by James Hunt
Grant shut the laptop down, unplugged the connections, and tucked it under his arm. Quick strides brought him out of the room and through the living room, but when he started for the door, the path was suddenly blocked by a hulking figure that raised a pistol to shoot.
Grant darted back to the room, three gunshots ringing out, and bullets nipped at his heels as he slammed the bedroom door shut behind him. He dropped the laptop and then quickly grabbed the wire that connected the satellite to the computer.
The door busted in half, and the big brute burst inside, stumbling forward due to the momentum of his entrance. Grant bum-rushed the bigfoot, slamming him against the wall and creating a crater the size of his back in the old wood.
He snatched the wrist with the pistol and gave it a quick twist, releasing the big man’s hold on the weapon, but the time and motion cost Grant a heavy punch to the gut followed quickly by a head butt.
The pair of skulls cracked, and a bright flash of light appeared along with a sharp pain that ran down the middle of Grant’s head. He stumbled backward and gathered his senses just in time to watch the brute reach for the pistol.
Grant lunged and gripped the back of the man’s head with both hands and pulled down as he thrust his knee upward. The thug’s nose crunched loudly against his knee, blood spurting over his pant leg.
With the pistol back on the floor, both men scrambled for the weapon, and Grant gouged the brute’s eyes, while the thug wrapped his massive hands around Grant’s throat, eventually throwing him like a rag doll into the nearest wall, but not before Grant managed to squeeze one gunshot that fired into the ceiling.
He landed on the crusted carpet, gasping for air, and the big man grabbed the pistol and then swung around and brought Grant into the crosshairs, but when he squeezed the trigger, there was only the click of the firing pin.
Confusion spread across the big man’s face, and as he stared at the magazine in Grant’s hand, it provided the needed time for Grant to lunge forward. He led with his right fist, connecting with the brute’s jaw in a wicked cross, then followed with a one-two combination to the stomach, and finished with an uppercut that sent the giant backward.
Grant’s fists throbbed with pain from the heavy blows, and he stood over the massive Russian thug, who opened his eyes, snarling, and slowly rose from the floor like a zombie from death.
Grant quickly snatched the laptop off the floor, grabbed the gun, then loaded the magazine back into the pistol and darted out of the room while the big man slowly got his feet beneath him.
Grant’s feet blurred as he hurried down the steps, the pain in his head and the fatigue of his body momentarily suspended as he sprinted outside, wincing from the sudden burst of light.
With the big brute still in the building behind him, Grant never stopped running until he had veered in a serpentine path and he was positive that the big man wasn’t following.
Wheezing, coughing, and groaning, Grant slowed to a stop to catch his breath. After a minute, he examined the laptop beneath his arm. Now all he had to do was wait to be contacted once they realized they didn’t have the money.
9
Mocks looked to her right, glad to find Links passed out in the chair. He’d finally worked himself into exhaustion. The past twenty minutes of him sleeping was the first peace and quiet Mocks received in the past few hours.
She looked at the camera in the corner of the room, knowing some bastard in a chair in a dark room was watching her piss herself and squirm and cry. She extended her left middle finger, the one feeble attempt at defiance she could muster.
The door’s hinges groaned as it opened, and Mocks whipped her head toward the entrance. The ceremonial line of muscled, tattooed, expressionless, and armed cronies entered and then fanned out with Joza in the middle.
Joza gestured to Links, frowning. “Razbudi yego.”
Links was still passed out, his head tilted to the side. The only reason Mocks knew that he wasn’t dead was the whistling of breath escaping from his broken nose every time he exhaled.
The nearest thug walked over, removing a small white packet from his pocket. Mocks had seen those before. It was an ammonia inhalant. It’d wake anyone that wasn’t in a full-fledged coma. She had been on the receiving end of those nasty tricks when she was an addict.
The thug snapped the stick and then waved it beneath Links’s mangled nose. Two seconds later, Links jerked away, coughing and snorting out the wave of chemicals that had brought him back to the land of the living.
He blinked in confusion for a moment, but the pain and restraints quickly reminded him of his current predicament.
“The money didn’t come,” Joza said, snarling as he stared at Links. “There is nothing in the accounts.”
For a reason beyond Mocks’s understanding, Links turned to her, staring at her until Joza’s gaze was set upon her too. Finally, Links looked away and struggled with his speech due to his swollen lips.
“I gave him instructions,” Links said. “I told him that if he didn’t give us the money, then I was going to kill her.”
“He has the money now.” Joza reached for Links’s throat and held it but did not squeeze.
“That’s not possible.” Links shook his head. “The account—” And then Links stopped himself, shutting his eyes at the realization that Mocks had already arrived at a few seconds ago. “He wants a trade.” Links nodded toward Mocks. “He’ll give you the money for her.”
“Does this man know who I am?” Joza asked, snarling.
Links nodded, struggling for breath.
Joza flung Links’s head back, and Links coughed and wheezed as Joza finally turned his attention toward Mocks. His steps were deliberate, and instead of standing in front of her as he had with Links, he remained at her side.
Slowly, Joza placed his hand over Mocks’s stomach, and his touch sent a shudder through her body, his fingertips gliding across her belly was like being touched by a spider.
“This man has done all of this for you?” Joza asked, still gently massaging her womb. “A woman who carries a child that is not his.” He scoffed. “Durachit.” Joza turned back to Links. “Can you contact him?”
Links nodded.
“Good.” Joza turned back to Mocks and applied pressure on her stomach. “Do you think he can save you?”
Mocks’s breath quickened, a cold sweat breaking out over her entire body as Joza’s grip tightened. “Stop.”
“Many men have tried to kill me,” Joza said. “You know this. He knows this. What makes this man think he is any different?”
Mocks grabbed hold of Joza’s arms but couldn’t remove them from her stomach. He was too strong. “Let go.”
“Why do you think he can defy me?”
“Because he can!” Mocks thrashed in her chair. “Because he’s been up against men like you before, and they’re either dead or in prison. You think that you’re so high on a mountaintop that no one could ever touch you, but you’re wrong.” Tears filled her eyes, and she squeezed the end of the armrests so tight that her knuckles ached. “He’s going to stop you and wipe that arrogant smirk right off your face.”
Joza released Mocks’s stomach, and she gasped in relief. He tilted his head to the side, watching her defiance, and only smiled. He walked toward the door, shaking his head, stopping halfway. He opened his jacket and spun around, one hand on his hip, exposing the pistol on his waistband.
“I look forward to meeting this man,” Joza said. “And if he is anything like what you’ve described, then I know our interaction will be memorable.” He smiled again and then walked to one of the thugs and whispered in his ear. And then he was gone.
All of the thugs save for the man he whispered to left the room, and once they were gone, he walked over to Links.
“No, please, listen. I can help.” Links squirmed, writhing in the chair like a cockroach that knew of the approaching boot. “Joza!”
The thug brandished a knife and showed no indication of
his intent. Though Mocks had a few ideas of what he might do with that blade.
“Please!” The last cry triggered Links into nothing but tears and unintelligible moans as the thug inched the blade toward him, but he turned away at the last second, just before he cut the restraints around his wrists.
The ropes fell to the floor, and the pitiful show of Links’s performance ended as he gently clamped his hand over his freed left wrist. He looked up at the man who’d let him go.
“Go,” the thug said, gesturing to the door. “Joza wants you to join him.”
Links stood, the motion zombielike as he shuffled toward the door, and the thug followed him. Mocks watched him leave, but just before he passed through the exit, Links stopped to turn around.
He stared at her with his only good eye, shivering and hunched over and looking one step from the grave.
Like so many men who had made a deal with the devil, Links was shocked to discover that he’d underestimated the beast. The arrogance of man was the devil’s greatest weapon, and he used it to kill more people than all the other qualities of humankind put together.
The thug shoved Links forward and then swung the door shut, sealing Mocks inside, again leaving her in solitude.
Exhausted again, she leaned back and slouched as far at the restraints would allow. She couldn’t even fathom the shit storm that Grant was about to experience, but she knew there was truth to what she’d told Joza.
Grant had done more with less than anyone she’d ever met. And if there was ever a moment when he had less, it was now.
The walk back with Hickem was quick and quiet. Sam said nothing as he put the handcuffs on her, and while a few heads turned at the sight of her being shoved into the back of a squad car, no one spoke. It was as if her sudden betrayal had been expected from the very beginning.
On the ride back to the marshals’ building, Hickem stole glances at her from the front passenger seat. And every time he turned around, he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, and each time, he closed it then shook his head, muttering to himself under his breath.
The greeting on their return to the marshals’ building was nothing short of an uproar. Reporters engulfed the caravan of vehicles, and Sam was blinded by lights and flashes as she was removed from the backseat.
But Hickem at least had the decency to order the driver toward the side of the building and away from the cameras to let her out, though he chose to keep the cuffs on her as they marched through the halls toward Multz’s office.
Every agent and marshal that Sam passed turned their heads in confusion. She didn’t look anyone in the eye, and she kept her mouth shut despite the handful of questions that were thrown her way. It was the worst walk of shame that she’d ever experienced. Heat flushed her cheeks, and by the time she and Hickem reached Multz’s office, her whole body had turned to jelly.
The door slammed shut. Hickem removed the cuffs and shoved Sam into a chair. Multz was behind his desk, hands folded on his lap. His glasses sat low on the end of his nose, and he’d undone the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie, which she’d never seen him do, not even when he worked late.
Hickem stood off to the side, tapping his foot impatiently. “Well? What are you going to do?”
Multz unfolded his hands and pushed his glasses back into position. He said nothing.
“She got into bed with Grant. She chose to give him information to help in handing over the funds to Links.” Hickem pointed at Sam as though she had some kind of disease and kept his distance as if it were contagious. “Fire her.”
Multz flicked his eyes toward Hickem. “The FBI doesn’t have any jurisdiction in our internal affairs.”
Hickem chuckled, a hint of hysteria in his voice. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” He stomped toward the door, ripped it open, and slammed it shut behind him.
Sam shifted in her seat, the silence nearly as uncomfortable as the cuffs she wore. She kept her eyes on the legs of Multz’s desk, unable to find the courage to look her superior in the eye.
“Are you okay?” Multz asked.
Sam nodded, her eyes still fixated on the right wooden leg. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Multz replied. “But I think you might be once this is over.” He scratched his bristly mustache, which was the same grey as his flattop. “You need to tell me what you did, and you need to tell me every detail.”
And that was exactly what she did. Sam didn’t skimp on the details, knowing that there wasn’t any reason to continue to inflate the lie. She told him when Grant called, what he asked for, the form that she forged, and about willingly lying to investigators to aid a wanted criminal of the state.
“That’s all of it?”
Sam nodded, finally finding the courage to look Multz in the eye. Her lip trembled, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t allow herself to be weakened by regret and fear. She had made her bed. Now she had to sleep in it. “I am sorry, sir. I betrayed the badge. I betrayed our institution. And I betrayed you.”
Multz rocked in his chair, returning his hands to his stomach. He looked tired, as though he belonged on a porch at the front of a house with a pipe and a newspaper. It was the first time she’d ever seen him look old.
“I’ve been with the US Marshals for over forty years. That’s longer than I’ve been married, it’s older than my eldest child, and it has consumed nearly every aspect of my life, save for one part.” Multz lifted a hand and extended the short, stubby index finger. “My family.”
Sam frowned, unsure of why he was telling her this. “Sir, I don’t—”
“Everyone signs confidentiality agreements when they start working here, but they get so complicated and verbose when you get to a position of my authority that they’re practically unreadable unless you have a law degree.” Multz looked at a picture on his desk. Sam couldn’t tell what it was from where she was sitting, but she could fill in the blanks of who it was. “My wife told me that she would only marry me on one condition, and at the time I was so over the moon with excitement that I would have agreed to anything, which I did, but I didn’t understand the complexity of that promise until ten years ago.” Multz reached for the picture on his desk and smiled as he pulled it closer.
“What did she say?” Sam asked, watching the director’s emotion as he admired the picture.
“She made me promise that no matter the secret, no matter how vile the information that came across my desk, I would talk to her about it. Because she didn’t want it to eat me up. She said that secrets were bad for the soul. And that it would do more harm than good.” Multz wiped at the corner of his eye and cleared his throat. “I have told my wife more federal secrets than she knows what to do with. And every time I tell her, it always makes me feel better, and I can return to work the next day with a fresh mind. It’s the only reason I’ve been able to do what I’ve done for the past four decades.”
When Multz finished, he removed his glasses, the skin around his eyes crinkled with lines Sam had never noticed before. She looked at the back of the picture frame and reached for it. The picture was old and weathered, but the woman was gorgeous. Bright-red hair that curled down her back, accentuated by a pretty smile, and a yellow dress that fell just below the knee. She held some wildflowers to her chest and posed with one leg kicked up behind her.
“That was taken the day after I proposed,” Multz said. “Best day of my life.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile at the memory, even though it didn’t belong to her. She returned the picture to the desk and then arched an eyebrow as she examined the man in front of her. “So what happens now?”
Multz nodded, almost as though he’d forgotten why she was even sitting in front of him in the first place. “You’re suspended immediately. No pay. I need your badge.”
Sam nodded, removing her badge. Her gun had already been confiscated by Hickem before they arrived. The metal of the badge was cold, and the shield left an imprint on her palm after she set it
on the desk. It would be the last time she’d ever take it off.
“A formal investigation will start immediately into your transgressions, and you will be on house arrest starting tomorrow.” Multz leaned back in his chair and gestured toward the door.
Sam paused. She looked at the door then back to Multz, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. “Sir, are you—”
“It takes courage to go after what you want,” Multz said. “I’ll hold off filing my report until tomorrow morning. Is that understood?”
Sam nodded and then walked toward the door.
“You’ll need to bring back a big fish if you want to walk out of this without any jail time,” Multz said just as her hand wrapped around the doorknob. “And you’ll need to bring it back alive. I’ll keep Hickem off your back for as long as I can. But I can’t promise you he won’t be a problem, so whatever you’re going to do, you’ll have to be quick about it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” Multz said. “Just bring me back something so we’re both not burned at the stake.”
“I will.” Sam opened the door and found the hallway clear of Hickem or any of his FBI boys. She wagered he was on the phone with Senator Thorn, informing him of the most recent turn of events, and while that was bound to be a heated conversation, her next step was simple: find Grant.
10
When Links caught his reflection in the mirror, he didn’t recognize the face staring back at him. His left eye was swollen shut, and his cheeks were cut and bruised, the purples and blues darkening his pale complexion. Dried blood crusted along the lacerations. He raised his fingertips to the wounds, and even the lightest touch triggered a spasm of crippling pain.
Links lowered his head, gripping the sides of the sink. He was on the edge now, feet teetering over the side and staring down into the abyss. It wouldn’t take more than a stiff wind to blow him over the side and destroy him.
