Red Right Hand

by Chris Holm

  Yancey drove them to a parking lot in Laurel Heights. It was teeming with Bellum operatives when they arrived. He backed the Cadillac into an empty spot and pocketed the keys.

  “Here’s how this is gonna go,” he said. “You don’t do as I say, I fucking kill you. You speak out of turn—to my men, your buddy, anyone—I fucking kill you. You so much as look at me funny, I fucking kill you. Are we clear?”

  “W-we’re clear,” Cameron replied.

  “Good. Now stay put, and don’t touch anything.”

  As he climbed out of the car, Yancey’s phone chimed, indicating a text. It appeared to have originated from an anonymous e-mail account rather than another phone. The sender’s name was Tick Tock. The content of the message was a photo of his daughter and her young twins, taken through the window of their nursery.

  A shiver crawled up Yancey’s spine. He cursed Lombino under his breath and shot off a quick reply: Stand down. Target acquired. Then he stuffed his phone into his pocket as Reyes spotted him and trotted over.

  Reyes’s suit was rumpled and grass-stained at knees and elbow. His neck was mottled with bruises. He looked as if he hadn’t slept or showered. When he spotted Cameron through the Caddy’s windshield, he stopped short.

  “Jesus, boss, that girl’s a mess. You didn’t—”

  “Of course not,” Yancey snapped, irritation masking his fear. “She was like that when I picked her up. Near as I could tell, it was justified—she did a number on the men who apprehended her.”

  “If you say so,” Reyes replied doubtfully. “Who is she? What’s her connection to our POI?”

  “Sorry. All I’m authorized to say is, she means enough to the guy who snatched our prisoner from us that he’s agreed to make a trade, so if we’re lucky, all three of them will be in custody by day’s end.” Yancey had no intention of allowing any of them to be taken alive, but he needed Bellum’s resources to get him close enough to put them down. If that meant feeding Reyes a heaping helping of bullshit, then so be it. “Did you do as I requested?”

  “Yeah. Local law enforcement’s on the lookout for the man who attacked us at the Broussard house. They’ve got strict instructions to inform us if he’s spotted but to keep their distance. I leaked his picture to the press too and warned he might be planning follow-up attacks; there are stories posted online already, and his photo will be on TV within the hour. The Feds assure me they’re going to funnel anything credible that comes in via the tip line straight to us. And I’ve stationed Bellum teams throughout the city, so we can move on him wherever he pops up. Not as many as I’d like, since some of our guys are busy doing God knows what—”

  Yancey raised a hand to stop him. “Look. You’re frustrated. I get it. Being out of the loop sucks. You gotta understand, though, you’re still new to the organization, and you’ve yet to prove your worth. This op could be your chance to do just that, but first, I need to know that I can count on you. So whaddya say, Reyes: Are you in, or are you out?”

  Reyes eyed the girl inside the Cadillac and frowned. “I’m not going to lie to you. None of this makes any sense to me—and when it’s over, I expect some goddamn answers. But Bigelow’s in the ICU right now, and Weddle’s been in surgery all night. The bastard responsible should be made to pay for what he’s done. If, as you say, this girl’s our chance to make that happen—”

  “She is.”

  “—then I’m in.”

  39.

  HOW YOU HOLDING up, kid?”

  Hendricks was clearly trying to keep his tone light, his demeanor confident. But Cameron could tell, even through the tinny speaker of the cell phone, that he was worried, and it terrified her.

  She looked at Yancey. He nodded. “I—I’m okay,” she said.

  “I assume Yancey’s listening in.”

  “Yeah. You’re on speaker.”

  “How many men did he bring with him?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Yancey snarled, and then, to Hendricks: “You never said to come alone.”

  “No,” Hendricks replied mildly, “I didn’t. Listen, kid, do you know where you are right now? Can you see any street signs or anything?”

  Again Cameron deferred to Yancey, who said, “What the hell’s that matter?”

  This time, Hendricks wasn’t so mild. “Yancey, if you ever want to see Segreti again, you’ll shut the fuck up and let her answer.”

  Yancey frowned but didn’t object.

  “We’re in the parking lot of some old UCSF building in Laurel Heights,” she said.

  “Okay,” Hendricks said, and he fell silent for a moment. “I want you and Yancey to walk to the bus stop on the corner of California and Laurel. An eastbound bus will be there in three minutes. Be on it, both of you. Leave the goons behind.”

  “Then what, smart guy?” Yancey asked.

  “I’ll call you back shortly. I expect to talk to Cameron when I do.”

  Hendricks disconnected.

  Yancey turned to a man holding a tablet computer with rubberized edges, built for field use. The guy’d perked up when Hendricks called, but he was scowling now. “Anything?” Yancey asked him.

  “Not yet.” He opened the rear door of a nearby Humvee with an oversize antenna on top and fiddled with an electronic device inside. It was a StingRay, Cameron realized, her stomach acid surging as panic gripped her. StingRays were cell-phone surveillance devices. They worked by sending out a pilot signal that outcompeted the nearest cell tower’s and convinced cell phones in the immediate area to connect to the StingRay instead. Once a phone connected to the StingRay, it could be tracked by its GPS coordinates. “I’m picking up the conversation clear as day via the girl’s phone, but wherever he’s calling from, he’s too far away to track. I’ll need to get closer to lock onto his position.”

  “All right, then. We’ll play his game for now. Me and the girl are getting on the bus. You follow with the StingRay. I want additional units no more than two blocks away to our north, south, east, and west. The second we have a bead on him, the nearest team moves in. Remember, this asshole’s ruthless and well trained, and he’s proven he won’t hesitate to act. If you get a shot, you take it. That’s an order.”

  His men muttered their assent and started piling into Humvees.

  “Reyes,” Yancey continued. “Take the Caddy and cover my six. Make sure you’re not spotted. You’re my insurance policy in case shit goes sideways.”

  “You got it.”

  “But he said we were supposed to go alone,” Cameron protested.

  Yancey grabbed her by her shirt and raised his hand as if he meant to slap her. “You insolent little shit. I thought I warned you about speaking out of turn.”

  Cameron flinched and stammered unintelligibly.

  “Easy, boss,” Reyes said. “She won’t do it again—will you?”

  She shook her head emphatically. Yancey released her with a shove. “He told us to get on the bus alone—he didn’t say fuck-all about anybody following. Now, Your Highness, can we go, or do you wanna talk this out some more?”

  Cameron swallowed hard and said, “We can go.”

  “Good,” Yancey said. He stuck a Bluetooth earpiece in his ear and said, “Let’s move out.”

  It was early Monday morning. Sunrise had failed to burn off all the fog. The air was cool and clammy, the sky above, a hazy white. By the time they reached the bus stop, the driver had already closed the doors and seemed disinclined to reopen them. Yancey banged until he acquiesced then spent a minute digging through his pockets to find exact change for their fare. The driver glared at him with thinly veiled irritation.

  The bus was half full of morning commuters, blue-collar types, mostly. Their eyes were wide and furtive. Their features were taut with stress. Cameron, bruised and bloodied beneath her hat and sunglasses, felt the weight of their attention as Yancey nudged her toward the nearest open seats, which turned out to be behind an older Asian woman in multicolored scrubs who watched them closely as they passed.


  When Cameron sat down, the woman twisted in her seat and opened her mouth to speak, a look of concern on her face, but Yancey stopped her. “Turn the hell around, lady. There’s nothing to see here.”

  The woman looked at Cameron, who nodded slightly. With obvious reluctance, the woman did as Yancey said.

  Morning traffic lurched along. The route became more clogged with every stop. Cameron counted eleven in total before Hendricks called them back.

  “You two alone?” he asked.

  Hendricks was off speaker now since there were civilians around. Yancey held the phone to Cameron’s ear and tilted it so he could hear as well. When Cameron hesitated, Yancey elbowed her in the ribs. “Y-yes,” she said.

  “Good. Get off the bus at the intersection of Clay and Van Ness. Then cross the street and hop the northbound bus toward Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  Once Hendricks hung up, Yancey put a finger to his earpiece and said, “You get all that? Good. Were you able to get a lock on him this time? You’re kidding me. What the fuck am I paying you for?” As he spoke, his voice rose to a shout. The other passengers turned and stared. Yancey reddened and fell silent.

  When the bus reached the specified intersection, they got off and jogged across the street. They had to wait five agonizing minutes for the next bus to arrive, during which time the Caddy slid into a metered parking space nearby. The Humvee carrying the StingRay was too big to park curbside, so it was forced to circle the block. Cameron was relieved when it vanished from sight.

  The second bus ride felt far longer. All the seats were taken, so they had to stand. Cameron scanned the faces of their fellow passengers and saw Yancey doing the same. She didn’t recognize any of them, though, and apparently, neither did he.

  Rush-hour traffic congealed around them. Passengers slammed into one another with every tap of gas or brake. Nerves jangled. Tempers flared. The breaking news of heightened threat levels had people on edge. Cameron spotted blurry pictures of Hendricks on every smartphone screen and tablet.

  Half a block ahead, a Prius jetted through a red light and got clipped by a delivery van. The gunshot crack as their fenders met made pedestrians shriek and sent ripples of unease through the bus. Even Yancey, who’d sown the current unrest, seemed affected by the crowd’s mood. He grew more agitated by the minute and hissed a steady stream of orders at his men.

  When Hendricks called back, he told them to get off at North Point and Mason, and he stayed on the line while they complied. Cameron—who could see the Humvee’s cabin peeking out over the traffic a few blocks away, the StingRay’s oversize antenna bobbing atop it—wanted to shout at him to hang up, but she didn’t dare. This time, the Caddy was nowhere to be seen.

  “Okay, fucko. We’re off the bus. What next?”

  “There’s a shopping center to your right. Enter the parking garage and head south. Remain on the first level and move quickly.”

  Hendricks hung up, and Yancey and Cameron headed for the parking garage. Yancey led her by the arm. The zip-tie bit into her wrists beneath the plastic poncho.

  “Do you goddamn have him yet?” Yancey barked into his earpiece. “I don’t want your fucking excuses, what I want is his location!” His face was blotchy, his eyes manic. As he shoved Cameron through the open door of the garage, her emotions teetered queasily between anxiety and hope.

  A man in workout gear spotted them on their way through the garage and cocked his head. Late thirties or early forties. Well muscled and damp with sweat. When they neared, he stepped into their path to block their way.

  “Excuse me, miss, are you all right?”

  “She’s fine,” Yancey replied.

  “Sorry, Tex, but I was asking her, not you.”

  Yancey tightened his grip on Cameron’s arm. “Tell the man you’re fine, darlin’.”

  Cameron winced. “I—I’m fine.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look fine.”

  “Relax, asshole,” Yancey said, his temper flaring. “I’m a cop.”

  “Good,” the man replied. “Then you won’t mind me calling 911 to confirm that.” He took his cell phone from his pocket and began to dial.

  “You know what?” Yancey said, tapping the button on his Bluetooth earpiece to terminate the link to his men. “We don’t have time for this shit.”

  He drew his gun and pulled the trigger.

  The shot echoed through the concrete structure. The man dropped, his chest a bloody mess. Cameron wailed, and her knees buckled, but Yancey’s grip kept her from falling.

  Yancey’s phone rang. He answered it. “Weirdest fucking thing,” he said. “My signal dropped out for a second. Seems fine now, though.” Then he dragged Cameron—sobbing, hysterical—through the parking structure.

  Hendricks called again. Cameron could barely speak. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Pinpricks of light danced at the edges of her vision. He asked her what was wrong, but Yancey yanked the phone away before she could reply. “Maybe she just misses you,” he said.

  Hendricks told them to take a right onto Bay Street. They passed a darkened sushi joint, a Starbucks, a Trader Joe’s. Yancey peered suspiciously at all the passersby, but Cameron, terrified though she was, knew the city well and grew less convinced by the moment that Hendricks might be hiding around some corner. In her mind’s eye, she could see him peering intently at the BART app she’d installed on his phone, trying to yank the two of them around hard enough to shake their tail. The thought calmed her. She had a feeling she knew where he was directing them next.

  Her phone rang. “Can you see Taylor Street yet?”

  “Yes,” Cameron managed. “We’re right on top of it.”

  “Good. Take a left, and be quick about it. There should be a cable car waiting.” The line went dead once more.

  The trolley car was empty. The city was somber and fearful, and its streets uncharacteristically devoid of sightseers. They rode until the track ran out. Yancey spent most of the trip shouting at his men.

  “What do you mean, where am I? Shouldn’t you know?” A pause. “Oh, good. We’re out of range now too. That’s just fucking perfect.”

  He hung up. Threw his earpiece in a rage. Sat fuming as the trolley car clattered down the hill.

  When they reached the end of Powell Street, they disembarked. Usually, looky-loos would crowd around three-deep to watch the rickety old turntable turn the trolley car around, but today the only people on the sidewalk hurried nervously past, eager to get where they were going. Yancey’s head swiveled like a nervous bird’s as he tried to take in everything at once. A blood vessel throbbed in the center of his forehead. Their Bellum escorts were nowhere to be seen.

  Cameron’s burner phone trilled. Yancey answered it. “Listen, motherfucker, I’m getting sick and tired of being jerked around. You keep this up much longer, I might just put a bullet in this bitch and hunt you down at my leisure.”

  “Relax,” Hendricks said. “You’re almost done. There’s an escalator across Market Street. Take it.”

  They did as Hendricks instructed, Yancey’s left hand holding Cameron’s right triceps in a death grip. Once they stepped onto the escalator, Yancey thumbed the button to put the phone on speaker. “Where are you, asshole? I’m running out of patience.”

  The line crackled, the signal weakening. Two bars dwindled to one as they descended. Cameron worried the call would get dropped. Hendricks drew the moment out by taking forever to respond.

  “I’m in Oakland. Take the Richmond/Daly City line. And if I were you, I’d hurry. The train leaves in ninety seconds.”

  Hope fluttered in Cameron’s chest. So that’s why the StingRay couldn’t get close enough to track his call. He wasn’t in San Francisco anymore—he was across the bay.

  Yancey balked. “That’s not enough time!”

  “If you want Segreti, it had better be,” Hendricks replied.

  “But—” Yancey began. They’d reached the bottom of the escalator.

  The signal van
ished.

  The call was dropped.

  Yancey stuffed Cameron’s phone into his pocket. Checked his own phone for a signal and swore. Then he pushed her toward the ticketing machines.

  Cameron realized this must have been Hendricks’s plan all along. Even if Yancey could tip his buddies to their destination, it’d take them forever to get there. And if his fancy-pants encrypted phone didn’t have a signal here, it was a safe bet it wouldn’t have one on the train: it remained underground until it hit the Transbay Tube, three-odd miles of track that ran forty meters beneath the churning surface of San Francisco Bay.

  40.

  HENDRICKS, FEVERISH AND edgy from adrenaline, bounced lightly on the balls of his feet at the center of the busy platform as the train from San Francisco pulled into the station. Brakes squealed. Warm air buffeted his cheeks. Loudspeaker announcements echoed off the tiles.

  He knew that Yancey’d sent the body-cam images of him to every news outlet and law enforcement agency in the area, so he had altered his appearance as best he could. He’d ditched the windbreaker and wore a Raiders cap low on his head. A piece of medical tape stretched across the bridge of his nose, as if he’d broken it. He hoped it was enough to render him unrecognizable, but he worried his bedraggled appearance would warrant a second look. His navy henley was filthy, and darker where his wound had bled through. His pants were stiff from seawater because he’d had to hop out of the dinghy when they’d neared the Oakland waterfront to drag it into the shadow of the dock. Whenever BART police walked by, he averted his eyes, and he’d taken care to position himself in a surveillance-camera blind spot.

  As Hendricks scanned the crowd, he realized that—his nervous fidgeting aside—he was the only person in sight standing still. All around him, people in business attire shuffled on and off of trains. Most were tense and watchful. Others fiddled compulsively with their phones.

  Hendricks’s phone was in his pocket, dead and useless. He’d worn the battery down to nothing directing Cameron and Yancey around town. As it dropped into the red, he began to wonder if he’d get them here before it shut down.