AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19)

by John W. Mefford

  My thoughts went to Daamir. When I reached his room, I wanted to be careful not to be insensitive to his trauma or to his religion. Still, though, my central question for him would be the same as with any other victim: was there anyone who wanted to see him dead? People were killed all over the world for many reasons, but religion seemed to be the core issue for most, if not all, wars. Well…it could be debated that religion was just a cover for someone’s greed. After seeing so many reports of thousands upon thousands of Muslims dying at the hands of other Muslims, I’d almost grown numb to it. Sunnis and Shiites. Those were the two factions that hated each other. All the violence seemed so pointless and endless. I wondered if Daamir belonged to one of those two sects—more than likely, he did. If so, was someone from the other sect responsible? Before I’d left, I’d counted sixteen victims with Muslim names. I certainly hadn’t ruled out some American bigot being behind the bombings. For now, though, I would hopefully have the opportunity to at least ask Daamir that one question and see where it took me.

  I stepped off the curb and into the street—one that had cars parked along both sides—that stretched in front of the hospital. The next few seconds played out in slow motion.

  As I brought my foot forward, I thought I heard a loud roar. I looked to my left; all I saw was the chrome grill of a pickup. My eyes fixated on that grill for far too long. I was trying to process what was going on—why this truck was barreling down the road when I was clearly walking across to the other side? I was frozen in place, more or less, my eyes locked on the grill that was growing larger every second.

  Another roar. It was the truck’s engine. I could feel it in my chest. I had to move, but for a moment, I wasn’t sure of the quickest path to safety. Keep moving forward or jump backward? For no reason I can explain, I lunged forward. I took a single step and dove like I was jumping into a pool, arms fully extended, my body taut with tension. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the grill nearly on top of me. Midair, I closed my eyes and braced for the truck’s impact. Was I about to die?

  Just as my hand touched pavement, the truck clipped my shoe—it spun me around like a helicopter blade. I did a full three-sixty, landed on my chest and face, and heard myself grunt from hitting the unforgiving surface.

  I forced out a breath and got my bearings. I tried to catch the license plate as the truck sped away, but it was too far off. People were running up to me and asking if I was okay. I stood up—amazingly, the laptop bag was still over my shoulder—and a woman screamed like my arm was severed or something.

  I tasted blood at the same moment I felt the sting on the bridge of my nose and forehead. I reached up, touched the wounds, and picked a small pebble from my forehead.

  That hurt.

  20

  Ozzie

  A few minutes later, I was in the emergency room of the hospital, a nurse tending to my wounds—no stitches were necessary—while I gave a statement to a cop. He was cordial, jotting down everything that I could remember. Silver truck with a large grill—I guessed it was a Dodge Ram. He wondered if it was an accidental hit-and-run or intentional. I had no idea, but his question made me start thinking. The FBI, for obvious reasons, had pulled their agents from watching Alex’s house, which was fine by me. I’d considered it to be an unnecessary precaution related to the remote possibility of retaliation from the JustWin group. Hopper had been a hitman for them, the FBI surmised, but the idea of them coming after me because I’d car-chased him until he slid off a bridge and died seemed farfetched.

  Another thought pinged my frontal lobe, just as I felt a sharp sting on my forehead. “Hold still, now,” the nurse said. She cleaned the wound while I drifted back to my thought. Was the person driving the truck associated with the bombing? Alex and I had spoken to a number of victims or their families. Was it too bizarre to think that a family member would have some deep-seated grudge against another family member, enough to set off explosive devices, killing and wounding dozens of innocent people? And if that were the case, maybe that person felt threatened by me and Alex, and wanted to quickly end the threat. The method seemed sloppy, compared to the type of planning that was needed to set up the bombs. On the other hand, the mind of a deranged person was certainly not predictable.

  Well…it was another theory, at least. To prove it, or disprove it, would take a lot more investigative work. Would Randy and his crack unit even consider this angle? I didn’t have a lot of confidence that would be the case. I’d met the asshole at the hospital, seeing firsthand what Alex had talked about.

  “None of the witnesses saw the license plate,” the cop said, rocking back and forth on his feet. He seemed a bit antsy, as if he had somewhere else to be. “Maybe we’ll get lucky with some camera footage, but honestly, every law-enforcement person I know is on the job right now. We’re all on high alert in case there’s another attack.” He paused, rubbed his face, and looked away for a moment. “My brother ran in that race.”

  I hesitated for a moment, tried to read him. Then, “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, finally cracking a quick smile. “Frankie is the slowest sonofabitch out there. He wasn’t even at the five-mile mark. After he qualified, he stopped working out and started eating too many donuts. I’d been riding his ass pretty hard, trying to motivate him—he used to be really overweight, and I didn’t want him to fall back into that kind of lifestyle. But I’ll be damned; I think eating all those donuts might have saved his life.”

  I nodded and realized there were probably thousands of stories like Frankie’s. That made me think of Erin and her act of bravery and compassion in helping the wounded runner. She really did have a lot of Alex in her.

  “I’ve got your contact information. The BPD will be in touch if or when we find out who did this. You might be needed to testify.”

  “Anything I can do, just let me know.”

  The nurse finished up on my nose by applying two butterfly bandages. They drew my eyes inward like a magnet. I had to try not to go cross-eyed. She asked if my foot was injured. I felt a bruise, but I was able to walk. No need to lengthen my stay in the emergency room. I told her I was fine.

  Still towing my computer bag, I headed upstairs and found Daamir’s room. The door was partially ajar. I knocked and walked in. Flowers and balloons were everywhere, and so were friends and family. He was sitting up, a smile on his face. I told him I was working with the FBI—no badge necessary.

  “I’d be glad to help in any way I can,” he said.

  I took another glance around the room. There had to be ten people stuffed in there, including a lady clutching his hand at his bedside.

  Daamir, I quickly learned, was good at reading people. He asked everyone to give us a few minutes. The throng of folks walked out, except for one.

  “This is my girlfriend…no, I’m sorry, fiancée, Anita.” He looked at her and smiled.

  “Hi. It’s nice to meet you…”

  “Ozzie Novak,” I said.

  Daamir chuckled. “Everyone makes fun of my name. Ozzie, huh?”

  I smirked. “Before I get into other questions, how’s your health?”

  “I’m blessed. A nail entered my big toe. At first, they thought they might have to amputate it, but now they say it should be fine.”

  I looked to the end of the bed; sticking out from the sheet was his foot, covered in a ball of bandages.

  “Glad to hear you’ll be okay.”

  “Should be able to go home tomorrow. Were you wounded at the race too?” He waved a hand in front of his face and then pointed at me.

  Ah, the bandages on my nose. “No race. I ran into a door.” Why drag them into my drama?

  We made small talk for a couple of minutes, discussing their engagement—he’d proposed at the New England Aquarium Waterfront, the same place as their first date—and that led to a discussion of where they would live, since he was on a work visa from the UK.

  “We both love this country. It’s where we want to raise our kid
s. But we’ll see if I can become a citizen,” he said.

  I didn’t know how to gracefully approach the subject of his faith, so I decided to take the direct angle and asked him to confirm his religious status.

  “Muslim. I figured that was obvious. Daamir al-Dar.” He lost his smile. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Well, we’re trying to gather detailed facts on everyone who was impacted by the explosions.”

  “So, you’re asking everyone what religion they practice?”

  I could feel beads of sweat at my hairline. “I don’t mean to offend you. To catch the people who hurt you and many others, the only way we can do this is by asking a lot of questions, even if they’re uncomfortable.”

  He took in a breath and seemed to be staring at the Mylar balloons.

  “I have one more question in that same vein.”

  He shifted his eyes to me. They were flat, if not defiant. I asked which sect of the Muslim faith he was associated with.

  “Sunni,” he said in a clipped tone.

  I made a mental note, and then went on to ask more about where he was when the bomb went off. I’d forgotten that he wasn’t a runner. He had been a bystander, eager to experience the race atmosphere that he’d seen on TV. He said he was so thankful that Anita hadn’t been able to make it. She leaned over and kissed his hand.

  That lightened things up a bit. I apologized for the intrusion and started to walk out.

  “You know, it’s funny, Ozzie.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Anita is Catholic. We haven’t even talked about how we will raise our kids, as Muslims or Catholics.”

  I thought about Mackenzie for a second, and a sense of warmth washed over me. “Just love them like I love my daughter, and it won’t make any difference.”

  They smiled, and I headed out the door. I took the elevator up three levels. The door dinged open—I waited for an orderly to wheel out a patient—and I stepped out, looking for the surgical waiting area.

  I tuned to the left. My breath hitched. It was Alex. She was standing next to Stan. But it was her emotion that made my heart stop. She was crying. Alex wasn’t a robot, but she wasn’t histrionic either. If she was crying, something very bad had happened. I rushed over and wrapped my arms around her.

  21

  Alex

  Ozzie came out of nowhere and pounced on me like he was trying to snuff out a fire.

  “I…can’t…breathe,” I said, pushing him back a step.

  “What? What’s wrong?” he said, his eyes and mouth both open.

  “Nothing is wrong.”

  He looked at Stan, who was wiping a tear off his cheek. “What about Nick, though?”

  For no particular reason, my eyes went to the computer bag—the pink and green one that used to be Erin’s. I almost broke out in laughter, it looked so ridiculous on Big Ozzie. The next thing I noticed was his face. Looked like he’d been in a fight with a very pissed-off cat…and lost.

  I said, “We just got word that Nick is out of surgery. He’s going to be okay.”

  Stan chimed in. “He had a blockage in his intestines. They cleared it up.”

  Ozzie tipped his head back. “Wow, you guys had me worried.”

  “Tears of joy and relief, my friend,” I said.

  He smiled, and I pulled a tissue from my purse and wiped under my eyes. Just as I imagined—a waterfall of mascara. I’m sure I looked like something out of a horror picture. But I didn’t care. Nick had made it through surgery.

  Stan scratched his scruffy face. “From what the nurse just told us, Nick woke up and immediately asked for a piece of gum.”

  Stan and I started laughing. Ozzie didn’t get it, so I explained. “Nick chews gum all the time, to the point of annoyance. He always has some with him; it’s like lip balm to him.”

  Ozzie gave a long nod. “Gotcha. I’m just glad he’s okay. Where’s Antonio?”

  “The nurse took him to the recovery area. When he gets back, Stan and I will each take a turn,” I said. “So, did you come by just to check up on things, or are you trying to make a fashion statement with your cute little bag?” I giggled as I wiped my nose.

  “Oh,” he said, clutching the bag. “Well, I’ve been doing some more research on the victims, and—”

  The doors opened just then, and Antonio strode through. He and Ozzie spoke for a second as Stan and I played “rock, paper, scissors” to determine who’d get to see Nick next. He beat me, best two out of three. Stan went off with the nurse, and Antonio went downstairs to grab a bite to eat. Ozzie and I each found a chair.

  “More research, huh?” I said, glancing at Ozzie’s computer bag.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “You found something?”

  He started to scrunch up his face, but he stopped and put a hand to the bridge of his nose.

  “Before you jump into your research or whatever’s giving you heartburn, what the hell happened to your face?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair. It had all grown out and was back to its blond color. When I’d first seen him after he’d crashed his car chasing down his wife’s killer, he sported an auburn-colored crewcut—one of the ways he’d tried to hide his identity while he was evading law enforcement.

  He pushed out a breath and told me about being run over by a pickup.

  “Well, I wasn’t really run over. He just clipped my shoe as I was jumping out of the way.”

  “And the driver didn’t stop?”

  “He was trying to hit me, Alex. I’m convinced. Well, it could have been a woman, I guess. But he didn’t stop. He just sped away.”

  I peppered him with more questions about the truck. Once we got past his discussion with the cop—which verified that few if any resources were available to work the investigation—I crossed my legs, anchored an elbow on my knee, and sat there for a moment.

  “Look,” he said, breaking the silence. “I know you might be thinking this is a sign from the…let’s just call them the JW group.” His eyes darted around a bit. “But I think that’s making a big assumption.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe not. I need to get an update on that, but right now, I’ll only hear crickets.” I shook my head.

  “I have a theory about how this hit-and-run could connect to our bombing investigation, and it has to do with family members of the victims.” He went on for a couple minutes before pausing.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “So, you think it’s possible?”

  “It’s possible we have aliens living on the planet. So, yes, I can’t discount your idea. But we have no evidence pointing in that direction.”

  “I realize that. We need more resources.”

  I pointed at him and then at myself. “Outside of a few minutes here and there from Brad and Gretchen, we are all we got.”

  “Okay, so it might be a long night.”

  “Many nights. I’m not sure this thing is going to get solved any time soon, not with Randy in charge. That guy couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”

  He snickered.

  “Seriously, Oz, I just want to make sure you’re safe. And Mackenzie too.”

  He looked off for a second. “No way do I want to put Mackenzie in danger. That’s why I was open to having agents in front of the house. But, honestly, it was overkill. I respect the feedback you and Jerry were getting, but the Hopper-JW connection was really just a theory, right?”

  “He’d worked for them in the past,” I clarified. “But did the JW group care about him dying? That’s what we don’t know.”

  “So, it’s a theory. Just no evidence to back it up.” He arched an eyebrow but winced as he did so.

  “More or less.” I turned to see if Stan was coming out of the recovery area. He wasn’t, so I flipped back to Ozzie. “You still haven’t told me why you came to the hospital.”

  He gave me the rundown on Daamir al-Dar and their conversation.

  “You know that’s profiling, right?”

&n
bsp; He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  I shook a finger in his direction. “It’s another theory—this whole Muslim-faction thing—but it’s one that I doubt anyone has thought of. How did you come up with this?”

  “Just hit me while I was helping Erin with her Greek mythology paper.”

  “Greek mythology led you to a thought about terrorism?”

  “Erin finally got into it when she saw the name ‘Hades,’ the god of the dead. And then my mind somehow made the leap.”

  “Well, thank you,” I said.

  “For all of these theories that have no real evidence?”

  “No evidence yet. Maybe they will soon. Thanks for working with Erin and somehow getting her to do something she clearly didn’t want to do.”

  He winked. “I’m not even paying rent, so tutoring is the least I can do.” He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot, did you ever hear anything from the prison officials about Maya wanting to take the deal you gave her?”

  Stan came through the doorway of the recovery wing with a big smile on his face. I quickly stood up, but stopped short and turned back around to face Ozzie. “I should have mentioned it the moment we started talking. I got a call just before the surgeon came out to talk to me and Stan. Maya said she has nothing to share with us or…” I held up my fingers to form quotes, “‘with that creepoid with the porn mustache.’”

  With that, I headed to the recovery wing to finally speak to my partner.

  22

  Alex

  The car rocked to a stop in front of a brick building that was as wide as a football field was long. “You got the right address?” I asked.

  Ozzie double-checked his phone. “Two fifty Woodrow Avenue. Yep, this is it.”

  I glanced up and down the street. Lots of graffiti, trashed-out cars, and warped telephone polls that angled to the side. We were in south Boston, southwest of Dorcester, in a forgotten part of the city that officials tended to ignore, except when they were quoting crime statistics. The last time there was a notable investment in this section of Boston was before Kennedy was in the White House.