by A. C. Fuller
Warren disappeared into the restroom. Cole stood to get another shot. As she turned toward the bar, movement across the street caught her eye.
The red door opened. An old man limped out.
28
She froze. It was him. Michael Wragg. She recognized his limp from the video Mazzalano had shown her. His croaky voice still lived inside her.
She shot a look toward the bathrooms.
“Ma’am, can I help you?” the bartender asked.
“Tell my friend I went across the street. I’ll come back to pay…”
She ran out and ducked behind a van. She’d left her jacket behind, so the freezing rain soaked through her shirt as Wragg limped down the street and into Trần’s Fried Fish. A minute later, he exited and walked back to the red door. Stopping under the awning, he pressed his face into the white plastic bag and inhaled.
She glanced into the bar. Warren was still in the bathroom.
Casually, she strolled across the street as Wragg opened the door and entered. He disappeared up the stairwell as the door closed slowly on its hinge. Cole jogged the last few paces, then lunged with her right foot, sticking it in the crack before the door closed. She listened as Wragg ascended the concrete steps.
She had two options. Follow Wragg up the stairs, or wait for Warren to come looking for her, then confront Wragg together. But Warren might convince her to call the police, and her journalistic instincts had kicked in. She wanted to be first to the story. That wasn’t the only reason she was tempted to follow him up. Wragg’s email was seared into her mind. He knew something about Matt.
She rubbed the spot on her lower back where he’d pressed the knife. There was a Band-Aid over it now, and it stung. As she pressed into it, the rage rose in her chest. The static followed the rage, overwhelming it but leaving the urge to pursue the man who’d used her grief against her.
She stepped forward, but something stopped her. Warren’s voice in her head, telling her to take a beat. She had to wait for him.
“Yes,” Warren said. “W-R-A-G-G. You got the address?…Yes…Yes…Thank you.”
He ended the call and stepped out of the restroom. Cole was no longer at the table.
He ran to the counter. “Where’d she go?”
“Across the street. Didn’t pay, either. Can you please—”
Warren sprinted for the exit and saw Cole standing in the doorway of Wragg’s building. She waved him over.
“He came out,” she whispered, glancing up the stairwell. “Then went back upstairs. Let’s go.”
She turned to head into the building, but Warren grabbed her shoulder. “Wait a sec. Where did he go when he left?”
“Fish place on the corner.”
Warren looked down the block, then stepped back from the building and looked up, taking in the size and layout. “Wait here.” He jogged down the block, peered into Trần’s Fried Fish, and stopped at the alley just past the restaurant.
An old metal fire escape led up to the third floor. Wragg’s apartment.
Returning to Cole, he said, “Fire escape. I’ll climb it, you creep up to the door and wait until you hear me.”
She nodded apprehensively.
Warren put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll wait until you hear me, right?”
“Got it.”
She disappeared into the building as Warren jogged back to the alley. He stopped below the retractable ladder, designed to bridge the gap between the alley and the first landing of the fire escape. But the ladder would let out a screech if he pulled it down. He shot a look up and down the alley, then leapt and grabbed a metal slat on the landing. Like a pole dancer, he kicked his legs up over his head and used his arms to push himself up and over the railing.
As he landed on the grated metal landing, his prosthetic foot slipped between a crack. He tugged at it angrily, but it caught between the slats, pulling the socket loose from the spot where it connected to his knee. The prosthetic fell onto the landing with a loud clang.
Back pressed into the wall, Cole ascended the first twelve steps, stopping on the second floor landing. She peered up toward Wragg’s door. Everything was silent.
Slowly, she climbed the remaining flight of stairs, stopping in front of Wragg’s door, listening for Warren between her steady, quiet breaths.
In the apartment, Wragg heard footsteps in the hallway. He dropped the bag of fish on the desk and pulled a silenced .22 from the drawer. He was probably about to be arrested, or killed, but he’d take out one or two of them on his way out.
At the door, he looked through the peephole, expecting to see a team of men in suits or tactical gear. He smiled when he saw Jane Cole, the pretty, blue-eyed reporter with straight black hair.
The .22 in his right hand, he swung open the door with his left, grabbed her by the hair, and yanked her into his apartment.
Warren crouched to pick up his prosthetic. Luckily, the upper portion was too wide to fit through the slots. Sweat beading on his forehead, he looked up. His left leg was strong enough to hop up the two remaining stories, but what if he had to fight? He had to reattach it.
Sitting, he smoothed the cloth sheath that he wore like a large sock over his knee and began to attach the leg.
29
Cole held her breath in the corner.
A dog lay beside her, breathing weakly. He appeared to be at death’s door.
“Did you ring the bell half an hour ago?” Wragg’s voice was unmistakably that of the man from last night.
She let out a long, slow breath, trying to calm herself. “Yes. I’m not armed.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. I’m not police, I think you know. Just a reporter.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to ask you some questions, that’s all.” Warren would be looking for her. She needed to stay alive as long as she could. She needed to keep him talking, but couldn’t think of a good lie. “You were paid by Chandler Price, correct?”
Wragg spat at her. A thick wad of green phlegm landed between her and the dog. “Paid? You make it sound like I’m a hired killer. I’m a freedom fighter. Chandler, too. He’s one of our benefactors.”
“Benefactors to do what? What is this about?”
Something dinged in the corner and Cole followed the sound to Wragg’s desk. A computer with a large monitor. Gun still on Cole, he backed up slowly. His eyes darted to the screen, then back to Cole. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Cole let the room fall away. She had tunnel vision for Wragg. His gray-blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, his scarred face pinched and anxious. “Where are the other eight rifles?”
He flinched. “You know about those?”
His computer dinged again. His eyes moved back and forth from the screen to Cole.
“We know everything,” Cole said.
“We?”
“Me and...my colleagues. If you kill me, everything comes out.” Cole tried to convey confidence, to fake self-assuredness. “You think I’d come here without a plan? If they don’t hear from me within an hour...”
Wragg swiveled his office chair and sat, gun still on Cole. “You’re lying.”
Something important was happening on the screen. Something he wanted to read. It pulled his attention toward it and away from her. Wragg still trained the gun on her, and he could fire at any moment, but his mind was on the screen.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Jefferson.” He looked back and forth between her and the screen. “I should have named him Hamilton.” He laughed. “Because he’s weak.”
“How did you know about Monkey Tree? And Matty?”
He glanced at her, a strange smile on his face, but said nothing.
Cole saw movement at the window. A hand. She looked at Wragg. “Are you chatting with whoever has the other eight weapons?”
He stood, smiling broadly. His crooked yellow teeth filled her view. “You know much less than you think.” He aimed the g
un at her chest. “A moment ago I told you you’d understand everything soon enough. You won’t.”
A loud scraping came from the window. Jefferson perked up suddenly and yelped. Cole followed the dog’s head as it turned.
Warren’s feet swung through the window into the apartment. His torso followed.
Wragg spun around and aimed the .22. “Jefferson, sic him!”
The dog leapt up, but lunged toward Wragg as the old man fired wildly.
30
Warren heard two shots as he swung his head into the apartment. The first missed entirely and the second struck his prosthetic leg and ricocheted into the wall. Cole was in the corner, Wragg standing by his computer, a black and white dog nipping at his heels.
Leaping to his feet, Warren lowered his shoulder and bolted toward Wragg. He launched himself over the dog, striking Wragg in the chest before he could get off another shot. They toppled over the chair, Wragg slamming the corner of the desk and falling to the floor. Warren landed beside him.
The computer crashed to the floor. Fried fish erupted from a container, splattering the screen. The baseball bat display case slid off the desk and shattered on the floor. The bat rolled across the wooden floor and stopped at Cole’s feet.
Fumbling with his grip on the gun, Wragg rolled toward the window.
Cole grabbed the bat and jumped up.
Warren dove onto Wragg and slammed his wrist back, jarring the gun loose.
Cole kicked it across the room.
A hand on each wrist, Warren pressed Wragg into the floor. Half his size, the old man had no chance of escape. He wasn’t even trying.
Cole followed Wragg’s gaze to the computer screen, still lit up but speckled with grease and tiny bits of garlic and green onion.
She saw it in his eyes. For the first time, the old man looked afraid.
Thinking quickly, Cole stowed the bat in the crook of her arm and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. Crouching next to the computer, she took a photo of the screen. She wiped away some of the food. Adrenaline coursed through her body and her hand shook as she snapped more photos.
Jefferson had grabbed a fish carcass and was devouring it in the corner.
Still pinned, Wragg said, “You stupid bastard.” He spat in Warren’s face. “Aren’t you that cop who broke that guy’s face? You gonna break mine?”
In one deft move, Warren spun him onto his stomach. “Throw me that tape.”
Cole tossed him a roll of silver duct tape that had spilled out of a desk drawer. Warren bound Wragg’s wrists, then sat him up and stood over him. Cole stood next to him.
Wragg frowned at them contemptuously. “A lying journalist and a disgraced cop.”
Cole gripped the bat tight. “Shut up.”
Wragg looked at Warren. “She let you into her yet?” Then to Cole. “Monkey Tree, please tell me you’re not banging this guy? What would your dear dead Matty think?”
Warren glared down at him. “Shut the hell up, old man.”
Through the static, the rage moved inside Cole. Wragg’s head was at the perfect level. Waist high.
“Monkey Tree,” Wragg said, “I have a confession to make. I don’t actually know what happened to Matty. But I do know one thing. When there’s so little information about a military death, it usually means friendly fire. Or a cover-up. You know why we’re in Afghanistan, right? Your husband was a servant to bankers and globalists. Oil monarchs and the CIA. Not his fault. He probably didn’t know any better. Or maybe he does know better and he went AWOL. Hell, maybe he found himself a nice Afghan wife. Monkey Tree 2.0?”
Cole imagined swinging the bat. She felt strong enough to knock his head off clean with a single swing.
“I’m not saying he was sacrificed, but if you don’t believe the people in charge would do it, you’re naive. Hell, maybe he killed himself to get away from his bitch journalist wife.”
She jerked the bat back, ready to strike.
“Jane!” Warren’s voice cut through the static. “Jane.” His hand was on her shoulder, pulling her back gently. “Jane, you can’t.”
She let out a long breath and tears filled her eyes.
Warren took the bat.
There was a sudden movement on the floor. Wragg had lunged down and kicked a leg toward the computer. Warren dropped on top of him.
Wragg’s front door swung open and Cole looked up.
Two officers stood in the doorway. “Nobody move!” one of them yelled.
Cole put her hands up.
Warren held Wragg on the ground, his back to the door.
“Up. Get off him,” the officer yelled.
“Sir, I am Robert Warren, NYPD sixth precinct. Currently on paid leave. His weapon is there.” He nodded at Wragg’s .22, a yard away on the floor.
“Stand slowly, hands up.”
Warren stood slowly, hands on his head, then stepped aside. As he did, Wragg kicked the computer screen violently. Once. Twice. A third time.
“Don’t move!” the officer shouted.
He kicked again, cracking it. Rolling over, he yanked at the cord, pulling it from the wall, then collapsed on the floor, panting.
“Don’t move again. We will shoot you.”
Wragg was still.
“Stand slowly, with your hands up.”
Wragg obeyed.
“Turn around.”
He turned toward them, a grin across his face. “An international brotherhood, united by General Ki to carry out a singular mission: to bring an end to the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.”
He took a tiny step back, then another, inching toward the window. In an instant, Cole knew what he was going to do.
“Don’t move!” the officer shouted.
Another step. “I’m free.” He said it quietly, as though to himself.
“Do. Not. Move.”
Wragg spun on his heels and dove through the open window, crashing onto the fire escape. He stood, wobbling, as one of the officers reached the window and swiped at his leg. Before he could reach him, Wragg threw himself over the metal railing of the fire escape.
After a second, Cole heard the meaty thwack of his body hitting the pavement three stories below.
31
Wednesday
Cole studied her boss’s eyes. She’d never before been able to read Max Herr, but she could now. His hands were folded neatly in his lap. He hadn’t stroked his beard once this morning. She didn’t know why he was lying, only that he was.
“You had the Warren story right from the beginning,” he said. “We’re not running a retraction.”
“I had the facts right, but I was missing context. I can’t write about the new information I have. But a simple retraction saying something like, ‘We may have published with incomplete information and the public deserves to see the outcome of the official inquiry.’ Easy.”
“I talked to a couple sources in the department and they wouldn’t give me any details. They assured me that Warren is a bad apple. A brutal cop. Then I don’t hear from you for two days and you want to run a retraction based on a video you claim to have seen? Jane, no.”
“Max, c’mon, have the decency not to lie to my face. What the hell is going on? First you ask me to continue looking into it, then I do and now you’re stonewalling me?”
He stood, flummoxed, then sat back down. “Fine,” he sighed, his demeanor changing suddenly. “But it doesn’t leave this room, okay?”
She nodded.
“Local community groups want blood on this, and the police department is gonna give it to them. They’re gonna dump Warren around Christmas when no one is looking. We don’t need to run a retraction. You said it yourself. Nothing in your story was wrong.”
It hit her like a kick to the stomach. She stood, fists clenched. “They’re gonna fire him? What about the union, the trial, or whatever?”
He shook his head.
“If we raise hell,” she continued pas
sionately, “we could save him. I’m telling you, there is context the public needs to know.”
“It’s over, Cole. His career is over.”
“What are we doing here if we’re not willing to fight on this?”
Max leaned back in his chair. “Living to fight another day.”
There was a long silence, then her boss said, “We need to talk about what happened yesterday. I know you’re not going to write about yourself, but you understand we have to report on it. Susan will want to interview you about what happened inside Wragg’s apartment.”
Cole frowned. “Hope she enjoys hearing, ‘No comment.’”
She’d spent the evening with the police, explaining how she’d come to be in Michael Wragg’s apartment. In a brief exchange with Warren before they’d been driven in separate cars to the police station, she’d convinced him to lie. “Tell them you heard screaming and climbed the fire escape. Tell them we’ve never met. I didn’t break any laws and I don’t have to give up my sources. I’ll take all the heat.”
And that’s exactly what she’d done. She’d gotten the interview with Margaret Price, which had tipped her off to Chandler Price. An anonymous tip had connected Price to Wragg and she’d ended up in his apartment. Nope, she’d never met Robert Warren, but she was lucky he happened to be at the fish restaurant when she started screaming. That’s what she’d told the police.
She’d called Max Herr from the station, telling him what happened and suggesting that he assign another reporter to follow up on the story. No official statement had been issued by the police connecting Wragg to the murder of Raj Ambani, but it would drop soon.
“Max, please, I can’t walk out of here without trying one last time. Run a retraction on my Robert Warren story.”
“No.”
She thought for a minute, then said something she’d never imagined saying. “Then I quit.”
