Hunt the Lion

by Chad Zunker

  “He’s not here, Natalie,” David said, concern now growing in his voice.

  Natalie exhaled deeply, her faint hope crushed. “Is any of his stuff in the room?”

  “Yes, everything is here. His luggage, his clothes. All his toiletries are still in the bathroom. His phone and wallet are even sitting here on the dresser. Maybe he just went for a late-night walk? Jet lag and all that. Why do you think something happened? Because he’s not answering his cell phone?”

  Natalie paused. Sam left his phone in the room? Why?

  “Wait a second,” David suddenly announced.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s an envelope sitting here on the desk with your name written on it.”

  Natalie felt the heavy weight of fear collapse on her. “Open it and read it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  She heard the tear of paper, and then David began to read.

  Natalie, if you’re reading this, I fear the worst has happened to me. Although I’m unable to explain anything in this letter, for your own safety, please know that I never wanted to lie to you. I only wanted to protect you. I’m sorry. I love you with all my heart.

  Yours always, Sam.

  THIRTEEN

  Lloyd exited the elevator on the fourth floor of his building, eager to grab a shower and catch the end of the Nationals game. When he turned the hallway corner toward his condo, he bumped right into a man in a black leather jacket. The midthirties man had short black hair and was in a real hurry. Lloyd offered an apology, but the man said nothing in return. He just kept moving at a brisk pace toward the elevator. Frustrated by the lack of returned courtesy, Lloyd thought of chasing him down, shoving his FBI credentials in the man’s face, and making a few veiled threats about arresting him; instead, he wisely took a deep breath, collected himself, and let it pass. He was already dead tired. The jerk wasn’t worth the hassle.

  Lloyd pulled out his keys, then stared down at the doorknob. There were scuff marks in the wood near the knob that hadn’t been there before. That was odd. What had his pop gone and done now? His father wasn’t supposed to leave the condo anymore without calling Lloyd. Twice already, Lloyd had received calls from random people who had found his father out wandering the damn streets, still in his bathrobe, unable to tell anyone who he was or where he was going. Lloyd put the key in the lock and then realized the door was already unlocked. Another sigh, shake of the head. Come on, Pop!

  However, when Lloyd opened the door, all frustration with his father disappeared, and he immediately reached for his gun. His condo had been ransacked. The sofa cushions were tossed about, the coffee table knocked over, the old recliner flipped up on its side, stacks of FBI papers from the small kitchen table splayed everywhere. Was that someone still there? Where was Pop? His heart raced.

  Stepping around the ruckus in the living room, Lloyd rushed into the short hallway that led to the two bedrooms. He stopped in his tracks. His father was lying flat on his back, still wearing his bathrobe, but he wasn’t moving. Pop’s eyes were closed. Lloyd dropped to a knee over his father, then noticed the old man’s head was bleeding. A small puddle had started to form on the carpet. Lloyd stood again, his gun squeezed in his fist, moved to the bedrooms. Both had been destroyed. But no sign of a perp still inside the condo. He hurried back to his father, knelt again.

  Lloyd swallowed, put his hands on Pop’s shoulder, shook gently, said his name twice. His father never moved. Lloyd checked his neck for a pulse. He had a heartbeat. Lloyd then looked down and noticed that a handgun was lying on the carpet near his father’s right hand. Pop’s old Smith & Wesson revolver. The same one he’d used during his last ten years on the police force. Lloyd cursed. His father must’ve heard the destruction going on, gotten his gun, and walked in on it. The head wound looked like blunt-force trauma.

  He thought of the guy in the hallway, someone he’d never seen in the building before, and raced for the door. On his way to the elevator, he dialed 911 and frantically asked for an ambulance. He hung up, pounded the Down button for the elevators. When one didn’t immediately arrive, Lloyd took the stairs, his tired legs bounding down three steps at a time, four flights, until he poured out into the small lobby near the wall of mailboxes. There was no one else inside the lobby. Lloyd hit the glass door and spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of his building. His head whipped left, right, searching everywhere for the man with black hair wearing the black leather jacket. He raced up to the street corner, stared down the long sidewalk on the side street in both directions. Others were out and about, but he couldn’t locate the guy.

  Lloyd heard a siren approaching. He had to get back to Pop.

  He dialed Epps. “Get to my place right now!”

  FOURTEEN

  Soaking wet, Sam hobbled through Moscow a half mile from where he’d finally surfaced from his swim in the Moskva River. Roger’s cell phone was no longer working—a result of the dip in the ice-cold river water—so he’d tossed it. Fortunately, the computer tablet was still at his back and remained sealed tight in the waterproof pouch. Sam didn’t currently have access to the tablet’s contents—it was locked down by security—but he hoped to find someone soon who could get him inside. He was working that plan out in his mind right now.

  Wandering the streets for a half hour, hypothermia nearly setting in, he finally found what he was searching for—a place to get some dry clothes. The redbrick four-story building said SUIT SUPPLY on the front sign and had mannequins wearing men’s clothing displayed in a few windows. Obviously, the shop was closed at four in the morning.

  Skipping the front door, Sam circled the building and found a back entrance near a loading dock and half a dozen dirty dumpsters. The black metal door had an old lock-and-key system. Sam began searching for a tool. He could pick a standard lock with any variety of options—a skill he’d established early in life to survive out on the streets—but he couldn’t do it with his bare hands.

  He found a box of metal clothes hangers in the third dumpster, pulled two of them out, and returned to the back door. Straightening the hangers, he dropped to a knee, stared at the lock. He carefully put the end of one hanger into the lock’s slot, felt it bump up against the familiar machinery. He then put in a second hanger end above it. This would’ve been an easy job if not for the fact that his hands were numb and shaking uncontrollably. He tried to steady his fingers, but it was impossible. They were like frozen Popsicles at the ends of his arms. He put his right ear close to the lock to help guide himself by sound and not feel. As he moved his hands and guided the two hangers, he could hear the necessary scraping inside the lock. Seconds later, he heard the click. He turned the knob, and the door opened.

  He listened for an alarm system, something he was willing to risk since he was probably going to die in an alley if he didn’t get out of the wet clothes. He didn’t hear anything or see a keypad on the wall. Still, he needed to be quick. Moving inside a dark hallway, he shut the door behind him, immediately felt the warmth of the building’s heating system. He hadn’t been this cold since he’d barely survived one of the worst blizzards Denver had ever produced while a homeless teenager. That blizzard had pushed him to break into Zion Baptist Church, where he’d thawed out and had his first encounter with Pastor Isaiah, a man who would save him from juvie six months later. Sam thought of Pastor Isaiah. He’d give anything to have that man with him now. He needed a little divine intervention.

  Without turning on any lights, Sam moved deeper into the building. He finally located two swinging doors that led into the retail shop on the first floor. He could see better inside the shop, as the front windows allowed some light in from the street. Sam nearly shouted hallelujah when he found himself surrounded by racks upon racks of men’s shirts, pants, jackets. He quickly grabbed a long-sleeved flannel number off one rack and a pair of gray jeans off another rack. Against a wall, he found a shelf loaded with men’s underwear and socks. Right in the middle of th
e clothing shop, he peeled out of the frozen clothes and quickly put on his dry replacements. He then went to the racks of jackets and grabbed a gray cold-weather number with a hood. After putting on the new clothing items, he crossed the store until he found a section for men’s shoes. Searching two racks of shoes that were all on sale, Sam located a pair of Nike running shoes that looked like his size, slipped them on his feet, and tied them up tight. He felt like a new man.

  A beam of light suddenly crossed his face.

  Sam dropped flat to his stomach.

  He cursed, rolled over behind a rack of clothes. He could tell now that the beam was from a high-powered flashlight. Was someone else inside the shop with him? He listened but didn’t hear anything. Getting to a knee, he peered around the clothing rack, searched for the origination of the light beam. The front of the store. When it crossed over him again, he spotted a shadowed figure wearing a uniform with a flashlight standing right outside the glass front doors of the old building. A policeman. Sam thought he must’ve triggered a silent alarm, because he highly doubted anyone actually spotted him breaking into the building.

  He had to get out ASAP. He didn’t need the extra trouble.

  As quietly as possible, Sam made his way back to the swinging doors that led to the rear of the store and returned to the dark hallway. Along the way, he noticed a small tool kit sitting on the concrete floor beside two metal ladders and some paint cans. Sam did a quick search through the tools, pulled out an Allen wrench and two small screwdrivers, stuffed them in his coat pocket, trying to think two steps ahead. He inched the black metal back door open, peered into the darkness behind the building. When he didn’t spot anyone, he stepped out, carefully closed the door, and hustled down the alley.

  FIFTEEN

  With her Jeep completely totaled, Natalie took the Metrorail across town to Sam’s apartment. He lived on the fourth floor of Capitol Plaza, an aged yellow brick building two blocks from the Georgetown University Law Center, where he’d spent the past three years studying to become a lawyer. Something had told her his unexpected presence in Russia had nothing to do with his new legal career. Her mind kept flashing back to the finale of his trip to Mexico City, when they’d all sat down to answer questions with so-called FBI agents, only for Natalie to discover later through Michelle they were actually CIA agents. Natalie felt it was no coincidence that only a month later, Sam was caught on video in Moscow, standing in a room full of dead bodies, while everyone, including his fiancé and his boss, thought he was still asleep in a swank hotel room in London.

  Natalie focused on answering two initial questions. First, how could Sam have walked into his London hotel room earlier and then ended up in Moscow only a few hours later? That kind of travel didn’t happen by commercial flight. Had he privately flown to Russia? How? The CIA? Or someone else? Second, what did Sam mean in his brief letter to her? I fear the worst has happened to me . . . I never wanted to lie to you . . . only wanted to protect you. He clearly knew he was involved in something dangerous—something that could possibly bring harm to both of them if revealed. Protect her from whom? And from what? Had someone forced Sam to go to Moscow? Was that why he was there? Was it blackmail? Or had he gone voluntarily? She had a difficult time wrapping her mind around that last thought.

  Riding the Metro, Natalie’s heart kept steadily pounding, the same way it did right after she finished a strenuous run. She couldn’t seem to calm herself down no matter how many deep breaths she took. Sam was in grave danger. That was clear. He seemed to know that he might not return to her. Was he already dead? She refused to allow her mind to go there. If anything, Sam was a survivor. He’d proved that time and again. Natalie refused to believe he wouldn’t survive. Not with the engagement ring he’d recently placed on her finger.

  Still, she was furious with Sam. He’d lied to her. Why? He’d sworn to her he’d never shut her out again. And yet right away, he’d chosen to deceive her and had already owned up to it in his letter. That really pissed her off. Did he not trust her? Natalie was not some princess who needed to be sheltered. She was also a fighter and a survivor. She’d overcome the tragic death of her own mother. She’d repeatedly faced down direct threats from all sorts of DC political forces while doing her job at PowerPlay. A year ago, she’d driven the getaway car for Sam while they’d dodged bullets from swarming helicopters. She’d even escaped from a group of men who wanted to keep her tied to a damn chair in an isolated warehouse with a black hood over her head. Why the hell would she need Sam’s protection? They were in this life together—or so she thought.

  Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly. Natalie knew she couldn’t continue to ride this changing tide of emotional waves. It would only exhaust her. She had to focus on the task at hand—finding the truth. She just had to get Sam home. She’d tar and feather him to no end later.

  When she reached her stop, Natalie hurried off the train, made her way up to the streets. Sam’s apartment was a block south. They didn’t spend much time together inside his studio; however, she did have her own key. Entering the lobby, she grabbed the elevator to the fourth floor. Reaching his door, she put the key in the knob, stepped inside, and felt another wave of emotion push through her. She could immediately smell Sam’s fragrance, and it gave her pause. She swallowed, flipped on the lights. The studio apartment was barely four hundred square feet. A half kitchen with a two-person folding table to her right, the living area with the brown foldout couch in front of her, a small bathroom on the other side. It was a mess, as usual. Dirty dishes on the counters, pizza boxes stacked on the kitchen table, piles of legal books and papers spread across the coffee table and covering the carpeted floor in the living area.

  Stepping farther inside, she stared at a small glass shelf near the door that held four framed pictures of the two of them together. A charity softball game. Serving at a homeless shelter. A friend’s wedding. One picture was from their trip to Saint Martin earlier in the year. That made her think of Sam’s mother, a woman she’d grown to love so dearly. Sam had found out his mother was on a swift decline the moment they’d stepped off the plane. Soon after, she would be tragically gone, sending Sam into another tailspin. Again, Natalie had to force back the emotions, which seemed to be coming at her from every direction.

  She scanned the apartment. There had to be something that might give her a clue as to what he was involved in. She rummaged through the stacks of papers and the books on the coffee table. Most of the papers looked like law-firm matters. She recognized several names from their recent dinner conversations. Still, she carefully reviewed every page, looking for bread crumbs—anything that might point her in a direction.

  It took her more than thirty minutes to pore through the various stacks on the coffee table. Still, she found nothing. Sitting on the sofa, she began picking up the legal books spread all about. They were the standard variety, mostly focused on the practice of criminal law. Nothing grabbed her as suspicious. She entered the tiny bathroom, spotted a white card key to the offices of Benoltz & Associates sitting in a pile of wadded cash and crumpled receipts next to the sink. She grabbed the card key, headed for the door. Striking out at his apartment, she would search his law office next.

  Benoltz & Associates was on the eighth floor of a high-rise near Union Station. It was late, so Natalie didn’t expect anyone to be working—especially with the boss in London. She took the elevator up and then swiped the card key at the pad beside the glass doors to the office suite. Seconds later, she was inside the lobby. There were a few lights on down the hallway, but Natalie didn’t hear any voices or movement. Not that she’d feel uncomfortable if discovered in the office. She’d visited several times, and she was familiar with most of the staff. She could simply tell someone she was grabbing a file for Sam.

  She quickly took the hallway and then dipped into Sam’s small outer office, where he had a decent view of the city. Natalie hit the light switch. Sam had an L-shaped wooden desk with a desktop computer in the c
orner of the unit. One wall had wooden shelves that mostly held various sets of legal books. There was a framed photo of Sam with Pastor Isaiah and his family. Several more framed photos of Natalie. Unlike his apartment, Sam kept his office tidy. The desk was well organized. Natalie circled the desk, sat in his leather office chair. She did a quick search of the stacks of paperwork on the desk, found nothing interesting. Then she began rummaging through his desk drawers and still came up empty-handed.

  Finally, she scooted up to the desktop computer, grabbed the mouse, and moved it. The screen came to life. She knew Sam’s password—he used the same one for just about everything. She typed it into the password box and gained access to his office computer. Opening his email, she began to scroll down the list. Again, nothing stood out. They were mostly work related. Several of the emails were from Natalie. She scanned the email folders he’d set up, opening each of them, searching intently, but still found nothing helpful. Next, she went to all the file folders that were set up on his desktop. She again recognized several of the titles from their conversations about his work the past couple of months. Still, she searched inside each file folder and grew more frustrated with all the dead ends.

  She paused on a folder in the bottom corner of his desktop screen simply titled BH. When she clicked on it, another password box popped up on the screen. She tilted her head. Sam had put extra security on this particular file. Why? She typed in his usual password, but it didn’t work out. She typed in another password he’d used while in law school. Blocked again. She sat back in the chair for a second, thinking. Easing forward again, she typed in the day they got engaged—a date Sam had called the most important of his life. She was inside the folder!