by James Hunt
Anger twitched Grant’s lip upward, the snarl almost as quick as Matt’s hand as he reached for the pistol. Grant lunged, still strapped in his seat belt. Matt was already unbuckled.
With his left hand, Grant caught Matt’s right elbow before he could completely remove the pistol, and then thrust his fist toward his throat, which missed when Matt lunged forward, slamming his body against the steering wheel.
Matt’s foot came off the brake, and the car rolled forward, Matt and Grant locked in close combat. But any time Grant tried to lunge forward, the seat belt pinned him back. But he had enough reach to keep himself close enough to force Matt to forgo the weapon, but the freed hand threw two quick jabs to Grant’s nose, and a bright flash blinded him, and then he tasted blood.
Matt’s hands gripped his throat and pinned him up against the window of the passenger-side door. The car was still in drive, and with Matt’s foot off the brake, it slowly rolled forward.
With his left hand free, Grant fumbled for the seat belt. His fingers prodded for the button to release him, but with the life being choked from him, he couldn’t find it. He pressed his fingers down wildly, and just before he was about to pass out, he felt the button.
One click, and the belt loosened, freeing up Grant’s mobility. He reached for the door handle and rolled out of the car and smacked hard onto the asphalt, with Matt dangling over the seats.
Grant thrust the heel of his boot into Matt’s chin, the contact eliciting a crack and whipping Matt’s head back. He scrambled to his hands and knees and sprinted from the still-rolling car.
“Come back here, you fucker!”
Grant beelined it for the nearest alley, and just before he ducked down the dark path, a gunshot shattered glass to his left. He jumped at the noise but didn’t slow his pace.
Grant skidded to a stop once he was behind the building, and looked for anything he could use as a weapon but found an exit instead. The back door to the building was unlocked, and he ducked inside to hide.
Darkness greeted Grant upon entry, and he moved carefully and quietly over a floor littered with broken glass, tools, and discarded boxes. Through the dirty front windows of the building, he saw the car had stopped, left parked in the middle of the street.
Matt’s footsteps echoed down the same alley, and Grant gently leaned against the wall, trying to hear what the FBI agent would do. Muttered curses drifted through the back door, and Grant remained quiet and still, hoping he’d managed to give the bastard the slip.
But to Grant’s displeasure, the back door of the building groaned as it was slowly opened, and he quickly ducked behind a stack of chairs and tables as moonlight flooded inside.
One step. Then another. The agent kept close to the exit, waiting for movement, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Grant’s vision had already started to make out the objects inside more clearly, and he scanned the floor and found the sharpest shard of glass that he could get his hands on.
Three more steps brought the agent deeper inside, their rhythm more purposeful than when he first entered. But aside from the steps, the agent was silent. He was well trained. Good ol’ Matt the Rat who sold the family out to the people that were after them. The only question left to answer was why. What was in it for him? Money? Power? Revenge?
The footsteps ended, and the room grew so silent that Grant thought the hammer of his heart would give his position away. The silence lingered, stretching ten, twenty, forty seconds. Grant fought the impulse to move, to check, to give any sign that he was in the room. It was a waiting game for the rat now, and when the silence passed to well over a minute, Grant knew the rat was well practiced.
Another footstep, and Grant felt himself release a breath, which he quickly ended as another footstep sounded even closer. His body was coiled, his hand gripped around the serrated edge of the broken glass, poised to strike. Another step, and the sole of Matt’s shoe scraped gently across the cement floor. He was close, probably on the other side of the stacked chairs. Grant would only get one shot at him before the bullets started flying. He had to make it count.
Silence.
It lingered like before, Grant not breathing, the world still and motionless. And then it happened all at once.
The chairs crashed down over Grant, steel legs and wooden seats cracking against his arms, shoulders, and back. But despite the avalanche of furniture, Grant kept his eyes locked on Matt’s movement as he spun around the chairs, leading with the pistol in his hand.
Grant lunged, using one of the chairs as an impromptu shield. A gunshot popped, the echo reverberating off the barren walls and ceiling, but Grant kept driving Matt backward.
Another gunshot fired, but Matt’s arm was knocked far to the right, and the bullet only crashed into the floor, and with one final burst of momentum, Grant thrust the glass into Matt’s right chest, sending both men to the cement.
Three quick rabbit punches were all Matt was able to muster before the fight ran out of him, and Grant stood, reaching for the pistol, which Matt dropped when they hit the floor.
Grant hovered close, pistol aimed at the rat, who squirmed and writhed as the glass remained wedged into his flesh, blood oozing from beneath the shirt, staining a dark patch over his clothes.
Matt tried to move, but Grant stepped closer, finger on the trigger, the gun aimed at Matt’s head. The rat froze.
“You sold out the family,” Grant said. “What were you looking for in the house?”
Matt shook his head, struggling to stay coherent through the pain that spasmed in random flashes across his face. “You’re a dead man. You’re a fucking dead man.”
Grant kicked Matt in the ribs, and the man wailed in pain. “What were you looking for in the house?” His voice thundered like gunshots. When Matt didn’t answer, he jammed his heel into the glass wound on Matt’s chest.
“Ahhhh!” Matt writhed in pain from the pressure, arching his back until the pain grew so immense that his screams turned to silence.
Grant finally released him and then dropped to a knee and placed the tip of the pistol’s barrel flush against Matt’s forehead. “Where is Anna’s family?”
“I don’t know,” Matt answered, his eyes rolling in their sockets, his attention anywhere but Grant.
“Did you find what you were looking for? In the Dunnys’ house?” But Matt only closed his eyes and smacked his lips.
“I need water.”
“Answer me!”
“It doesn’t matter.” Matt’s voice drifted, his eyes still closed. He spoke as if he was in a dream, though that was only from the rush of endorphins trying to calm his frayed nerves. “They’ll get what they want.”
“Who?” Grant pressed the pistol’s barrel harder into Matt’s skull, but the man never replied. Finally, Grant removed the gun and then stood, staring down at the man bleeding to death on the dirty concrete floor. He reached for his phone, but when he tried to call, he found that he had no service. “Shit.”
“They’re coming,” Matt said, delirious, his voice still a whisper. “They’re coming.”
Grant frowned, unsure what the ramblings meant. But then something clicked, and the noise sent a ripple of suspicion through his brain. He remembered the number of cars that were in the marshals station. There were maybe only two left. And of the people he saw walk out of the building, there was one person that didn’t leave.
“Oh my god.” Grant’s eyes widened. He dropped down to Matt’s body, forgoing the questions and searching his pockets for a phone, which he didn’t find. Instead, he found some zip ties, which he used to tie Matt’s wrists and ankles, and then dragged him back out to the car.
Matt grunted in pain every few feet, but he offered no resistance. Grant heaved him into the backseat, his adrenaline still pumping, and then quickly started he car, slamming his foot on the gas. The tires screeched and smoke wafted into the air as the rubber burned, and Grant got out his phone, again finding no signal.
�
��Shit!” Grant turned a sharp right, trying to retrace their path. He needed to get back to the marshals building. He needed to reach Sam before she was killed and Anna was taken by the same thugs that had kidnapped her family.
9
The lamp on Sam’s desk was the only light on the floor. Nearly everyone had gone home, though she expected the director to still be down in his office. There were times when she didn’t think her boss was human. He was always the first one in and the last to leave. Though she’d given him a run for his money lately.
Sam had stared at the paperwork scattered over her desk for so long that it started to blur together. She bounced the pen between her fingers anxiously and then quickly tossed it away, letting it roll across the desk and fall off the back side.
The chair groaned as she leaned back, her seat just as exhausted as she was. She rubbed her face, trying to ignite life back into her brain.
After combing through files and talking with Anna and looking at the case from every possible angle she could think of, Sam still had no idea how Joza found the Dunnys. There were no phone records, no computer records, nothing. There was a link, somewhere, and she just couldn’t find it.
The glove with the cufflink that Grant had brought her was still on her desk. It was too late to get it to the lab, but the new piece of evidence could offer her the insight that she couldn’t find herself.
Sam leaned forward, picking up the blue glove, letting it dangle between her fingers. The light from the lamp made the glove a little more transparent, and she saw the cufflink that rested inside. How could she have missed it? They searched every square inch of that house, top to bottom.
The question repeated itself in her mind, and Sam circled it, getting closer and closer to an answer that she knew was important.
But every time she got close, the fog of exhaustion clouded the answers, and Sam dropped the glove back on the desk. She fished her phone out of her pocket and opened her ESPN app to check the Mariners scores.
“C’mon, boys, give me some good news.” But her hopes were dashed as she saw their four-to-one loss highlighted on the clubhouse page. She tossed the phone on the desk and then cracked her neck. “When it rains, it pours.” She stood, needing a stretch after the past few hours of sitting down.
Her joints crackled in a symphony of relief, and she walked over to the coffee pot, which had remained half full. She poured herself a cup and then sipped. It was tepid, but she just needed to stay awake. With the Styrofoam cup lingering on her lips, she looked back down the hall to where Anna and Bandit slept.
The dog had tired the girl out, and it didn’t take but a few seconds after her head hit the pillow for her to pass out. Sam could have put her in another location, another safe house, but with so many questions still left unanswered, she wanted to keep the girl close. And the US Marshals building was the safest place that she could think of in the city.
Coffee in hand, Sam walked back over to her desk and hovered over the files. She had studied every single thing she could on the Joza crime family. They were rich. They were powerful. And they were dangerous. Whatever their hearts desired, they took. It didn’t matter how they did it, it didn’t matter whom they did it to, or what the aftermath looked like—they always got what they wanted.
But of all the questions that drifted through Sam’s mind, the one she was confident she had the answer to was the why. It was revenge.
Sam opened the file of another family that Joza had kidnapped. There were pictures inside of what he did, or rather what was left after what he did. The folder pinched between her fingers started to shake a little as she stared at the bloody mess. She let go, the folder closing, and set the coffee down.
God knew what they were doing to Charles and Mary, trying to pull the information out of them. And with so much time already passed since their abduction, Sam knew they could be anywhere. Joza had contacts in every country, but the most logical idea was that they’d smuggled the pair back to Russia. But at least they didn’t get the girl. And Sam planned on keeping it that way.
Sam walked down the hall toward Anna’s room. It was only accessible via key card, and she swiped it, granting herself entry. The light from the hallway spread from its thin line through the cracked opening, and Bandit poked his head up from the bed.
Sam pressed her finger to her lips, and the dog lay back down. Anna had the covers pulled high, wrapping herself up like a caterpillar with only the top of her head exposed. Sam leaned against the doorframe, watching the girl sleep. She knew that one day, when Anna was older and she had a better grasp of what was happening to her family, and all of the girl’s anger finally had a chance to manifest itself into something more coherent, Sam would be the one to blame.
After all, it was Sam’s responsibility to ensure that the Dunnys remained safe, and she had failed. She wanted to hope for the best, but the truth was that every minute that passed made the likelihood that Charles and Mary Dunny were dead even greater. She had orphaned a five-year-old girl. And she knew that it would haunt her for the rest of her days.
The engine’s BMW revved, Grant flooring the accelerator. He had finally found the highway, and like their trip earlier, it was devoid of any heavy traffic. With one hand on the wheel, he glanced back down at his phone.
A single bar appeared.
The car swerved left and right as Grant searched his pockets for Sam’s card. Matt groaned in the backseat, rolling from side to side, as Grant balanced the wheel and the phone. He felt a sharp corner press against his finger, and he pulled the card out, dialing as quickly as he could.
“Come on, pick up.” Grant kept the phone glued to his ear, the speedometer tipping over one hundred as he passed a car in the middle lane. Three rings, then four, then five. “Pick up, Sam.”
“You’ve reached Samantha Cohen. I’m not—”
“Dammit.” Grant hung up and then tried again. He checked the clock, hoping that she was still at the office, and hoping that at the very least Anna was behind some kind of locked door, though if Matt had already given the information of her location up, it was logical that they knew the exact room where she was being kept.
Still, breaking into a US Marshals office was ballsy, even at this time of night, and even with detailed information on their target’s location.
Another voicemail. Grant hung up then dialed again. He had to get through. He had to tell her what was happening. He would have called Hickem, but he couldn’t rule out that he was involved. His reaction to the cufflink, the fact that he offered to have Matt drive him—none of it painted a pretty picture for his old colleague.
He was still at least ten minutes away, and with the sports car starting to shake as he topped over one hundred and ten miles per hour, he wasn’t sure if he could push the vehicle any harder. But he had to get there. He had to warn her. But when the phone went to voicemail again, Grant wasn’t sure if he was too late.
The buzzing of her phone, which rattled against her desk, pulled Sam’s attention back down the hall. She saw the screen of her smartphone brighten the dark office, and she closed Anna’s door, the room locking securely behind her.
On her walk back, she tossed a glance at the clock on the wall, which said it was close to midnight, and she wondered who would even try to call her at this hour.
When she stepped from the hallway and back into the bullpen of desks, the door on the other end of the room opened, and Sam’s gaze drifted from her phone to the pair of men walking inside, the taller of the two holding a briefcase. At first glance, they looked like Hickem’s men. Their attire matched the cookie-cutter outfits that the FBI wore, but these two carried themselves differently. The proper, upright stature looked forced, as if they were trying to hold something back.
The man on the left stopped at her desk just as Sam’s phone stopped ringing. The missed call was from a number that she didn’t recognize.
“Can I help you?” Sam asked, reaching for her coffee.
“Hickem sent us
over to speak with the girl.” The man on the left spoke like a robot that had been given a software update. But beneath his stoic tone was an accent that she couldn’t place. But she’d never really had an ear for that sort of thing.
“Now?” Sam gestured to the clock she looked at before. “It’s too late. Can’t it wait until morning?”
“Boss’s order.” The man on the right, who was shorter than his associate and leaner from the look of the cut of his suit, spoke with the same indifference.
Sam shook her head and turned, walking down the hallway as the two men followed her. “I swear, just because you have the word ‘federal’ in your agency name, you’d think that you all ran the whole country.” She fished out her key card when the desk phone started to ring again. She stopped, the pair of men stopping with her as she turned around, side-stepping them.
On the short walk back to the desk, the man on the right continued his walk down the hall, while his shorter partner called back to Sam. “Which room is it?”
“Third one down on the left,” Sam answered, yelling back over her shoulder. “I’m coming, good god.” She snatched the phone off the desk and answered. “Marshal Cohen.”
“Sam!” Grant’s excited and breathless voice broke through the phone, and Sam tilted her ear away from the speaker because his voice was so loud. “Are you still at the office?”
“Yeah. Slow down. I’m still here. What’s going on?”
“One of Hickem’s men, the guy who drove me tonight, he was in on it. He gave away the Dunnys’ location and blew their cover.”
A second noise came in through the speaker, a loud humming making Grant’s words a little duller. Sam shook her head. “What are you talking about? What agent? What man?”
“Matt! Agent Kover! He tried to kill me, and I think they’re still trying to get Anna!”
