by James Hunt
“Hey, you’re the FBI Director, right?” There was a wild excitement in his eyes. “You’re going after those killers, right?”
“We’re involved with several cases, so if you’ll excuse me—”
“Listen, don’t even give him a chance, okay?” The nurse blocked Hickem’s path. “I mean you guys do that shit all the time, right? Cause an accident or something? The only justice that guy deserves is to be put six feet under the ground. He killed a mother, and then a cop? Do everyone a favor and just take him out.”
“Move.” Hickem straightened, making sure that the little pissant saw every inch of Hickem’s six-foot seven, two-hundred-and fifty-pound frame. “Now.”
The nurse stepped aside but continued to holler at Hickem from down the hall. “Just make sure you get him, okay? My wife hasn’t had a good night’s sleep ever since she saw those videos!”
“Then she shouldn’t have watched them.” Hickem turned the corner, leaving the self-righteous nurse alone with his thoughts on how he should conduct national security matters and deal with his wife’s poor sleeping schedule.
All six members of his team in the lobby stood when they saw Hickem head toward them. They were his best, the group of agents that he trusted the most. “We found his car, and we’re tracking him through CCTV. I want a sweep of every seedy, cheap motel in the area. He’s mostly likely staying on the city’s outskirts, a little off grid and away from potential camera stops. And he’ll have paid in cash, so this is just about pounding the pavement.” He clapped his hands together. “Let’s get to work.”
Again the agents scattered at their leader’s order, and Hickem hoped that he’d be able to find Grant in time before someone decided to take the law into their own hands.
5
The glow from the television screen cast a dull glaze over the rest of the room, the downtrodden blue tint fighting against the yellow hue of the dimly lit lamp on the nightstand.
The cheap television set in the motel room received only six channels. Out of those six channels, only two worked. The first working channel was public access, and the second was the local news. And because Grant wasn’t interested in the local flora and fauna as was currently being described by a local Jack Hanna, Grant chose the news.
He kept the television on as background noise while he forced himself to read Dennis’s notebook, keeping an ear out for any of the day’s exploits while he searched for any pivotal information in the daily ramblings of the most dangerous serial killer in the history of the country.
From the descriptions that Grant read, he could tell that Dennis was struggling to balance his normal routine with the desires bubbling up within him. Because Grant had foiled Dennis’s past three hunting attempts, the man was blocked up. He needed a release, and he needed one quickly.
But Dennis was as much a creature of habit as anyone else, despite the man’s claims of righteous behavior and talent. And as clever as Dennis was, he wasn’t immune to the irritation and frustration of failure. No matter how much he had claimed to “evolve.”
Halfway through the lunatic’s ravings, Grant set the notebook aside and rubbed his eyes, then checked the small red clock on the nightstand. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. And while his eyes were tired and dry and red from the strain of reading Dennis’s tiny handwriting, his brain was still wired and awake like it was the middle of the day.
Grant swung his legs off the bed and sat on the mattress’s edge. He rolled his head on his neck, his muscles stiff and fatigued. He knew that he couldn’t keep up this kind of pace for much longer. But according to Dennis’s inner thoughts, neither could he, which made his earlier conversation with Dennis even more frightening.
Go out with a bang.
Grant had no delusions that Dennis was bluffing on his final act. Dennis was many things, but someone who didn’t follow through? No. His word was his bond. Hell, in his mind, his word was the law.
“And now, we’re going to turn it over to our party planner and weekend warrior, Lesley Townsend. Lesley?”
“Thanks, Paul. We have a few options here in Portland this weekend…”
Grant stood and paced the dirty carpet in his bare feet. He wore only an undershirt and boxers, the rest of his clothes down at the washer. He wanted to get the blood out of them.
“And, if you’re looking for a new place for brunch, we have….”
While the news hadn’t been following his case as closely over the past month, he knew the authorities still considered Grant and Dennis a priority. And Grant knew that it wouldn’t be much longer before the ground fell out from beneath him.
“But, if you’re looking for a little weekend trip, and you don’t mind taking the drive…”
Grant balled his hands into fists. What was he planning? Surely he wouldn’t do something here. No. He would return to his home turf. Back to where it all started. He’d want it to end there. He’d want it to end in—
“Seattle’s biggest outdoor music festival.”
Grant faced the television.
“Well, Lesley, that sounds like a blast. Will you be heading up there to enjoy the show?” The anchor flashed a white smile and shuffled some papers before the control room cut back to Lesley, who looked like she was holding up a pair of blue tickets.
“I’m leaving right after work tomorrow.” Lesley hopped up and down, her breasts bouncing with her, and for a moment, the professional reporter showed her age.
The male anchor laughed. “Sounds fun.” He cleared his throat and then turned back to the camera, his tone growing more serious. “But, in other news, it looks like the terrors of Seattle have found their way to Portland. Earlier today a young woman, yet to be identified, was taken to Portland General, dropped off by who authorities now believe is this man.”
Grant’s picture flashed on the screen. It was an old picture, back from his days as a detective. It was the stock photo that most of the news outlets used. He figured they used it because it was a flattering picture and there was something dangerous and sexy about a cop turned rogue. But Grant hadn’t worn a badge in years, something that this news report failed to mention.
“Chase Grant, who three months ago shot and murdered a law enforcement officer in cold blood—”
Grant turned the television off. He’d heard that story before, and he didn’t need to hear whatever new spin that these locals had decided to put on it.
But if he made the news, he was sure that Hickem and a slew of other agencies were already tracking him down. And Grant didn’t think the authorities would bring him in alive.
He had been on the force long enough to know what his own kind thought of cop killers. They were the scum of the earth. The lowest of the lows. They’d find whatever reason they could to shoot him, and if there wasn’t one, they’d make one up after the fact.
A pair of headlights illuminated the parking lot and penetrated the flimsy pair of curtains that Grant kept drawn over the room’s only window.
Grant moved toward the window. He kept off to one side and peered through the crack in the curtains.
A pair of men dressed like Feds exited an unmarked Crown Vic. The windows were tinted, so Grant couldn’t see inside the vehicle, but it was left running, which meant that the driver was still inside, no doubt keeping an eye on the rest of the place.
“Shit.” Grant let go of the curtain and then dressed quickly with what he had left. Because the rest of his clothes were still in the wash, he’d have to make do in the cold with just his jacket. It was thick, but could only provide so much warmth with below freezing temperatures.
There was no back exit or window that Grant could shimmy out of, one of the risks of staying at this place for as long as he did, but he made sure to grab a room at the end of the building, keeping him close to the woods out back.
Grant tossed the phone into the bag and then reached for the notebook, but paused. If they were Feds, then they’d give whatever they found to Hickem.
Grant opened the first page and scribbled at the top, and then left the notebook on the bed. He donned his jacket, slipped on the backpack, and then crept toward the door.
The Crown Vic was still running, and the pair of Feds hadn’t come out. Grant shut his eyes and took a breath. It was all about evasion.
Because it was dark outside, the agents would most likely stop and call for air support, choosing to wait for backup and dogs rather than pursue.
Grant opened the door with conviction and then immediately made a beeline toward his left, heading for the end of the building. In the same instant, the Crown Vic’s motor revved, and Grant’s backside was briefly illuminated before he darted around the back.
A car door slammed, followed by shouts from the driver, who joined the pursuit.
Grant planted his foot against the dirt, his shoe bending awkwardly from the tip of a rock that was buried underneath. It hurt, but Grant had learned to push through pain over the past three months. He suspected that he could push through anything.
A steep hill was Grant’s only obstacle before the woods, and halfway up the slope, a flashlight reached his heels.
“Freeze!”
Grant double-timed it, knowing that he’d be in good shape once he crested the top of the hill. He just had to keep moving. No matter what. Keep heading north, toward Seattle, toward home—
The first bullet screamed past Grant’s left ear, close enough for him to feel the heat of the hunk of metal warm his left cheek.
“I said freeze!”
Three-quarters of the way up the slope, and unsure if the agent behind him was that good of a shot or he just got lucky, Grant veered behind a rock cropping, ducking behind the cover just in time to shield himself from the second bullet.
“Control, this is Agent Tavers. I am in pursuit of suspect, requesting backup.”
“What do you have?” The voice came from a second agent, which meant that the two Feds that had entered the lobby were now tossed into the fray. There were a few more words exchanged, but they kept their voices lowered.
“It’s over, Grant! Come on out!” Tavers yelled. “Make it easy on yourself.”
All three flashlights were trained on the rock that Grant was nestled behind. It wasn’t a tall formation, so he was forced to duck real low to remain hidden. It was at least a twenty-yard dash to the crest of the hill.
“Grant!” Tavers yelled the warning like a father about to count to three before he decided to come up the hill and settle things his way. “Let’s go!”
With time running out, Grant made the decision quickly, and he committed fully. With every ounce of strength that remained to him, he pushed off the rock, catapulting himself into a sprint.
Grant kicked up dirt, churning his legs up the steep incline, burning through the sluggish and fatigued nature of his muscles, focused only on his escape.
Five steps into Grant’s climb, Tavers shouted for him to freeze again, but the voice was quickly drowned out by a gunshot.
A patch of illuminated dirt from the flashlights puffed up as the bullet missed and another gunshot fired, this one closer, but still missing.
Less than ten yards separated Grant from the opportunity of freedom. Nine yards. Eight. Another bullet nipped the rocks on his left, the ricochet making a cartoonish twang as the bullet quickly changed directions somewhere into the night.
Five yards. Four. Three. The agents below had tossed all care to the wind, and during the last two steps up the hill, Grant was met with a barrage of bullets, the agents banking on quantity of shots over quality. And it worked.
Grant planted his right foot onto the flat ledge at the top of the hill, but before he could lift his leg, a hot, searing pain tore through his calf. He yelped, the motion rocketing him forward and his momentum spinning him several rotations before he came to a stop.
Ears ringing, lungs and muscles burning, and a terrible sting in his left leg, Grant forced himself up and picked a random direction.
Tavers and the others were screaming again, but Grant couldn’t understand what they were saying. What remained of his waning concentration was tunneled into continuing his trek forward. All that mattered was that he kept moving. He didn’t have time to check the wound, or rest, or even think about where he was going.
He was a wounded animal, searching for any safe haven that he could find. And like any wild thing that had been hurt, he instinctively headed deeper into the woods, deeper into cover. And suddenly he fell into a rhythm.
Adrenaline masked the pain in his leg, and the lights from the agents had faded, along with their shouts and gunfire, leaving Grant to retreat in the darkness.
6
The Next Day
It was rare that Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal James Connor kept his office door closed, but it meant one of two things. Either he was on a high-level call with someone from Washington, or one particular U.S. Marshal was about to get chewed out. Today it was the latter.
The door flung open and Connor stepped out, bright red from the neck up, his voice bellowing over the bullpen of his staff who sat at their desks, filling out reports and following up on their long overdue paperwork. “Cohen!”
U.S. Marshal Sam Cohen turned her head, along with every other marshal.
“My office. Now!” Connor disappeared into the office, leaving the door open.
Sam dropped the pen and stood, ignoring the glares from her peers, who knew as well as she did why the chief was so upset. She had prepared herself for this.
Instead of the normal white blouse and jacket, she opted for a more tactical long-sleeve shirt, jacket, black jeans, and boots. She rarely wore heels. With her height, she stuck out enough on her own. She didn’t need to add more elevation.
“Sir?” Sam asked, stepping inside.
Chief Connors stood in front of his desk, arms crossed, still fuming. “Shut the fucking door.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam obliged, but didn’t move any farther into the lion’s den. She kept her hands tucked behind her back and stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.
The Chief flared his nostrils and then picked up a remote and pointed it at the television, which was a taped recording of what had aired last night on the eleven o’clock news.
“Thank you for tuning in, I’m Sarah Foust, and this is what’s happening in your city tonight.” The news anchor pivoted to another camera, which was a wide shot of Sarah, Lacey White, and Sam. “Tonight’s top story takes us back to the topic of the horrific events three months ago after convicted killer Dennis Pullman escaped from prison and killed five people. Our very own Lacey White has been our go-to reporter for this story and was the first on scene when the events took place.”
“Thanks for having me on again, Sarah.” Lacey smiled. She was blonde, blue-eyed, attractive like Sam, but while Lacey looked pageant-ready, Sam kept it simple with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a blouse and blazer.
“For our counterpoint, we have U.S. Marshal Samantha Cohen, who some of you might know was the recent fiancée to Chase Grant, the former Seattle Police Detective who was assisting on the Pullman case and responsible for the death of Mary Sullivan and Seattle Detective Jonathan Lane.”
Sam said nothing as Sarah turned toward the other women.
“So, ladies, why don’t we start with why we’re here tonight,” Sarah said.
Lacey opened her mouth to speak, but Sam jumped into the conversation first.
“We’re here because the facts have been manipulated to produce a narrative that is slanderous to a man who has done nothing but devote his life to the protection of the people in this city.”
“Unless your name is Mary Sullivan or Jonathan Lane,” Lacey said, jumping in without skipping a beat, then pivoted toward Sam. “Or do I have my facts wrong about their deaths?”
Standing in the chief’s office and listening to that bitch speak for a second time made Sam’s blood boil all over again.
“Dennis Pullman targeted Chase Grant Specificall
y, and it is Pullman who is the one responsible for the deaths of Mary Sullivan and Detective Lane.” Sam’s cheeks flushed as she spoke, burning through the foundation that she’d applied before going on camera. “And while the events that happened were tragic, he needs his side of the story told.”
“Then where is he?” Lacey asked. “Where is the man you so whole-heartedly stand by? If he’s so innocent, then why did he run from authorities after gunning down an officer of the law in cold blood?”
“Two bombs.” Sam held up her hands. “There were two bombs wired on the day of the events of September 20th. One was rigged beneath Mary Sullivan’s chair where she was trapped in a building in the abandoned warehouse district where Dennis Pullman’s associates had been keeping her after her abduction. The second was—”
“And why weren’t the authorities at that warehouse to retrieve Mary Sullivan?” Lacey placed her finger to her lips, feigning a concentration as the realization suddenly popped into her head. “Oh, because they were too busy following Chase Grant’s bogus leads!” Lacey shook her head in the over-animated way all news pundits were these days.
“Seconds!” Sam had raised her voice. “It was seconds between a life-and-death situation for a group of people, including the incident with Detective Lane—”
“And why did Grant choose to kill Detective Lane?” Lacey asked, answering before Sam could. “To save the husband of Lieutenant Susan Mullocks, who happened to be Grant’s former partner when the pair worked together. The same lieutenant who happened to hire Grant as a consultant even AFTER he was kicked off the force! Oh, and did I happen to mention that Chase is also the godfather of Lieutenant Mullocks’s child?”
“Yeah, I think you did mention that, bitch,” Sam said.
The stunned silence lingered for a few more seconds even after the chief turned off the television and set the remote down.
“And it only gets better from there.” Chief Connor had calmed a little bit. “Sam, what were you thinking?”
