by James Hunt
The flush of red that appeared on Sam’s cheeks told Mocks all she needed to know about the woman’s feelings toward her old partner. “Even if that’s true, it’s hardly an appropriate time to talk about anything like that.”
“I’ve always thought that times like these were the perfect moments to talk about…” Mocks paused and then smiled. “Stuff like that.”
Sam laughed. “I’ve never been a good girlfriend. I work too much, don’t pay enough attention to other people’s needs because I pour so much of it into the job, blah blah blah.” She crossed her arms and shrugged. “I probably wouldn’t even be good for him.”
“You would,” Mocks said, triggering another flush of red on Sam’s cheeks. “But you’re going to have to make the first move. That man is like a sloth when it comes to asking a woman on a date. It’s like watching paint dry.”
Sam laughed, offering a bright smile that she quickly covered with her hand. Mocks liked that she had a good laugh, but what was more, she knew that Grant would like it too. Rick had once described a woman’s laugh as a mating call. It attracted the right man, and a good one always tried to have it repeated as many times as possible.
“Hey,” Grant said, walking over with a map in his hand. “I think I know where they’re hiding Charles Copella.” He unfolded the map on Sam’s desk, oblivious to the wink Mocks gave Sam, and circled the three locations associated with the LLC utilities hook-up. “The first location I checked was off highway 522, which is the road that Anna was taken down before we stopped the mercenary’s car.”
“You think that location was meant for Anna?” Sam asked.
“We found Mary alone, so it follows their trend of wanting to keep the family isolated.” Grant circled a small town in Wyoming. “The second location is an abandoned factory that was shut down a few years ago. They used to manufacture jet engines. And the third location”—he circled another town—“is a house in a suburb in Kimball, Nebraska.”
Sam picked up the corners of the map, examining the two locations. “The suburb seems too public.” She looked up at Grant. “I’m thinking the factory.”
Grant nodded. “Me too.”
Mocks clapped her hands together and then pushed herself up and out of her chair. “Well, I think my work here is done. I’ll send the bill to your place, Grant. My going rate for consulting is one thousand an hour. I take check, cash, money order, or”—she lifted the pastry—“Pop-Tarts.”
Grant smirked. “You need a ride back?”
“No, I’ve got Lane waiting in the lobby.” Mocks smacked her lips, devouring the last few bites, and then waddled over to Grant and yanked at his arm, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You be careful, all right?”
“I will.”
Mocks then turned to Sam and took the marshal’s hand. “And you remember what I said.”
“Thanks, Susan,” Sam said.
Mocks waddled away, forcing people out of her path, and then turned around, her voice loud enough to break through the busy chatter of the office. “Oh, and if you find a stack of Playboys at his place, don’t judge him for it.”
“I only have them because you signed me up for a subscription,” Grant said.
“Well I figured you needed something to do out in the middle of nowhere.” Mocks laughed and then waved goodbye, spinning back around and disappearing from the floor.
Sam turned to Grant, chuckling. “Did she really do that?”
“It took me four months to get them to stop sending them to me.”
Sam clutched her stomach as she laughed, and a few seconds after Mocks disappeared, Hickem appeared in her stead, phone glued to his ear. “All right, thanks for letting me know.” He hung up and pocketed the device as he stopped at Sam’s desk. “Links is gone.”
“What do you mean he’s gone?” Grant asked.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, and his secretary told me he left the office an hour ago. No one has seen him, which means we need to move now before they try and move Copella. What did you guys find?”
“Abandoned factory, central Wyoming.” Grant planted his finger on the location circled on the map. “That’s going to be our best bet.”
Hickem looked to Sam to confirm.
“It makes the most sense,” Sam replied.
“If Links is on to us, then it won’t matter showing our hand. I’ll get with Multz to request authorities to lock down the remaining locations while we head to the factory. I’ve got a chopper on stand-by, so gear up. It’s time to roll.”
11
Grant adjusted the Kevlar vest that he was loaned that had U.S. Marshals printed over the chest. It was bulky, constricting. But if the rumbling in his gut was right, then he’d need it.
The five-person tactical team that rode in the chopper consisted of Grant, Hickem, Sam, and two of Hickem’s agents, which he assured could be trusted.
The radio headset crackled in Grant’s ear, and Hickem’s voice bellowed through the airwaves. “I just received confirmation from Multz that the money still hasn’t been moved, which bodes well for finding Copella alive, presuming the bastards haven’t moved him yet.”
“Anything on Links?” Sam asked, strapped into the seat next to Grant.
“Not yet, but we’ve got eyes out there searching for him. He won’t get far.”
But Grant wasn’t too sure about that. The man had been able to manipulate his way to one of the highest positions in federal government, and been appointed by people who were supposed to be skilled in sniffing out lies.
“Local and state authorities have already been notified and are converging on the other two locations,” Hickem said. “They’re instructed to hold the area until we know what we’ve found after our raid. The chopper is going to put us a mile out from the factory. There’s no way that we’ll be able to cover that number of exits and windows, so we go in quick and hard.”
Grant shifted in his seat, and he adjusted his grip on the M-16 that lay across his lap as the pilot landed. Hands unbuckled the straps, and Hickem was the first man out the door as the chopper touched down, the team spilling out of the helicopter’s side, ducking low to avoid the blades.
Wind blasted Grant’s back as the pilot returned to the skies. He took a knee beside Sam, rifle up, scanning the area until Hickem gave the all clear to move forward.
The row of businesses that appeared on either side of the road were plagued with closed signs. Chained locks covered doors and fences. What was once a valley of bustling manufacturing companies had transformed into rusted relics.
“Coms check,” Hickem said.
A series of copy’s transmitted over the radio, and then Hickem pointed ahead, and the team pressed forward on the route toward the factory.
The movement and flow of a tactical push returned to Grant with surprising ease. All those hours he spent training with SWAT flooded back to him quickly. His muscle memory had always served him well. It was the memories of his mind that gave him trouble.
Chatter between Hickem and his agents ranged from nervous laughter to weapons checks, but when they arrived outside the factory, stopping behind an old dumpster for cover, everyone clammed up, the anxious energy turning wild and volatile.
Hickem huddled the team close. “The closest entrance to us is the south side. If the setup here is anything like what we found recovering the mother, then we shouldn’t have any surprises.”
“That is if they haven’t been told we’re coming,” Sam said.
“They might know we’re coming, but they don’t know when, and they don’t know how many we have.” Hickem reached around to the back of his belt and removed a gas cannister. “We pop the door, drop the smoke, and proceed under cover. We are cleared to shoot to kill.” He paused, clipping the cannister back to his belt. “Everyone here knows the drill. Clear the space, watch your six, and don’t get shot. Masks on.”
Grant reached for the gas mask, the bands tightening across the top of his skull, trapping the heat against
his face. His breaths echoed inside the mask and fogged the plastic eyepiece. Once everyone was geared up, Hickem led the charge toward the door.
Rusted siding covered the outside of the factory, and the cracked and worn concrete had become a graveyard littered with hulking tractors, bulldozers, and dump trucks.
Grant’s vision tunneled into the pinpoint accuracy at the end of his rifle. Everything else faded, save for the fact that Sam was to his left. But he knew she could handle herself. He just needed to keep reminding himself of that as they approached the door.
“Eyes up, boys,” Hickem said, whispering through the radio. “Building is twenty yards up on our left. High windows. Watch for snipers and any guards on duty.”
They all answered with “Copy,” and Hickem guided them through clusters of old shipping containers which helped provide cover on their approach, the hot afternoon sun baking their backsides.
Boots hit the pavement silently, the only noise given up by the team the light sway and groan of their tactical gear, sprinting from one rusted metal corpse to another until they reached the last patch of open concrete before the entrance.
Grant broke out in a sweat, and the metal of the rifle grew slick against his palms as he tilted his head up to the ten-story structure. It was a lot bigger than the house on the Wyoming border, but Grant hoped that didn’t mean it had more of Joza’s contract killers inside.
Hickem shouldered his rifle and ran his hands up against the cracks in the door, the rest of the unit with their guns up and scanning the area. He tapped his forehead with his fist and then reached for the gas can behind his belt as one of the FBI agents approached the door and applied a small explosive over the lock.
Hickem stepped back, taking point on the entrance’s right-hand side, rifle up and aimed at the putty over the lock, the rest of the team lined up on the left, the tension building in the form of twitching shoulders and shifting boots.
Every fiber in Grant’s body was coiled, ready to explode through the door, and that calming silence washed over him the way it always did before a raid. The frayed ball of nerves in his stomach dissolved, and his senses heightened.
And then, with the squeeze of Hickem’s trigger, the lock exploded, the door swinging inward as Hickem popped the smoke inside.
“Move!” Hickem stepped through the smoke first, gunshots immediately erupting before Grant even approached the entrance.
Grant stayed hunched low on his entrance, and when he stepped through the door, a few muzzle flashes appeared through the smoke as the team pressed forward. The light from the high windows streamed through dirty glass and penetrated the smoke.
“On the right!” Hickem and the others pivoted their aim toward the cluster of flashes and fleeing thugs coughing and hacking from the smoke.
The stock from Grant’s rifle thumped in three hard strikes from the pull of the trigger, and one combatant collapsed, while the others fled, firing blindly as they tried to cover their faces from the gas.
“I count five. Grant and Sam, you take the west side of the building, we’ll search the east. Keep eyes peeled for target.” Hickem waved them forward, and Grant kept close to Sam as the gunfire died down with the enemy’s retreat.
Smoke crawled forward and drifted upward, quickly dissipating in the large open ceiling of the factory. A row of conveyer belts lined the area to Grant’s left, and he and Sam paced the rows carefully, the still machinery providing plenty of areas to hide.
A ray of sunlight caught the shimmer of a black piece of metal, and Grant held up his hand, stopping Sam. He pointed toward the man’s boots, and she nodded. They kept low on their approach, and just before they passed the corner, Grant fired at the man’s legs. Blood sprayed from the man’s jeans as the bullets tore through him, and he dropped to the floor, writhing in pain.
Grant darted around the corner, rifle aimed at the man’s chest as he squirmed on his back. “Don’t move!” He kicked the AK-47 away from the man’s hands and waited for Sam to restrain him.
“Secured,” Sam said, tightening the zip ties around the suspect’s wrists, then reached for her rifle, as Grant continued his scan of the remaining belts.
He moved from the row first, and he made it one step before gunfire echoed behind him, and he turned to find Sam on her back.
“Sam!” Grant scanned ahead and spotted the shooter, returning fire as he rushed to her side. The bullets sparked on the corner of the metal siding the gunman used for cover, and pushed him in retreat.
Sam ripped off her mask, grimacing pain. “I think I’m all right. Shit.” She fumbled her hands over her chest, her fingers finding the bullet wedged in the Kevlar. “It didn’t go through.”
Relief flooded through Grant’s veins, but it was cut short by Hickem’s voice over the radio.
“East side secure,” Hickem said. “We have two shooters down. No sign of target. You guys have any loose ends on your side?”
“I’ve got a runner,” Grant answered.
“Lock it down,” Hickem said.
“Go,” Sam said, having trouble breathing. “I’m all right.”
Grant nodded and then handed her rifle back to her and sprinted toward the shooter’s position. He paused at the corner where the gunman had fired, and then dropped to a knee as he spun around and planted his foot, finding the shooter sprinting toward an exit.
Grant sprinted from the alley, passing the dead man on the way, and weaved his way through the factory floor, his eyes scanning for any exit, and then spied the door opening as one of the thugs escaped outside.
Grant was at the door, ready to pursue the thug outside, but a barrage of gunfire pushed him back into the warehouse. The bullets striking the wall sent vibrations through to the other side against Grant’s shoulder as he waited for the gunfire to subside.
When it ended, Grant stepped from the cover of the door, rifle aimed and his finger over the trigger. The contrast of light blinded him for a moment, but he was able to make out the blur of cloth that sprinted behind a bulldozer.
“Suspect is heading west.” Grant jumped through the door, gun up. He paused at the bulldozer, performing a quick glance around. Once cleared, he pressed forward.
Sweat had drenched his clothes, and as he scanned the horizon, he found nothing but a dozen different locations for the gangster to hide.
Slowly, methodically, he moved forward. He kept the rifle up and moved forward, sure footed as he did his best to stay quiet. He watched for shadows, any type of movement that would give away the gunman’s position. But the assailant was patient. And that made him dangerous.
A scrape of boot against asphalt turned Grant to the left, the narrow tunnel of vision ahead of the sight of his rifle a blur until he came to a stop on a work truck with deflated tires. The moment he saw the movement of boots, he squeezed the trigger, the bullets decorating the white panels of the passenger-side doors of the busted truck.
Grant sprinted forward in pursuit, and the moment he reached the truck’s hood, he saw the gunman sprinting for a gap in the fence. He no longer had his weapon up. He was in full retreat. “Freeze!” But the gunman ignored the orders.
Grant steadied his aim, the man growing smaller at the end of his rifle. He exhaled a breath, calming his mind and his body. And just before the gunman wedged himself into a gap in the chain-link fence, Grant fired.
The man sprawled forward, his arms extended as the force of the shot flung his body into the rusted mesh, and then he bounced back and hit the pavement, where he lay still.
Grant hurried toward him, still keeping the rifle aimed even though the target lay motionless on the ground. “Don’t move! Keep your hands out!” He barked the order as a precaution, but the moment he saw the man’s face, Grant knew that he was dead.
“Shit.” Grant lowered his gun, his eyes on the light drop of blood at the corner of the gunman’s mouth, which stood out against the paleness of his flesh. He was a young man, not even out of his twenties yet. Grant clicked the radio
. “East side clear.” His voice cracked. “No sign of target.”
“He’s not here,” Hickem said. “I’ve got chopper heading inbound. Alternative locations are secure. Where to now, Grant?”
Grant tilted his head back, closing his eyes, and ripped off the mask. Sunlight made the beads of sweat on his face sparkle, and he wiped his bangs from his forehead. Hickem was screaming in Grant’s ear that they needed to move, and in the distance, there was the whir of chopper blades. He tried to rack his brain, to try to decide which location had Copella. He tried thinking as Links, a man so bold to think he could fool everyone.
“The house,” Grant said. “We go to the house.”
Driving was just another item to add to the list of activities made difficult due to pregnancy. She couldn’t even fit behind the wheel anymore, but being lieutenant afforded her certain luxuries. Like forcing Lane to be her personal chauffeur.
“You do know you drive like a grandmother, right?” Mocks asked, staring at Lane’s two-and-ten grip on the wheel and upright, rigid posture.
“Sorry, Lieutenant.” Lane attempted to relax, but it only made him more awkward.
Mocks smiled, shaking her head, when her phone rang. It was Rick. “Hey, baby.”
“Hey, are you home yet?”
“On my way,” Mocks answered. “How’s work?”
“Been slow. Only call we’ve had was an elderly woman who was having trouble breathing during her shopping spree at JCPenney.”
“Must have been a hell of a sale.” Mocks fidgeted in her seat in her never-ending quest to try to stay comfortable with another human inhabiting her body. “I might stop by and see you tonight.”
“No, you need to rest,” Rick said. “I’ve given Grant enough grief to keep you out of this nightmare, so I’m not going to add to the noise.”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know that the case is nearly closed,” Mocks said. “Pretty soon I’ll be back behind the desk, safe and sound.”
Lane pulled up to the house, and she gave the officer a half-assed salute as she pulled herself from the passenger seat, the phone still glued to her ear.
