The Angel of the Abyss

by Hank Schwaeble

  One phrase he often used came to mind – same strategy, different tactic.

  She stepped out of the car, adjusted the pack around her waist so that it was centered just so, felt the rush of heat flow over her. Of course, she could be wrong, they could be highly disciplined, following standing orders not to consort in any way. But she doubted it. Hatcher had once told her the first thing that popped up near any military base in the world was a brothel. Recounted that many governments in history had even provided them. The Nazis had them outside their concentration camps for the guards. The term ‘hooker’ itself had come from the name of an American general during the Civil War. He said even in strict places like Afghanistan, Russian and Czech women would find a way to set up near a base, something he doubted they would try without official encouragement somewhere along the line.

  She stood in the wedge between the car and her door, inhaling the twilight, remembering all those conversations, not so much the words as the essence of them. Lying in bed, limbs intertwined, Hatcher relating some military anecdote, spicing it up with some historical tidbit. He was so knowledgeable about that stuff. And so inquisitive, too. She'd share her stories of interesting cases, bizarre crimes, outrageous motives, and he'd pepper her with questions. God, she loved how his mind probed her that way, how it constantly reached for that connection. Like the perfect complement to the way his body did.

  Move, she told herself. She crossed the parking lot and headed to the row of doors and windows, feeling the rising warmth from the black top wafting up through the cooling night air. Have faith in the plan. If there was one thing experience told her men weren't likely to go without, it was women. And she couldn't imagine someone with a secret army allowing any party girls to be brought back to their hide out, or whatever Bartlett thought of that missile silo as.

  Faith in the plan.

  This part was just like police work, she reminded herself. The first door she tried was at the end of the building. No answer. Same with the second room. Third door opened to reveal a short man with a large belly. Amy could hear cartoons on the television and glimpsed a child sitting on the bed, drinking something through a straw, and sounds of water running in the bathroom. She apologized, said she had the wrong room, asked if he'd seen any military-types, guys with short hair or the like. The man said he hadn't.

  Three more rooms, one with no answer and two with more people looking surprised and confused and clearly without any connection or information.

  At the seventh room she tried, that changed. Room 122.

  Like the others, the door was hard, made of a thick material that brushed off a regular knock. She pounded with the side of her fist three times.

  A sound from behind the door, faint. Then the clacking of a latch. The door opened a few inches, enough for a man to lean out from behind it and stick his face in the opening.

  “Can I help you?” He was maybe thirty, but with the immature look of someone still waiting for that last growth spurt. A shadow of hair darkened his scalp like a faded tattoo.

  She knew the instant she saw him. Whatever the definition of a military look was, this guy fit it. A raw recruit, grunt all the way.

  “Hi,” she said, forcing her smile so wide her cheeks hurt. “I'm your date.”

  His eyes widened a bit and he glanced past her, moving his head from side to side to get a better angle of the lot. “I think you have the wrong room.”

  “One twenty-two, right? The other girl had to cancel. She asked me to fill in.”

  “I’m sorry, ma'am. I don't know what you're talking about.”

  Amy bit her lower lip, pushing out a piece of it at the same time. “Oh, shoot. I must have gotten the message wrong.” She tipped forward, glided a look down the door opening, like she was curious as to what the rest of him looked like. “But if you didn't call for a date, why don't you just consider yourself lucky and invite me in anyway. See if maybe you'd like to enjoy my company for a while.”

  “Well, truth is, I'm expecting someone. I mean, later. Someone I know. I was just resting up for a while before I called.”

  His Adam's apple bobbed and his tongue flicked out over his lips. Nervous, she told herself. Nervous was good. Nervous, she could work with.

  “I see. Rest is important. Of course, I would think you wouldn't need much, a guy like you. In fact, I would think a guy like you could probably handle two girls in one night, easy. Have you ever done that? Two girls in one night?”

  The guy's eyes shut and popped wide. His mouth opened and stayed that way. Then he let out a shaky sound somewhere between a sneeze and a laugh.

  “Oh,” she said, tilting her head back, peering over her cheeks in a knowing way. “Now I really see. This other person, it's not a – well, never mind. I get it. Never would have guessed, given your looks. It's a shame.”

  “Now wait just one damn second,” he said. “It's not like that.”

  “No?”

  “No. Not at all. Not even close.”

  “In that case...” She moved forward, leaning against the door jamb and placing her face as close to his as she thought she could get away with. “I'm going to bet that you're still thinking about the two-girls-in-one-night thing.”

  The guy stared into her eyes, bouncing his focus from one to the other. She could see the muscles in his throat tense and relax, make out the pulse beneath his skin on the side of his neck.

  Then his body seemed to loosen, the expression on his face shifting, replaced by a goofy grin. He pulled the door open and stepped back. “No harm in seeing what you have to offer,” he said.

  She sashayed past him, making a point to sway her hips, and took in the room. She listened for the door to close behind her and turned.

  “So, what's your—”

  The guy was leaning back against the door. His right arm was extended, pointing a pistol directly at her. His left hand formed a rest for the bottom of his gun hand to hold it steady. The term for the technique flashed through her head. Cup and saucer.

  Amy felt her throat constrict. Knowing proper terminology didn't help much. She forced herself to breathe, in out, in out. Definitely Hatcher's world. “Who the hell are you?”

  She showed her palms, one thumb still hooked under the straps of her purse. “Calm down there, big fella. I'm just a gal trying to get by.”

  “Bullshit. I'd like to believe it, but you're way too good looking to be knocking on doors at cheap motels. Who sent you?”

  Think, Amy. Who sent you? “Brittany,” she said.

  “Who the fuck is Brittany?”

  “Some chick who was at one of your parties. Was all about what a great bunch of guys you are. I got her name from a gal at the rest stop. I swear.”

  He seemed to consider that. Maybe the name was tickling a memory, maybe the story sounded too dumb to be made up. Amy didn't care what it was, just that he was uncertain. Uncertainty was like credit. Enough of it could buy you a lot.

  “I can show you my ID, here in my purse.” She slid her thumb in between the straps and stretched her purse out, reaching into it with her other hand.

  “Stop!” He held out his left hand, flicked the air a few times with his fingers “Hand it over.” She let the bag fall off her shoulder and slowly held it forward. Slow, slow, slow. He grabbed it and backed up to a table next to the door. He set the purse down without looking.

  He kept his eyes trained on her for several seconds. He reached blindly into the purse, still watching her. She could see him try to visualize what he was feeling. He looked down. The barrel of the pistol angled away, just an inch or two.

  This was it, she told herself. No wasted motion. She yanked down on the tabs to her fanny pack, ripping it open. The tearing sound of the velcro caused his head to snap up, but she already had the Glock drawn and aimed, leveled steadily at his head. Weaver Ready Position, gun hand pressed forward into her o
ther hand. Push-pull. Much better than cup and saucer, she recalled. “Don't move,” she said.

  A look that was at first surprised and then puzzled crossed his face. After a moment, he said: “If you didn't notice, I have a gun, too.”

  “Oh, I noticed. Put it down.”

  Eyes darting. Tongue poking out to wet his lips. Still nervous. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you won't shoot. I will.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “I know so. The last thing you need is the police to be called for a shooting or, even worse, a homicide. Someone rented this room. Someone knows your face. How long before the cops track that back to Bartlett and your little makeshift base in the abandoned silo?”

  Some of the color drained out of his face. “What the hell do you want?”

  “I want you to put down the gun. Now. If I pull the trigger, you'll be dead. A woman can get away with killing an armed man all day long. Especially in a state like this. God bless the Wild West. And the cops will be a hell of a lot more interested in what I have to tell them about Bartlett than they will your manner of death, you can bank on that.”

  The guy hesitated. She could tell he was thinking about it, weighing his alternatives.

  “I'm going to count to three, then I'm pulling the trigger. If you put the gun down, I promise, I won't shoot you. But I'm pulling this trigger if you don't.” No reaction.

  “One.”

  His lips disappeared into his mouth, which was now a tight, flat line. She could see the tension in his body ratchet, his back stiffen.

  “Two.”

  “Okay! Shit!” He let the pistol swivel in his hand, hanging from a finger by the trigger guard so that it was pointed straight up.

  “Toss it on the bed. Right here.”

  He dipped his head and tossed the pistol onto the bed. She moved to it without lowering her Glock and picked it up. A Beretta. Big and long. Front heavy.

  “My money says you didn't even have one in the chamber, did you?” He didn't respond, but she could tell she'd been right.

  “Now, toss my purse over. Gently, please.”

  He complied. The contents clunked and rattled as it landed on the mattress. “Your cell phone. Same thing.”

  Frowning, he fished his fingers into his pocket and pulled out a phone. It bounced near the purse.

  “Take a seat.” She nudged the gun toward an empty chair. He sat.

  She circled behind the bed, keeping it between them, and pulled her purse close. She reached into a side pocket and removed a set of handcuffs. She pitched them underhanded at him. He caught them in his lap.

  “Put a cuff around one wrist, feed the other cuff beneath the arm rest, then cuff the other wrist.”

  He looked at the cuffs, then at her. “I'm just going to walk out that door. You have my gun. I don't think you're the kind of person who'll shoot someone who's unarmed, for no reason.”

  “Your boss kidnapped someone important to me. Very important. I have all the reason I need.”

  He reacted like someone who'd just had a flash go off in his eyes. “You know about that?” He dropped a palm on his head, kneaded the fuzz on his scalp. “Damn. I didn't think anyone knew about that. Most of us didn't even know about it until after the fact. I guess the grab wasn't as friendly as they made it out to be.” He formed his lips into a silent whistle, glanced down at the floor. “Bartlett's going to be pissed.”

  “The cuffs. Do it.”

  He hefted them in his hand. “What if I say no? You really going to kill me?”

  Amy kept the pistol fully extended, arms tensed and ready to shoot. She was careful not to show a reaction. Hatcher's world, she told herself. That meant Hatcher's rules, Hatcher's tactics. They'd had long conversations about interrogations, about what rules applied when there were no rules. One point he had made loomed large in her mind – you could never, ever get caught bluffing. In a tactical interrogation, as he called it, your primary source of leverage flowed from the credibility of your threats. So you had to think in terms of promises, because threats can be bluffed, promises were oaths, sacred pacts between you and the subject. The exposure of a bluff meant that no promises would ever be considered real, no pact ever trusted. But, of course, you couldn't exactly be candid, either.

  The entire process was based on deception. Instead, the way to not get caught bluffing was to never bluff. You had to sell what you wanted them to believe by believing it yourself, making sure they knew you believed it. And sometimes, many times, that was simply a matter of carefully choosing your words. Nothing was quite as deceptive as the truth.

  Not all that unlike a police interrogation, she'd noted. Just different rules.

  She pushed the pistol as far forward as her shoulders would allow, tensing her grip. “If you don't put those cuffs on right now, I'm going to shoot. And I won't lose a wink of sleep over it. You have my word on both counts.”

  He didn't say anything. At first, didn't even move. The sound of traffic from the highway seemed to grow louder. Someone started an engine in the parking lot.

  The cuffs made a buzzing of clicks as he closed them shut over one wrist, then the other.

  She felt the edge of her lip curl despite her efforts to not smile. Nothing deceives like the truth, she thought. I never said where I'd be aiming.

  “Push them up to the end of the wrist over the bone and squeeze each cuff tighter. Now, pull your arms apart. Harder.”

  Satisfied, she sat on the edge of the bed, careful to stay out of reach. She could only think of two moves he could try – one, something with his feet; or two, more likely, to jump up and swing the chair at her. As long as he was sitting back and not leaning forward onto his legs, she didn't think he could pull that one off. And staying beyond the reach of his legs didn't seem too hard. Besides, he was looking pretty resigned at the moment.

  “First, is anyone on their way to meet you here? Please, don't lie to me. I'll know. And I plan to check your phone, anyway.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head, staring at the cuffs. “I was supposed to call someone later. Like I told you. I just haven't yet.”

  “She won't come looking for you?”

  “Not for a while.”

  “Okay. What about your unit, or whatever you call it. When are they expecting you?”

  He took a breath, seemed to debate whether to answer. “Four balls.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Midnight.”

  She glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. “What happens if you show up earlier?”

  “Earlier?” He stared at her like it was a stupid question. “Nothing. Why would something happen?”

  “Let me put it another way. If you come back earlier than expected, how do you get in?”

  “Look, lady,” he said, shifting in the chair. The cuffs banged and scraped against the wood. “I did what you asked. But don't expect me to betray my friends.”

  “What's your name?”

  A long pause. He lowered his eyes. “Lonnie.”

  “You need to understand something, Lonnie. Once your friends resorted to kidnapping and assault, they became nothing more than criminals. Not to me, not to the law. Now, you can tell me, or we can do this another way. One that involves police showing up at that silo with a warrant.”

  He raised his head. “If you were planning to go to the police, I don't think you'd be here with a gun, playing vigilante. You don't have any proof, anyway.”

  “No, I didn't have any proof. Past tense. Now, I have you. A guy who attacked me for asking a few questions, someone who I'm going to take a wild guess and say isn't an Arizona resident, but was possessing a semi-automatic handgun with his fingerprints all over it, that isn't registered to him, anywhere. Someone I'm going to bet has no known a
ddress, and who didn't rent this room in his name. With all that, I'm sure the police would be more than happy to accompany me out to that silo. Just to check out my story, if nothing else. How would Bartlett like that? How long would he let you rot in jail? Or, even better question, how long would you last after he bailed you out? It's a big desert out there.”

  “You're wrong about him, if that's what you think. We're not criminals. And he would never do that.”

  “Fine, he's a wonderful human being and a great humanitarian. Oh, and a kidnapper. Are you going to tell me, or do I start making calls. I can be very persuasive.”

  He looked away, considering it. His nose crinkled as he worked his jaw. Then he rested his forehead against his arm as much as the cuffs would allow and inhaled sharply.

  “If I wanted to go back early, I'd call. Somebody would come up to let me in.”

  “How many is somebody?”

  “Two. Maybe three.”

  “How would they know when to open up?”

  “It's by time. If I'm coming back early, I give them a time. They open up at that time. Keeps them from having to man the cameras.”

  “You mean, like, synchronized watches?”

  “Sort of. But we're supposed to sync them with our cell phones. Make sure they're always set to GMT and stuff.”

  Amy mulled the information. She stared at the curtains, then the bed, then let her gaze wander. She walked over to a nightstand and picked up a notepad and ballpoint pen. Each sheet of paper had the motel's name across the top in a watermark. The pen weighed next to nothing. It also had the name of the hotel printed on the side. Cheap, but all she needed was some ink. She thumbed the pin on the pen and made some scribbles. When blue marks finally appeared, she moved around the bed just close enough to lob both into Lonnie's lap.

  “In a minute, I'm going to have you make that call. Write down every word you're going to say. Like a script.”