by P. R. Adams
The deputy stopped, big hands wrapped around polished pouches on his belt. “Stefan.”
He had a couple years and more importantly a couple inches on me, so it wasn’t a problem if I stood, but I hung back from the bars. “Elijah. They call you in, or were you on shift?”
“I run Corrections.”
Of course. There were only so many administrative positions to be had for someone planning to run for sheriff. Corrections sounded like it was probably the best path. Safer than Detectives or whatever. “Sorry for all the trouble this is going to cause.”
He glanced down the hallway, as if he might be listening to the singing prisoner. Or maybe he couldn’t look me in the eye. “You do what they’re saying you did?”
“Depends on what they’re saying.” I had to hear it from him.
His eyes—a faded green—drifted back to me. “You kill Margo and her kids?”
“I’ve never killed anyone here in Emmett. You know that.”
That got a dip of the head, a noncommittal nod. “Federal warrants say you killed a bunch of people out in D.C.”
“When’d that come in? This morning? Yesterday?”
“You’re not denying it.”
“Would it matter? You’re wondering if I could kill Margo and her kids, and the answer is no. And I didn’t kill Neil or his mother, either. Take a look at the bodies. You find a weapon anywhere that could do what was done to those? Check that place down the street from hers, near the trees. Unless they’re using caseless ammo, you should find casings. A lot. Same out in the fields behind my shack.”
His mustache twitched as his lips pursed. “Aren’t you just a little concerned you got a warrant out for killing—”
“I won’t live to see trial, Elijah. They didn’t serve up a warrant so you could ship me off for justice to be served. They wanted eyes out for me. Some trigger-happy cop blows my head off after pulling me over, that’s just as good as a contractor tearing me apart with some sort of advanced assault weapon.”
He shook his head. “Contractor. Is that a euphemism for hit man?”
“Solution providers, cleaners…they have a lot of names. People who take care of problems. Loose ends.”
He snorted. “You’re a loose end? More like a loose cannon.”
“The problem kid, right? Couldn’t fit in; didn’t have farming and ranching in his blood. Thought he was too good for Emmett and left his mother behind. That’s the story, right? That strange boy Victoria Bolan had with that drunk Mexican ranch hand?” I plopped on the bunk and leaned against the cool wall. “You’ve got to get past that, or you’re going to have a lot of dead people around here soon.”
“You making threats, Stefan?” He grabbed the bars. “In a building full of law enforcement officers? You might want to reconsider.”
“It’s not a threat. It’s what’s going to happen. The people sent to kill me have to finish the job. I drove one or two off but there’re more. Or there will be, and a little place like this won’t stop them.”
He squeezed the bars like they were my neck, then pushed off, taking a step before stopping abruptly. “This is so like you—screw up royally, and cook up an elaborate story.”
“Are you still pissed because my mother wouldn’t sell the farm to Uncle Martin, or is this about something else? Were you all expecting me to fail and come crawling back? Is that why you can’t accept what I’m telling you?”
Another snort. That seemed to be Elijah’s tell. “Aunt Victoria went on and on about you going off to fight a bunch of wars no one’s heard about, and all that time she’s stuck taking care of a place you don’t even want. How’s that not a failure? Hm? And you haven’t even been in the military for the last ten years. Yeah, I can see your records now that you’re a fugitive from the law. The Feds sent out all sorts of information.”
“Soldiers don’t fight a lot of the wars anymore.”
“I guess they wouldn’t shoot up a bunch of old men, would they? What’d you do, steal money from them?” He paced in front of the cell. “Aunt Victoria would be heartbroken if she knew what you were.”
“I told her what I do, but she can’t remember anything because you clowns couldn’t protect her when you let Carlos out.”
That brought Elijah around, finger wagging at me. “Your father served his time, and there wasn’t a damned thing we could do about it.”
“He was a violent drunk. What would it have taken to keep an eye on him?”
Elijah sucked in a deep breath and held it, then he let it go. “Paul’s always been right about you.”
Paul De Lint, the great and mighty sheriff of Gem County. I laid flat on my bunk, remembered the notification about my mother’s hospitalization. Chance of significant brain damage. “Good to know he was right about someone in my family.”
“Hubris. That’s what he says. You got hubris.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Maybe if you’d done a little time for some of your fights in school, you wouldn’t have gone off to the Army.”
“Because they’ve got problems with violent people?” I needed to get Elijah to listen, but that was going to require me doing the same thing. He had a lifetime of resentment to deal with. “I think we can both agree I made some mistakes. That doesn’t change that there are people trying to kill me, and they won’t wait. They’ll blow up the car you transport me in, or they’ll shoot me when you try to take me to the airport. Or if they’re really impatient, they’ll come in here and kill me. And anyone who gets in the way will get killed, too. These guys who’ve been coming after me, they’re sloppy, reckless. Either they’re desperate or they just don’t care about civilians.”
He wagged his finger again, this time at the outer wall. “This isn’t some little jail in one of those old Westerns. We’ve got security systems. No one’s getting in without credentials. And the Feds are sending Marshals out to get you.”
Marshals. Could there be more at work than just a clean-up operation? Could the FBI have something else in mind for me? “Can you do me a favor at least?”
“Sure. Isn’t that how the world works? Everyone does something special for Stefan Mendoza, big man, big hero. Got far enough away to escape the little town life he hated. Proved everybody wrong—flew higher than they ever could. Until now. Now you fell back down to this little hole where the rest of the little people live.”
I sighed. “Could you call someone? Special Agent Lyndsey Hines at the FBI. Just see if she knows what’s behind this warrant. Please?”
He leaned against the bars, eyes closed. “Now you know someone in the FBI, huh?”
“Special Agent Lyndsey Hines. She knows what went on in D.C.”
He giggled. “You’re a special one, you know that?”
I crossed to the bars, slow so that he didn’t move away. “I am special, Elijah. I’m dangerous, and I’ve made some very dangerous enemies, and I put some innocent people at risk without meaning to. And I’m sorry. But I’m getting tired of this, and I need you to shut the fuck up and do what I’m telling you to do so other lives can be saved. Please.”
Red flashed across his pale face. “So why don’t you tell me what went on in D.C.? What about that?”
I’d gotten through to him, but not necessarily in a good way. Sharing anything more would put me at risk, but he wasn’t likely to budge on calling Agent Hines if I didn’t give him something. “Senator Kelly Weaver. You hear about what happened to her?”
He squinted, as if trying to place the name, then his eyes shot wide. “The one killed in the explosion?”
“She was running for president. Those men I killed in D.C.? They hired me to kill her. You understand? This isn’t about a plot of land you think Grandpa Mendelsohn should’ve given to your father.”
The color that had flushed his cheeks drained away, and his mouth dropped open.
I knew that look. “What?”
Elijah said, “Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You know something.�
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“No. It’s—” His lips twisted. He rocked back on his legs. “There was an odd request, that’s all.”
“What kind of odd request? Dammit, Elijah, think about what’s going on.”
“I am. I—” His eyes darted left, then right. “There was a communiqué. They wanted any data devices seized to be sealed off. I remember Blaine sending an image of the thing they brought in with you, and there was an almost immediate response. They were looking for a different device. Paul sent a cruiser out to your place to look for the thing they were describing.”
The computing device I’d taken off the guy outside Denver? That looked too high-end to be something the Agency would give a contractor. Was that what this was all about? “Where’s the device they took off me?”
“Back in the evidence locker, I guess.”
“Could you get that for me?”
He staggered back, as if I’d punched him. “It’s evidence!”
“Fine. Call Special Agent Hines. Tell her what’s going on. Then tell me what you think.”
Elijah considered that for a bit, then nodded. He moved with a pace that seemed crisp for someone who was minutes before accusing me of murder.
I could only hope he wasn’t too late.
Chapter 8
On missions, there were times where everything seemed to press in on you. It was as if the air pressure increased, and the sun grew hotter. Breathing became harder. Sweat dampened your lip and armpits. Scents, sounds, tastes—everything became amplified thanks to adrenaline. My hands would shake during those times. It felt like I was vibrating.
The shakes. That’s what I called it. Inaction felt like failure. The animal call to act became nearly uncontrollable.
In the confines of that holding cell, I felt ready to fall apart. My cybernetics twitched, reacting as well as they could to the strange stimuli coming from my brain. The singing prisoner came into focus—the nonsense lyrics, the raspy voice, the mix of body odor and medicinal chemical smells. The lights became brighter and whiter on the gray marble outside my cell.
My heart provided a beat to the looping song’s rhythm. I was trapped, and the hunters were closing. If I could have gnawed a limb off to escape, I would have.
Steps approached from out of sight—soft at first, then louder.
I tested the cell door, but there was nothing to grip in a way that wouldn’t put stress on the organic part of me rather than the cybernetics. A simple lock or a knob—something I could squeeze. That’s what I needed.
The steps became more distinct: more than one person.
Would they do that? Risk breaking into a building full of law enforcement officers? Send more than one?
Louder than the other steps, Elijah’s heel plates.
He was coming back, faster than when he’d left; he must have been running to catch up with the others.
Voices: Elijah’s, an older voice with a little bit of a Texas drawl. De Lint. They rounded the corner—Sheriff De Lint in a brown-gray sports jacket and black string tie with gray khaki slacks; the same two beefy police officers who’d escorted me earlier; Elijah holding my data device and a shirt.
He had a holster on his belt: They understood the threat now.
De Lint motioned at the taller cop, and he opened the cell door. De Lint shuffled up to the opening and said, “You apparently have some friends in high places, Stefan.”
I waited for him to move or say something, but he just stood there, bushy white eyebrows bunched up over a red nose that had grown plump along with the rest of him. Dark eyes glared at me, resentful. Confused.
Finally, he pivoted and waved me out, then signaled for Elijah to hand me the data device. I inspected it, relieved to see the familiar scratch and scuffs.
I nodded at Elijah. “Agent Hines say what’s up?”
De Lint’s brow raised—curious. “Elijah tell you she called?”
Elijah glanced down, embarrassed. “Well, actually, I was heading back to my office to call her after talking with Stefan.”
De Lint paused, and his dark eyes dwelled on Elijah for a moment. Was there friction between them? Resentment over the upcoming election? Politics. The only difference between local and national was the scale of idiocy.
As calmly as I could, I asked, “What’s the plan?”
The sheriff nodded at Gym Rat and Cheap Cologne. “Officers Dareus and Lattimer are going to take you down to Boise Airport, where they’ll transfer you over to Special Agent Donna Rattner. You’re no longer my concern, but sounds to me as if Miss Rattner’s task is to return you to D.C.”
Elijah seemed almost relieved as he handed me a wallet and the shirt—bright, white, and straight off the department store shelf. “It’ll be a little loose on you, but at least there’s no blood.”
I took my shirt off and pulled the other one on. “I’m going to stand out like a spotlight in the dark.”
“It’s the only shirt I could find.”
I shrugged, suddenly feeling like an ass. “Yeah. I’m sorry for all the trouble—”
The lights winked out, and a deep buzzing sound rumbled down the hall. Necks craned around, and the others seemed to search the shadows.
It was too late to run now.
Radio squelch broke the quiet, and De Lint reached into his jacket. He took an old walkie-talkie type radio out of a pocket and keyed the mic. “Dispatch, what the hell is going on?”
“Power outage, Sheriff.” An elderly woman’s voice. “Should be switching over to—”
The line went silent, but not before I heard a shout in the background and the distinctive, high-pitched whine of the assassin’s gun.
De Lint scowled at the radio, then keyed the mic again. “Dispatch? Rose?”
I looked around, trying to get a sense of where we were based on the building exterior and what I’d seen since entry. We seemed pretty close to dead center. “They’re here,” I said. “You need to warn your people. If I get out of here, whoever that is should follow me. They’ve got no reason to shoot this place up when I’m gone.”
De Lint’s scowl deepened. “You’re not going anywhere without an escort, FBI request or not.” He stomped back to the hallway that connected to the shared Sheriff’s Department and police station.
“Fine.” I nodded at Cheap Cologne—Officer Dareus. “You have a back way out?”
Glass shattered somewhere around the corner, and rounds thudded into the wall a few feet behind Elijah. He covered his head and jumped away from the hallway. Behind him, De Lint staggered backward, spraying blood. His legs buckled, and he dropped to the gray marble, red foam on his lips.
Dareus drew his firearm and shouted, “Fuck!”
Lattimer drew his sidearm, took a step toward De Lint’s body, then stopped and pulled a security card and pointed it down the hall that ran between the cells, away from De Lint’s body. When Lattimer handed the card to me, there was a look of resentment in his beady eyes. “Side exit’s that way, north side. First hall to your left, then the second right. That’ll get you into my cruiser, parked just outside the door.”
Elijah seemed to regain his calm at that point. “I’ll take him.”
I followed my cousin, listening for any hint there might be more than the one assassin. We shot past the cell with the now-silent singer—an old, skeletal, sun-baked man with a small potbelly. His pale eyes tracked us, and when we reached the corner, he yelled, “Judgment Day!”
It felt that way.
The hallway was empty until we came to a door to our right that opened. A pencil-necked, little man with a crown of gray hair and tortoise shell glasses rushed out. He spotted Elijah and asked, “What’s going on? The power goes out, the generator’s supposed to kick on. I lost my connection to the accounting system! We have audits underway!”
Elijah brushed past the little man and said, “Get back in your office, Harold. Find cover and stay there. We’ve got an active shooter.”
We ran, and behind us, the door slammed shut. Gun
fire boomed—police sidearms. With cops firing back, the office workers should be safe.
Soft late afternoon sunlight filtered through a polished glass door. A black-and-white police car was parked along the sidewalk in the shadow of the building, just a couple feet beyond the door. Lattimer’s cruiser, as promised.
Elijah picked up speed; I slowed. How many assassins were there?
“Wait.” I spun. There was still gunfire coming from behind us. If there were two or more attackers using the high-rate-of-fire guns, they should have already overwhelmed two cops with pistols.
Elijah pressed his face against the glass. “It’s clear. Light traffic, nothing in the parking lot across the street. Just run for the car.”
There was a building across the street. Newer. It looked like a pharmacy. From where I was, I couldn’t see inside it very well. I wasn’t about to move closer. “Think about it. These guys attacked just as you started to move me. They shut power down. They’re in your network, they know everything you’re planning. Or someone’s tipping them off.”
He turned, face pinched. “You’re really something, you know that? Paul’s dead, and now you’re saying you think his people were compromised?”
It hit me—the white shirt, the way his cheeks flushed at the accusation. His hand drifted toward his sidearm.
“You son of a bitch.”
I launched into him, driving him into the wall with a strike to the sternum.
He tried to draw the pistol; I broke his wrist with a chop.
Bullets shattered the glass, silencing his scream.
The impact of several rounds registered as pressure on my limbs, but I felt something scrape across my chest, and when I lifted Elijah up as a shield, another bullet caught me in the gut. A deflection. Not deep but painful.
