, and the commandeered boat surged ahead.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 19
As Fast as She Goes
7:07 A.M.
Having kept the faster, escaping red speedboat in his sights the whole way, until it disappeared into the Ballard Locks, Randall glanced at the wide-open throttle of his boat, spied the speedometer, then shouted at Devlin, “This,” as the twosome passed beneath Ballard Bridge, “is as fast as she goes.”
Up ahead, several watercrafts were gathering, waiting for their turn to enter the small locks.
Randall shook his head at the traffic jam. “I don’t know how the hell he made it through that mess, but we’ll be cut off by the time we get there.”
A minute later, on his port side, her blazer flaring out behind her, Devlin patted him on the shoulder and pointed toward her eleven o’clock. “Head over there.”
He looked down the length of her finger. “Where? I don’t see anything but water.” Ten seconds later, coming to within a thousand feet of the locks, he saw what she was pointing at. “What good is that going to do us?”
Maneuvering to get behind him, she hunched over to get a handhold on a railing then perched her left foot on the gunwale. “Just trust me.”
Thirty seconds later, having circumvented the mass of boats waiting at the mouth of the locks, Randall eased the starboard side of his boat up to a pier.
Devlin pushed off, landed on the concrete, and took off running, shouting over her left shoulder. “Circle back and try to get around those boats.”
He made a counterclockwise half circle and poured on the gas.
She sprinted down a walkway meant for employees only. On her one o’clock, the red speedboat floated, its engine growling, the waters churning at its stern, its bow inches away from the small lock’s nearly open gate.
Coming up to a walkway that went over the now open gate, Devlin gave the passageway a quick look, comparing its proximity to the getaway vehicle now passing through the gate. She shook her head, Time for plan ‘B,’ then grabbed a handrail to her left, hopped the barrier, and ran to a chain-link gate labeled ‘Employees Only.’ Which is what, Jess?
On her right, the red speeder accelerated.
Seeing a padlock on the gate in front of her, she swung her left leg over, then her right, in a scissor-like fashion, until she was sitting on the top bar. She dropped onto a set of concrete steps, hustled down the staircase, and leaped off the fourth tread from the bottom. Her knees bending, Devlin touched down then straightened out and shot out of her stance. Four strides later, the marshal was doing an all-out sprint down the length of the concrete pier.
His red boat hugging the left side of the waterway, Tim McGantry cranked the steering wheel clockwise and glanced over his right shoulder, as he pushed the throttle all the way forward and raced away from the pier.
On his eight o’clock, her arms pumping, Devlin said of prayer of thanks that he had not looked over his other shoulder.
The craft picked up speed.
The former high school track and field athlete saw she was no longer gaining on her quarry. She veered right and vaulted toward the water. Her long arms and long legs still pinwheeling in the air, she aimed for the left-rear corner of the stern.
*******
Simultaneously working the throttle and the steering wheel, Randall weaved his way around the other boats clustered at the opening to the small lock.
People shouted and cursed at him for cutting to the head of the line.
With no fre
e hand to either display his badge, or show them the middle finger, he ignored the insults and kept on going. By the time he reached the closed gate, he had garnered the scrutiny of every lock attendant within sight. He throttled back, stuck out his badge, “U.S. Marshal,” and jammed a finger straight ahead. “Get that damn thing open now.”
Attendant: “We need to fill it first.”
“Do whatever the hell you need to do...but get me on the other side. My partner’s waiting for me over there.”
The attendant gave the order to fill the lock then turned toward Randall. “Is your partner a woman...black hair...long?”
“Yeah. Why?”
The man on the lock wall pointed toward the other side of the gate. “Because she’s not waiting for you, anymore, sir. She just jumped onto the back of a speeding boat.”
*******
Her legs having given her more power than she had anticipated, Devlin had overshot her mark and caught the low horizontal stern rail just left of the outboard motor, her lower body dangerously close to the spinning propeller beneath the water’s surface.
McGantry had made a sharp left when Devlin landed, so the extra weight had gone undetected when the boat had listed into the turn.
Being dragged in the watercraft’s wake, Devlin did a horizontal chin-up, released her left hand, and gripped the rail further left. Repeating the process twice more, she put a couple feet between her and the prop’s blades.
Passing under Salmon Bay Bridge, the driver turned to starboard and entered Shilshole Bay a minute later.
Her legs swaying back and forth, feeling the burn in her arms, Devlin gritted her teeth and gripped the rail as tight as she could.
The slick steel slipped through her palms a half inch.
She did another lateral chin-up to reacquire her grip. I can’t hold this much, she grimaced, longer.
The boat deviated left then slowed a bit.
Squeezing with all her might, Take it, Jess...this is your, she flipper’d her legs, pulled, and swung her left leg onto the boat, hooking the back of her ankle over the stern rail.
Up ahead, a larger vessel cruised by, and McGantry then accelerated.
