by James Hunt
Sam walked briskly toward the stairs, weaving around the line gathering at the snack bar. She reached for the railing and used it to catapult herself up the stairs.
Bodies blocking the stairwell only provided fragmented glimpses up ahead, and Sam weaved around them to try to get a glimpse of the purple coat but saw nothing. “Sectors three and four, do you have visual?”
“Negative on three.”
“Negative on four. There are a lot of bodies coming up top.”
Sam squeezed between a couple holding hands, eliciting a few choice words as she stepped onto the top deck. She turned left then right, fear gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She circled in confusion, and she suddenly felt lost. She felt it all slipping away. “Fuck,” she whispered to herself and then spotted the sector four agent.
“You see anything?” Sector Four asked.
“Negative,” Sam answered but then walked around the staircase exit and toward the bow.
“Sam, get back in your position,” Hickem said. “The suspect could be circling around.”
“I saw them come upstairs.”
“And they could have come down.”
Sam pushed her way across the deck, the smell of salty air and the warmth of the rising sun beginning to hit her cheeks. “I know what I saw.”
“Dammit, get back in position!”
Sam winced from Hickem’s scream and then plucked out the earpiece. She hastened her pace, and then, between two groups, she saw the shimmer of the purple coat. Sam pushed the earpiece back into position. “I have visual. Top deck, bow of the ship.”
“You have visual on the girl or the suspect?” Hickem asked.
Sam tried to put herself in a better position to see the girl’s left-hand side and the man that was holding her hand, the mercenary that most likely had a pistol beneath his jacket and possessed a faster draw and fire time than she had ever recorded during her training.
With another ten yards to go, Sam positioned her hand near the firearm, walking awkwardly as she closed the gap. The radio chatter grew louder, and Hickem bombarded her with questions as the agents topside converged toward the suspect.
Sam passed through the narrow bridge that exited out onto the nose of the ship, and she saw the back of the suspect that held the hand of the girl in the purple jacket. “I have visual on suspect and girl.” With the element of surprise her best weapon, Sam removed her pistol and charged the man, placing the gun into the small of his back. “Do not move. Do not scream. I am a US Marshal, and I’m placing you under arrest—”
But before Sam could finish, the little girl in the purple raincoat looked up at her, tears streaming down her red cheeks as she cried. But it wasn’t Anna.
Sam removed the pistol from the man’s back and then stepped away. “Sir, I’m sorry, I’m—”
The elbow that knocked her in the stomach and made her drop her pistol also buckled her forward and supplied momentum for the mercenary’s next blow as he spun around and rammed his fist into her face, and blood gushed from her nose.
Sam blinked, her hands instinctively reaching for her nose, when she noticed the mercenary reach for the pistol beneath his jacket.
“Freeze!”
The order was echoed on either side of Sam, and she watched the mercenary’s attention pivot toward the distraction. Time slowed as the mercenary aimed his weapon toward the agent on the left, and the sound of the gunshot was nearly simultaneous with the eruption of screams from the passengers as the mercenary collapsed to the deck.
“Suspect down, suspect down, suspect down.”
Sam wiped blood from her upper lip and then reached for the pistol on the floor as the hordes of passengers retreated toward the opposite end of the boat, fleeing from the dangers of the shooting, and then parted when she saw the flood of officers break through the crowd. Hickem was among them.
Sam holstered her weapon, still pawing at the blood oozing from her nose as the team of medics that accompanied Hickem worked on the mercenary, who already looked dead. She stared at him, his eyes still open, the anger and rage and focus that she had seen just moments before now nothing more than residue.
“What the hell was that?” Hickem had both hands on Sam, using his size and strength to spin her around like a toy. When she didn’t answer immediately, he inched closer, the tone only more threatening. “I said, What the hell was that?”
Sam worked her mouth in a stutter, unable to find the words, and then like a car with a dying battery, she finally sputtered out a coherent sentence. “I-I had sight on the target, so I engaged.”
“But that’s not the goddamn target!” Hickem roared, and when Sam couldn’t provide answers to his questions, he ran his hands through his buzzed hair. “The mercenary is here, but the girl isn’t?” Hickem was speaking to no one now. “How the hell does this happen!” He stomped his foot, rattling the floor, but Sam was still looking at the dying man on the deck, the medics failing in their resuscitation. It was Neil Sambayo.
Sam dabbed the blood on her nose and found that it was already clotting, but she couldn’t rid herself of that metallic scent.
“We need to get in contact with Grant,” Sam said, a degree of fear and urgency to her words. “We need to get as many agents east as we can.”
5
The Seattle PD cruiser traveling east on the two-lane country highway looked out of place, like a city tomcat thrust into the wilderness. Trees replaced skyscrapers, and mountain terrain replaced the sidewalks packed with pedestrians. The sun peeked over the horizon, revealing the empty winding blacktop ahead.
Grant rode shotgun inside the police cruiser, while Officer Lane kept both hands on the wheel, two and ten, body faced straight ahead. He squinted due to the rising sun and reached for the pair of sunglasses clipped to the overhead visor. “How much farther do you think we need to go? It’s been nothing but us on the road for the past forty minutes.”
Grant flipped through the notes on his yellow pad, trying to draw any missed connections that he might have overlooked. “The next town isn’t much farther.” He glanced over at the odometer. “Another ten miles or so.”
Grant started with motivations first. The simplest explanation for Joza taking the family was the money and revenge. It matched the guy’s profile, and five point eight billion dollars was a lot of money. Still, the type of operations that he was able to pull off stateside, what with hiring mercenaries to do his dirty work, was surprising, even with his level of influence.
But that of course led Grant to the mole that was working in Hickem’s unit. Agent Kover could have provided insight into matters other than just the family’s location. Kover most likely aided in helping skirt customs and federal checkpoints.
Grant circled Kover’s name, frowning.
Lane looked over, clearing his throat. “What’s wrong?”
“One guy,” Grant answered. “One FBI field agent was able to outsmart two agencies in the abduction of a family under witness protection.” He made a note to look up Kover’s file.
“Aren’t those guys, like, trained in espionage?” Lane asked.
“They’re trained to investigate,” Grant answered. “And this guy didn’t strike me as top of his class.”
A small pinpoint of pressure formed between his eyes, and he set aside the notepad, giving his brain a rest. He blinked a few times, taking in the scenery. Most of the country outside of Seattle was the same as he found in Deville. Rocks and trees. Needing a different distraction, he turned to his driver.
“How long have you been with the department?” Grant asked.
Lane cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter as he answered. “Two years, sir.”
Grant cracked a good-natured smile. “You don’t need to call me sir. Try Grant.”
“Yes, sir.” Officer Lane cleared his throat again and then laughed nervously. “The lieutenant told me that you two used to work together.”
“We did.” Grant peered through the maze of passing trees th
at stretched to an endless horizon. “I’m sure you’ve heard about it, though.” He caught his own reflection in the window then turned back toward Officer Lane.
“Of course I heard about what you two did.” Lane smiled, an almost giddy reaction spreading through his body. “You guys exposed the largest human trafficking ring in the world. I mean, those guys you stopped had connections all the way to a Washington senator’s office.” He shook his head. “People still talk about that case. It put our precinct on the map.”
Grant scratched the stubble along his chin. “Still not sure that was a good thing.” While the young officer looked back on those events with a sense of wonder and awe, Grant only remembered the violence that came with it. He had put himself in danger, and he’d put Mocks in danger. If the chips had fallen in any other order, then he wasn’t sure they would have made it out alive.
“Did you know they use that case in the academy now?” Lance blushed a little bit. “I mean, it’s used in the ethics portion and how you’re not supposed to disobey orders, but still, they cover everything you did. I don’t know if it makes you feel any better, but all the guys in my class took your side.” He shook his head, smiling in disbelief. “I still can’t believe I’m driving Chase Grant. The guys back at the station are going to go nuts about this.”
Grant couldn’t help but like the kid, and it wasn’t just because of the gushing flattery. He reminded Grant of a cop he used to know back during his academy days. He caught a bullet on the street eighteen months later.
“All of those cases you study, and all of that training you go through in the academy,” Grant said. “It’s always different from the real thing. It sounds cliché, but it’s true. You can change the answers on a test, you can revise a paper that you’re submitting, and you can even hang up a new target at the range.” He flexed his fingers, curling and uncurling them into a fist. “But you can’t un-pull the trigger in the field. And you can’t bring someone back from the dead.” He swallowed the thick ball of grief growing in the back of his throat. “No matter how many people you save from human trafficking.”
It was quiet for a long time, neither Grant nor Lane sure of what to say, and then the young officer adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, the sound of his fingers coming off the leather akin to Velcro tearing apart.
“Does the means justify the ends?” Grant said. “It’s a question that I’ve asked myself repeatedly over the past four years, and I still don’t know the answer. The easy answer is yes. One dead to let a thousand live? Any rational human would tell you that it makes sense. But the answer is only easy when you don’t know that one individual. But that one person will leave a family without a father, a brother without a sister, a husband without a wife.”
Lane cleared his throat again, but this time when he spoke there was confidence in his voice. “I don’t know what it’s like to have to make that choice. And I hope I never do. But I do know that you helped a lot of people. And I know that you stopped a lot more from getting hurt. I have a sister. And I can’t imagine her having to go through something as horrific as some of those women did. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” They turned a corner, and the road ahead straightened, the first little town they were set to check up ahead. “You were a good detective. And there isn’t any amount of guilt that’ll change that.”
The radio crackled on the dash, and Officer Lane reached for it when dispatch identified his unit number as they passed the local welcome sign of the town of Monroe.
“Go for unit twenty-seven,” Lane said.
“I’ve got the lieutenant on the line for you. Patching through now.”
The radio crackled again, and then Mocks was on the line. “What’s your location?”
“Heading east-northeast on Highway 522, about to enter the city of Monroe.”
“Grant, are you with him still, or have you scurried off like you tend to do whenever you’ve got one of your hunches?”
Lane turned the radio toward Grant and pressed the button for Grant to speak. “Still here, Mocks.”
“Good. Listen, sounds like you were right about the trip east. They found the perp on the ferry, but the girl he had with her ended up being the girl that we had the call about earlier from the abduction.”
Grant took the radio from Lane’s hand and then let the officer focus on driving as the landscape changed from trees to buildings, and a correctional institution that they passed on the left. “Casualties?”
“The girl’s alive and seems to be fine, but the perp was shot on scene. Medics couldn’t resuscitate.”
“Was it Sambayo?”
“The one and only.”
Grant let his thumb off the speaker and then leaned back. “Shit.”
“Listen, I’ve got somebody on the line with Monroe Police right now. I’ll let them know that you’re on your way.”
“Copy that,” Grant said. “Keep me posted.” He ended the transmission, and then his pocket buzzed, his phone lighting up with a text. He fished it out and saw that it was from Sam.
You were right. Stay put. Coming to you.
Grant locked the screen and then shoved the phone back in his pocket. He wasn’t in the mood to sit still. Out of everyone on the team looking for this girl, he was currently in the best position to help. And that was what he intended to do.
Grant removed his phone, and when Lane tried pulling over to the Monroe authorities, Grant stopped him. “Stay on 522, and flip the lights. We need to make up time.”
“But the lieutenant said—”
“Mocks would agree with me,” Grant said, though he wasn’t sure if that was true anymore. His partner had ascended to the ranks of authority. And despite all those years working the street, she had other things to worry about. She had to look at the whole picture, balance the weight of resources. But that’s why they brought Grant on in the first place, wasn’t it? To help tip the scales.
Grant dialed Multz, and when the director picked up, he didn’t waste any time. “I need you to call in some favors with whoever you have connections with in the intelligence community and find me any stolen plates that passed through the city of Monroe, Washington, in the past two hours.”
There was a brief moment of hesitation, and Grant suspected that the only reason he wasn’t completely chewed out on the spot, or even hung up on, was because Multz had learned that Grant was right about the girl.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Multz said.
Grant hung up as Lane flicked the lights and swerved around a cluster of cars, sirens wailing.
“You sure about this?” Lane asked as they plowed the highway, passing through Monroe at a breakneck pace.
“Just keep driving.” Grant’s phone buzzed, and he quickly answered Multz’s call. “What did you find?”
“A stolen 2008 Chrysler 300 was reported outside of Seattle this morning, and a vehicle matching that same description passed through Monroe less than thirty minutes ago. I’ve already mobilized air support fifty miles east to try and intercept, and I’ve got marshals from our station in Wyoming heading over as well.”
“Notify Washington, Idaho, and Wyoming authorities,” Grant said, feeling his heart rate quicken and trying to hide the smile on his face. “Put out the APB on the car.”
“Already done,” Multz said. “You did your job, Grant. Now, why don’t you—”
Grant hung up, knowing that he couldn’t do what the director wanted him to. He wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines anymore. He was too close to it now.
The radio in Lane’s car blared the APB that Multz had mentioned, and Grant kept his eyes peeled on the horizon. So long as the bastard stayed on the highway, they might have a chance, but in the meantime, Grant pulled up the map on his phone, searching for any side roads that the suspect might take, and eyeballing his current position based off of the speed and head start that he had coming out of Monroe. “We’re probably only twenty miles away from him, maybe less if he’s trying to stay low profile.” He fou
nd a few side roads that could be used as a quick escape and followed the line of thinking that would take the girl deeper into the heart of the States. “We’ve already passed the airfields.”
“What?” Lane asked.
“We kept thinking that the parents were already smuggled out of the States,” Grant answered, continuing his train of thought. “But if this guy is taking Anna deeper into the country, then that means the parents are still here too.”
The radio crackled again, and dispatch broke through. “All units, be advised that the 2008 Chrysler 300 has been spotted heading eastbound on Highway 522, just past mile marker 238. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous. Approach with utmost caution.”
Grant checked the map. “We’re close.” He slapped the dash. “Let’s punch it!”
With the roar of the squad car’s engine and the surge of adrenaline pumping through his veins, Grant couldn’t sit still. The radio chatter that came over the speakers only added to the excitement, and when Sam called, Grant ignored it. He didn’t want to put himself in a situation where he would have to defy the people he was trying to help.
Flashing blue and red lights lit up the horizon as the grey of morning faded into the crystal-clear light of day. It was the caravan of local cops that had marked the Chrysler.
Lane closed the gap, easily catching up to the huddling masses and joining the chase. Most of the civilian traffic had been cleared, but there were still a few cars pulling off to get out of the way.
From his view in the passenger seat, Grant could see the taillights of the Chrysler between the cluster of squad cars in pursuit. He felt their speed slow, and when he looked at the speedometer, he saw that they were only going eighty.
“He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry,” Lane said.
“No, he doesn’t.”
The chase lasted until a chopper came into view overhead, and then the Chrysler finally turned off the highway onto one of the small side roads that Grant had looked at earlier. He pulled up the map again, and this time when Lane went to follow, Grant stopped him. “Keep heading east. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
