by James Hunt
“Then open the door, son.”
The marshal paused, staring at Grant, then looked down both ways of the hall. He stepped back and slid his key card through the magnetic strip. Grant reached for the handle, and with the door cracked open, he stopped himself, turning toward the marshal. “No matter what you hear inside, you don’t open this door. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant pushed the door inward, stepped inside, and quickly shut the door behind him. Rick sat in a chair with his hands over his face. Three seconds passed before Rick looked up—the calm before the shit storm that was about to erupt.
Rick and Grant locked eyes. The air was sucked from the room, and Grant’s blood went cold.
The legs of the steel chair scraped against the tile as Rick stood, pushing the chair backward. Rick balled his hands into fists so tight that his arms shook. His eyes were red, remnants of his grief, but now there was only rage.
Neither man spoke, but Grant understood the price of his admission into this room. Pain was inevitable. But it was a pain that Grant had become intimate with. It was a pain that he understood.
As quick as a snakebite, Rick charged Grant, slamming him up against the door with his hands around Grant’s neck, choking off his air supply.
“This is your fault!” Saliva streamed through Rick’s bared teeth, and his cheeks reddened. “She never should have helped you. Never! Because you’re just a sad sack of shit who gets everyone that cares about him killed.” He removed one of his hands and punched Grant’s stomach then flung him into the adjacent wall, only to ram him again, this time leading with his shoulder, and then heaved Grant over his head.
“Gaaah!” Rick spun from the wall, Grant’s head nearly scraping the ceiling, and then body-slammed Grant onto the steel table.
A hot flash of pain spread from the center of Grant’s chest, and as he gasped for breath his spin began to ache, but it was short lived as Rick continued his attack.
Rick punched Grant’s ribs, and Grant rolled off the table, barely able to get his feet under him after he landed on the carpet.
Rick stepped around the table, fists still clenched, panting heavily. He pointed to Grant. “You’ve killed her!” He lunged again, his fist connecting with Grant’s chin so hard that Grant was knocked to the floor.
The floor became unlevel as Grant lay on his side, blinking to try to rid himself of the black spots in his vision and the hot sting on his chin.
Rick stomped over, towering over Grant, and raised his fists high, bringing them down quickly in a hail of fury. “You fucking piece of shit!” Every punch was thrown harder, wilder, the unfiltered rage of a husband and father on the precipice of a loss greater than anything imaginable, beating the one person that understood that kind of pain.
But Grant never fought back, never even raised his fists. He just lay there and took it, knowing that every ounce of pain he experienced paled in comparison to what Rick felt.
After a few minutes, the punches grew lighter, and Rick stumbled backward, heaving his chest up and down, gasping for breath. Spit rolled down the corner of his mouth, and his knees buckled and hit the floor.
A symphony of pain stretched from Grant’s head all the way down to his toes, though the majority of the concert was conducted in his ribs, which were at the very least bruised, if not one or two broken.
Grant slowly lifted his head, pushing himself from the fetal position on the floor, and sat upright. “I’m sorry, Rick.” An unexpected lump formed in Grant’s throat, and his eyes moistened. “I’m so sorry.”
Rick looked Grant in the eye then stood, still trying to regain control of his breathing. “I don’t care.” He turned away and stepped into the far corner of the room.
Grant’s knees wobbled as he stood, but he couldn’t straighten out his back without a sharp pain hunching him forward again. He limped a few steps toward the table and then used it for support. “I’ll find her, Rick. I will bring her back, alive, no matter what the cost. I promise.”
Rick remained in the corner for a moment longer, and when he finally turned, he wiped away the fresh tears, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. His hair was a mess, his shirt was crumpled and dirty, and he had dark spots under his eyes. Six years ago, it would have been as if Grant were looking in a mirror after hearing the news about his own pregnant wife.
“If you don’t bring her back,” Rick said, his voice trembling from the adrenaline of either fear or anger. He stepped within inches of Grant’s face. “I swear on Mocks’s life and the life of my unborn child that I will kill you.”
“I know.” Grant sidestepped him and walked out the door, heading toward the meeting with Hickem, Multz, and Sam. But he knew that he’d never give Rick the chance to kill him. Because if he couldn’t bring Mocks back alive, he didn’t plan on surviving the return trip.
Sam stood outside Multz’s office. The door was open, with Hickem and Multz waiting for her inside. She looked left and right, searching the hallway for Grant, hoping he’d show.
It had taken every ounce of control not to follow Grant or stop him. But she knew it wasn’t her place.
“Cohen,” Multz said, yelling from his desk. “We’re burning daylight.”
Sam lingered a second longer and then retreated into Multz’s office and closed the door behind her. She sat next to Hickem, who tapped his foot impatiently.
“Don’t take it too personally, Marshal,” Hickem said, typing on his phone. “Once Grant gets something in his mind, he never lets it go.” He finally looked up from his screen. “He’ll see it through till the end.”
“He’s committed,” Sam retorted. “Most consider that a noble attribute.”
“Yeah, well, those people usually don’t live in the real world.” Hickem pocketed his phone and undid the button on his jacket. “Not everyone gets to run off to some small town after they’ve made a mistake to hide out for the rest of their—”
The door swung inward, and Grant stepped inside and closed it before Hickem could even turn around. He remained off to the side, arms crossed, and silent.
“Nice of you to join us,” Multz said.
“I was just singing your praises,” Hickem said.
Multz’s desk phone rang, and he hit the speaker phone. “Senator Thorn, thank you for your time.”
“What in the Sam Hill is going on out there?” Thorn’s southern accent was accentuated by his angry tone. “I’m getting calls from people who never call me, and I’ve got constituents worried sick that we’re selling national secrets!”
“Sir, Director Hickem here. I just want to say—”
“Already giving yourself a promotion, eh?” Thorn asked. “You’re acting director, Hickem. The title isn’t permanent. In fact, I’ve got half a mind to feed you to the reporters hounding my office!”
Hickem cleared his throat, thrown by the accusation, fidgeting and uncomfortable. “Sir, I can assure you that I have been nothing but—”
“Can it, Hickem,” Thorn said. “Now, where in the hell are we with finding Links?”
“We don’t have many leads on that, Senator,” Multz answered. “But we believe he is still stateside, and his name just moved into the number-one spot on the most wanted list.”
“No shit.” Thorn scoffed. “Does he have the money?”
“He has the access codes to the accounts, but as of right now he hasn’t moved it. He knows we’re watching, so we think he’s looking for a way to move it without it being traced.” Multz drummed his fingers and then nodded to Sam.
“Senator, Marshal Cohen here. We think that Links might use the money now as a bartering chip for Joza to keep him safe, but we’re unsure of where he might be smuggled out of the country.”
“Well, get sure,” Thorn said. “I want this bastard on a plate to hand to the American people for dinner tonight! So I want to make this abundantly clear that this is your one and only priority.”
“We understand, sir,” Multz said.
“I do
n’t think you do,” Thorn replied. “Because right now the head of one of our country’s most powerful intelligence institutions is currently the most wanted person on the list of the very agency that he had been selected to run!” A heavy pound thudded through the speaker. “I want updates every twenty minutes!”
Thorn hung up before anyone could respond, and the moment the call ended, Hickem raised his middle finger. “Prick.”
“Where are we at with video footage tracking Links’s movement?” Multz asked.
“We’ve got the CIA sifting through every camera from New York to Seattle, but it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack,” Hickem answered. “Links knows the tricks to find him, so he’ll stay off the grid. And if he’s still getting financed by Joza, he’ll have plenty of resources at his disposal.”
“Let’s start hunting down known Joza associates stateside,” Multz answered. “Sam, you and Grant start at the top of the list and work your way down.”
“Got it.” Sam looked at Grant out of the corner of her eye and still found him with his head down and arms crossed. Disengaged.
“Clock’s ticking,” Multz said. “Let’s get to it.”
Grant was out of the office first, and Sam jogged to catch up, weaving through the busy hall. “Grant, wait!” He didn’t stop till she grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. “What happened with Rick?”
“We both want the same thing,” Grant answered.
Sam waited for more, but he wouldn’t budge. “And that’s it?”
“That’s it,” Grant answered.
Sam nodded. “Okay then.” She bit the inside of her cheek and chewed it nervously. She’d been thinking about the conversation she had with Mocks, about telling the people you cared about what they meant to you. And while she wanted to tell Grant those words now, it somehow felt wrong. “Listen, I’m sorry—”
“We should get to work.”
Grant walked away, leaving Sam alone in the hallway. She knew he was hurting, and she knew there was only one way to make all of this right. They needed to find Mocks. And they needed to find her alive.
3
Every finger wore a ring. Gold bands crusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds were wrapped around thick fingers that held a Regius special-edition Double Corona cigar. At over one hundred grand per box, they were one of the most expensive cigars in the world, and like the rings, Anton Joza flaunted them as a peacock flocked its feathers.
The butler stepped into the room with two crystal glasses on a silver platter with a brown liquor that Joza had imported from France. He set one crystal glass down at Joza’s desk and then handed the second to the guest, who accepted it graciously.
Anton, his weathered face clean shaven, though scarred from his early years on the street, raised his glass, his blue eyes reflecting the flames in the fireplace as he smiled. “To our mutual partnership.”
“Salud.”
Both men drank, and Joza groaned in ecstasy as he set his glass down and leaned back in his plush leather seat. “Ten thousand dollars an ounce.” He reached for the cigar smoldering on the ashtray and pinched it between his teeth. “Worth every penny.”
The associate smiled, nodding vigorously in agreement. The man was middle aged, German, and looking for financing for a political campaign in his region. Joza had financed several local political officials across Europe. It helped keep his ear to the ground and discover lucrative information before it hit the wires.
“I can’t thank you enough, Anton,” the German said. “I can promise you that I will put your money to great work.”
Joza puffed the cigar, regarding the young German with his blue eyes as cold as ice. He exhaled, the grey cloud of smoke blurring the smile stretched across his face. His teeth were an unnatural white against his tanned skin. He pointed at the German. “You want power. I can smell it like the shit you left in my bathroom.” He laughed, slapping his palm on the desk, his rings hitting the wood with a harsh crack as the German nervously laughed along.
“I think I can do my country some real good—”
“Cut the bullshit.” Joza snuffed out the cigar in the crystal glass, the playful nature gone. “I’m not one of the simpletons who wants to hear your campaign speech, so don’t try and speak to me like one. Understand?”
The German nodded. “Of course.”
“You win, and the only people that you’re helping are me and you.” Joza flicked off a piece of ash that had landed on his black dress pants. “And if you don’t win”—he lifted his gaze to the German, whose complexion had turned as white as porcelain—“well, I’d hate to spoil the evening we’ve had.” He snapped his fingers, and the butler returned. “Domingo will show you out.”
The German stood quickly, bowing as he left. “Thank you, Mr. Joza.”
“Your thanks mean as much to me as your shit.” Joza reached for a fresh cigar out of the velvet-lined oak box on his desk. “I need you to win the election, so give me that instead.”
The door shut, leaving Joza alone in his office. He lit the cigar, savoring the slow burn of the tobacco as he inhaled. He rested his head back and relaxed, closing his eyes. He rubbed his forehead, trying to rid himself of the headache that had been plaguing him all morning.
It was rare he went a day without some sort of physical ailment. His doctor had told him that it was a product of advanced age and the life he’d chosen. But he had no regrets.
Joza swiveled in his chair, admiring the masterful works of art that adorned his walls. Some were bought, others were given as gifts, but every single one of them represented more than just the portrait inside the frame. They represented his status.
He had grown up on the streets of Prague, knowing only fear and violence. He had seven siblings, and only he and his younger brother survived to adulthood. The rest were claimed by hunger, sickness, or a knife to the throat.
Nightmares from those early days on the street still plagued his sleep on restless nights. But whenever he awoke in that cold sweat in his silk sheets, he would simply take a stroll through his mansion and admire the castle that served as the epicenter of his empire.
And like all empires throughout history that had staved off defeat and conquered the known world, his was threatening to crumble. The money that was embezzled by the Americans earlier in the year had cut his wealth by more than half.
Joza gnawed on the cigar at the thought. Half. He stood and gravitated toward the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantel, the end of the cigar glowing with the same amber flames as the logs below. He built his fortune with his own two hands. No help. No handouts. Just sheer fucking will.
“Mr. Joza?” Domingo stepped inside, his practiced docility on full display as he kept his head bowed. “You have a call, sir.”
Joza tossed the fresh cigar into the flames and reached for the cell phone presented to him on another silver platter. It was different from the one used to present the drinks. A platter was never used twice on the same day.
“What?”
“I hope the weather in Russia isn’t too cold?” Links asked.
“It’s always cold in Russia, you twat.” Joza snarled, pacing around the office like a tiger on the prowl. “Where is my money?”
“I have gained the access codes as we discussed,” Links answered.
Joza arched an eyebrow, the weathered skin on his forehead crinkling into a dozen folds. “So why the hell don’t I have it?”
Links cleared his throat. “There were complications.”
Joza grabbed the remote off his desk and then turned on his television. A news broadcast had his name and picture on the ticker at the bottom of the screen. “I’ve been watching your complications all morning on the news. You’ve been the top story on every network from Moscow to Washington!” Joza threw the remote at the television, shattering the crystals in the screen. “You were only good to me as the director of the FBI! Not a fugitive on their most wanted list.” The anger rising in his chest triggered a pinc
hing feeling in his left shoulder. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. “Give me a good reason to not have my men kill you right now.”
“Because only I can access the money.” Links maintained that even-keeled and arrogant American tone that Joza hated. Americans could always bullshit better than anyone. They wore it like a badge of honor.
“I wanted the money, but I needed your influence.” Joza ran his hand over his bald head, the metal of his rings scratching red marks along his scalp. “You no longer have that influence, so you are no longer useful to me.”
“I have another proposition.”
Joza paused, noting that familiar tone of desperation. People were always begging him for help, for mercy, for money, all of it slipping off him like water on the skin of a seal. It didn’t matter the request or the person, Joza only sought to help those that could benefit him. And with Links at the breaking point, he still might be of use.
“I can still trade you information in exchange for safe passage out of the United States,” Links said.
“What information?” Joza asked.
“I know the facility where they’re keeping your son.”
Had the pair been speaking face-to-face, Links would have seen the quick flash of eagerness that Joza quickly hid.
“It will take more resources to get him out now, but once you have the money, you’ll have plenty of spare change lying around,” Links said. “Keeping me alive is in your son’s best interest as much as it is yours.”
Joza tightened his grip on the phone, that rage boiling again. “You dare threaten me? You dare to use my own son as blackmail!”
“Of course not,” Links answered, his tone cool and calm. “I’m simply explaining the details of my plan.”
Joza paced the room, knowing it was a deal he had to take, and knowing that if the little American prick was lying, he’d be dead before the week’s end. “You call me back when you have the money. Then we’ll talk.”
“I need you to come stateside,” Links said. “As a gesture of good faith.”
