by Faye, Amy
I haven't decided yet. The decision gets made as the words come out of my mouth.
"Not yet."
Her eyebrows move up in understanding.
"Then get out of here."
I lean back against the door, the handle practically falling apart where I shot apart the lock. I gesture at it with the gun before pointing it back at Scheck as I pull a phone out to call Maguire.
"You'll want to get that looked at."
Chapter Thirty-Five
MAGUIRE
Ryan doesn't sound remotely pleased on the phone, and I can't blame him. I don't like whatever's going on. Too much can go wrong, and there are too many unanswered questions. I don't like it one god damned bit.
I hang up the phone and slip it into my pocket, and settle down into the car seat. Unlike him, I don't have to wonder where I'm supposed to be going.
Then again, also unlike him, I can't just go in and kick the shit out of people until they answer my questions. So I suppose we're even.
There's no holding cells in the office. I know there aren't. I've spent a year in that office, I know the place better than my apartment. So if Logan Beauchamp is in there, then he has to come out. Whether it's as a free man, or as a transfer to the Sheriff's office, they can't keep him because they don't have the space.
But I don't have a ton of time to waste waiting around. If I could get inside without it posing a very real risk of getting myself arrested, or at least questioned, I might just go inside and check.
Instead, I'm stuck out here, waiting for some sign to present itself, and prove once and for-all that there definitely is, or definitely isn't, someone being held in that office.
I take a drink of tea. It's only marginally better than the coffee, but at least it's not dead bitter. The hour's rest I got in Ryan's room had me feeling better for the first hour, but now it feels as if I've only made things worse somehow.
Like the only thing that was propping me up was the pain of exhaustion before now, and now that I'm a little less exhausted, the pole's gone out of my tent.
I lay my head back and force my eyes to stay open, then sit forward again. I can't afford to relax. I can't fall asleep. No time to sleep. My eyelids are starting to droop. If I don't figure a way to stop it, then I know better. I'm going to fall asleep, and I'm going to do it very soon.
So I decide to take a risk. I open the car door and I step outside.
The rush of warm Arizona air hits me right away, after sitting in the air-conditioned cars. It doesn't have to be a long walk. Just a short one. Nice and easy. I put on my sunglasses and pull a Diamondbacks cap on to hide my hair as best I can.
It's warm, but I pull a jacket on anyways, and I keep my head down. I can't be seen, and this close to the office, anyone's liable to recognize me.
So in reality, I shouldn't be taking this risk at all, but without taking the risk, I'd be caught for sure, because I'd be asleep.
I slip into the liquor store down the street from the office. I don't want to run into anyone so I walk down the aisles, checking as quick as I can until I'm fairly confident that there's nobody going to surprise me back there.
Then I slow things down and take the walk at my leisure. Time to stretch my legs, time to relax.
It's a risk. There's a chance I get caught, and there's a chance that Logan Beauchamp is going through those doors right now. But it's a risk I have to take, like it or not. I don't like it one bit, but it doesn't change what I need to do.
I hear the blip of a siren, and I can feel a writhing feeling in my gut. The sure knowledge that I'd screwed up. I missed it.
I drop the magazine I had leafed through on the shelf. I'll come back for it, or I won't. The guy behind the counter sounds irritated. Clearly he's not convinced I will be back. I don't have time to worry about what he thinks.
I dart outside, sucking air and stretching my body to its limits. I have to do what I can to get some sort of proof. Hiding be damned.
The hat's lifting off my head as I move, but I'm just in time to see a car pulling out of the parking lot. A hand reaches out and pulls down the stick-on light on top.
The car slows to a stop, and then pulls out into the street. Nice and smooth. They're coming my way, so I'll get a good look into the backseat. The place where, if I'm not wrong, I'll get a good look at Logan. The place where I can confirm that there's more going on here than there seems to be.
The car doesn't drive past, though. It turns, short of pulling by. From the twenty or thirty foot distance, I can almost make out what might be someone in the back seat. I can't see well enough to positively identify Logan, though.
Fine, I think. I'll keep moving. With some luck, I didn't miss anything important. I'll get back to the car, I'll order a sandwich delivered or something.
I don't know what, but I'll figure something out. The adrenaline pumping won't let me go to sleep anyways. I'm kicking myself for having let them slip by, and my body is right there along with my head, making sure I realize just how bad I fucked up.
I watch the ground as I walk. Don't feel like looking up, and I sure as hell don't feel like getting recognized.
Every little thing I can do to hide my identity is something that will help, in the long run. Regardless of whether or not it seems like it will, at the time. Eventually, it will help.
What I don't notice, as I make my way back to my car, is the dark sedan parked just a few feet away. It's blocking a fire hydrant, which is none of my business—but it'll get you a hefty ticket if the Sheriff catches you.
I don't notice a big guy get out. I would have recognized the suit he was wearing. Would've recognized him, too, but the suit used to be his favorite, back when I knew him. Maybe it still is.
But I don't recognize him, because I don't see him. He doesn't call out to me. I do hear the car door close, a little ways away, but I don't turn to look. It's nothing special.
People are always loading and unloading, around here. No reason to investigate every little thing. Instead, I'm looking at the field office. Nothing's happening there, of course. I should've looked at the car, but I don't know any better.
So I'm watching the field office, where someone is sitting with their back to the window. I see them sit back and take a sip of coffee. Everyone must be tired. I think he was one of the ones that was working the night before. I don't recall his name.
I finally turn and look when I notice the sound of footsteps. They're getting closer, and they have been for a little while, at the edge of my awareness.
It's perfectly average. Just like the car door that I should've been paying attention to, or the way that the cherry-top pulled off onto a side-street.
But now, after all this time, something makes me turn, and I recognize him.
"Agent Maguire," he says. His voice is smooth, dark. He's not smiling. He never smiled.
"Pollack," I say. My voice is low and defensive, and I should probably play friendly, but I can't. Not any more.
"How's the investigation going? Still haven't picked up Beauchamp?"
"Is Donaldsen here with you?"
I already know the answer before I even ask the question, and what's more, he knows that I know. Mitch Pollack might as well be Martin Donaldsen's shadow. The man who had everything I'd ever wanted, all the power and prestige I'd hoped for.
I'd been an idiot for thinking I could supplant him, but I thought it. And, in time, I'd learned better. Right around the time I paid for it.
Chapter Thirty-Six
RYAN
I get off the phone with Maguire—Sara, I add mentally—and lower the gun I have pointed at Scheck. As long as she doesn't move, I won't raise it again. She looks like she's not exactly having a good time.
I can't say I blame her. I mean, obviously someone's just broken into her house, and threatened her with a gun, and then they talked on the phone for five minutes about the guy that she apparently didn't kidnap.
My heart goes out to her, but I can't exactly let her
go, either. I'm in too deep, at this point, to do anything other than just take her and get the hell out.
I take a deep breath. I can't afford to rush in on this, though, either. So I take a deep, deep breath and start thinking very hard about my next moves.
"Come on, Beauchamp—let me go." Her voice is a lot less confident than she wants it to be. I shoot her a smile.
"You're right. I should let you go. That way, you can get big boy—Rosen, was it? Shane?—and he can come and kick the shit out of me. That about right?"
The way she shuts up tells me that it was more right than she wants to admit. That's smart. I have a gun, after all, and she had better keep her mouth shut until she gets a better opportunity than to try to convince me to put it to my own head.
"Come on, I get it. You were worried about your brother. But—" Marissa daubs her perfect nose, where it slammed into my knee. It's not as perfect, any more.
The way she recoils away from her own hand, I have a strong suspicion it might be broken.
"I need a doctor, Beauchamp."
"It's just a nose, you'll be alright."
She looks up at me with doe-eyes that might be convincing to someone else. "Just don't hit me again, alright?"
"Then don't go for the gun," I growl. "We'll be perfect friends if you can manage that."
I raise mine again and try to think. I have to get my head straight if I can have any hope of getting the hell out of here. If she goes missing now… they think she's going home. I think.
So we'll have a very brief period where, if I'm lucky, nobody realizes she's been taken. That's if I'm lucky.
But that puts a real short time frame on finding the others. From what Maguire said, there are three others. I could pick Rosen out of a crowd. Could've picked him out of a crowd before I spent a great deal of quality time with him.
Carabello, though? I wouldn't know him from Adam. Nor would I recognize Dupree if he asked me to bum a smoke. Which makes everything real hard.
Everything's moving too fast. If I could sit down with Logan, or with Maguire, I could talk it out. But I can't get my thoughts to line up inside my head, and I can't exactly sit down with Scheck and talk out how I'm planning to destroy her gang.
I've always hated being alone, not having anyone else to work with. It's easier when I can talk things through. But that's not an option, not right now.
I was on my own like this in prison. It isn't a memory I want to go back to.
"You have to let me go, Beauchamp. You don't want what the Crazy Horses are going to bring down on you, if you hurt one hair on my—"
"Shut up," I tell her. She shuts up when the gun points at her, like a switch goes off in her mouth.
She looks like she wants to say something, but I don't turn the switch back on. The gun stays put. What she said was right. I don't want to bring that kind of heat down on my head.
But I'm already in it, now, and there's no way that I can get myself out of anything by just hoping and praying that she doesn't double-cross me. After all, I'd double cross the hell out of her, and look where that got us.
She looks unsteady, for a long time. She's trying to look at me, to give me the old batting-eyelashes routine, convince me that she's totally harmless. I don't buy it.
More than that, though, her eyes keep dropping to the gun. I can see the gears turning in her head, planning for what she's going to do when she gets the chance. When I let anything slip.
It turns out that she doesn't have to wait for my attention to slip. I'm adjusting my weight on the door when something hits it hard, sending it flying open.
The hard wood cracks on the back of my head and sends me sprawling forward. I take a bad tumble, but I have to give myself credit for keeping the gun in my hand. When I turn and find a big son of a bitch and a little dark-skinned guy next to him, it answers a few questions.
"Jesus, it took you long enough," I hear Scheck saying. The apologetic tone, the pleading—it's gone, now. Like it was never there in the first place. She's all business, now."
"You alright, Missie?"
She shrugs and looks down at me. "I'm fine now."
I still don't know where to find Carabello, which would be real useful information right now. But he can wait, because Dupree's got a gun and it's coming up into line to take a shot at me.
I scramble out of the line of the bullet just in time for the shot to go off. He's standing about ten feet away, but it's so damn loud that it feels like it might as well have been right by my ear.
The bullet splits a floor tile in half and pings off somewhere, where it embeds itself in the wall. Part of me can't help thinking that it's a wasted opportunity, trying to get the hell out of here now.
Another part of me wants to live, and that part is the one I listen to. The back door is a big sliding glass number. I fire off two shots that spiderweb the glass open and then send most of it falling to the ground.
My shoulder hits the rest, and I can feel the glass breaking on my skin, leaving long, raking cuts. It hurts like seven hells, but it hurts a lot less than getting shot to death.
The idiots left my bike standing, right where it was. I get on and turn the key. I don't know what kind of shit that a gang like this can get up to, but the idea that they might have some sort of tracking… thing, does occur to me.
It just doesn't matter enough to stop me from grabbing a life raft in a storm. I jam the gun into my pocket and speed off.
I have to get back in touch with Maguire, and I have to do it soon. But right now, as Dupree hits the street, his gun still in hand, coming up to fire another desperate shot, isn't the time.
Instead, I make a mad dash for the highway. Once I'm out of town—then I can try to get ahold of Maguire. Until then, I'm going to concentrate on driving and making sure that the wrong fuckin' people don't get ahold of me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MAGUIRE
I don't like the sound of my phone ringing, because it draws Donaldsen's attention to me. He has a faint smile on his face. He always does, as if he just thought of an old joke that was never worth laughing out loud over.
Maybe he always has. Maybe I'm the joke. I don't know, but I sure as hell know I don't want to find out what his secret is, not any more. The only thing I want is a transfer out of his command.
But that would spell career suicide for more reason than one, and I'm not ready to relegate myself to never getting another promotion again. So I keep my mouth shut about it.
Mitch is sitting next to him. He doesn't have the subtlety that Donaldsen does, and he never has. He's got a Cheshire-cat grin on his face. It splits his face in half and shows off nearly every one of his glaringly-white teeth.
Then again, why shouldn't he smile? After all, they'd gotten what they wanted. Clearly they had been after me for some reason, and now that they'd found me, there was nothing wrong in the world of Mitch Pollack.
He was the man, and the A.T.F. wasn't quite his plaything—there were about four men who could give him orders—but he had his mouth to the ear of one of the most powerful men in the organization.
Donaldsen's soft spot for him has always been something I'd hoped to be able to manipulate, after things had gone sour. As if Mitch Pollack might be the chink in Donaldsen's armor.
It never turned out that way. Mitch was less a gap in armor than he was a shield, moving and blocking and defending. Occasionally bashing, as well.
He lacks subtlety, and there's plenty more wrong with him, but like a good dog, he's kept on a leash, and he doesn't pull on it. When Donaldsen lets him loose, he does what he wants, but otherwise, he's happy with a pat on the head and a bone before bed.
A deep breath. There's nothing to be concerned over. I know exactly what's going on here. They're trying to scare me, intimidate me about something. The key is, not to worry. No matter what they do, it can't hurt me.
They could hurt me if they wanted to. They've had that power since the beginning, and it's been a hard-learne
d lesson that there's nothing I can do to stop it.
They have as much power as you give them, those two. Aside, of course, from the full legal and military weight of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Lucky for me that I don't go downrange of that little weapon.
The car pulls into a hotel, pulls up to a stop in front of the door. Mitch waits inside the car as Donaldsen gets out.
"Come on," he growls. He's not talking to Mitch, I know that much. The man never needs to be told what to do. After the years together with Donaldsen, he can practically read his boss's mind.
I slide out, and a moment after my foot touches the pavement, Pollack slips out his side of the car, as well.
The driver pulls away, presumably to park the vehicle somewhere. Pollack puts his hand back on my elbow, loose enough not to hurt, hard enough to know that I'm not getting out of this. But I know that already.
If Donaldsen is in town, something big is happening. And if he's in town hours before my deadline, he must have left before my little run away from the field office. It's a six-hour flight from D.C. and that wasn't more than four hours.
So there's something going on, and I don't know what it is but I don't like it. We get into the elevator, and I've never been in such a small elevator before in my life.
I try to take a breath, but it catches in my throat. It's too small. My eyes tell me there's plenty of space. They tell me it looks like the elevator is perfectly average.
I know better. I'm pressed into a corner. Any second now, things could go upside-down. Pollack must have noticed my nervousness, which is a mistake I'd sworn I would never make again. The promise doesn't stop him noticing.
"Sara, you look nervous. You need a minute?"
I want to tell him not to call me that name. The words catch, and I can't even open my mouth. My face feels hot, my head light. I need to get out of here. I need to go. There's important work to be done, if we're going to have any hope of getting Scheck and her gang tonight.
