by Hunt, James
* * *
It was just before noon when Grant and Sam arrived back at the marshal building in Seattle. Anna had been taken to a hospital for a checkup. The abductors had given her some kind of sedative, and the medics were trying to figure out what it was. They didn’t think it was anything lethal, but they were running a litany of tests on her to make sure.
The ride back was awful. Grant felt bad for Lane, who didn’t have much of a conversationalist in Grant on their return. After all of his talk about decisions, Grant kept wishing for a do-over with his last conversation with Sam.
“Everything all right, Grant?” Lane asked.
“Fine, Lane,” Grant answered. “Just fine.”
When they returned to the marshal building, Grant found that they were the last to arrive. After they parked, he turned to Lane. “I appreciate your help. You did good work today.” He started to open the door, and then stopped. “And, hey, I asked Mocks to look up the utility account at the house where we found the ferry ticket, but I never heard anything back. Can you check on that for me?”
Lane’s eyes widened. “Absolutely.”
Grant smiled and patted him on the shoulder, and got out.
The lobby was teeming with a mixture of marshals, FBI, and local police. A few people had set up a permanent spot in the lobby due to the lack of desks. Grant weaved through the bodies, heading straight for Multz’s office. The door was cracked open, and Grant let himself in.
Sam and Multz were whispering to one another, and the moment Grant stepped inside, Sam left without a word.
Multz paused for a moment and then pointed at Grant. “You get five minutes. No more. You can’t get anything out of him in that time, that’s it. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, get out.”
Grant headed to the interrogation room, where he found Sam already waiting for him at the door. Their exchange was wordless as Sam unlocked the door and then stepped into the observation room to watch through the one-way glass.
Grant stared down at the timer on his watch, which was still running from when he started it during Anna’s abduction. He stopped it, reset it, and then stepped into the room. The door swung shut on its own, locking him inside.
Gusto Dibrov was shackled to his chair, shirtless, the edges of a white bandage crawling over his shoulder from his back where he’d been shot. His right arm was in a sling, and he eyed Grant lazily. He spoke something in Russian and then spit on the floor.
Grant looked at the spit on the floor. “I’ll make you clean that up later.” He bypassed the empty chair across from the prisoner and instead sat on the edge of the table next to where Gusto was chained. “But right now I need some answers. And you’re the only person left alive that I can question.”
Gusto spoke more gibberish, the thick Slavic accent making it sound as if his tongue was swollen, and then spit on Grant’s shoe.
Grant looked down at the spittle and nodded. “Let’s start with something simple. Was it Joza who hired you to take the girl?”
Gusto turned away, maintaining his apathetic posture in the chair, at least as much as the chains that shackled him would allow.
Grant looked back at the one-way glass, knowing that Sam was on the other side, and knowing that he was already one minute into his allotted five. He slid off the table and then stood right next to Gusto, staring down at the top of the man’s buzzed head. “We don’t have to do this the hard way.”
Gusto laughed then licked his lips as he eyed Grant. “You going to hurt me, cop? I don’t think so. Because this place won’t let you. You have laws. You have a code. You’re not allowed to do things the hard way.”
Grant drummed his fingers on the table while Gusto gave a mocking smile. “There are two things you need to know.” He crossed his arms. “The first is that whatever rights you think you’re entitled to ended the moment you opened fire on federal agents inside a federal building. Current law dictates that that is an act of terrorism.” He then bent at the waist, resting his hands on his thighs, and pushed his face within an inch of Gusto’s. “And I’m not a cop.”
“Fuck you,” Gusto said, the English muddled with his Slavic tongue.
Quickly, Grant palmed the back of Gusto’s head and then pivoted all of his weight behind the slam that smashed the man’s face into the table, the dull whack of meat and bone against wood preceding the groan of pain.
Grant kept pressure on the back of Gusto’s head, the man squirming beneath but unable to fend off the attack. “Was it Joza?”
Mumbled groans of pain and nonsense answered, and Grant removed his hand, letting Gusto fling himself into the back of his chair. Blood dripped from his nose, which had bent harshly to the right, forcing him to breathe out of his mouth. A tooth and blood covered the table.
Grant punched Gusto in the stomach. “Was it Joza?”
“Yes!” Gusto screamed, gasping for breath as the chains connected to the shackles on his wrists and ankles tightened as he squirmed in his seat. “Joza. Yes.” He closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing, and then straightened up in his chair.
Grant punched Gusto in the face and then hid the fact that his hand was shaking from the blow. He circled around the back of Gusto’s chair and then sidled up on the other side and positioned his hand around Gusto’s throat. He applied pressure lightly and tilted his head back. “Are the parents still alive?”
Gusto choked and then wheezed a few breaths. “I can’t fucking breathe.”
“Focus, Gusto.” Grant tightened his grip. “Are the parents still alive?”
Gusto nodded.
“Are they out of the country?”
Gusto squirmed in more desperate attempts for air, but the random shakes of his head masked his answers. His eyes bulged as he looked at Grant.
“Are they out of the country?” Grant never broke eye contact with him.
Gusto shook his head, his motions exaggerated to make sure that Grant understood the answer. His lips started to turn blue.
“Where are they being hidden?” But as Grant pressed and his grip tightened, Gusto’s eyelids fluttered, and the muscles in his face relaxed. Finally, Grant let go.
Gusto sucked down air in greedy gulps, but Grant didn’t let him rest as he fingered the bullet wound on Gusto’s back. He screamed, thrashing in the chair.
“Where are the parents?” Grant asked.
“The mother,” Gusto answered, scrunching his face tight. “I only know where the mother is.”
“Where?”
“Four, four. Nine, nine, nine, six.” Gusto swallowed. “One, zero, nine. Zero, three, one.”
“Those are coordinates?” Grant kept pressure on the wound.
“Yes!” Gusto screamed, nodding vigorously.
Grant removed his hand and then headed for the door, waiting until someone opened it for him. And he was surprised to find Sam standing there as he stepped out. “Where is it?”
“Wyoming-Montana border west of Highway 120-72. We’re working on getting satellite imagery of the place, but from a quick glance, it doesn’t look like there is anything there.”
“How long?”
“Choppers take off in ten.”
“Good. We need to get there as quick as we can.”
“We?” Sam stuck her arm out, stopping both of them on their walk toward the building’s exit. “Director Multz made your position perfectly clear. Predict and analyze. You’re not supposed to be in the field.”
“The only reason we got Anna back was because I was in the field,” Grant said. “I can help.”
“I’m trying to make sure we stay on protocol. We’ve broken it enough already by having you go in there and—”
“I can get it done!” The flash of anger surprised both of them. “I can finish this.”
Sam shook her head, confused. “What is this about? What are you trying to prove?”
The question hung in the air, and before Grant could formulate an answer, Hickem wa
lked up behind the pair of them, slapping Grant on the shoulder as he passed. “Grant, you’re riding with me. Sam, you’ll be in chopper two. Let’s go!”
He fell into stride behind Hickem. Maybe this was about atonement. Maybe this was Grant’s second chance to get it right, to not let any life fall through the cracks. But then what? What came after that? When did it end for him?
8
The headsets muffled the noise of the chopper blades, but the chatter over the radio felt just as loud as the whine of the aircraft’s motors. Grant paid attention to the portions that he needed to hear. Local law enforcement had already been notified and had blocked off the only road that led anywhere near to the location from the kidnapper’s coordinates.
“Grant,” Hickem said, turning in the front seat of the chopper. “You’ll be part of team one along with Sam and me. The chopper is going to drop us off a few miles from the coordinates to make sure we don’t spook these guys. We’ve already got a SWAT team moving into position, and they have visual confirmation that there is a cabin on site.”
“How many hostiles?” Grant asked, the radio providing a little feedback as he spoke.
“Unknown, but there is only one vehicle on property, so unless they flew in, it shouldn’t be more than three or four, five at the max.”
“Do we at least have confirmation that the house is occupied?”
“Negative. No visuals reported.”
Grant exhaled. If they knew one of their guys was captured, the characters in charge were smart enough to know they should move the victims. But if the mercenaries’ employer were also under the impression that their hired guns fought to the death, sure that they would never turn, then they might stay put. Grant was definitely hoping for the latter.
“Five minutes till the drop site,” the pilot said.
Grant stared at the back of Hickem’s head, still unsure of his motives. There had been no talk of the mole in his unit that had started all of this, and they had zero ideas of what prompted the FBI agent to turn. “What’s the progress with Agent Kover?”
“We have him in a holding tank.” Hickem kept his face forward. “Hasn’t said anything, but we can wait him out.”
“When will we have access?”
Hickem laughed. “C’mon, Grant. You know how these things work. No department likes to have their dirty laundry flapping in the breeze. It’s being handled internally. And as hard as it might be for you...” He turned around. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”
Their eyes lingered on one another, both sporting their poker faces. Grant knew whatever truth the FBI did find out in their “internal investigation” would be limited to the public eye.
The chopper slowed, and the pilot found a level patch in the rolling mountains, and Grant, Hickem, and the other two FBI agents that rode with Grant in the back ducked low on their exit, the blades’ whirling winds helping to push them from the aircraft.
Grant found a spot beneath the shade of a tree and adjusted the Kevlar strapped to his chest as the second chopper landed, dropping off Sam with another pair of marshals he didn’t recognize. One wore a cowboy hat that he clamped down on the top of his head, his outfit complete with boots and a pair of dark aviator shades.
The second marshal was bald and wore a pair of glasses that were large and rectangular. His face and midsection sagged with the age and experience of someone nearing retirement.
Sam retained her icy demeanor toward Grant, refusing to acknowledge his presence. He wasn’t sure if she was upset because he had been right, or she had been wrong. If he had to put money on it, he would say it was a little bit of both.
As the second chopper took off, blasting everyone with more high-speed winds, the seven-member tactical squad formed a circle, Grant acting as the connecting piece between the two agencies.
“Local SWAT still in position?” Sam asked.
Hickem nodded. “They’ve been instructed to hold until we arrive. Still no updates on whether we have any bodies inside.”
Cowboy Hat spit and placed his hands on his hips. “What kind of setup are we looking at?”
“Two entrances,” Hickem said. “Front and back, which face north and south. Two windows on the south side, which is the front of the house, one window on the north side. Two windows each on east and west walls. All of them blacked out.”
“Only one story?” Sam asked.
“Yup. And there is heavy brush around the property, so we shouldn’t have any problems with keeping our presence a surprise.”
“Not unless ol’ Rodney here had beans for lunch.” The cowboy accompanied the statement with a nudge to his partner and a hyena-esque laugh.
“Marshals will take the front door,” Sam said.
“Like hell you will,” Hickem replied, puffing out his chest. “FBI takes the lead on this one.”
“Since when?” Sam asked, not backing down.
“Since you let that family be taken.”
Sam marched into the circle, getting in Hickem’s face, her nostrils flared as she shoved her finger into Hickem’s Kevlar. “That’s fucking bullshit, and you know it! It was your guy that gave away the Copellas’ position.”
Sam’s marshals stepped up behind her, and Hickem’s men backed him up.
“You’ve done nothing but keep us in the dark about whatever the hell kind of operations you’re running in your division, and I trust you about as far as I can throw you.” Sam shoved Hickem hard in the chest, but the big brute barely stepped back.
Hickem moved his hand so fast and so close to Sam’s face that the pair of marshals behind her placed their hands on their pistols, triggering Hickem’s men to do the same, but he never touched her. “You’re way out of line!”
“Hey!” Grant said. “Save your bullets for the gang.” He turned to Hickem. “You and I both know this is still Sam’s case, so you can stick it back in your pants before you embarrass yourself.”
It was quiet for a moment, and then Sam finally nodded. “Marshals will take the back door.”
“Yeah,” Hickem said, taking a step back. “Sounds good.” He gestured behind him to their path. “We’ve got a bit of a hike.” Without turning back around to either Grant or Sam, he walked off, his agents following.
Sam fell into line without a word, her two marshals doing the same. Grant hung back for a minute, taking in the blue skies and the mountainous, arid terrain that surrounded them. The wilderness here was different than in Deville. It was isolating, desolate. He hoped that what they found at the cabin was different.
Conversation was minimal, the only chatter limited to tactical options or updates from the SWAT team, who still didn’t know if anyone was inside.
Grant fought the urge to try to mend the bridge with Sam. Now wasn’t the time. She needed to stay focused. So did he.
And so boots crunched gravel, lips puffed labored breaths, birds screeched in the great big sky, and the closer they drew toward the house nestled in the middle of nowhere, the faster every pulse beat. Mouths grew dry, fingers twitched from frayed nerves, and mouths grew silent.
Hickem held up a fist, and the line of federal agents froze in place. He crouched, then they crouched. They removed their pistols from their holsters and white-knuckled them in nervous hands. Grant felt it. They were close.
After a few more moments of silence, Hickem stood and motioned everyone forward, and the group gathered in a half circle around him. He tapped his ear. “I’ve got an uplink with the SWAT team. They’re just over this next hill. The house is there, still no movement. This is where we split up.” He looked at Sam. “Take the marshals around the north side, and wait for our signal.”
“What’s the signal?” Cowboy asked.
“It’ll be a loud bang,” Hickem answered. “Now, we don’t have a layout of the house, and if a crew is inside, I don’t think they’ll keep the mother alive for very long, so we need to clear the rooms fast. Watch the corners, and work your way to the front. We’ll meet in the midd
le. Hopefully still intact.”
“All right,” Sam said. “I’m on point. Grant, you stay in the back.”
“No, Grant’s coming with us,” Hickem said.
Before Grant could protest, Hickem motioned his men forward, but he caught a concerned glance from Sam as they separated.
The SWAT members were hidden amongst some shrubs thirty yards from the house’s front door. One hundred yards from the house, Hickem’s team threw their bellies to the dirt and crawled toward their positions in slow, methodical motions.
Covered in dirt and tiny scratches from the prickly shrubs, Grant sidled next to Hickem, who positioned himself alongside one of the SWAT members. Their conversation was in whispers, but Grant was close enough to overhear.
“Still no movement inside,” the SWAT member replied. “Do we have any additional intel on the situation?”
“Negative,” Hickem said.
“Can’t we get a fucking drone out here?”
“It’s just us, Sergeant.” Hickem scanned to his left and then to his right. “Once the north unit is in position, we make our move.”
The hot summer sun beat down on their necks, muscles still and worn from the long hike and sudden lack of mobility. With both hands gripped on the pistol, Grant kept checking his watch. And while only seconds passed between his glances, it felt closer to hours.
“All right,” Hickem said. “North unit is in position. Sergeant, you tell your men to begin your approach. My people will be right behind you on the break-in. We’ll follow your lead.”
“Copy that.” The sergeant relayed the information over the radio to the rest of his men peppered along the ground outside the house. “We have a green light. I repeat, we have a green light. Be advised of team on north side of the house. They will be covering back exits.”
Hickem looked at Grant, a smile on his face as the SWAT members emerged from the earth, hunched forward with their assault rifles aimed at the house.
Autopilot kicked in, and all of those training hours with the department flooded back to Grant.
In total, there were ten men covering the front of the house, but the rush toward the door provided no more noise than the rustle of wind through the trees, the eerie calm before the horrendous storm that was about to ensue.
