by James Hunt
And while she understood her mother’s actions now, she had lorded the separation from her father over her mother for many years as a teenager. All of that pent-up angst and emotion channeled into fury against her mother that she still regretted to this day.
Sam continued sipping the beer, looking at the other pictures on the wall, which were primarily related to family—holidays, weekend trips, that sort of thing.
But there was one picture near the end. It was just after she’d completed her training with the marshals. Her dad had his arm around her as she held up the diploma they handed out at the ceremony. The fact that he had shown up brought tears to her eyes.
At the time, her father had just been admitted to the hospital the week prior, right during the middle of her final exams and evaluations. It was heart failure. All of those years hitting the bottle every night had finally caught up with him at the ripe old age of fifty-three.
But that day, he didn’t look sick or tired. He didn’t come stumbling into the ceremony, reeking of a run-down bar. He came as he was in that picture, dressed in a suit and tie, clean shaven with a few cut marks along his chin, his hair parted and slicked back with palm oil, and that wide, hearty grin on his face.
Even Sam’s mother was surprised he came. Aside from the accomplishment of graduating from the US Marshals, having her father at the ceremony was the most significant moment of her life.
He had missed so much when she was growing up. Birthdays, holidays, proms, and boyfriends. The fact that he made it there meant the world to her. And she was thankful for the time spent with him, because she knew there wasn’t much time left.
Barry Cohen fought for another six months before his body finally shut down. No matter how hard he tried to quit the booze, he just couldn’t stop. And because he was free to leave the public hospital, the doctors couldn’t stop him from grabbing a bottle of Jack Daniels and passing out on the sidewalk, only to be hurried back to the ER after some concerned citizen called 911.
Sam never understood her father’s addiction. But she had always attributed her drive to him. Her father was a skilled tracker. And she was amazed at how he could pull down a deer anywhere within the sight of his scope. On their hunting trips, they never went home empty-handed.
But her skill with a gun and her drive weren’t the only things Sam had inherited from her father. She had a tendency to isolate herself, avoiding connection with other people. And while her father used alcohol to do that, she used work.
It wasn’t as much of a health hazard as booze, at least not from a medical standpoint, but she had burned through more overtime than any other marshal in her division.
She wished her father were still alive. She wanted to speak to him, to ask his advice on what she should do. But in her heart, she already knew what he’d say.
“If you’re making a decision out of fear, then it’s not much of a decision at all.”
It was one of the few chunks of sober wisdom that Barry Cohen was able to pass down before he passed on. That and a few off-color jokes that helped her out with her male peers in the academy.
Sam finished the beer then tossed the glass bottle in the trash and got down on her hands and knees next to her bed. She reached underneath and removed a long case that had four locked latches along the side.
She twirled the four-number combination on the lock, and once it released, she flipped the silver latches of the case up and raised the lid. Inside was a .300 Winchester Magnum bolt-action rifle. The stock had a walnut finish, and when Sam picked it up out of the case, she was thrust back into the open fields of Texas, crouched down low in the high grass, her father at her side.
Muscle memory allowed her to dismantle the weapon in less than sixty seconds, and she worked her fingers along the pieces of machinery deftly, cleaning the weapon, which she hadn’t used in months. Halfway through the cleaning, her phone rang, and Sam snatched it off the carpet quickly. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Grant answered. “A little surprised that you were able to pick up. What happened?”
“Hickem brought me in,” Sam replied, setting aside the cleaning tools. “Multz put me on administrative leave.”
“Do you have eyes on you?”
“No,” Sam answered. And she had made sure of that on the way to her apartment. She figured that Hickem would bring some guys to tail her, but there wasn’t anything suspicious on her return home. But that didn’t mean it would stay that way. “What do you need, Grant?”
“It won’t be easy.”
“I’m ready,” Sam said.
“Meet me in the warehouse district north of the city. There is a small abandoned auto repair shop on Seventeenth Avenue. I’ll be inside. If you have any radios, bring them. And your rifle.”
“I can leave in five.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
After Grant hung up, Sam let the phone linger by her ear. She looked at the dismantled rifle by her side. She pocketed the phone and double-timed it in reassembling the weapon.
Once finished, she put the rifle back in the case and grabbed a duffel bag and stuffed it with ammunition and magazines. She grabbed a bottle of water and a half-eaten sandwich from the fridge and added it to the ammunition. She figured that this would be a quick job, but there was no telling how long she might be gone. It was a sad attempt at a last meal, but it was the only thing she had.
The front of the repair shop was lined with broken-down cars. The paint had rusted on all of them, and weeds and grass crawled up their flat tires and into the wheel wells. All the windows had been smashed, most likely broken by a bunch of kids with nothing better to do, littering the ground with glass.
Grant sat perched on a chair behind the counter of the service center. The place was old, everything covered in dust, and the glass in the windows had aged to the point of clouding.
The register on the counter was one of those old analog counters, but all of the buttons were stuck in the down position. The money tray was open, but like the rest of the building, it was devoid of any value.
The only light in the area came from a post out on the sidewalk, leaving the building in darkness. Still, Grant had circled the shop twice before breaking in, not that it was hard, considering the door was unlocked. But he didn’t want to run into any trouble with homeless, knowing that it would only draw attention. Thankfully the place was empty.
Grant repeatedly checked the time on his phone, which was running low on battery. Thirty-two minutes had passed since his conversation with Sam. And the longer he waited, the more his worry grew.
A crunch of glass echoed from the garage, and Grant stood, pistol aimed at the door to the garage bays, which was open. While his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, it was still hard to see. It was quiet for a long time, and then Sam stepped from the darkness.
She held a long black case and had a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. They both stood frozen for a minute, and then Sam dropped the bags, and the pair rushed to meet one another.
Grant threw his arms around her and picked her up off the floor, and Sam reciprocated the embrace. They clung to each other hungrily, and for the first time since Mocks was taken, Grant felt a flood of relief hit him.
It was Sam who finally broke the embrace, and while it was dark, Grant could see the tears in her eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Grant cupped her face, smiling. “You?”
Sam laughed. “Been better.”
That same overwhelming urge to kiss her resurfaced, but instead he dropped his hands from her face and stepped back.
Looking disappointed, Sam shrugged. “So what’s the plan?”
Grant nodded and stepped around her and into the garage. She followed, and he was mindful of the minefield of rusted machinery that dotted the darkened floor. They walked out the back door, and he pointed north to where a dirty-yellow light brightened the horizon. “That’s where they’re keeping her.”
Sam squinted at the line of trees that
blocked the structure from view. “It’s a warehouse?”
“Yeah,” Grant answered. “I haven’t risked trying to get close, because I know they’ll have people waiting for me.” He turned to her. “I need someone to help watch my back. Did you bring the radios?”
“And the rifle, but Grant, you need to understand that I’ll be able to get one, maybe two shots in before all hell breaks loose.” Sam pointed toward the building. “The last intel I heard about Joza mentioned he traveled with a lot of muscle. And if they make you go inside the building and I lose line of sight, then it’s game over.”
Grant nodded. “I understand. I’ll get them to come outside, somehow.”
“I can scope out a good spot then let you know when I’m in position,” she said and then moved closer to him. “But like I said before, you’ll only have—”
“A few seconds,” he replied. “Yeah, I know.”
The pair lingered in silence a little while longer, staring at the dirty-yellow horizon of false light from the warehouse. Grant wasn’t sure his mission would be successful, but he knew that he would die trying.
“Listen,” Grant said. “If I can’t get her out or if she dies or if I die, just get out of there, okay? You’ll have enough fallout to deal with after the dust settles.”
“The only way this settles is if we bring back Joza and Links,” Sam answered. “If we can’t bring back the big fish, then my career is over, and you’ll be in jail. I’ll only shoot to kill Links or Joza if the situation calls for it, but I need you to promise the same thing.”
“I’m not sure I can,” Grant said.
“You have to. If not for yourself, then for Mocks.” Sam took his hand. “For me.”
The warmth that radiated from her hand spread through Grant’s arm and the rest of his body. He squeezed her hand back, and he let himself believe that he could make it to the other side. He let himself believe that there was a chance for tomorrow. And that chance was because of her.
“I will,” Grant said.
Sam smiled, squeezing Grant’s hand back even harder than before, then let go, releasing a heavy sigh. “We can do this, Grant.”
“I know.”
Sam handed over a spare pistol to Grant, then returned into the station to grab her gear, while Grant waited for her outside. He needed to get his head in the game for one last ride.
12
Links paced the warehouse floor, checking his watch every fifteen seconds. The deadline that he’d given Grant was fast approaching, and he still hadn’t heard anything. And the downtime provided Links the opportunity to reexamine his options in the slim chance that Grant didn’t show.
If the plan here should fail, he might be able to convince the current administration that he was more valuable to them out on the street than behind bars. His most recent transgressions had given him clout with the international organizations that the United States government deemed threats. He might be able to work a deal if he played his cards right. But he wouldn’t have a hand to hold if he was dead. Staying alive was at the top of his priority list.
Links approached a window near the south exit of the warehouse. Outside was a graveyard of broken machinery. He thought of all of those people who came to work here, each of them pulling their mundane levers, pressing the same buttons repeatedly day in and day out, always going through the same motions and never able to see what was beyond their noses.
He imagined there was an outcry from the workers here when the company moved its operations overseas to save money. He could see the fingers pointing and imagine the frustration and fear at the prospect of unemployment, the squabbling over the fact that they were paid tens of thousands of dollars every year to do what a machine could have accomplished for pennies on the dollar.
The thought of all those idiots losing their entitlements made him feel better. Those people had finally gotten a taste of what the rest of the world experienced.
The alarm on Links’s watched beeped. The hour was up. He turned to Joza and the others. Each of them had heard the alarm.
“He’s not here,” Joza said, his speech slightly slurred from the booze, though the playfulness was gone from his face. The poker game was over. “Bring the woman to me.”
“Just a few more minutes,” Links said.
Joza stood, kicking the chair behind him, and his men rose with him. He clenched his fists, and his face reddened. “I will not be made of fool of!” He turned to the nearest man. “Poluchit zhenshchinu.”
Links approached the table near Joza with caution. “We have to be smart about this.” He tapped the side of his head. “Remember? That’s what you liked about me. And this isn’t a smart move.”
Joza snatched the nearly empty bottle of vodka off the table and brought it to his lips. He tilted the bottle back, and the last bits of clear liquid disappeared into his gut. He then slammed the bottle to the ground, and the glass shattered. “Smart doesn’t get you power.” He beat his chest. “Anton Joza is power!”
The door in the back opened, and Mocks was dragged by one of Joza’s men while she impotently tried to fend off the massive thug. She was tossed to the floor at Links’s feet, her massive belly scraping the floor, and Links could see the bandaged area where they’d cut her.
Joza walked over, holding a 9mm pistol in his hand with dangerously casual indifference. He grabbed Links’s wrist, opened his hand, and shoved the handle of the weapon into it then closed Links’s fingers around the grip.
“Kill her,” Joza said.
Mocks looked at the gun and then looked at Links. “You don’t have the balls, do you? I bet you’ll make one of these cronies do the dirty work for you. You love pulling the strings, but you don’t like the sight of blood.”
Joza laughed. “Even she is not afraid to die! And you stand there trembling like a virgin in front of a hooker. Shoot her.” Joza removed another pistol and aimed it at Links. “Or I will shoot you.”
“Wait!” Links no longer had a handle on the situation. The control was slipping away.
“I’ll count to three,” Joza said. “One.”
“Just a little more time.” Links hyperventilated, the palm holding the gun suddenly growing cold and clammy.
“Two.”
Links raised the pistol, his finger trembling as he placed it over the trigger. He locked eyes with Mocks, who wouldn’t turn away, as if the gesture of staring her killer in the eye was some act of courage. It only made Links furious. Maybe that was the point.
“Thre—”
“Links!”
Every head turned toward the door, and Links wasn’t sure which sigh was louder, his or Mocks’s. He lowered the weapon and looked at Joza. “It’s him.”
But Joza kept the pistol raised and his finger on the trigger. He stepped toward Links and didn’t stop until the end of the barrel was pressed against his forehead. “And you think I shouldn’t kill you?”
“Your son,” Links answered, shaking. “You still don’t know where he is.”
“No, but I bet I can get that dog outside to find out for me,” Joza answered. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a mistake.” Links whispered through tight lips. The pistol had frozen him in place.
Joza nodded, as if he were pondering the statement. “Perhaps you’re right.” He lowered the pistol, and he walked past Links to the door. “Let’s get this done.”
Links collapsed to his knees, sweat pouring off of him in buckets. On the ground, he caught hold of Mocks’s stare, and he could have sworn he saw the shadow of a smile on her face as one of the thugs picked her up off the ground and dragged her past.
It was a long walk from the repair shop to the warehouse. Sam headed east, while Grant headed north. The agreement was for him to remain on the south side of the building.
Once he was out of the trees, there was nothing but concrete before the edge of the warehouse. All of the outside lights had been turned on, no doubt to make sure they could see Grant coming.
He kept the laptop tucked beneath his arm, and he scanned the rooftops for any snipers that Joza might have set up. But the hardest part was not looking for Sam. He didn’t want to give the impression that he had backup anywhere.
Past the gate and into what used to be the parking lot, Grant was one hundred yards from a pair of doors. His heart was hammering in his chest, and the pistol in his waistband had grown oddly heavy.
It would happen quickly, and he knew that he’d need to react the moment the bullets started flying.
Grant stopped twenty yards from the door. It was a distance in which he was confident in his accuracy, but far enough away to make shooting him a challenge. He lingered there for a moment, waiting for Links to appear, but when no one came, he let his presence known.
“Links!” Grant’s voice boomed into the night air, and the word caused his breaths to grow labored. He scanned the windows and the doors and searched behind him for any movement. But after a few seconds, the front doors opened, and Grant was surprised to find Anton Joza walking out, surrounded by a cluster of his men.
“The detective.” Joza walked with a swagger in his steps, his arms spread wide and his lips creased upward with a smile. “The man of the hour.” He stomped his foot into the pavement and then laughed.
The doors behind Joza opened again, and this time a man dragged Mocks by the scruff of her neck and planted her on her knees right in front of Joza, and he gently stroked her hair.
“You must love this woman very much,” Joza said. “And I can see that you’re a man of conviction. You’ve done much to guarantee her safety. Theft, deception.” He laughed. “Maybe I should have you come to work for me.”
Grant didn’t pay much attention to Joza, his eyes on Mocks. She looked all right, though there was a tear in her shirt where she’d been cut, and Grant saw the flash of white bandage underneath.
“Where’s Links?” And almost as if on command, Links emerged from the double doors like a wounded dog. Grant lifted the laptop. “It’s all here. 5.8 billion. Just like we agreed upon.”
