36: A Novel

by Dirk Patton

  It was quiet in the bedroom for a long pause. In that interim, she didn’t break eye contact with me. Just stared as if she could look into my soul.

  “You’re not wrong,” she said in a much less aggressive voice.

  “Then help me,” I said. “I’ll be out of your hair in just over an hour. All I’m asking is that you stay quiet and don’t call the police after I leave. That’s all.”

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are? What if you’re a mafia hit man, here to kill some witness? Or an enforcer for a drug cartel, hunting a dealer who crossed your bosses. Maybe just a jilted ex-boyfriend out for a little revenge.”

  I sighed in frustration. She was right. I couldn’t prove I was who I said I was. Couldn’t prove I wasn’t any of the things she had just listed. Glancing at the iPad in my hand I noted the timer. Less than an hour. I was running out of time, and this conversation didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  “What will it take? How do I convince you?”

  “Got a badge?”

  She smiled, knowing I wouldn’t. I shook my head.

  “Then we’ve got a problem,” she said. “I’d like to believe you. But your story is too fantastic. And if I don’t do something, that means I could wind up being an accomplice. That doesn’t fit in with my plans for the future.”

  I shrugged, not having any idea what else I could say to convince her.

  “So how about this,” she continued. “You walk your ass out my door and get the hell out of the area. I’ll wait five minutes before I call the cops. That should give you more than enough time to get safely away. That’s the best I can do.”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s not an option,” I said. “I’m telling you the truth, and I’m not going to walk away and let those terrorists kill a bunch of kids. How about I knock you out? I’m sure there’s something in this suitcase I can use to tie you up. You might get free, but I’ll be done and gone before then.”

  I tapped the hard sided rolling bag with the heel of my left shoe. It was heavy, probably stuffed full of clothing.

  “You can try,” she said, eyes flashing again.

  This wasn’t getting us anywhere. I’d already told her more than I should have. And it wasn’t working. She didn’t believe me. I needed to move this along and get refocused on the mission.

  Ready to step forward and slam the rifle butt into the side of her head, I stopped myself before revealing what I was thinking. There was another option. Not a good one, but better than hurting this woman. Unlike the movies, a blow to the head isn’t very safe. Sure, you can knock someone out if you hit them just right and just hard enough, but what if you hit them too hard? I didn’t want to risk severely injuring her.

  “OK, here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “I’m fast running out of time. Out on the kitchen counter is a phone book and a land line phone. We’re going to walk out to the kitchen and you’re going to look up the number for the FBI. You’re going to call it and ask for Special Agent William Johnson. You should probably tell them it’s an emergency, a matter of life and death, so they put you through to him rather than wanting to take a message. Once you have him on the line, he can verify I’m telling you the truth. Fair enough?”

  She looked at me in surprise, tilting her head to the side as she inspected the expression on my face.

  “I must say, you are convincing,” she said, pausing and thinking before continuing. “OK. If the FBI confirms you’re telling the truth, I’ll stay out of your way. Won’t call the cops or do anything to interfere.”

  “Let’s go then,” I said, moving the suitcase out of the way and taking a step back into the hall as she stood and straightened her skirt.

  “But if you try anything… try to call 9-1-1 instead of the FBI’s number, or anything else foolish, you won’t leave me a choice. I’ll have to hit you and restrain you. Please don’t make me do that. I wouldn’t like it.”

  “I’ll be good,” she said, walking slowly towards me.

  25

  I walked backwards down the hall, not taking my eyes off the woman. Coming to a stop, I placed myself between her and the front door, waving her into the kitchen. After the training I’d received, a kitchen is the last place in a residence I’d want a potential adversary to be. Too many things for them to grab and use as a weapon. But I’d already searched this one and knew it was empty. Except for the half dozen bulging grocery bags sitting on the counter next to a large purse.

  “Don’t reach for the purse or any of the bags,” I cautioned her.

  She ignored me and gently moved the phone off the book and flipped it open without picking it up. It didn’t take her long, and I made her step away so I could see the number she’d found. I wanted to make sure I knew she was actually calling who she was supposed to be calling.

  Nodding, I stepped a few feet away and watched as she punched the digits in and lifted the handset to her ear. After what couldn’t have been more than two rings, she began talking, asking to speak to Special Agent William Johnson. Just as I’d instructed, she told the operator that it was an emergency and lives were in the balance.

  “I’m on hold,” she said, pulling the phone away from her ear so I could hear the sappy music that was playing.

  It took most of five minutes, neither of us saying anything, but the other end was finally picked up. She listened closely to what was said before speaking.

  “Agent Johnson, I have a man in my apartment, holding me at gunpoint. He claims that you know who he is.”

  “Give it to me,” I said, extending my left hand.

  She stepped away and turned so the handset was on the opposite side of her body.

  “He hasn’t told me his name. All he’s said is that he’s here to stop a terrorist attack on a school.”

  She listened for almost a minute, turning and looking me up and down. I suspected he was describing me to her. There was a brief discussion, then she held the phone out towards me.

  “He wants to talk to you,” she said.

  I took it from her and held it to my ear, saying “Hi”.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Johnson yelled so loud I involuntarily held the handset away from my head. The woman clearly heard his shout and a smile spread across her face as she leaned her ass against the counter and crossed her arms.

  “No choice,” I said, instantly regretting my use of that word. Choice. “If the apartment had been empty, like I was told, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I’m sure I will soon,” he said, the anger in his voice barely controlled. “And, you’re in Downey, California according to the phone records. How long have you been back?”

  “A few hours,” I said, watching the woman watch me.

  “When’s your event point?”

  “Less than forty-five minutes,” I said, checking the iPad.

  “Good luck,” he said. “We’ll discuss your choice to have a civilian contact me when you get back. You can rest assured I’ll remember this!”

  There was a loud click as he slammed the phone down on his end. I breathed out a sigh and gently placed the handset back in the cradle. Looking up, I saw she was still smiling.

  “Believe me now? And what the hell’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Yes, I do. And it’s always funny when a big, tough guy gets chewed out,” she said, still smiling.

  “So you’re going to help me?”

  “If by help, you mean keep my mouth shut, then the answer is yes. My house is your house. At least for the next forty-five minutes. Now, if you don’t mind, get out of my kitchen so I can put these groceries away before they spoil. And if my rocky road has melted, I’m going to kick your ass!”

  I stepped back into the hall and watched as she unloaded the bags. Most of what she’d bought went into the fridge or freezer, but there were a few items that she stored in a cabinet.

  “You’re in luck,
” she said, gently squeezing the outside of a large container of ice cream. “It’s still firm.”

  I almost made a sarcastic remark about anything that was in her hand being firm, but stopped myself before the words came out. She might appreciate my juvenile humor, or she might get pissed off and make things hard for me. When I thought the word hard, right after the thought I’d just had, I tried and failed to suppress a snort of laughter.

  “What?” She asked, looking over her shoulder at me, the ice cream still in her hand.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just something I was thinking about.”

  I was trying to wipe a grin off my face, but after all the tension since she’d walked into the apartment, I was ready for some relief and it wouldn’t go away. She was apparently as sharp as I’d thought, for it didn’t take long for things to click. With a roll of her eyes, she put the container in the freezer and turned to face me.

  “Don’t be a child,” she chastised me, sounding only half serious. “Now, will you trust me to go to the bathroom by myself?”

  I stepped back and made a grand gesture for her to walk down the narrow hall. She shook her head, probably thinking I was an immature child in an adult’s body as she pushed past me.

  While she took care of her personal business, I sat on the sofa and checked the iPad. Forty minutes and eleven seconds. Switching views to the building layout, I reviewed the path I would take to apartment 2C. The diagram included measurements and I did some quick math. It should take me between thirty and forty seconds to reach the target once I walked out this door.

  I wanted to be standing outside 2C’s door when it opened for the first asshole to walk out. That meant I needed to leave when the timer showed one-minute remaining. That would give me about a twenty second margin of error. Any earlier, and I risked being seen by another resident who would probably call in a report to the cops. Any later and I might not be in place on time.

  Sitting there, I played out what I was going to do in my head. Mentally pictured how I would enter the residence. Recalled the two faces of the men that carried pistols. They were potentially the greatest threats, assuming I was correct and the rifles would have been packed away already. Reminded myself that if the woman the apartment was leased to was present in any state other than bound and gagged, I had to treat her as a hostile.

  “That’s really gross.”

  The woman’s voice interrupted my thoughts and I turned to see her standing in the hall outside the bathroom door.

  “What?”

  “Flush the damn toilet and put the seat down after you use it. Jesus!”

  “Sorry. Thought I was alone,” I said.

  “If you go again before you leave, just try to remember. OK?”

  I nodded, watching her grasp the suitcase handle and drag it into the bedroom. Standing, I walked down the hall and looked in as she struggled to lift it onto the bed. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her after her conversation with Johnson, but trusting and keeping an eye on what someone is doing aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.

  “Want some help?” I asked, leaning a shoulder against the door jam.

  “Got it,” she grunted, swinging it up and letting it flop onto the mattress.

  “What’s your name?” I asked as she opened the latches and raised the lid.

  “Why? Going to ask me out?”

  She was facing away from me as she spoke, looking down into the bag. I could hear the sarcasm loud and clear and suspected there was an impish grin on her face.

  “No. You’re too high maintenance,” I said, deliberately sending a jab in her direction.

  “You have no idea,” she said, refusing to take the bait.

  I stood there for a few more minutes, watching her unpack. Several of the items she pulled out intrigued me and I couldn’t help but imagine what she’d look like wearing them. Realizing I was getting distracted, I pushed away from the door and returned to the living room.

  Resuming my seat on the sofa, I checked the time then made another study of the target apartment’s floor plan. The front door opened into a living room that was about half again as large as the one I was sitting in. A kitchen abutted it, a bar height counter separating the two spaces.

  Just like this apartment, a short hall led to a bedroom, but this one would be considered a master and had its own bathroom instead of one in the hall. A small, walk-in closet was to the right of the door into the bath, and sliding glass doors let out onto a tiny balcony that overlooked the parking lot.

  Another hall, opposite the kitchen, led to a bathroom and two bedrooms. The bath was on the right, back wall matched up against the back wall of the master bath. The two bedrooms were both on the left, their doors bracketing the entrance to the bathroom so that there was a left door, right door then left door as one progressed down the hall. It ended at a wall of cabinets, probably shallow and only good for storing linens. Or weapons, I reminded myself.

  “What are you looking at?”

  I jumped when she spoke from right next to me. She’d walked up, silent in her bare feet, and was peering over my shoulder at the iPad. After I’d left her alone she had changed clothes, trading the skirt and blouse for a pair of shorts and a stained T-shirt that could only have been Army issue. It didn’t flatter her figure, but looked very comfortable and well worn. Her hair was up in a tight ponytail and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. I thought she looked beautiful.

  “Floor plan of the apartment where the terrorists are,” I said, not seeing any reason to lie or refuse to answer.

  “That’s a lot of blind corners and rooms,” she observed. “How many of them are in there?”

  “Eight,” I answered. “Plus one unknown.”

  “You’re going up against nine on your own? That’s nuts,” she said, moving around and sitting in a chair with her legs tucked underneath her ass.

  “Probably,” I said, nodding. “But that’s the job.”

  “You know how many times I heard that in Iraq? From guys who were about to go out and get their legs blown off or a bullet through the head?”

  “A lot,” I said, remembering that it was a well worn phrase in my infantry platoon.

  “Too much,” she said, a far off look in her eyes as she remembered the war.

  I didn’t have anything to say to that, so resumed studying the floor plan to ensure it was clearly embedded in my memory. Over and over, I pictured myself walking through the apartment. Visualized the lanes of fire that would be available to me as well as the terrorists. Worried about the hall with the two bedrooms. Hoped all of them would be gathered in the living room, but didn’t count on that being the case.

  A final review of the path to the target location, and I closed the diagrams and placed the iPad on the table. All that was showing was the timer app. Eight minutes, eleven seconds. That meant I was walking out the door in seven minutes, eleven seconds. There was nothing to do other than wait.

  Fishing the stocking cap out of my pocket, I put it on my head. Before I walked out into the open I’d pull the mask over my face. Another check of my weapons under her watchful eye, and I still had five minutes to go.

  “You were over there, weren’t you,” she said after I’d made sure my rifle was ready to go.

  “Two tours in Iraq,” I said.

  I probably shouldn’t have told her that. But what did it matter? Who could she tell? In less than five minutes I’d walk out her door and never see her again.

  “Didn’t get enough death while you were there?”

  I looked at her, not sure where she was heading with the question.

  “Too much,” I said.

  “Then why? I’m just curious. How did you wind up hunting tangos?”

  “It just kind of happened,” I said. “I didn’t go looking for the job. It found me.”

  “That’s a nice, cryptic non-answer,” she said, a smile softening her blue eyes.

  “And it’s the truth.”

  I stood and performed a quic
k check of all my weapons. Made sure none of them were snagged or wouldn’t draw smoothly when needed. Glancing down at the iPad I saw two minutes remaining on the timer. One minute to walking out the door. Checking my watch, I noted the time and shut the iPad down and put it in my pack.

  “Thank you,” I said to the woman as I moved to stand next to the door.

  “Good luck,” she responded, standing and unlocking the deadbolt.

  She placed her hand on the knob, ready to open the door for me. I looked into her eyes and saw something that hadn’t been there before. Sadness. Loss. And a big dose of weariness. She was tired of seeing men going off to war. More than anyone, she probably had the right to feel that way. I wondered how many soldiers she’d scooped off the battlefield.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten seconds. She was watching me closely as I stood there waiting for the second hand to reach its mark. At five seconds I pulled the mask down to cover my features. At two seconds I took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Julie Broussard.”

  She told me her name as she pulled the door open.

  26

  The sun had set and it was dark, low wattage lights spaced along the wall providing the only illumination on the walkway. I was on the third floor, at the opposite end of the building from the target. Turning to my left, I headed for a set of exterior stairs, striding quietly.

  As soon as I’d stepped out of Julie’s apartment, I began counting off the seconds in my head. I reached the landing at the top of the stairs in ten seconds. I paused long enough to scan the area and didn’t see anyone out and about. There was the sound of TVs playing, and somewhere close by a man and woman were arguing loudly in a language I didn’t recognize, but no one was outside their apartment at the moment.

  Thirteen seconds. I went down the stairs to the second level, turning right. Eighteen seconds. A long walkway in front of me, turning ninety-degrees to the right when it reached the far corner of the rectangular structure. I walked at a fast pace, rifle in front of my body and gripped tightly, ready to be brought to my shoulder in an instant.