by M C Rowley
At that moment, Rose’s cell phone started vibrating on the table. He picked it up, and as Jean watched, his face changed. He listened for about a minute, “Are you sure?”
He listened again.
“Okay, get your asses back here now.”
And he hung up.
Jean said, “Who was it?”
Rose smiled. “That was Scott Dyce.”
“For real?”
“They’re coming back in.”
“What did they want?”
Rose looked Jean in the eye. “We have Reynolds’ known location for the next two days.”
Chapter Fifteen
Jean found it hard to believe that Rose was trusting Luciana over Jairo. The woman who had poisoned and killed for Reynolds. Proven guilty in this whole plot. Rose had argued that there was no motive for Luciana to trick them. And Jean had to admit that he had a point. If Luciana wanted immunity, Rose could sort it. But not before he made sure she suffered somewhat, too. All in good time, he had said.
The second tricky part to digest was the info itself. Reynolds moved from place to place on a constant basis, renting houses, mansions, apartments in cash. But now, according to Luciana’s intel, he had moved to the street. Sleeping rough to avoid detection. He was smart. Rose had already had an agent at Langley checking all recent leases for a single man accompanied by a child. Local police also had a description. Hiding in plain sight was a clever move.
And he had the girl, Estrella.
Rose and Jean located the spots in DC where Reynolds was likely camping out. There were three. They figured he would choose a place with lots of homeless folk, so he and the girl could blend in.
Problem was, they had no idea what Reynolds looked like.
The first location was a no-go. When they got to the overpass, they found ten guys sitting around sharing three bottle of cheap liquor. Jean asked if they’d seen a man with a young child in his care, and they grunted and shook their heads.
The next place was similar. Just drunks and druggies who hadn’t seen a middle-aged man with a small girl.
For the third and final location, Rose suggested Jean get dressed for the occasion. She bought some old clothes from a thrift store on the outskirts of the city, and even found an old pair of boots that had seen better days long ago but made the look complete.
They headed out to the final location as dusk was settling in. It was a pedestrianized street with stores either side. One of the larger shops was a department store and had a large canopy that provided shelter to its main entrance. In the daytime, it would have been full of shoppers and bargain hunters. At night, it became one of DC’s unofficial homeless shelters. If Reynolds wasn’t here, Jean knew they’d have to start searching official shelters, and that was outside the CIA’s jurisdiction.
Rose briefed Jean in a diner a couple of blocks away, where he would wait for her while she scoped out the walkway. Rose cradled a large mug of hot chocolate. The diner was almost empty, except for an old couple eating breakfast for dinner and a guy at the bar.
“Hit the tracker as soon as you make him,” said Rose.
Jean disliked the way her boss repeated things so much, as if she wouldn’t think to call him for backup. But she shut up and nodded.
“You look like shit,” he said. “And that’s a compliment.”
Jean smiled for a moment. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Let’s get this son of a bitch. Tonight we end this.”
Jean nodded again, got up, and left the diner.
The air outside was cold and she thought about how people could survive on the street all year round. Temperatures in winter fell way below zero. She thought of Estrella and the thousands of other kids her age who lived on the street. It was a shitty world, she thought. But you could only save one soul at a time. That was just the way it was. The CIA had taught her that at least.
She reached the corner that ran down to the walkway and peered around. Sure enough, nestled in rows along the shop windows were lines of sleeping bags and bodies slumped against the store windows. She scanned the space, counted, and reckoned there were around a hundred people in all.
Her hand went to her pocket and wrapped around the bottle of Jameson they’d bought. Time for a swig.
As she walked towards the mass of inert shapes lying on the ground, she drew out the bottle, unscrewed the lid, and sipped the whisky. It tasted like crap—she was more of a tequila girl—but the bottle was essential.
As she reached the throng of sleeping bags, she sat down against the wall and surveyed the scene. A few heads popped up to check her out. She kind of nodded at them and kept swigging from the bottle, hoping the bait would draw one of them to her.
It took about twenty seconds.
An old boy with a face that had more lines than a Wall Street nightclub bathroom cubicle twisted out of his sleeping position and crawled toward her on his elbows.
“Ya gonna share that, lady?”
Jean tilted her head toward him. “Depends. I’m looking for some people. A man and a young girl. You seen anyone like that?”
Jean was keeping her voice low, so as not to alert Reynolds if he was here, but her new friend almost shouted back.
“Every day.”
“I mean here, now.”
The old boy got closer and his smell hit Jean. She willed her face not to show her disgust.
“Give us a drink and I’ll help,” he said.
Jean handed him the bottle, looking behind the man as bodies moved and rolled around. Some people were sitting against the windows, chatting. Others were out cold. Some were drinking like she was. All the shapes and faces merged into one.
“That’s some good shit,” said the man. “How’s a nice young lady like you end up here?”
Jean looked at him, frustrated that he’d put her off her scan. “Takes all sorts,” she said.
The man grunted and took another deep pull on the booze.
“Give it back,” said Jean. She’d realized she’d have to get up and walk around to get a decent look. The space was longer than it was wide, around fifty meters in total. It was beginning to dawn on her how hard this would be.
Only forty meters away, Reynolds watched Agent Santos. He’d seen her walk over and use a bottle to get talking to a regular. He pulled his jacket collar further up and kept staring. Estrella was five meters from him, still with the old lady he’d bribed with a bottle to look after her, just in case, and he was glad now he’d taken the precaution. There was only one way the CIA could have known of his location and he cursed himself again for his mistake in revealing himself to Luciana. He’d known that total anonymity was the only way this whole thing would work out, and he’d blown that. But it was too late for regrets now. Santos was on to him and he had to get away, fast.
He nestled down deeper into the jacket’s collar, his ass getting cold on the cement. From the corner of his eye, he watched Santos moving slowly toward him. She was getting more attention now—because she looked like a cop. Her outfit was beyond pathetic and her hair was even relatively neat. She wasn’t fooling anybody here.
As she drew closer to him, Reynolds strained to listen to her questions. He could just make out her asking whether they’d seen anybody new. With a kid in tow. Reynolds could be sure the people would be reluctant to answer, but he couldn’t guarantee their protecting him and Estrella. He’d plied a few of them with drinks, but not all of them.
She should’ve brought money, he thought, and again found himself astounded by the lack of preparation from the Agency.
Santos was five people up from him. He had to make a plan, and now.
Two guys down from him was a young junkie. Reynolds knew this not from needle marks or saggy eye bags, but because the kid had been shooting up in the morning. And he was getting the cold sweats, ready for his next hit. Reynolds had clocked a bunch of baggies in the kid’s pocket that morning. His equivalent of payday or something. A lump of cash blown in seconds on junk for his
veins. And the kid was clearly worried about someone taking his stash away from him, as all druggies were. He would serve as the perfect distraction.
As Jean moved from person to person, too close for comfort, Reynolds scuffled up to his immediate neighbor, an old white man with a purple face. He leant behind him and tapped the junkie kid on the shoulder. The kid looked round at Reynolds.
“Run for it, son,” Reynolds said. “She’s a Fed. Seen her before. She’s looking for drugs.”
The fear set into the kid’s eyes quicker than a needle plunges into a vein.
“What?”
“I’m telling ya,” said Reynolds. “I seen her before. Under the flyover in the east. She’s looking for drugs. I saw you got quite a stash, kid. Get outta here.”
The kid looked at Agent Santos and then back at Reynolds, his heroin-addled mind deciding on his next move.
Reynolds pushed him hard on the shoulder. “Go!”
The kid sprang up, stumbled out of his sleeping bag, and nearly fell on his face. He managed to regain his balance, and moments later he was running. He was a tall kid and his lanky legs launched him into motion, fast and away from Agent Santos. One second after the kid bolted, Santos spun around and shouted, stepping over the people at her feet to start the chase.
Reynolds took advantage as the crowd grew confused and said in an urgent hushed tone, “She’s a Fed. Run for it!”
People started to shout and jeer. Some people got up, some people stayed down. Some were too out of it to do anything. Santos started after the kid and Reynolds took his chance.
He leapt out of his position and over to the old lady and Estrella. The lady, a rotund lump wrapped in three coats who could have been aged fifty or one hundred and fifty for all Reynolds could tell, jumped as he got close.
“What the…?”
“Thank you,” said Reynolds, taking one last look at Santos running after the junkie kid as he scooped Estrella into an awkward embrace.
“You’re welcome,” said the old lady, still holding the small bottle he’d gifted her in her hand.
Reynolds sprinted in the opposite direction, cursing out loud. The child, probably the most stoic creature he had ever come across, did not cry in his arms, and he thanked God for that at least. He ran as fast as he could through the masses toward the next block. He didn’t look back. He was thinking of how he would deal with Luciana, feeling furious about his second mistake in less than a week.
Jean didn’t draw her gun. She stopped and looked at the guy who’d run and realized he wasn’t Reynolds. She had run after him on instinct. But now she stopped and pivoted fast on one heel and scrutinized the scene.
People around her were jeering at her, telling her to “get the fuck out of here” and calling her “pig.”
She ignored them and scanned the street.
There, about fifty meters away now, escaping the crowd, was a dark figure running quickly away. He held a child in his arms.
She dove her hand into her pocket and brought out her cell phone. As she started her pursuit, she swiped the screen to activate the camera and snapped a shot of the man.
She sprinted after him, shouting, “Stop him, stop him!”
But it was futile.
A taxi pulled up on the street that met the walkway and Reynolds, along with Estrella, jumped in and zoomed off.
“God damn.”
She knew Rose would be more than enraged. She might even get taken off the case. Sure, she could tell him it was a no-go. That she hadn’t found Reynolds. But she had a photo. If it had any kind of detail in it, she knew lying wasn’t an option.
She held the phone up and clicked the photos app and then the snap she’d managed to get. It was dark, but the streetlights illuminated the figure of Reynolds well enough. But he was facing away, wearing a long coat and a hat. And there, to the right of his head, was the undeniable image of a child’s face. A face full of fear.
“God damn,” she said again, and she closed the photo and opened the phone function, ready to phone Rose. But then the screen went black and flashed to indicate an incoming call.
She answered, “Yeah.”
“Where are you?” said Rose.
“I lost him,” she said.
Silence on the line for a few seconds.
“Damn it,” said Rose. “Come back in. Something’s happened.”
Jean was thrown by the change of subject. “You don’t get it. I lost Reynolds. He was here.”
“Just get back here,” said Rose.
“What happened?” she asked.
“There was an attack at an automotive plant in South Texas. Hundreds killed.”
“Let me guess…” she said.
Rose finished her sentence: “Código X.”
Chapter Sixteen
We pulled up at the office and got out of the taxi we had used to return from Place House. There was a small button for a bell to the right of the entrance and I rang it. We waited.
After five minutes, a figure stepped into the lobby. We could just about make out it was a woman through the opaque glass. Then the lock rattled and the door opened to reveal Jean.
“You two have got a lot of explaining to do.”
I nodded at her. “I am sorry for what I did, Agent Santos.”
She ushered us in and we walked up to the office.
Agent Rose stood behind the tables staring at me.
“We can hand you both over to the FBI, you know. For what you did.”
I stared back at him. Of course I knew he couldn’t involve the Feds. Nothing about his operation was legal, “Do it then.”
Eleanor said, “Where’s Jairo?”
Rose tutted and ignored the question, “What else did Luciana tell you?”
“Nothing else,” I said. “Did you locate Reynolds or not?”
Rose exchanged looks with Jean.
“We did, but he got away.”
“For God’s sake.”
From behind me, Eleanor groaned. “Where is our son?”
Rose ignored the question again.
“Agent Santos located the man who calls himself Reynolds, but he escaped. He had the girl with him. Agent Santos got this photo of them.”
Rose turned to the middle pin board and pulled off it a blown-up five-by-seven-inch photo. “Here,” he said, passing it to me. Eleanor came to my side.
It was almost all black. A night-time street scene. The center was a yellow oval of light, and in the middle was a man, clearly running away from the camera, at a distance. To the right of his head was the face of a frightened child, mouth slightly agape, wavy dark hair framing chubby cheeks.
Our granddaughter.
Jairo’s daughter.
Estrella.
Eleanor gripped my elbow and swallowed a sob. “God, Scotty. That’s our girl.”
It was the first time we had seen our granddaughter. And although she had never met us, or even knew we existed, I felt an instant paternal bond with her. A need to save her. Reynolds held her in the photo like she was property to be bargained for. I felt rage boil up inside me. Killing X03 came into my mind—the blood dripping from the back of his head. I wanted to do the same to Reynolds.
“We’ll get her,” I said, turning and holding Eleanor by the shoulders. “We will get her from that monster, El. I promise you that.”
Eleanor turned to Rose. “Where is Jairo?”
Rose kept quiet, but Jean stepped forward. “Eleanor, you must understand, we are protecting Jairo. He’s a wanted criminal here in the States and in Mexico.”
Eleanor stepped closer to Jean. “Where is he?”
I went to hold Eleanor’s arm, to calm her a bit, but she pushed me away.
“Where is he?”
Jean looked Eleanor straight in the eye. “He’s detained in a cell downstairs. For now.”
Eleanor stepped back, her hands flying to her face. “What?”
“You shouldn’t have escaped,” said Jean. “We couldn’t take risks. Jairo
is safe.”
Eleanor spun on her heel. “I want to see him.”
“Soon,” said Rose. “For now, we have to deal with this attack.”
I turned to him. “What attack?”
Rose explained about the message he’d received on his cell phone. An attack on a factory in Texas. Many dead.
“It was Código X, working for Reynolds,” he said. “We also got this.”
He went to his laptop and tapped away and then spun it round. It showed a video taken from a rooftop, looking at a large concrete space. It could have been a military base, or a school playground. It was hard to tell. Because covering the space were hundreds upon hundreds of armed men. Some wore a uniform, others dressed casually. All of them had an assault rifle.
“This is Reynolds’ army,” said Rose.
“Take us to see Jairo,” said Eleanor.
“Yes,” said Rose. “Follow me.”
We walked back down the stairs, through the secure door, and down into the cellar section of the building, to another secure door. Rose opened it with a pin code to reveal a long space with five cells on each side. We entered, and in the first cell to the left we saw Jairo. He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans and sitting on a utilitarian concrete bed. McDonald’s wrappers were discarded on the floor and he stared at us like we were meant to bring him more food.
Eleanor was the first to the cell bars. “Jairo!”
Our son didn’t move. But he looked at his mother.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded.
Eleanor turned to Rose. “Get him out of here.”
I looked at Jairo. “You okay?”
He stared blankly at me.
“Look,” said Eleanor, holding the photo of Estrella in Reynolds’ arms to the cell bars. “Estrella. She’s alive.”
Jairo didn’t get up, though he looked in the direction of the photo. It didn’t seem to bother Eleanor, who smiled at him through tears welling up in her eyes. But it bothered me. Jairo’s way. Nonchalant, uncaring, arrogant. He didn’t give a shit.
“We will find her,” said Eleanor. I said nothing.
