Bad Intent

by Jordan Cole

  “I lied,” Riley said. “Get off here. Walk down off the platform and north up toward Walnut Street. Stay on the phone.”

  Metzer paused. Suddenly unsure. Then he sprang into action. Pushed forward through the tourists ahead to the doors. A bell dinged, and they opened. Moved forward through the sea of red caps and white jerseys, heading down a long flight of stairs away from the train platform. Across from him was an upscale hotel. A large parking lot; wide, glassy industrial buildings. He got his bearings and began jogging north. Saw a hanging green sign for Walnut street ahead.

  “I’m coming,” he said.

  “Keep going north. There’s a park up ahead, west on Market street. A small sculpture garden. You’ve got exactly two minutes. You’re not there by then, I’m gone. Don’t get off the phone”

  Metzer sucked in a breath. Broke into a run, his briefcase swinging in the air as he went. Sweat beginning to dot his shirt. He was on South 8th street now, sprinting as cars whizzed by the two-way street on his left. He could see hedges alongside him, greenery, the outer fringes of the park. Riley’s voice crackled again in his ear.

  “I lied. Keep going north up past Market. Turn left when you get to Chestnut. Now you’ve got a minute and thirty seconds.”

  “Okay,” he breathed. Panting hard now. Keeping the pace, ignoring the strange looks from people passing by. More tourists, streaming down the road in his direction, a crowd of baseball fans stretching out and clogging the sidewalk, lazily making their way to the stadium. Metzer dodged and juked around them, catcalls and jeers following him as he went. Passed Market Street, up toward Chestnut.

  “One minute remaining,” Riley hissed. Metzer pressed forward, as fast as he could with the phone to his ear and the briefcase in his other hand. “Did I say left? Go right, Metzer.”

  More running. He was sweating heavily now, his palms wet, shirt sticking to his back. Taking big looping breaths. Running with a frantic intensity.

  “Parking garage on your immediate right,” Riley said. “Get down to the lower level. You’ve got twenty seconds before I’m out of here.”

  Metzer banked hard right. A dark opening in a large concrete building. A small automated gate blocking the exit. Cars parked inside white lines, another sloping path leading downward. He made a final desperate sprint, emerging into a dank underground space supported by wide concrete pillars. Completely filled with cars. Metzer looked around. Didn’t see anyone. Pressed the cell phone to his ear.

  “Riley? Hello? I’m here.”

  No response. The line had gone dead. Metzer took another, frantic look around. Everything preternaturally dark behind his sunglasses. Footsteps, behind him. He turned, and saw a split second flash of Riley’s face. Heard the snarl of screeching tires. Then everything went black.

  21.

  Riley got the bag over Metzer’s head just as Agatha pulled up in the Oldsmobile. Saw Metzer’s cell phone on the ground where it had fallen and smashed it beneath his bootheel. He flung open the door and shoved Metzer into the backseat. His briefcase went flying in after him. Nodded to Agatha, who hit the gas, swinging around the parking garage and heading back up to street level. Riley kept his Smith and Wesson pressed against the dark fabric of the bag, which was in turn pressed against Metzer’s temple.

  “You know what that is?” Riley asked, tapping the gun against Metzer’s head.

  “Yes.”

  “Any of your FBI friends decide to follow us, it’s not going to end well for you.”

  Riley patted Metzer down, removing his wallet. An FBI badge, with Metzer’s unsmiling picture on it. He carried no weapons with him. The car stopped in front of the gate, as Agatha fed the machine with dollars. Riley pushed Metzer’s head down and out of sight. The gate swung upwards and she pulled out onto the surface streets. Turned west, heading for the expressway. Riley pulled the hunting knife from his belt and levered open the locks on Metzer’s briefcase. Inside were pens, a calculator, and a manila folder filled with papers. Riley set the folder aside and waited until Agatha turned down a narrow road. Tossed the briefcase out the window.

  “Take your clothes off,” Riley said. “All of them.”

  Metzer raised his head, disbelieving.

  “Are you kidding?”

  Agatha took a hard left turn and they both were jolted to the side. Riley kept the gun leveled at Metzer’s forehead.

  “Not taking a chance that you’re wearing a wire. We brought spares.”

  As if on cue, Agatha handed him a folded bundle of clothes that had been resting on the passenger’s seat. T-shirt, sweatpants, and underwear. Metzer didn’t move, still blinded by the bag.

  “Don’t be bashful,” Riley said. “I’ve seen it all before.”

  Reluctantly, Metzer began to unbutton his shirt. Riley leaned forward, ripping most of his buttons off with one yank. To help him along. Nothing underneath. Riley let him take care of the pants by himself.

  “Shoes and socks too,” Riley said. Metzer wriggled and cursed and finally got everything off. Sat there naked with the bag over his head. Riley imagined his face, red and angry, maybe thinking he’d made a big mistake. No way of telling. Riley handed him the new clothes and tossed the old ones out the window. Watched them sail away, flapping and twisting in the breeze.

  “Not so bad, right?” Riley said. He glanced out the back window. Agatha had looped around a few times, but if there were any tails, he didn’t spot them. He tapped her on the shoulder and she turned off for the expressway. Metzer dressed himself, slowly, working by feel, cursing softly as he did so.

  “Just until we get where we’re going,” Riley said. “Precautions. You understand.”

  Metzer made a noncommittal sound from beneath the bag. Riley glanced at the manila envelope and flipped it open. There was a file on Peter Saccarelli, as well as a detailed report about an FBI anti-terrorism operation. He didn’t delve too deeply into it. Figured he’d let Metzer explain it, once they got to their destination. See if he had actionable information that could help them.

  They left the city limits and drove out onto the highway, passing by long rows of cornfields, stalks swaying against each other like soldiers in formation. Metzer fidgeted in his new clothes, not speaking much, seemingly resigned to the fact that the bag wasn’t coming off until they arrived. Riley had lowered his revolver, but kept it on his lap at close reach. He’d taken all the measures he could think of, but if they were still tracking him now, there wasn’t much more he’d be able to do. Out of his hands. He relaxed for a measure, thinking about his cabin and if he’d ever return there.

  Agatha veered off onto a country lane and took a few more turns into a backwoods town with a population of 1,601 called, appropriately enough, Bounty. Riley hadn’t heard about any reward money on his head, but it certainly wouldn’t have surprised him. Almost all fugitives were eventually caught by someone talking, and no better way to spur that along than the promise of cold hard cash.

  Finally, they arrived at their destination, yet another seedy motel. This one was called the Bounty Motel and RV park, and it looked no nicer than the rest of them. A dilapidated two-story building of fading brick, small rooms humped against each another. A circular lot off to the side where a pair of RVs were parked. Agatha parked and went to the front desk to secure a room, while Riley waited in the car with Metzer. A few moments later she came walking back, nodding. Riley took the manila folder and ushered Metzer out of the car while Agatha led them, keys jingling in her hand, into the motel room.

  A single bed with a red paisley duvet and a few chairs. Another cheap TV whose screen probably flickered. Riley shut the blinds and locked the door. Pulled the bag from Metzer’s head, who stared at him, his hair cowlicked and standing on end. His face taut but sallow, shot through with adrenaline. A receding hairline and the slight smell of tonic. Riley tossed the folder onto the lone desk and pulled over a chair for Metzer, who stood, blinking rapidly. Agatha studied an ancient coffeemaker near the bathroom, removing the pot a
nd running it under the sink.

  “You want some coffee?” she asked Metzer. He seemed to have gotten his bearings back, and was staring at her hair, to which she gave a wry smile.

  “Yes, please,” he said, eventually. Still staring.

  “Let me guess,” Agatha said. “You saw the old pictures of me. Don’t like my new look?”

  “Not that,” Metzer said. “I was thinking about pigs. Domesticated ones. If they escape into the wild, after a few weeks they’ll start growing hair and tusks. Turn feral again. Mechanisms of defense. Like it’s written into their DNA.”

  “Are you calling me a pig?” Agatha said. Half joking. Pouring water into the glass pot and shaking coffee grounds into the filter. Metzer laughed.

  “No, I’m saying you’re adapting well.”

  “I’m always partial to a good animal analogy,” Riley said. “But we’ve got things to discuss. I apologize for the rough treatment.”

  “You didn’t need to do all that,” Metzer said, finally sitting down. “I’m on your side. You really don’t think the Bureau would have collared you today if they were out in force?”

  “Maybe,” Riley said. “Maybe not.”

  “Then you underestimate us.”

  The percolator began to bubble. Agatha poured coffee into Styrofoam cups and handed one to Metzer. He sipped it, and nodded thanks. Agatha sat down on the bed beside them. Metzer looked slightly surprised, like he assumed all she’d be doing would be fetching coffee. Which was absurd, in Riley’s viewpoint. She’d earned the right to be there just as much as they had.

  “I’ve been going over your history,” Metzer said. “Info from the MPD, and my own files I’ve dug up at the FBI.” He opened the folder and spread the papers out over the desk. “Riley, you got caught up in a pretty bad culmination of events here. You’re coincidentally in the right place at the right time to save Ms. Dumont from an attacker, but no sign of him or his vehicle has ever shown up. If I was in charge of the investigation, that alone would raise my eyebrows.”

  Riley shrugged.

  “Can’t account for timing. Agatha’s car breaks down a mile further down the road, I’m never involved.”

  “And I’d be dead,” Agatha added.

  “I’m just telling you how it looks from the other end,” said Metzer. Tugged on the collar of his new shirt, where the tag was still attached. “Clay Riley shows up, and people start going missing. You spin a wild story to the MPD about tampered cars and stalkers and conspiracy with no hard evidence. Eyewitnesses at the police station say Agatha seemed almost coerced. Frightened. Like you convinced her of this story and made her believe it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Agatha said. “Going to the police was my idea. Riley didn’t even trust them.”

  “That’s another thing. Riley was hostile to Ramirez during his last encounter with him. He has a long history of anti-authority sentiment. Hell, you shot your CO, for Christ’s sake. So when Ramirez went down, nobody goes looking for some grassy knoll gunman. They were looking to pin your ass to the wall.”

  “So why aren’t you?” Riley asked. “You have a gut feeling about me? A psychic premonition? Are or you just that much smarter than the rednecks at the local PD?”

  “I am that much smarter,” Metzer said, with a hint of a smile. “But that’s not why I think you didn’t do it. I read your file. You’re not the kind of guy who panics. You see Ramirez and Throop roll up, you take a deep breath and assess your options. Maybe you run. But you don’t take a potshot at Ramirez and then leave a witness alive to call it in.”

  “Throop?” Agatha asked.

  “Ramirez’s partner,” Metzer said. “She was conveniently distracted by her phone when the shot was fired. Didn’t see where it came from, or a muzzle flash. Bullet was high caliber. Went right through Ramirez, probably traveled another two hundred yards. Embedded itself somewhere in the side of the mountain. They ever find it, maybe they can prove Riley didn’t fire the shot. Wrong direction. But it’s a needle in a haystack. Lot of acres to search. Could have hit a tree or a rock and ricocheted out to God knows where.”

  “Whoever was shooting was a long ways away,” Riley said. “The motion detectors were operational out to almost a half mile.”

  “Right. Another reason the cops are sure it was you. Hennessey, the Charlemagne county sheriff was especially adamant about that. Couldn’t buy that a shooter could hit his target from a thousand yards.”

  “Difficult,” Riley said. “But by no means impossible. Considering how these guys have operated so far, having an expert marksman on the payroll would be expected. Plenty of time to set up, lure Ramirez out to the cabin, and line up the shot. Plenty of time to escape afterward. An FMJ round would keep going right through Ramirez’s skull. No chance Throop sees a muzzle flash from that far out in the daytime.”

  “Who could hit a target at that kind of distance?” Agatha asked. “That’s terrifying.”

  “Military sharpshooters could,” Riley said. “Not some hobbyist. That kind of shooting requires extensive training.”

  “Whoever took the shot knew you two were in the cabin,” Metzer said. “Knew about the safe room, and the motion detectors. My guess is, they needed Agatha alive. They couldn’t get close. If they shoot Riley, Agatha locks herself in and calls the cavalry. So they eliminate the cabin from the equation. Get you scared and on the run. Probably didn’t think you’d make it this far.”

  “They killed Liz Farber, also,” Agatha said. Stared down at the floor. “My boss. Sent us a picture of her...of her head.”

  “Huh,” Metzer said, rubbing his forehead. “I’m sorry. We knew she was missing. No idea what happened to her. They were probably trying to scare you, get you holed up in the cabin if you weren’t there already. What happened to the photo?”

  “Whoever killed her posted it to her Instagram account,” Agatha explained. “The picture was deleted shortly after. Like they were toying with us.”

  “What else?” Riley said, turning back to Metzer. “You said you knew about Pete Saccarelli and Caliban. How does that factor in?”

  “Yes,” Metzer said. Went through the papers on the desk and pulled out Saccarelli’s file. A smiling picture of the man, long brown hair. Maybe a driver’s license photo. Strange, finally seeing a picture of the guy after hearing his name thrown around for so long.

  “I found Saccarelli’s receipt for the directional mic in your bedroom,” Metzer continued. “Clear that Saccarelli was working with someone. Figured this Caliban guy was his contact. Cops couldn’t make heads or tails of it. But something about it stuck in my head. Did some digging, and came up with this.”

  Metzer shuffled through the papers, and came out with the file for Operation Tempest. A detailed document, a long write up of names and places and locations. Riley saw grainy black and white photos of bearded men. Western names, and below that, Muslim-sounding aliases.

  “Operation Tempest was an FBI counterterrorism sweep,” Metzer explained. “Not my department, but enough people were talking about it that it was common knowledge. A wide snare over the course of a few years. Fairly typical as these things go. Focused mostly on white guys who had expressed extremist attitudes. Guys who had become radicalized at mosques and jihadist message boards. Guys who wanted to go overseas to Syria and Iraq to fight the imperialist powers. Sympathies to Al-Qaeda and ISIS, that kind of thing. A couple of them were angling to commit terrorist acts in the US, but most just wanted to go fight out in the desert in the Middle East somewhere.”

  “Right,” Agatha said. “The FBI befriends them, convinces them to go through with whatever they’ve got planned, pretends to get them money or passports or explosives, and arrests them. I’ve read about that kind of thing.”

  “Exactly,” said Metzer. “The radical mosques are crawling with informants. Nine times out of ten, anyone offering these extremists material support is undercover FBI. They go down, the headlines can say a terrorist attack was halted, and Americans feel li
ke their tax dollars have gone to good use.”

  “What happened?” Riley said. “Seems like the Bureau would be all over this.”

  “What usually happens,” Metzer said. “We had over twenty people. The idea was to arrest them all at the same time. Like you hear about child pornography rings, a bunch of people busted simultaneously. But it didn’t work out that way. Logistics, evidence gathering. Some of them had left the country. Eventually we got them all, but piecemeal. Didn’t get the big headlines we were expecting. Locally relevant, but not front-page news.”

  “Still sounds like decent work to me,” Agatha said.

  “Right. Except one guy stood out from the others. This guy.” Metzer drew another file from the folder. A picture of a young male, maybe early twenties. He had a long, scraggly beard and intense gray eyes. A Muslim prayer cap on his head. His face gaunt and angular.

  “Mohammad Abu Shakra. The artist formerly known as Andrew Shay Fletcher. From Minneapolis, Minnesota. By all accounts a normal Midwestern kid, at least until he graduated high school and started to drift. For whatever reason he took a liking to radical Islam and got serious about it. Cut off contact with his family, expressed interest in traveling to Syria to fight with the rebels, the usual bullshit.”

  “What happened with him?”

  “He made it to Syria. But then he came back. Was arrested at Minneapolis St. Paul almost right after he stepped off the plane. But that’s not the strange part. The strange part is, the case against him collapsed. Misplaced evidence, chain-of-command stuff. No one was happy about it, but there was nothing that could be done. Bureau had to let him walk.”

  “Even after he returned from Syria?” Riley asked, disbelieving.

  Metzer shrugged.

  “Visiting Syria isn’t a crime in and of itself. I’m sure they interrogated him rather extensively. But they couldn’t make anything stick.”

  “How does he fit in?” Riley asked.