Justice

by Dustin Stevens

  Koob and his men were supposed to go and surveil the place, getting a visual on the woman that had occupied a far greater percentage of his mind space than a bitch like that should ever be afforded.

  After that, it was only a matter of bringing her in, his orders explicit that he wanted her alive and breathing.

  The things he had planned for her were extensive, and he wanted her awake and cognizant for every last one of them.

  The visit from Koob and his team was supposed to have taken place hours before, meaning there should have at least been a call, some word to let him know how it went. He was the man in charge, the one funding everything, and all information was to go through him.

  A fact Koob knew intimately well, the man so ingrained with military culture that Gerard wasn’t sure he could even think for himself, let alone put together an entire plan that would redirect their course of action.

  Which could only mean that something was wrong.

  The mere thought of such a thing, of that woman getting the better of them even one more time, was more than Gerard could bear to imagine. Not after what had happened before, the fate that had befallen his son.

  The woman would be found, and she would suffer.

  Anything else was a personal affront to him, a slight to his name and his legacy.

  It was those conglomerated thoughts, the swirl of emotion they evoked, that spurred Gerard across the polished white tile of the floor, each footfall landing a bit harder, each swipe of his forehead bringing back a bit more sweat.

  So entranced in his silent rage, he barely heard the first sounds at the door. Not until the second rang out, completing the crescendo, did he stop, his head snapping toward the noise.

  “Yes, Goddamit! Get in here!” he bellowed, taking two steps forward before pulling up short, remembering himself and where he was.

  No matter how dire the situation, appearing to panic before his men was a bad look, one he could not allow to happen.

  Stopping abruptly, he rested a hand on the back of the chair Koob had used the night before, resting the other on his hip just as the door parted, the man in question stepping inside.

  With his features drawn tight, it was impossible to read a thing, his gaze boring into Gerard’s as he covered the ground between them.

  “It’s her,” he said in opening, the extra layer of accent in his tone making it clear he was agitated, for one of the very few times Gerard could remember.

  A feeling that was decidedly at odds with the jolt Gerard felt at the confirmation that Sydney Rye was nearby.

  “You’ve seen her?” he spat. “You have her?”

  “Yes,” Koob said, holding the gaze for a moment before looking away, “and no.”

  Squeezing the back of the chair so tight his fingernails flashed white, Gerard held his pose for a moment before retreating behind his desk. Lowering himself into the chair, he waved at the one he’d just stood over.

  “Sit.”

  Pausing, Koob exhaled slowly before doing just that, his expression making it clear he wasn’t thrilled with the notion, but knew better than to argue. Moving around to the front side, he dropped himself against the thin leather pad, his palms resting on either thigh.

  “It was her snooping around online,” Koob said, “a move we later realized was a trap.”

  “A trap?” Gerard asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  “Yes,” Koob replied, “just as we used the research as a way to spot her, she used it as a way to pull us in.”

  Feeling the muscles of his chest constrict, Gerard fought to keep his features neutral, staring back.

  “And? She fought her way out?”

  “No,” Koob said. “She had a camera on the place, was just looking to confirm who was hunting her.”

  Again, Gerard felt his fingers squeeze tight, this time their target being his own leg, gripping so strong he could feel pinpricks of sensation running down to his ankle.

  “So now she knows it’s us.”

  “Likely always did,” Koob said, saying nothing more, never one to state the obvious.

  To that, Gerard could not disagree, the odds of a nun being murdered so brutally without their being involved a stretch for even the most optimistic person to believe.

  A title he knew Sydney Rye to be incapable of possessing.

  “So now what?” Gerard asked, the earlier feelings returning. Knowing that the person who had evaded him for so long was nearby, that she knew he was close, again set his insides to roiling.

  After two long years, things were steaming toward an ending, a conclusion that should have happened long before.

  Raising a hand, Koob shook his head to either side, the look on his face something close to a grimace. “There’s more.”

  Pausing, he glanced away before returning to look at Gerard square, “After the motel, we spotted Rye near the apartment complex.”

  “And?” Gerard asked, fast tiring of the half-sentences Koob was sputtering, wanting so much to reach out and wrest the story from the man.

  “And Hirsch didn’t make it,” Koob replied.

  The information was of little matter to Gerard, his singular focus the same as a few moments before.

  “Rye?”

  “Arrested.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The congregation was four strong standing outside the interrogation room on the third floor of the 8th Precinct, though Reed had a suspicion that if the rest of the building had their way, there would be five or six times as many pressed tight to the window.

  All angling to catch a glimpse of the woman whose exploits had passed through the CPD grapevine in a matter of minutes. Moving faster than any media report ever could, it had permeated the jurisdiction before Reed even had her loaded into the back of the cruiser belonging to Officers McMichaels and Jacobs.

  By the time they made it in, the whole west side was aware, if not the entire city.

  “She say anything on the drive over?” Reed asked, standing left-center of the group, his hands thrust into the front pockets of his sweatshirt.

  “Not a word,” Officer Wade McMichaels replied, his shoulder just inches away from Reed’s in the middle of the arrangement. A few years younger than Reed, he stood almost the same height, less a couple of pounds, his face made of planes and angles and shaved clean.

  Beside him, capping the far end, was his partner, Tommy Jacobs. The same age as McMichaels, his features were a bit fleshier, his skin dark olive, his mouth encased with a goatee.

  Both standing with their arms folded, Reed could see their images in the reflection of the glass before him. Beyond it sat the woman he had arrested an hour before, her hands clasped around a paper cup, her gaze on the top rim of it.

  “Run it back for me,” Grimes said, his voice deeper, more textured than usual.

  Pausing, Reed ran the list in his mind, making sure he had it in order, before beginning.

  “After leaving your office, Billie and I headed over to the apartment complex to take a look around,” Reed said. “Got there just in time for the media circus to start picking up, so we hooked a right, were trying to figure out our next move when I heard shots fired.

  “Called for backup, saw glass residue on one side of the street, this woman on the other, weapon drawn.”

  Shifting his attention to the reflection of the men, he saw all three listening without expression, staring only at the woman before them.

  “Tried to call her down, but she took off, so I turned Billie loose to hold her. About a block later she gave up, tossed her weapon. I was able to cuff and hold her until these guys showed up, transported her.”

  Being on the K-9 detail, Reed’s sedan was not equipped for carrying a suspect, a fact he didn’t bother inserting.

  “Any sign of who she was after?” Grimes asked.

  “No,” Reed said, his eyebrows climbing slightly up his forehead, “though after we took her into custody, we found a body on the opposite side of the road. Two gunshot w
ounds to the torso, some auxiliary damage that looked a hell of a lot like an animal attack.”

  Beside him, Grimes raised an eyebrow, shifting his attention to see Reed in his periphery.

  “And it wasn’t Billie,” Reed said, sensing what the look was insinuating, “she was on command the entire time.”

  “By Reed’s hip when we arrived,” Jacobs inserted.

  While Reed appreciated the help, he knew what Grimes must have been thinking, would have been on the same page had he not been there himself.

  The amount of time between the first shots fired and his arrival was just minutes. This wasn’t a case of a body left in the woods overnight, a situation where roaming predators could sniff out an easy meal.

  Something had been close, and it had made the most of an opportunity.

  “Any idea who she is, what she was doing there?” Grimes asked.

  “No ID on her person,” Reed said, “though I did find enough weaponry to kick some serious ass. We still haven’t technically booked her yet, so I haven’t had a chance to check prints.”

  “Hmm,” Grimes said, nodding, grunting softly.

  For a moment, the quartet was silent, staring in at the woman, before McMichaels said, “I gotta tell you Captain, that body was the damnedest thing I ever saw.”

  Nodding slightly, Reed added, “And within three blocks of the apartment complex where Cantwell and Hartong were found. No way that’s a coincidence, right?”

  Even as he asked the question, he knew there would be no answer from the group, any opinions they had just as much conjecture as whatever he was thinking at the moment.

  The only person that could possibly answer to anything was sitting on the opposite side of the glass.

  Chapter Thirty

  There was no doubt that a whole gaggle of onlookers was standing on the other side of the glass staring in at Sydney Rye. Over the last few years, she had made a point of avoiding as many police stations as she could, finding that they tended to have a pretty ardent disdain for the particular brand of justice she peddled in.

  Most of them would prefer to leave things to the legal system, the slow as shit process of finding someone, paying to house and feed them for months or even years, and eventually putting them into a court of law where it became a popularity contest or, even worse, a matchup of who could pay for the better attorney.

  Rye preferred something a bit quicker, with much more demonstrative results.

  Judging by the front façade of the building she was now sitting in, the pinched faces of the two young guys that had brought her in, she could imagine this would be worse than most.

  If forced to guess, she would guess a half dozen or more gawkers just like them standing around, coffee cups in one hand, various parts of their anatomy in the other, all trying to figure out exactly who she was or what had happened on that street.

  As if there was a chance in hell at them deciphering either one.

  Sitting at the table, the metal chair she was on beginning to bite into her backside, Rye thought on the optimal way to play things. On how to approach this to best achieve her goals and be on her way.

  Two distinct options were before her, boiled down to the age-old premise of whether or not to tell the truth.

  Not quite about who she was or worked for, that part she knew they would never abide.

  More on the back half of things.

  The thought was still sitting at the forefront of Rye’s mind, dominating her internal monologue, as the door to the room cracked open. Bringing with it a harsh sound of metal turning against itself, it drew her attention upward, only her eyes moving as she flicked them that direction.

  Through it walked the detective that had arrested her, a grown man dressed like a sophomore in high school. With his face drawn neutral, he shut the door behind her and walked in, calmly pulling out the chair on the opposite side of the desk and taking a seat.

  “Who are you?” he opened, placing his hands on the front edge of the table and lacing his fingers.

  Keeping her gaze on him, Rye got her first clear glimpse of the man, from his hair buzzed short enough it didn’t need to be combed to the crow’s feet already forming around his eyes.

  Both signs she had seen before, telltale features of a lifer, someone that was aging prematurely.

  Most likely due to his chosen profession.

  “202-555-8594,” Rye replied, her voice just barely loud enough to be heard.

  His left eye tightening slightly, the man asked, “What was that?”

  “202-555-8594,” Rye repeated, this time raising her voice slightly, loud enough to be heard by those outside without appearing too disrespectful.

  “And what will that get me?” he asked. “A pre-recorded message exonerating you in full?”

  It was clear from the tone the question was meant as bait, poking at her attempt to derail him with nothing more than a phone number.

  “You will get my handler in D.C.,” Rye replied, shifting her head as she spoke, gaze still boring into him. “At the Department of Homeland Security. He will verify my name and assignment.”

  “Which is?”

  If there was any surprise at the mention of the agency, the man did not show it.

  Pausing, Rye exhaled slowly, returning to the question she’d been debating before the door opened.

  “Sydney Rye. I work for a special-assignment detail deep within the government that specializes in a very specific kind of case.”

  Three feet away, the man made no attempt to hide his open appraisal of her, his face giving away nothing of what he was thinking. Lifting his right hand, he extended one finger upward, twirling it in a quick helicopter fashion.

  A signal for one of the minions gathered outside to track her down, to dial the number and keep things going while he pressed on inside.

  Not quite what she expected, but nothing she hadn’t seen before.

  Most officers in places like this fell into one of two clear patterns, either jumping at the mention of a clandestine government group or taking it as a personal challenge to prove they could better them.

  Clearly, this man was in the latter.

  “Okay, Ms. Rye,” the man said, “as you may remember, my name is Detective Reed Mattox, I work K-9 here with the 8th. I believe you also met my partner Billie earlier today.”

  There was no mirth in the comment, no outward sign that it was a jab, though Rye knew better than to take it any other way.

  Or to rise to the provocation.

  Saying nothing, she waited for anything resembling a question, forcing herself not to make a face, to give him anything to seize on.

  No matter how much she wanted to point out that he and his partner both were lucky that she had sent Blue on his way right as they arrived.

  “Let’s start with, what brings you to Columbus?”

  “I already gave you the contact for my handler.”

  “And I have someone checking that,” Mattox replied, “but that doesn’t change the fact that we are currently sitting a long way from Washington, D.C.”

  To that, Rye chose to remain silent, not wanting to divulge too much.

  Especially when she wasn’t entirely certain what answers might lie on the other side of the number she had just spit out for him.

  “Or that you didn’t attempt to identify yourself as an agent when I arrested you,” Mattox said, “nor do you have identification of any kind.”

  A crease appeared between Rye’s brows, her head rocking forward an inch, as she said, “I was working undercover. Not exactly able to bring along a wallet and badge with me.”

  “But you are able to carry a Beretta with the serial number filed off? And a folding knife I’m pretty sure isn’t for cutting a sandwich in half?”

  Not expecting either retort, Rye felt her lips part slightly, her mind racing.

  Already, this was not going as she hoped, the man opposite her making it clear that he wasn’t about to let her away with something as simpl
e as her canned lines about the life of a government agent.

  Something she had only been for a markedly short period of time, her own details on the matter pretty thin, if truly pressed.

  Meaning, as much as she hated the idea, she was going to have to go with the second option before her.

  Cooperation.

  But before she could say as much, a knock sounded out from the glass, shattering the relative quiet of the room.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The last thing Reed Mattox wanted to do was rise from the chair and step out of the interrogation room. Not with the woman just starting to talk, obviously fighting an internal battle between outward loathing at her surroundings and self-preservation.

  Knowing that, he still had to duck out into the hallway, to hear what was on the other side of the phone number she gave him.

  Before that, everything she could be telling him was a farce, the plot to the latest Jason Bourne novel.

  Coupled with the fact that the only person who would dare interrupt was Grimes, he had no choice but to step out, leaving the woman without so much as an, “Excuse me.”

  The same trio of men was still standing there as he exited, McMichaels and Jacobs both having shifted over, filling in the gap he left, all three in a row.

  “Is she full of it?” Reed asked the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

  Both officers glanced to their right in response, making it clear the answer lay with their captain.

  For a moment, Grimes said nothing, the pronounced frown on his face already making the answer clear.

  “No,” he eventually said. “Her story checks out.”

  Having not yet formed an opinion, or even a rooting interest, in the matter, Reed took the news without response, his mind already moving on to the next thing in order.

  “The group is something referred to as Joyful Justice,” Grimes said, “a small subset deep within DHS that sounds a hell of a lot like a bunch of vigilantes.”

  Feeling his eyes narrow, Reed pressed, “And you’re sure this is legit?”

  “Very,” Grimes replied. “The number I called was a handler. After the conversation, I went in through the front door, talked to a handful of people, all of which funneled me back to the same place.”