Nameless

by Debra Webb

  “I’m on my way.”

  McBride closed his phone and slid it into his back pocket.

  “You’ll get an invitation as well, McBride, and when you do, you’ll understand exactly what you must do.”

  The message was loud and clear. All he needed was a way out of here … and a weapon.

  He grabbed one of the maps and walked over to where Schaffer worked. He leaned down and pretended to show her something on the map. “Schaffer, I need you to do me a favor.”

  She looked from the map to him. “Sure, what do ya need?”

  “I need you to locate Trusty Todd’s facility on Highway 31 and print me a map.”

  Schaffer hitched her thumb toward the printer. “I already printed that one.”

  McBride verified Pierce’s location at the station with Talley. “And I need to borrow your vehicle.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “I suppose you want me to let you borrow it and then not tell anyone.”

  He hoped like hell the part of her that had praised him in that cemetery would show up about now. “Yeah.”

  She reached into the pocket of her jacket, pulled out a wad of keys and then placed them in his hand. “Black Mustang. Scratch it and you’re dead.”

  Now for the hard part. “One last thing.”

  Reading his mind, she reached beneath her jacket and withdrew her weapon. He took it, holding it behind the map in his hand.

  “I’m going to tell them you took it and the car,” she said quietly. “Don’t expect me to admit any of this ever happened this way.”

  He smiled. “I’ll back you up.”

  She put her hand on his arm when he would have moved away. “Don’t go getting yourself killed, McBride. You make this place interesting.”

  He snagged the needed map to Trusty Todd’s from the printer and headed for the door.

  “McBride?”

  He froze. Dammit. He glanced over his shoulder. “I need a smoke.”

  Pierce’s disapproval showed on his face but he didn’t argue; he turned his attention back to the computer where Talley was still trying to track down the source of the video stream.

  Four steps outside the conference room, McBride tucked the weapon into his waistband at the small of his back then broke into a run. He’d just hit the stairs when a voice stopped him.

  “You’ll need backup.”

  McBride swiveled. “What’re you talking about, Pratt?”

  If Schaffer had given him up already, he was going to have to change his opinion of her.

  “I saw you running, McBride. I don’t think it’s related to a nicotine attack.” He shrugged. “And there was the weapon. I knew you didn’t have a weapon.”

  “All right.” McBride motioned for him to follow. “Come on.”

  They took the stairs two at a time and hit the parking lot running. When they had dropped into the seats of Schaffer’s Mustang, Pratt said, “I’ve always wanted to ride in this car.”

  McBride started the engine and rolled toward the gate. Pratt waved to the guard and the gate slid open.

  “Keep me going in the right direction.” McBride shoved the map at him.

  Pratt took a look at the map. “Yeah, I know this place.”

  “Tell me the fastest route.”

  Pratt gave the directions and McBride drove as fast as he dared. Before he reached the storage facility he pulled into a gas station parking lot on the same side of the street. A Check Advance and a pawnshop stood between the gas station and Trusty Todd’s.

  “Here’s the deal, Pratt.” McBride surveyed the parking lot of the convenience store where Goodman and her cameraman were supposed to be waiting. “Fincher knows I’m coming. I don’t know how he managed it, but he had Nadine Goodman call me. Supposedly she and her cameraman are in that blue minivan over there. I know there’s more going on than what she told me. Fincher’s too good to allow a reporter to tail him.”

  You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist—and judging by his numerous degrees, Fincher was one—to figure out that Goodman had sent Nameless his invitation, so to speak, and now she’d issued one to McBride.

  Pratt glanced at the minivan. “What’s your plan?”

  McBride surveyed the area again. “I’m going over to the storage facility to see what I can find. If you see anyone heading that way, blow the horn twice.”

  “But shouldn’t I go with you?”

  “If you want to back me up, you’ve got to do what I tell you.”

  Pratt shrugged. “Okay. But if I hear any gunfire I’m calling Pierce and heading your way.”

  “That’s just what I want you to do,” McBride assured him.

  He got out of the car, considered his options, then headed into the shadows of the buildings. There was a chain-link fence around the storage facility. He hoped it wasn’t hot. He touched it. The fence wasn’t electrified.

  Continuously surveying the area around him, he climbed over the ten-foot fence. Dropping down onto the other side put him on the back side of a row of storage units.

  He didn’t have any idea where to start, so he palmed the weapon he had borrowed from Schaffer and started with the row of units closest to him.

  When he eased around the corner of the next row, he spotted Grace’s Explorer. Moving quickly now, he made his way there. Anticipation had his heart thundering in his chest.

  The SUV was empty.

  “I knew you’d come.”

  McBride pivoted and faced the voice.

  Martin Fincher.

  What was probably Grace’s weapon or maybe Worth’s was aimed at McBride.

  “Place your weapon on the ground and kick it under the SUV,” Fincher ordered.

  Taking his time, McBride crouched down and laid his weapon on the ground.

  “Now scoot it with your foot.”

  Slowly, his hands out to the side, McBride pushed back to his feet, then toed the weapon away as ordered.

  “Now the cell phone.”

  McBride did the same with his cell. “You’ve got me now,” he suggested. “Why not let Grace go?”

  Fincher smiled. The glow from the overhead security lamp highlighted the amusement in his expression. “I can’t. She’s not here. And I am certain I will need her to keep you in control.”

  Fury whipped through McBride. “Where is she?” He was just about through playing the bastard’s games.

  “Behave yourself and I’ll tell you.” He motioned to his right. “But first we have to take a little ride.”

  “What about the reporter, Goodman?” McBride demanded. “You made her call me, where is she?”

  “She’s in her van with her cameraman. They’re a little tied up right now. I doubt they’ll make the morning news with this. I did find it rather convenient that she followed me to the decoy location. Prevented the need for making the call myself. This way was much more interesting.”

  McBride started walking in the direction Fincher had indicated. “I don’t want Grace hurt, Fincher,” he said. “She isn’t the one you want to hurt.”

  “We’ve had this conversation already, McBride. Just keep walking.”

  When McBride reached the end of the row, Fincher said, “Left here.”

  McBride took the left. A white Impala was parked between the next two rows of storage units.

  “Get into the driver’s seat,” Fincher ordered.

  When McBride had dropped behind the wheel, Fincher got into the rear passenger seat. He tossed the keys into the front seat. “Take a right out of the parking lot.”

  “Where’re we going?” McBride started the engine.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Turn by turn, Fincher gave the directions. McBride followed them verbatim. Anything to get Grace’s location.

  “Are you going to tell me where she is now?” He made a final turn into Elmwood Cemetery on Martin Luther King Drive.

  “Soon,” Fincher promised.

  A short distance onto cemetery property and Fincher ordered him t
o stop.

  They got out simultaneously. Fincher held a mediumsized brown paper bag in his left hand, the weapon in the other. “Start walking straight ahead,” he ordered.

  “We here to visit someone you know?” McBride asked in an attempt to rattle him.

  “Turn left here,” Fincher told him.

  “I hate to keep repeating myself,” McBride said, “but I’d really like to know where Grace is.” He could take this guy, he was reasonably sure. But he couldn’t make a move and risk him ending up dead before he got Grace’s location out of him. This round had to be played by his rules.

  “Stop right there.”

  McBride stopped in front of a headstone. The moonlight provided enough illumination for him to make out the name.

  DANIEL FINCHER

  OUR ANGEL

  “Ryan McBride, meet Daniel Fincher, my son.”

  When you got past all the other bullshit, for Martin Fincher, this was what the whole nightmare was about. This and the wife he’d kept at home long after her death.

  McBride turned to face Fincher. He wagged the weapon to remind McBride not to forget.

  “I’m sorry about your son, Fincher. But hurting Grace won’t bring him back.”

  Fincher shook his head. “It was all their fault. They should have been more careful. Wal-Mart trains their employees to watch for things like that.”

  “What about you?” McBride asked, taking a risk. “Where were you when Daniel went missing?”

  Fury contorted Fincher’s face. “Daniel and his mother went to Wal-Mart. Deirdre fainted and the paramedics had to be called. Her heart,” he said pointedly. “We didn’t know then. Katherine Jones should have been watching out for Daniel but she wasn’t. By the time I got there, he was gone.

  “And that Allen Byrne,” Fincher snarled, “he sacrificed security to make another dollar when he already had more than he could possibly ever hope to spend. Trenton, Worth … they were all responsible for the pain. They all found their atonement.”

  “Some more than others,” McBride reminded him. “Worth is dead.”

  “That wasn’t my doing.” Fincher shook his head firmly. “That was your mistake.”

  “You’re right,” McBride agreed. Trying to cajole the guy since confrontation hadn’t worked. “It was my fault.”

  “Sit down,” Fincher ordered. “Lean against the headstone.”

  McBride held his ground. “I’ve done everything you asked. But this is as far as I’m going. If you don’t give up Grace’s location, you’ll just have to shoot me now.”

  “I am not a murderer.” Fincher inclined his head and studied McBride. “You must know I would never be so crass. Deirdre would never forgive me. I cannot let her down. She needs a hero, and since you have failed to live up to her expectations, I have no choice but to step up to the task. I’ll be her hero now.”

  Sweat rose on McBride’s skin. The fear expanding inside him closed his throat. Fincher was right. McBride knew better than to believe it would be this overt or easy.

  Fincher glanced at his wristwatch. “In twenty minutes, unless help arrives, the lock on the door to the unit where Nameless is being held will be released with a nice little popping sound that will alert him to the change.”

  McBride gritted his teeth to hold back the anguish ripping him open inside.

  “How long do you suppose it will take him to get to her?” Fincher shrugged. “There’s a hammer and a crowbar lying outside her door. The handy backpack in the Explorer was full of wonderful tools. Oh,” he added as if he’d only just remembered, “and the key to the lock on Agent Grace’s door.”

  Sheer hatred lashing through him, McBride lowered to a crouch, then took a seat atop the blanket of earth covering Daniel Fincher. He leaned against the headstone when what he wanted to do was pounce on that son of a bitch. But he couldn’t. Not until he knew Grace’s location.

  “Your blood is going to spill, McBride,” Fincher warned, “in atonement for your sins.” He set the brown bag on the ground at McBride’s right hand. “Drink. It won’t hurt so much if you numb yourself.”

  “Nice to know you’re concerned about my comfort.” McBride reached into the bag and brought out a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. It was the first good thing that had happened all night. He opened it and took a healthy swig. “Now make the call,” he told the bastard, his tone dead cold.

  “More,” Fincher ordered.

  McBride chugged a few more swallows, his throat and gut seizing at the burn. “Make the fucking call,” he repeated. He didn’t need a watch to know the minutes were ticking down.

  “In the bag,” Fincher said then, “there is a blade from a box cutter. Take it out.”

  At least now he knew what Fincher had in mind. McBride reached into the bag and pulled out the blade.

  “Cut your right wrist first, then your left. As soon as you’ve made the second cut, I’ll call 911 and provide Grace’s position. I’m certain the Bureau will be thrilled to have captured the other half of the accomplice killers known as Nameless in addition to finding Grace alive and well.”

  “You keep saying you’re not a murderer,” McBride reminded. “This is murder.”

  Fincher shook his head adamantly. “I won’t be a murderer. You’re going to take your own life, McBride.”

  “If you’re not a murderer,” McBride countered, “then I can just get up and walk out of here and you can’t shoot me.”

  A smile spread across Fincher’s lips. “That is correct. But then Agent Grace would die. And that would be your fault for failing to obey me.”

  “How can I be sure you’ll do what you say you will?” McBride argued, barely, barely hanging on to his fury. “Let’s face it, it’s a lose-lose situation for me.”

  Fincher pressed the weapon’s muzzle against McBride’s forehead. “You don’t have a choice, McBride, you’re going to have to trust me.”

  “Can I at least have a smoke first?”

  “Suit yourself,” Fincher said impatiently. “Just remember that the longer I wait to give Grace’s location, the less time help will have to get to her.”

  McBride tamped out a Marlboro, fished out his Zippo, and lit it. He took a long deep drag. “I cut one wrist, whichever I choose, and you make the call. Then I’ll do the other one. No negotiation.”

  Fincher considered his offer. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “One cut, then the call.”

  That was probably the best deal he was going to get. Might as well get this over with. He positioned the blade but hesitated. “Put it on speaker.”

  “You’re wasting time, McBride.”

  That was all too true. Might as well get this part over with. McBride could think of better ways to die, but he couldn’t think of a better reason.

  “Just one other thing,” Fincher said.

  McBride exhaled a lungful of smoke. “What’s that?” If this bastard didn’t hurry …

  “Do it right the first time,” Fincher warned. “If it’s not deep enough, I won’t make the call. Seventeen minutes are remaining, McBride. How fast do you suppose the police will be able to respond?”

  McBride made the swipe. Pain seared along his nerve endings despite the buzz the alcohol had provided.

  Fincher watched in morbid fascination.

  “Make the call, asshole,” McBride demanded, resisting the impulse to stop the blood flowing from the gash on his left wrist.

  Fincher entered the three digits, set the phone to speaker.

  The first ring strummed the air.

  McBride’s heart started to pound. He ordered it to slow. Didn’t work.

  Second ring.

  “911 operator, what is your emergency?”

  Relief almost numbed the pain. Almost.

  “This is Martin Fincher. Please inform the FBI that Agent Vivian Grace is being held at the U-Store-It facility downtown. They have fifteen minutes to save her.”

  Fincher closed the phone and smiled down at McBride. “Your many sin
s will be atoned with the second swipe, McBride,” Fincher said as he closed the phone. “You will have made the ultimate sacrifice. Given your life for another. Now, make the other cut.”

  McBride set the blade to his right wrist, watched as Fincher’s attention settled there. Then he made his move.

  McBride swung his leg hard and wide, swept the man’s feet from under him. Fincher hit the ground like a rock. The weapon flew across the grass.

  Holding his cigarette tight between his teeth, McBride scrambled on top of Fincher. He was stronger than McBride had expected, or maybe he was just weak. They rolled, and it was all McBride could do to keep him pinned down. He jammed the fiery end of the Marlboro into Fincher’s cheek. Fincher screamed.

  McBride reached for the weapon with his free hand but he couldn’t hold on to it with the damaged one. He released Fincher and grabbed the weapon with his right hand.

  Fincher clutched at the weapon. McBride couldn’t draw it away fast enough. They struggled. The weapon fired. McBride felt the hot lead sear through his flesh.

  He couldn’t let this bastard go free. He fought harder. Got his fingers back around the weapon. Fired once. Twice.

  Surprise claimed Fincher’s expression. He touched his abdomen where a hole leaked red, but it was the one in the center of his chest that would kill his sorry ass.

  Fincher’s gaze connected with McBride’s one last time then he collapsed across his son’s grave.

  McBride shook his head to clear his vision. He was dizzy and weak from the booze and blood loss. Damn He’d cut deeper than he meant to. The bullet had ent. his gut. Couldn’t tell if it was bad. Plenty of blood. Not much pain.

  Had to stop the blood pouring from his wrist. He toed off one shoe and yanked loose a sock. He wrapped it around his wrist, had to use his teeth to help pull it tight.

  He was cold. He shivered.

  Nothing he could do about the gut wound. His movements stilted and shaky, he crawled on his elbows and knees to where Fincher’s cell phone lay in the grass. He collapsed on the ground, managed to get it open, and then tried to focus on the keypad. His hands shook and his vision blurred. He pushed what he thought was the right numbers, but darkness …