With that, she turned and left… without ordering a thing.
The server arrived. “Ready to order? She said to come back once she left…”
Mark nodded, “Turkish Wrap. To go, please.”
Twenty minutes later, he parked on the corner of Winchester and Savant. A slow stroll past Bodrum showed Liv bent over a plate, rereading that notebook. I wish I could hire you.
The charcoal Lexus slid into an open parking spot exactly opposite of Bodrum. Watching. Waiting.
In precise, thirty-second intervals, the turn signal flipped up, clicked a triple beat, and flipped down again. Flick-thock… Flick-thock…
Up from the corner, a waif of a girl strolled with purpose and determination. Four strides past the door at Bodrum, she backtracked and reached for the handle. A couple pushed out and nearly knocked her over. Apologies followed, if sign and body languages could be believed. The man held open the door, and the tiny girl slipped inside, presumably to wait for a table.
Flick-thock… Flick-thock…
A few minutes passed before she was seated in perfect view from the Lexus’ windows. Without looking at the menu, she ordered and pulled something from her purse. Seated behind the wheel, the observer waited. Watched. Flick-thock… Flick-thock…
Food arrived and the girl hardly moved her… what was it? A book? Whatever it was, she hardly moved it. The plate sat to one side, waiting for her to take a bite. One finger held her place before she picked up a fork and cut into something. Dipped. Ate. After a second bite, the book moved left while the plate took up residence where it belonged.
Flick-thock… Flick-thock…
It might be worth trying the food… later.
The wait continued through each bite. Each page turned. Each person who walked and drove past the restaurant. Flick-thock… Flick-thock…
Twenty minutes passed before it happened. A car slowed before the restaurant—appeared to search for a parking place, as if it wasn’t obvious that there weren’t any on that side—and continued down the street.
Flick-thock… Flick-thock…
A decision swung on a pendulum from now to later. Advantages to both appeared, which only made things more difficult. Flick-thock… Flick-thock…
The empty plate did it. When the girl looked down to find nothing there, hunger nudged curiosity and careful planning into action. Keys rattled as a door opened. A car’s horn blared.
Fingers itched to flick the blinker, but it wasn’t there. Keys swung around a finger as the observer now jogged across the street and opened the door. Show time.
At midnight, just as Mark had pulled out the bookcase Murphy bed below his large screen monitor, the phone rang—a line they hadn’t used in over a year. He hesitated, but with agents everywhere, two dead, Flynne on the run, and Fahrina fielding too-clever girls, he didn’t have much choice but to answer it. But how… Cho or Mendina?
Mark snapped up the phone and just answered, “Mark here.”
“Hey, Mark. Sorry. I didn’t even know if this line was good anymore.”
Corey?
“Mark?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. What can I do for you?”
“You know I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important, right? And I’m sure Dr. Sorrano has kept you abreast of my progress after the debacle with Erika Polowski, so you know I’m doing much better.”
Mark did know. He also knew it had taken her almost a full year to show the slightest progress, but the unrealistic hope of earning his trust back enough to be reconsidered as an agent had finally broken and opened her to real help. “I do. I am glad to hear it, Corey.”
“I’ve done everything I know to do, but I don’t have the resources you do.”
“Again… what do you need from me?”
Here, her voice wavered. He’d never seen that side of her. “It’s my brother. My sister-in-law called four days ago. He never came home. He’s just gone—poof! No trace. No accessing of his accounts. Nothing.” She swallowed hard enough for him to hear it through the phone line. “You don’t have him… do you?”
Mark tossed the pillow he’d been holding onto the bed and moved back to his desk. He set up an email specifically for Corey and calmed her as he worked. “Okay, first… no I don’t have him. Next, you’ve checked hospitals and morgues, right?”
“We’ve called the police—everything. I know what to do, Mark. No channels make sense. They have no sign of him anywhere. We’re moving to places he used to go so we can figure out the last time people saw him—gas stations, restaurants, coffee shops, Walmart…”
“You do that. Meanwhile, send me anything you think I can use—name, license number, license plate, make and model… you know the drill. I want everything you can come up with sent to this email. Are you ready?”
Silence followed—silence broken only by soft weeping. “Thanks, Mark. Really. I—”
He assumed his sternest “boss voice” and asked again, “Are you ready, Corey?”
“Let me have it.”
The moment he disconnected, Mark turned out the lamp and went to crawl into bed. Tyler can handle that in the morning. Should take him an hour to find out that her brother has run out on his wife with a younger woman—to some South American or Asian country where they can live like kings on a modest income.
Fourteen
Erika had been deposed as his most difficult client. Next to Langat, she was tractable—easy, even. And he’s not nearly as interesting or cute.
He’d get blasted for that one—cute. Still, she’d have smiled, and she would have liked being called “cute,” despite her protests. Can’t wait to tell her about this.
Thoughts of where she was and how she fared only made Langat’s indignant reaction to putting on coveralls and climbing into a tow truck even more irritating. “You have to do it. So, do it yourself or I’ll knock you out and do it for you.”
“I’m not a—”
Keith interrupted. “Right now, you’re part of a tow truck team—as am I. I’m a highly trained security specialist, but to keep you safe, I have to pretend to know what I’m doing with this truck. We’re both out of our elements. So, stop whining and get. The coveralls. On.”
The Agency hadn’t used the garage-turned-safe house yet, but since they needed to stay close to the city, Keith opted to do it. Opening the door would alert Mark, and him alone, to where they’d gone unless he punched in the right code. Keith deliberated on the use of that code. Just how necessary was total silence at this juncture?
They rolled down streets that always seemed to miss a chance on the repair dockets, and Rockland’s worst area loomed closer with each block. Every few streets or so, he’d tell Langat to put his head down, make a few roundabout turns, and let the man up again. Just five blocks outside what locals called “The Crypt,” Keith pulled into a ramshackle auto yard with enough locks and security measures to keep Castro safe.
Langat lifted his head just as the bay doors opened. “Where have you taken me? This does not look safe.”
“You’re safer here than almost anywhere.”
The irony of rolling into a bay and having the door closed just as Langat protested, “There are gangs. I can see them,” wasn’t wasted on Keith.
“We can put all kinds of security measures here because of the area. No one thinks anything of it. And no one in your detail will imagine we’ve brought you to the middle of Rockland to hide you.”
Langat’s next protest began just as a few pops filled the air in quick succession. Langat dove for cover, but Keith jerked him back up again. “It’s just a car backfiring.” He nudged the man toward the stairwell and wished like anything he could have some wacky front for it. Like that movie where they step into a phone box and it sucks them through a toilet into headquarters. Another thought hit him halfway down the stairs. Or better yet, an elevator. You go in, close the doors, and another door opens to the stairwell. What I wouldn’t give to see his reaction to that.
The
apartment Mark had created—complete with state-of-the-art security measures, no less—gave every appearance of a luxury penthouse—below ground. With all the natural light spectrum bulbs inserted about the place, guests almost wouldn’t miss windows… almost. Langat visibly relaxed.
“This is a very nice place. I understand now. It is a disguise. Very clever.”
And you’ll hate it the first time I have to use restraints.
In about twelve hours, he could buy a newspaper and discover where Mark had left supplies. This isn’t supposed to be my job anymore. I should be out there looking for Erika. Instead, I have to babysit an egotistical diplomat.
“When will we have a meal? I missed lunch and did not eat enough for breakfast for the worry.”
“Well, since you held back a tracking device and a cellphone…” He couldn’t help but focus on that one for a moment. “Just where did you manage to hide a cellphone?”
Langat stared at him, unspeaking.
Note to tell Mark that agents must now pat down every bit of a client’s person. If he could have, Keith would have shuddered. So glad I’m no longer an agent.
“As I was saying,” he continued. “Since I had to be pulled in last second, you’ll get whatever is frozen or canned or boxed. I’ll see what we have.”
Something deep within him hinted that he could show more understanding to a man who was, after all, on the run for his life. Yeah, and he could be understanding that it’s not my job anymore.
That Langat had no reason to know or understand that did not, in Keith’s not-so-humble opinion, have any bearing on the case. None. Whatsoever. Not today. Not with Erika missing.
The freezer boasted several frozen meals that were, unfortunately, several steps up from the ninety-nine cent pot pies and burritos he’d hoped for. A few plain-labeled things hinted that maybe there he’d find the generic food he ached to serve—a means of venting all his frustrations and feeding the client in one move. Quite efficient, in Keith’s estimation.
Cabinets offered more familiar fare—cold cereal, powdered milk with which to eat said cereal, canned soups and… ravioli. A smile formed. Erika would have pummeled him for it, but catharsis won out over fear of his girlfriend’s opinion. “We’ll start with this. It’s fast and filling.”
Disgust warred with relief when Langat polished off the entire can and asked if there was another. “Such a tasty treat. It’s my favorite.”
That’s what you get for trying to stick it to a client, Auger—um, Shafter.
The morning edition would hit the local mini marts by four o’clock. Keith’s alarm woke him at ten till. Rise… stretch… yawn… A yowl pierced the silent darkness—his yowl. Courtesy of Langat, of course. The man hadn’t been able to land a punch when it came time for nighttime restraints, but he had managed a nice kick to the jaw.
It better not be broken.
All evidence pointed otherwise. Usually, he’d be pulled for an injury like that. It made him vulnerable. Still, he should only be there for a day or two more—just until he could pass off Langat to other agents and get back to finding Erika.
A quick peek showed the man sleeping soundly—snoring, even. The temptation to wake the man and make him go sit in the living room with lights on should have shamed him. Another yawn removed all shame. It would serve you right.
Locking a prisoner in a house was always a risk—especially if leaving for longer than five minutes. Fire, robbery—anything could happen. But without backup, Keith had little choice. He couldn’t have Langat wandering around with him, and he needed the money and communication supplies, if nothing else.
The relative quiet of early morning near the crypt offered a pleasant contrast to the midday and late-night pulse of rap and hip-hop music, threats, curses, and the occasional backfires and gunshots. A taxi shot past, obviously ready to call it a night and not looking for another fare. A cat yowled somewhere, and another took up the cry. Several moments later, dueling yowls and screeches pierced the air.
Keith strode with confidence—speed but not even close to running. He kept his eyes forward, except when the rare car approached. Then he watched, reaching one hand into his pocket until the car slipped past. The closest 7-Eleven took ten times longer to get to than it should have—in his mind, at least. He’d only seen five cars in the whole time he’d been gone. Perfect.
The man behind the counter greeted him. “Gas?”
“Paper.”
He nodded at stacks beside the door. “One dollar.” An accent, one Keith couldn’t place, laced the words.
Middle Eastern, I think. Or maybe Pakistani.
Only spending a dollar on a paper didn’t suit Keith. The store owner wouldn’t get any of that—or if he did, not enough. A glance around him showed a few bananas and a few apples. He set two of each on the counter with the paper and went to grab a half-gallon of milk and a quart of orange juice.
Premade salads tempted him, but Keith reminded himself that it wasn’t Erika. Langat probably would inhale the rest of the canned raviolis. Still, the man might need some vegetables… Guilt piled on him as he forked over ten dollars and forty-two cents. You wouldn’t have hesitated for anyone else. You’d have done it because it was right—was kind.
If only kindness was enough to ensure safety.
Outside, Keith strode away from the parking lot to the nearest garbage dumpster and ripped out three random pages—and the one he needed. He folded that one up and stuffed it in his pocket. The other three he wadded up and tossed as he made his way back. One in the backseat of a cluttered car, another in a trash can just outside the subway station a few blocks away. Overkill? Probably, but unnecessary caution rarely hurt.
Once on the train, he pulled the folded page from his pocket and read the ad. Twice.
Dear John. I never want to see you again. You’ll find your stuff at the old house. It’ll be gone by Saturday, so get it while you can, you jerk.
“Don’t come back.” Great. That’s not good. And did he have to take the stuff all the way to the house on the other side of town? To the one I had to take Erika to? Below the belt, Mark. That thought shifted as he tossed it in a recycle bin on his way to the next train. Or, are you saying Erika is safe? I took Erika there to be safe… is that it?
Hope welled in him. If Flynne was a threat, there’d be more—the warning of someone coming after him if he didn’t accept that it was over… or something. I’ll check that hashtag when I’ve got phones.
Forty minutes—it took him forty minutes to get to that house and retrieve the bag. Fifty-two minutes to make it back to the station closest to the tow yard. He paused by the lockers and unloaded half the cash and a phone. As much as he ached to leave a gun as well, it wasn’t wise. People broke into those lockers. Sometimes, you just had to deal with what you were given. This was one of those times.
The temptation to take the time to call in an ad asking to go back to that house with Langat almost overrode prudence. The man couldn’t escape and probably couldn’t hurt himself, but he’d proven incapable of forethought. If he tried…
Keith booked it out of the station double-time and tried to act as nonchalant as possible as he neared the yard. A loose shoelace taunted him. Take a moment to tie it—usually a smart idea—or rush home first? He opted for tying. Tripping over a shoelace while fleeing anyone was a stupid way to get oneself killed.
Three thugs rounded the corner of the alleyway just as Keith stood. The biggest, a tow-headed giant who should have been named “Thor” spoke first. “What’s in the bag?”
Aaand… here we go. Keith shrugged. If he gave it up too soon, they’d suspect he had more. Then they’d beat him until he gave that up, too—well, if they had any sense, they would.
“I said what’s in the bag?”
“My stuff.” Keith kept walking—advancing. It really was the best option, but his gut told him what his head had already deduced. It wouldn’t work. Not this time.
“Give over.”
This time, the scrawny kid beside him jutted his chin out. “Yeah. Give over.”
Keith kept walking. “None of your business. Now get out of my way.”
The other kid—they were all just kids, really—picked up the taunt. It couldn’t have resembled a school-yard bullying more if they’d read from a script. “OOOh… listen to the big man.” His voice rose in a cracked falsetto.
Yep, a kid.
“‘Now, get out of my way!’”
The other two snickered.
Keith pushed past and entered the alley. Nothing. He took another step—two—four. Nothing. Thank you, Lor—
The prayer ended with a face-plant to the asphalt. A foot connected with his side, missing a rib—somehow. Keith didn’t have time to figure that one out. Another one followed. Bullseye! Oof…
Despite every effort, he groaned. He also tasted blood. Bit my tongue?
An attempt to move his jaw failed—and sent shooting pains of agony down his neck. How is that even possible?
Thor must have unzipped the bag, because he squealed like a girl at Christmas. A stream of curses that no little girl should hear, much less say, followed. “Check it out! This guy is loaded. Wow.”
He jumped to his feet, ready to grab the kid nearest him, when something hit him over the head. Baseball bat? Stick? Langat’s ego?
“That’s at least a grand!”
Make that four, and at least I haven’t completely lost it. Deep breath. Gotta get one up on them.
“Guns? That is a weird-lookin’ gun!”
Please don’t aim it. Keith tried to plead with them to let it drop, but his mouth refused to work.
The two thinner boys jerked him up. “What’s that?” They shook him so hard his face hit the barrel. “Paint ball? You goin’ ballin’ later, big guy?”
He’d just filled his lungs again and managed to get his bearings when the next blow came. A head butt—right to his nose. Blood spurted. No longer stunned, he dove for Thor.
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