No Good Options

by Alex Ander

  Chapter 8

  Goodbye

  10 MAY—6:08 A.M. (LOCAL TIME)

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Wearing an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of his body and clutching a bouquet of flowers, a chain encircling his waist, a man leaned forward while ascending a shallow hill. A rising sun crested the knoll, backlighting trees, shrubs, and headstones.

  Flanking the captive man, two men in dark suits and sunglasses escorted him to a tall and shiny gray headstone with black speckles.

  “Can you guys,” rotating his head left, then right, the prisoner glimpsed his companions before facing forward and staring down at the letters on the grave marker’s smooth surface, “give me a moment?”

  On Prisoner’s left, Dark Suit 1: “We have orders...not to leave you alone.”

  Prisoner raised his shackled hands. “And just how do you think I’m going to escape?” He gestured toward his loved one’s final resting place. “She’s my wife, fellas. All I want to do is to say ‘goodbye’ in private.”

  DS1 exchanged a look with his fellow agent and tilted his head toward the bottom of the incline.

  As the armed men fell back, Prisoner tipped his head back at the sky. “I love you, honey.” He knelt. “We didn’t always see eye to eye on things, but,” he shuffled closer to a clay pot and dug around inside the dirt, “we always loved each other...to the end.”

  A tear trickled down his cheek.

  His fingers sunk deeper into the soft soil. Touching something hard, he pulled out the object with one hand while arranging the flowers he had brought with the other. “Thank you, dear, for all the good times we shared.” He slipped the black object into his jumpsuit. “I hope we see each other again on the other side; however,” he filled in the pot and looked skyward again, “I fear you and I are going to end up in different places.”

  A minute passed. DS1 spied his watch, walked back up the hill, and laid a hand on Prisoner’s shoulder. “Your time’s up. Let’s go.”

  *******

  THREE MINUTES LATER...

  DS1 climbed behind the steering wheel of a black SUV.

  DS2 slammed shut the right-rear door and claimed the front passenger seat.

  The engine came to life.

  Prisoner retrieved the black object from his jumpsuit and fired two quick shots, one at the back of each agent’s head.

  They slumped forward.

  Prisoner unbuckled the driver, dragged him into the backseat, and found a set of handcuff keys. Five minutes later, dressed in DS1’s dark suit, he piled DS2’s body onto the dead man’s dead partner and rolled into the driver’s seat. He put the transmission in gear and slowly drove away from the cemetery.

  *******

  8:27 A.M.

  RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

  Having abandoned the SUV and stolen an older model Toyota in Fredericksburg, Prisoner had driven the foreign sedan to a run-down part of Richmond, finally parking in an alley behind a row of dilapidated buildings.

  He exited the Toyota, scanned the area, strolled up to a back door, and pressed a button.

  Ten seconds later, a voice from a hidden speaker: “Face the camera...on your right.”

  He turned right and looked up.

  A buzzer sounded and a latch released.

  “Take the stairs on your right to the basement. I’m all the way in the back.”

  Opening the door and following directions, Prisoner descended some stairs and traversed a dark hallway before touching fingertips and knifing his way through a wall of hanging beads that acted as a barrier.

  Entering a wide-open, dimly lit room, he noted computer equipment stationed around the perimeter and a large rectangular table in the center. Another computer, along with a monitor, scanner, and printer, rested on the tall table.

  “It’s been a while, Michael.” In the middle of the technology, a contraption covering his thinning gray hair, a sixty-something man sat hunched over, a desk lamp illuminating his work.

  The bead strings swaying and bouncing off one another behind him, Michael removed his black sunglasses and made his way to the table.

  “I saw you on the news the other day.” The seated man carefully positioned a photo on a small booklet, gently blew on it, placed the booklet face down on a scanner, and closed the scanner’s lid. “They said you were in custody...for high crimes against your nation.”

  “Come on now, Sasha.” After stowing his eyewear in an inner breast pocket on his suit coat, Michael slid a stool closer and perched on it. “Do you believe everything you hear on the news?”

  Sasha faced his guest. Magnifying goggles covered his eyes and made them appear larger. “No. But in this case...” He pressed a button on the scanner, and the machine whirred as a light emanated from under the cover. “Why are you here?”

  Michael adjusted his position on the round seat. “I’m here to cash in on our arrangement.”

  “And what arrangement is that?”

  “The one that,” Michael drew a Glock 22 and placed the weapon on the table, muzzle pointing at the man across from him, “has allowed you to stay in business all these years.”

  At the sight of the pistol, Sasha sat straighter. “There’s,” his voice hitched, “no need for violence here.”

  “Isn’t there?”

  “We’re both gentlemen.”

  “One of us is, Sasha. And he’s not opposed to using violence to get what he wants.”

  The scanner stopped, and a printer spat out a sheet of paper.

  Michael plucked the sheet from the machine’s tray and nodded at what he saw. “This is good work.”

  Sasha flashed an uneasy smile. “I’m the best on the East Coast.”

  “Well,” Michael chucked the paper across the table, “I’m sold. Sign me up. How long will it take to get me a passport?”

  “I have,” Sasha claimed the sheet, “this one to finish up and one other—”

  Michael gripped the Glock.

  Sasha swallowed. “I suppose I could move you to the front of the line.”

  “Terrific. But only if it’s not too much trouble.”

  The man removed his goggles and cleared his workspace. “It’s no trouble at all. If you’d like to alter your appearance,” he gestured behind him, “there’s a room back there.”

  Michael slid off the stool and holstered his pistol.

  “Would you like me to arrange a destination for you as well?”

  The armed man squinted at his host. “Please do. I’m thinking somewhere warm.”

  “Somewhere that doesn’t have an extradition agreement with the United States?”

  “That’s why I came to you, Sasha. You’re smart. In fact,” Michael smiled, “I hear you’re the...best on the East Coast.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 9

  He Had a Gun

  6:16 A.M. (LOCAL TIME)

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  After having called her husband around midnight and filled him in on what she had discovered about Faith’s disappearance, Devlin clicked off five minutes later. Her eyelids drooping, still in her street clothes, she had crawled into bed at a nearby hotel. Randall had his own room down the hall.

  Five hours later, she had opened her eyes, took a quick shower, put on fresh clothes from her duffle bag, and met her partner downstairs for a hasty breakfast.

  For the last thirty minutes, the twosome had been knocking on doors at Faith’s apartment and asking residents if they had seen or heard anything on the night of the kidnapping.

  “Thank you, sir.” Devlin held out a business card. “Please...”

  A man in a blue robe and white socks took the contact information.

  “...call me if you remember anything.”

  Covering a yawn, he nodded while closing the door.

  Randall moseyed toward the next apartment on the third-floor hall and rapped knuckles on the door. “Oh-for-five now.” He gave Devlin the once-over, spying black c
asual pants, an off-white shirt, and an unbuttoned blue jean shirt that covered her firearm. “Where’d you get the fresh clothes?”

  She faced him. “I always keep a spare change in my duffle bag.”

  “You’ve already changed once...aboard the plane. How many spares do you have in that thing, anyway?” He glanced down at his attire, the same attire from yesterday. “I’m on day number two. And that includes my skivvies.”

  “You really should keep a ‘go bag’ in your car.”

  “I do.” He turned toward the apartment and knocked again. “And it is in my car...at home...as in my home in New Orleans.”

  She recalled how she had whisked him away from the cemetery. “Sorry about the short notice.” A beat. “If you want them, I have a pair of baggy shorts that could double as boxers.”

  He rolled his head her way.

  Seeing the look on his face, she lifted a shoulder. “They’re just shorts.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll go ‘commando’ first.”

  The door opened, and a fifty-five-year-old woman in a black pantsuit and low heels, brief bag in hand, stood in the doorway.

  Devlin flashed her credentials. “We’re with the U.S. Marshals Service, ma’am. I’m Jessica Devlin and this is,” she motioned, “Noah Randall.”

  The woman eyed the agents. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am. Not at all. We’d just like to ask you a few questions...about an incident that occurred here a few days ago.”

  “You must mean that poor woman who was kidnapped.”

  “Yes, Ms.,” Devlin paused.

  “Belinda. My first name’s Belinda.”

  “Thank you, Belinda. And you’re right. We’d like to ask you a few questions about that kidnapping.”

  The woman spied her watch. “I...I was just on my way to work, but I suppose I have a few minutes.” Her focus went from one agent to the other. “I’ve already spoken with the police and told them everything I know. I’m not sure how else I can help.”

  For the next few minutes, Devlin asked questions, and Belinda provided answers, the same answers she had already given to the Seattle P.D.

  “There’s one last thing that,” her phone ringing, “I’d like to show...” Devlin eyed the screen. “I’m sorry. I should take this.” She stepped away.

  Randall held up the photo the apartment’s assistant manager had printed out, an image of the man in the black suit and sunglasses. “Have you ever seen this man around here before, Belinda?”

  She set her bag on the floor and took the paper. “It’s a little grainy, but...I believe I have.”

  He arched his brows. “Are you sure?”

  “In fact,” biting her lower lip, she looked away, “it was the same night,” before gesturing down the hall, “that that woman was abducted.” Belinda shook her head at Faith’s apartment door. “It’s a shame. I didn’t know her, but she did help me carry some groceries up from my car one time...saved me a trip up and down the stairs on a night when I was dead on my feet.”

  Storing in his mind another Faith Mahoney personality trait, Kindhearted, Randall smiled and motioned toward the photo. “You—”

  Devlin: “How the hell did that happen?”

  He tossed his partner a look and saw her with a hand to her forehead before he faced the tenant again. “You were saying you saw him?”

  “Yes. It was late...around nine or nine-thirty. I had to work late that night. My boss was up my,” she swore while jerking her thumb upward, “about getting my reports done. As I came to the door of the apartment building, a group of rowdy teenagers cut me off as they rushed into the lobby.” She tapped the paper. “He saw what had happened, smiled at me, and quickly opened the door for me. I thanked him and took the stairs.” She handed the sheet back to Randall.

  “Did you happen to notice anything specific about him? Scars, tattoos, anything that could help us in—”

  “He had a gun.”

  Randall nodded while folding the paper. Makes sense...since he might’ve been here to commit a crime.

  “And a badge, too.”

  Randall froze in place, his fingers still pinching the folded picture he had tucked into an inner breast pocket on his jacket. “A badge?”

  “Yeah. When he reached to open the door for me, his suit coat flared, and I spotted it on his belt, just forward of his gun. I just assumed he was a cop.”

  “Did you happen to get a look at the badge? Was it a Seattle P.D. badge?”

  “No. It was silver...or gray. It was hard to tell in the low light. Anyway, I was more focused on the gun. But I did see a star.”

  “Any words on this star?”

  Belinda lowered her gaze to the floor. Holding a finger to her lips, she shook her head. “I think I remember seeing an ‘M.’ Or, it could have been an ‘N.’ Again, the lighting wasn’t good, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  Pivoting to face Randall, Devlin spoke into her mobile. “I can’t believe this.”

  Randall squinted at her blue jean shirt as it flared slightly when she turned toward him. His eyes dropped to her belt before he flicked them toward Belinda. I think I remember seeing an ‘M.’ “Ex-excuse me for a second, ma’am. I’ll,” he wagged his finger at her, “be right back.” He hurried over to Devlin, threw open the right half of her shirt, and plucked an object from her belt.

  She frowned at him.

  He lifted the badge, a gold circle surrounding a five-pointed star, the words ‘UNITED STATES’ on top and ‘MARSHAL’ on bottom. “I need to borrow this.” Returning to Belinda, he showed her Devlin’s shield. “Did it look anything like this?”

  The woman’s face lit up. “Why I...I think it did. I’m almost positive,” she pointed, “that that’s what I saw.” She hesitated. “But it wasn’t gold, though. I’m sure what I saw was either silver or gray.”

  Knowing a silver badge was for deputy marshals and a gold badge was for marshals, Randall waved a dismissive hand. “That’s all right, Belinda. You’ve been a huge help. Thank you.”

  She eyed her watch. “Is there anything else? I really should be getting to work.”

  “No. Thank you again for taking the time to speak with us. Have a nice day.”

  She picked up her brief bag, “You too,” closed the door, turned a deadbolt, and fast walked to the elevator.

  Devlin: “Please keep me posted, Deputy Director. I’ll...”

  Randall walked up to her and held out her badge.

  She took it and clipped it back onto her belt. “...I’ll let you know if we make any further progress here.” She ended the call and glanced at the closing elevator doors. “Get anything from her?”

  “I did.”

  She shoved her phone into a pants pocket.

  “What did Thorn want? I heard you getting upset.”

  Sighing, Devlin shut her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re never going to believe this. The former deputy director, Michael Crane, killed two deputy marshals and escaped custody.”

  ∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞

  .

  Chapter 10

  ‘H-A-L’

  Envisioning the man he and Devlin had arrested less than a week ago, the same man who had orchestrated two different assassination attempts—one on Devlin’s family and another on Devlin and Randall—Randall gaped at his partner, his eyes wide. “What? How did that happen?”

  “Nobody knows yet. They found the dead agents in an agency vehicle near Fredericksburg. Both men had been shot in the back of the head at close range.”

  “What was Crane doing out and about?”

  “Apparently, he had agreed to tell everything he knew about the illegal gun trafficking operation he was running in Mexico in exchange for being able to visit his wife’s grave one last time. Thorn’s keeping me in the loop on what develops.” Devlin jutted out her chin at Randall. “Your turn. You said you discovered something.”

  He fished out a pen from a jacket pocket. “Let
me have one of your business cards.”

  She complied.

  He doodled on the card’s white backside while telling her about his interview with Belinda.

  Devlin laid hands on her hips. “Do you think this guy was a marshal?”

  He lifted an elbow toward the elevator. “She seemed quite sure of what she had seen.” Pivoting his body, so he was shoulder to shoulder with his fellow agent, Randall showed her his sketch. “So this is close to what Faith drew on that piece of paper.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you continue on with this curved line up here and,” he dragged his pen clockwise around the points of the star, “make a circle...then add,” he wrote the letters ‘H-A-L’ after the word ‘MARS,’ “you get—”

  She snatched the illustration from him. “You get Marshal. Faith was trying to tell us U.S. Marshals took her?”

  Randall put away his pen. “It’s possible. That would explain the gun and badge Belinda saw.”

  “Why would marshals kidnap a Seattle detective, the sister of another marshal?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe they weren’t marshals.”

  “Or maybe,” Devlin grabbed his forearm and stared straight ahead before turning toward him, the color in her cheeks fading, “this has something to do with Crane’s escape.”

  Randall slipped hands into pants pockets and scowled at the tips of his shoes for a moment. “The timing of the two events does seem suspicious.” He confronted her. “But we arrested Crane before your sister was taken. How could he have pulled that off from jail?”

  Devlin shook her head. “That means nothing. He could’ve had Faith’s abduction already in the works when we grabbed him. I’ll bet someone even helped him escape, too. Because there’s no way he overpowered two agents while handcuffed.” She recalled her last conversation with the fugitive from justice while she had been arresting him...

  Devlin handed Crane’s pistol to a tactical officer. “And you think that’s going to save you from prison?”

  Crane offered another feeble shrug. “One never knows what strange turn of events lies around the next bend, Jessica. You’d be wise to remember that.”