Against the Clock

by Charlie Moore

  Crying, emotionally destroyed, Gerald nodded his head.

  17:18:41

  The old man stood in the darkness. The makeshift laboratory was housed inside the back storage compartment of a large Scania double axle truck. It was one of several mobile tech laboratories he had commissioned to roam the continent in key locations.

  The package secured by Smith had found its way to him quickly, and now his team of scientists analyzed it without delay.

  So far, X-rays had been inconclusive. A CT scan was next. It was clear the contents of the package were, in fact, documents. And while that information was useful, it was also useless until they understood what was on those documents. The science was beyond the old man, and while his technicians talked mumbo-jumbo, his wily mind was already jumping three steps ahead.

  According to Smith, he needed to re-collect the package by 17:30 and take it to its intended destination, Minister Jordan. Any later, Smith would miss his window―and Zelig would know. They had fewer than fifteen minutes remaining.

  It was an intriguing puzzle, thought the old man. What was Zelig up to?

  17:18:48

  Not wanting to rely on public transportation, Shirin and Barratt procured a car from the underground parking lot of a nearby hotel.

  Shirin drove. Fast. She pulled up one block east of Gerald Maier's office building and was out and moving before Barratt undid the seatbelt.

  17:19:09

  Smith withdrew the large needle from Gerald's arm. He'd stopped thrashing gradually, in slow motion, like drifting off to sleep, until finally, he grew peaceful and still. Smith watched the man's chest rise and fall for the last time. He watched a minute longer, then got to work removing the padded bindings that kept Gerald secured to the chair.

  17:20:27

  Shirin arrived at the lobby doors first. Barratt was close behind. She had been there earlier in the day, and from memory knew there were no security cameras at the front of the lobby. They were all positioned toward the rear of the foyer area, covering the lift, the reception area, and the hall leading to corporate offices on the ground floor.

  Pulling open the doors, Shirin skirted the edge of the large space, Barratt followed two feet behind. The entrance was empty, but still, they moved quickly and quietly, headed for the emergency stairwell door. Sliding to one knee, Shirin applied a worn set of lock picks to the mechanism, while Barratt shielded her from office workers and clients of neighboring office suites who may have entered the foyer on their way home.

  Shirin unlocked the door fast; no one had entered the lobby, no one had seen them. They were in the stairwell within moments, running up two and three steps at a time. Gerald Maier's office was on the eighteenth floor.

  17:21:39

  Smith stared at the scene. It looked like a sad and pathetic suicide. The letter he had crafted, then typed into Gerald's computer, would add credence to the state of mind behind such an action. A cursory search of his hard drive would reveal the abhorrent and deviant cravings of a man who, once caught, could no longer live with himself.

  Smith left the office, dialing Zelig's number on the way toward the stairwell door. Zelig picked up after two rings.

  "I have two names," Smith said. "Katie Jones, she made contact with him. Fits a rough description of Reyes. And a Robyn Mills, who had apparently referred Ms. Jones―"

  "Hold," Zelig muted the line.

  Smith held his ear to the stairwell door before opening it. He could hear something. Faint, but unambiguous. Hurried footsteps. Several floors below, but moving fast. He turned around without hesitating. He trusted his instincts. Walking briskly to the other side of the floor, he turned right at the end of the corridor, went to the far end, turned right again, and stopped at the rear emergency egress stairwell. He stood quietly, listened at the door, heard nothing, and then silently slipped in behind it.

  17:22:51

  Shirin and Barratt passed the landing for the sixteenth floor. Understanding each other well, they both slowed down, caught their breath, moved closer to the door leading to the eighteenth floor, then listened. Lowering herself to the tile, Shirin tried to peer under the frame of the door but could see nothing.

  Something in her gut told her she was too late. But to listen to it would undermine her hope. With the silenced pistol in her right hand and her left gripping on the stairwell doorknob, she turned it slowly, silently, until the rotation reached its full movement, nodded to Barratt, swung the door to half open, raised her gun to a firing position and searched the scenery for a target.

  Barratt went in through the open door low and fast. Sweeping his gun left, then right, he kept moving forward.

  17:23:25

  Zelig came back on the line. "Katie Jones is a cover. A good one. But she doesn't exist. It has to be Shirin Reyes! Robyn Mills does exist. She lives in Dover. No known affiliations with Reyes. She has a daughter and a brother. No other family."

  Smith padded down the stairwell as quickly and quietly as he could.

  "Have you still got the package?"

  "Yes," Smith lied.

  "Deliver it as planned, then I want you to visit Robyn Mills. Make her talk. I don't care what you have to do. I'll send another team to pick up her brother and bring him to you. Chop him up in front of her if you have to. Torture her daughter, I don't care! Just make her talk! Understood?"

  "Understood,” Smith said as he reached the street level of the building. After Zelig gave him the address, he closed the phone, withdrew his second cell phone, and called the old man's team. Regardless of their progress, or lack of, their time with the package was over.

  17:24:02

  The sign on the door simply said "Maier" in bold italics. It was Gerald's office. The door was locked, but yielded under Shirin's lock pick set quickly.

  The large external office anteroom was decorated sparsely, and noticeably lacked a feminine touch. It was utilitarian in design, layout, and furnishings. Shirin and Barratt covered the space between the front entrance and the door to Gerald's private office door within seconds.

  There was a smell in the air, a scent of fear, of terror, of death. A look of understanding passed between them. Without seeing inside, Shirin and Barratt knew what they would find. They were too late.

  17:42:19

  They had spent almost twenty minutes carefully searching Gerald's belongings. He had left behind no clues and no information about what he had found on the USB files Shirin had given him. Or, if he had, his killer had taken it.

  They left him drooped in his chair, untouched. It was an eerie feeling lost on neither Shirin nor Barratt that as they rooted through his belongings, the last of the warmth from his body slowly ebbed away, leaving behind a cold, inanimate corpse. Death held no mystery or curiosity for them. At times like this, where an innocent paid the price, silent contemplation and regret punctuated their body language.

  Kneeling at the computer desktop, Shirin tapped hurriedly across the worn keyboard. She found the suicide note quickly, and then the photos. She flinched instinctively as the first image appeared on the screen. They were grotesque. Abhorrent. Shocking.

  She understood the killer's plan instantly. She deleted the photos and the suicide note and wiped them completely from the PC's internal, backup, and recovery memories. It was the only thing they could do for Gerald now―preserve his legacy.

  He had been an honest man, from their understanding, an honorable man. That someone had killed him to cover up what he had found was a great tragedy, that he was likely tortured was maddening, but that his killer had planned to destroy his legacy and his reputation was beyond the scope of Shirin's moral compass. It was unforgiveable. She added another person to her list of those who would die before all this was over. She would find the person who had done this. Then she would destroy him.

  "Shirin," Barratt slid the last filing cabinet drawer closed, "we have to assume that he told them everything before he died."

  Shirin didn't respond verbally, but her face rec
ognized the question in Barratt's statement.

  "Which means, they'll be one step ahead of us…again."

  "I'm more concerned about what else he may have told them."

  "I used a secure cover."

  "And how did you reach Gerald?" Barratt asked, wanting to understand every connection.

  Shirin froze. Shit! Ben's sister. How could she have been so stupid? She had gotten Gerald's contact information through Ben's sister. Gerald knew that. And now Gerald's killer knew that.

  "We have to go! Now!"

  chapter 6

  "if there is 'the hunter,' there must also be 'the hunted'."

  the book of seekay

  17:44:12

  Smith inserted the short end of the L-shaped torque wrench into the bottom of the keyway. The lock was a standard residential Schlage deadbolt tumbler lock. He inserted the half-diamond hook pick gently, and carefully identified the six pins within the locking mechanism.

  Applying a clockwise tension on the cylinder with the torque wrench, he tested the stiffness and return of each pin. It was slow work, and most younger agents tended toward the raking or bump key approach, but for Smith, those agents were inept.

  Smith quickly became familiar with the lock's characteristics, exploited the sensitivity of his surgical steel torque wrench, and systematically set the first three pins.

  He could have raked or brushed the pins, it would have been faster, but he knew it would also have delivered the telltale jimmying noise of manipulating the lock, and on closer examination after the fact, the tumblers would demonstrate markings of a forced entry. As the fourth pin was maneuvered into position, he appreciated the skill he had developed.

  Adjusting the torque with a practiced precision in his dominant hand, Smith felt the fifth pin set into position. One more to go.

  The woman was home. From his position at the back door, he could hear water running through the old copper pipes. She was in the master bedroom en suite, in the shower. From across the road, he had watched the house and surrounding yard through an infrared heat signature scope. One of Zelig's men was still there, monitoring for unexpected visitors. Smith didn't expect any interruptions any time soon, but it was slightly comforting to know he had eyes and ears on the outside, just in case.

  According to Zelig, she had a daughter, sixteen years old. She was not home. Zelig wanted this woman to talk. To talk about who Katie Jones was, and the relationship she shared with her. It was clear to Smith that Katie was indeed Shirin Reyes. Zelig believed it, too, but he had to be sure.

  If what Gerald Maier had discovered was true, the government, the world, was about to change forever. He had delivered the audio file of Gerald's interrogation along with a copy of the flash drive files to the old man. He would no doubt be able to decipher its truth or falsity. The big picture was important, but for now, Smith had other things on his mind.

  The sixth pin set into position. Slowly, silently, Smith turned the locking cylinder all the way. The bolt retracted into its frame. Without a sound, Smith entered Robyn Mills’ home.

  He closed the door behind him, re-engaged the lock, then stood still, listening. He didn't move for two minutes. Just wanted to understand his surroundings intimately, to sense and feel every sound and movement before making his way through the house.

  He could hear the shower running. From the pattern of water falling, there was someone in the stall. There was no other sound in the house.

  Smith removed the pistol from its holster and took a step forward. His heavy combat boots were silent on the tiled floor, the thick rubber soles absorbing all vibration and sound with each deliberate step.

  He stood straight, felt no need to hide as he walked with confidence from the back door through the living room, down the long corridor, and into each adjoining room.

  He found a home office filled with books. Fantasy, mostly. A guest room with a bed made and ready, but telltale signs of dust indicating it was rarely used. A girl's room, cluttered but clean, adorned with photos and posters. The main bathroom, and then the laundry room.

  Satisfied, he headed back down the corridor toward the center of the house. The master bedroom and the woman were on the other side.

  He reached the kitchen. It was of modest design; the laminated bench tops were wiped clean, decorated with colorful labeled jars and containers. A single coffee mug stood alone near the sink. Smith picked it up, felt its base; slightly warm, perhaps twenty-five minutes old.

  He stood in front of the refrigerator and scanned it for information. It was littered with magnets from places the woman had traveled, all domestic. There were photos of her alone and photos of her with a young girl. He recognized the young girl from the photos throughout the house; the woman's daughter, Smith surmised. They shared the same smile. No men in the photos, he noted. Interesting.

  Smith opened the fridge. It was sparsely stocked, perhaps the end of her shopping cycle? He moved onto the pantry. It, too, was largely depleted. He noticed several chocolate bars stacked neatly in a corner, a guilty pleasure.

  He heard a different rhythm of falling water from the master bedroom. He froze, listened carefully. It continued. She was likely shampooing her hair.

  Unperturbed, he moved on to the waste bin under the kitchen sink. Remnants of a finished avocado, scraps from yesterday's vegetables and salad…Healthy diet, he thought to himself. It seemed in keeping with the athletic frame captured in the photographs of her.

  Before he left this house, he would know her intimately. There wouldn't be any part of her he would not understand and know, completely. That was his job, and tonight, it was her destiny.

  He turned to leave the kitchen, noticed a pine-colored wooden knife stand on the far side of the sink, and smiled again. He loved his job. He selected the knife on the lower right, gripped its molded handle, and slowly withdrew it from the bamboo block. The naked blade shone in the light. Its blade was long and tapered at its end. In the hand of a skilled chef, it would have looked spectacular; in his hand, it looked terrifying.

  Smith re-holstered his silenced pistol and felt the balance of the kitchen knife as he moved closer and closer to the master bedroom.

  A pair of feminine pink joggers lay spread out on the made double-sized bed; beside it, a pair of thick wool socks, a long sleeve T-shirt, and a pair of faded pink cotton panties.

  He moved closer to the bed and ran his hand along the edge of the bed cover. It was soft and fluffy. He pushed down on the mattress, testing its firmness, and smiled. The steam from the ensuite leaked out through the open doorway like a mist floating along the ground, licking at his boots and swirling up around his legs. He could feel the warmth of it rising, and he could smell the sweet scent of vanilla body wash tempting his appetite.

  Running his open hand along the fresh clothes laid out on the bed, Smith scooped up the panties, brought them to his mouth and nose, and breathed them in deeply, searching for her underlying scent trapped within its fibers. Beneath the smell of fabric softener, he detected something faint, something of her, and he liked it. He took another deep breath.

  Smith placed the sharp knife on the dressing table. Its mirror-like blade danced with the reflection of light coming from the bathroom. Soon, it wouldn't be so clean, so pure. What a shame, he thought to himself.

  He stepped into the doorway of the ensuite bathroom, brave and emboldened with anticipation, and stared at her, naked, beautiful, and for the moment, unaware.

  17:51:43

  Barratt stomped on the clutch, pulled the gearstick back hard, downshifted, and ripped into the corner. Mid-turn, he dropped the clutch, hammered the accelerator, and flew into the straight. The engine of the stolen Capri screamed its objection but complied dutifully as he pushed it to its breaking point, navigating it vigorously out of the business district and into suburbia.

  He had tried twice to call Robyn Mills. Each attempt had run out. There were a dozen reasons she might not answer, but considering how they had found Gerald Maier,
only worst-case scenarios occurred to him.

  He knew they wouldn't kill her; they needed her alive―at first, anyway. She was Zelig's only link to finding the woman who had hired Gerald to investigate the stolen account reports. By now, Zelig must have surmised the Katie Jones alias was Shirin Reyes. It made keeping Robyn Mills out of harm's way all the more urgent. It was true, they wouldn't kill her straightaway. But there were worse things they could do to her, and a part of him feared he was too late.

  Shirin and Barratt had split up at Gerald's building. Operational awareness needed little discussion between them. They understood that Zelig would grab the girl, convince her to tell everything she knew of Katie Jones. And Zelig would have her tortured, just to be sure. Then he'd have her killed. A cursory look into her records would identify a brother. Zelig would send a team to grab Ben. Dead or alive wouldn't make much difference. They would just chop off parts of him, show her, and keep hacking pieces off him until she talked. She wasn't a trained operative; it wouldn't be long. And what could she tell them, anyway? Either way, after tremendous suffering, they would both die. Unless Shirin and Barratt could get to them first.

  With time running out to save them, Shirin and Barratt split up.

  17:53:29

  Smith stood at the door of the master bedroom ensuite. His eyes devoured her. Robyn Mills was naked, turned away from him, standing under the hot steaming water, washing her hair. She was completely unaware of the man watching her only three feet away.

  The glass shower door provided a full view of the tiled cubicle. There was no place for her to hide, no covert corner screened from his hungry glare, and nowhere to run.

  He waited, patiently, the anticipation building. His heart filled with a rare excitement; his loins stirred, tingling to life. He wondered how she would react when she saw him. Would she scream? Would she fight? Or would she succumb to his force too soon, too easily? He hoped not.