Retribution

by John Sneeden

  Drenna stopped, her senses on alert. She could tell from the man’s posture that he wasn’t some random punk wandering around. He had been waiting there for her to come through.

  She studied his appearance. He was about six feet tall, and although she couldn’t see what color it was, she could tell that his hair was slicked back tightly over his head.

  Hair Gel. Wayne. The man from the bar.

  Hearing movement behind her, she turned and looked back. Another man stood at the corner she had just passed. This one was also in his late fifties or early sixties, with a bald head and goatee. Although she couldn’t see the details of his face, Drenna knew it was Bent Nose, one of the other two men who had been sitting at the table.

  That meant the third man—Red Face—was missing. She guessed he was probably waiting in a car at the front of the building, watching to make sure no one else approached while they took care of business. Once his two partners were through beating her to a pulp, Red Face would pull around to the back and pick them up. That or they would attempt to put her in the car. Neither of those things was going to happen.

  “You got a smart mouth on you, princess,” Hair Gel said.

  Drenna turned toward him. He walked slowly in her direction.

  “Oh yeah?” she said. “Hurt your little feelings, did I?”

  He came to a quick stop. Even though she couldn’t see his expression, she could tell he hadn’t expected the sharp remark. Her boldness seemed to startle him. She was being threatened by two men who were larger than her, and she hadn’t attempted to apologize or run off. On the contrary, she had chosen to insult him instead.

  She had succeeded in planting a small seed of concern.

  “You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that,” he sneered as he started toward her again.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, Drenna backed away from the building in order to keep her eye on both men. The two adjusted their course and followed her out into the parking lot behind the store. It was a triangle of combatants.

  As they came out of the shadows, she could see them more clearly. Hair Gel held something that looked like a short pipe or a baton. The other man appeared to be unarmed, although she had to consider the likelihood that he might have a knife or some other small weapon on him.

  Having fought with countless combatants over the years, Drenna knew that middle-aged men, while sometimes strong, had nervous systems that were no longer what they used to be. Peripheral neurons often transmitted messages more slowly. Over time, waste products collected in the brain and along the nerve tissues themselves. While subtle, the changes slowed an older person’s reaction time in markedly distinct ways. She had never encountered a man in his fifties or older who could react as quickly as she could.

  Drenna was still under the influence of the alcohol, but the men were too. She remembered seeing three pitchers of beer on their table—one was half full, and the other two were empty. She guessed drunkenness had contributed to their desire for revenge.

  Her right thigh was in a lot of pain, but she didn’t believe that would affect her ability to fight. Her leg was fully functional, though it would hurt like the devil if she had to use it.

  She came to a stop near a parked car. As the men continued toward her, she noticed the man with the bent nose moved more cautiously than Hair Gel, an indication he had become wary of the woman who didn’t have fear in her eyes. After processing that information, Drenna decided to attack Hair Gel first. If she could rough him up, the other man would fold like a cheap suit.

  This won’t take long.

  When Hair Gel was ten yards out, Drenna rushed in his direction. He stopped, clearly taken off guard by the bold move. He spread his legs slightly in a fighter’s stance, but his balance was all wrong. His weight was on his heels, and his arms were spread out too far. That would make it difficult to launch an attack of his own, and it would also make it easier to knock him over.

  Drenna closed the gap quickly. Although her opponent was a large man who had probably been in quite a few fights over the years, he hadn’t been trained in the fine art of hand-to-hand combat. When she was several feet away, he did exactly what she thought he would do—he took a wild swing with the baton. She ducked and waited for the momentum of the miss to turn his body slightly to the side. When it did, she used her left leg to deliver a powerful kick to the back of his right knee.

  He grunted and stumbled forward. As he did, Drenna brought her right knee up, shattering the bone behind his nose. He teetered for a moment then slumped onto the pavement. Out cold.

  She grabbed his baton and swiveled around. The man with the bent nose was only about ten feet away. She noticed he held a phone in his left hand. She smiled to herself. After seeing what had just happened, he had probably decided it was time to call in backup.

  Realizing he didn’t have time to dial, he slipped the phone into his pocket. When his hand came back out, it held a knife. He flicked it open, revealing a blade of at least four inches.

  Like the man with the gel, he took a fighter’s stance, with his legs spread apart and the knife held out to one side. Drenna saw his right hand twitching, a sign that the fight was one he didn’t want to have.

  “Drop the knife, and I’ll let you leave without getting hurt,” she said.

  The man crouched slightly but said nothing. No taunts. No statements of bravado. He had seen the beating his partner had taken and was clearly rattled.

  “Don’t say I never warned you,” she continued.

  Then something entirely unexpected happened. Bent Nose charged in her direction. It had been a desperate move, but it was also effective. Caught off guard, Drenna dove to her left. She rolled across the asphalt until she was sure she was out of harm’s way. As she rose to her feet, she felt a sharp sting on her upper arm. Her reaction had been too slow, probably the result of consuming too much alcohol. As a result, the blade had managed to slice a cut across her deltoid.

  The baton. She looked down. It wasn’t in her hand. She must have dropped it during her roll.

  She turned and faced Bent Nose, who stood a few feet away. A smile played on his face as he realized she was no longer holding a weapon. Winning that small battle seemed to have infused him with renewed confidence.

  “You little slut,” the man sneered as he rushed her again.

  This time, she was ready. As he swiped at her with the knife, she grabbed his wrist with one hand and punched him squarely in the jaw with the other. The blow knocked him sideways. As he stumbled forward, she kicked his rear end, sending him face-first onto the pavement. Like a UFC fighter intent on finishing off an opponent, she ran over, straddled his back, and delivered a series of powerful blows to the back of his head.

  Several seconds later, she got up and stared at the man’s body. He wasn’t moving.

  She put her hands on her knees and caught her breath. Despite dispatching both men with only a small cut to show for it, she knew the night had become an unmitigated disaster. Not only had she exposed herself in a public bar, but she had also beaten up two locals.

  But there was at least one silver lining: The men wouldn’t report the incident to the police. They had been embarrassed, and the secret would stay between them. Getting beaten up by a woman wouldn’t exactly do wonders for their status at the bar.

  As Drenna turned to walk off, she saw a flare of light on the ground a few feet away.

  Bent Nose’s phone.

  It must have come out of his pocket when he went down.

  She walked over and picked it up. The screen was lit with an incoming text. She opened it and read the message: What’s taking so long? You need me to come back there?

  It was the third man, the one with the red face.

  Smiling, Drenna typed a response.

  Give us another ten minutes. We’re having a little fun with this whore.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Arlington, Virginia

  Mack Delgado drove down the quiet tree-lined street tha
t ran perpendicular to Clarendon Boulevard. Luxury apartments and condominium buildings rose on either side. The entire area was upscale, which was surprising.

  Gabe Corbin checked the map on his phone then pointed through the windshield. “That’s it.”

  Delgado turned in to the narrow parking lot that wrapped around a ten-story glass tower. Drenna Steel’s residence was located on the seventh floor. The unit had been provided by the CIA, although there seemed to be some disagreement about whether she actually spent any time there.

  Nathan Sprague had asked them to come over and secure Drenna’s apartment in the wake of her death. While it was a violation of CIA protocols to keep sensitive material in a personal residence, it was widely known that many employees did exactly that. For some, it was impossible to keep up with the heavy workload unless they could take some of it home with them. Others just didn’t care about the rules.

  Corbin stared at the building. “Wow. So this is where they put her up?”

  Delgado backed into a shaded spot underneath a tree then put the car in Park. “Yes, although I wonder if she really spent any time here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You know Drenna. She was always a very private person.”

  Corbin took off his seat belt. “Why don’t they put us up in a place like this?”

  “I think you’re doing all right for yourself.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ve paid for everything I have.”

  They exited the car and shut their doors.

  “I think our return on investment was pretty good with Drenna,” Delgado countered.

  Corbin looked across the vehicle’s roof and lifted a brow. “Return on investment?”

  Delgado realized the remark sounded a little cold. “Sorry. That didn’t come out right. She spilled her blood and guts for the nation, so giving her a place to live a few weeks out of the year seems a small price to pay.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Besides, she isn’t the only one we put up in this place. I’m told the folks in HR call it Spook Tower.”

  As they crossed the parking lot, Delgado wondered what they might find inside. Even though they were sent to look for any documents and electronic devices their former partner might have left behind, he was more interested in looking for signs she had been there since the accident. With each passing hour, he became more convinced she was alive. They had spoken to Sheriff Wilkins a few hours before, and he indicated they still hadn’t found her body despite having very good data on where currents would have taken it. Wilkins said coyotes might have gotten to it, but Delgado wasn’t buying that.

  When they arrived at the front entrance, Delgado swept the key fob over a small pad, and the glass door clicked open.

  “Talk about fancy,” Corbin said.

  The two entered the lobby and crossed to the single elevator on the other side. If possible, the interior seemed even more opulent than the exterior. Every single thing looked like it had just been shined minutes before.

  Delgado hit the call button.

  Corbin nodded at a sign posted on the wall that gave the location of the building’s amenities. “Not sure why you’d ever want to leave this place. Gym and juice bar on the tenth floor. Pool on the roof.”

  “I truly doubt Drenna had time for all that.”

  “I would’ve made time.”

  After the elevator arrived, the two entered, and Delgado pressed the button for the seventh floor. As the car began its ascent, he noticed a 360-degree security camera overhead. That was in addition to the four cameras he had counted in the lobby. It probably explained why the agency had chosen to house a number of agents on the property. The security was top-notch for a private facility.

  “I seriously doubt she kept anything here,” Corbin said as they disembarked into the seventh-floor hallway.

  “You’re probably right, but it needs to be checked off.”

  After walking to room 704, Delgado used the fob to open the door to Drenna’s apartment. The light from the hallway sliced through the dark interior. Delgado flicked on the overhead lights then entered what appeared to be the unit’s living room.

  Corbin followed him in and shut the door behind them. “Not what I expected.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “Something much bigger, for one thing.”

  Delgado nodded as he stepped farther into the room. The apartment was small, but Delgado was more intrigued that the place seemed empty. The spartan furnishings consisted of a couch, two comfortable chairs, a coffee table, and a flat-screen television. A stack of magazines sat on the table, but other than that, there appeared to be nothing of a personal nature.

  “Are we at the right place?” Corbin asked.

  “It has to be,” Delgado said. “The key wouldn’t have worked if we weren’t.”

  Corbin nodded at the open kitchen to the right. “Why don’t you start there, and I’ll check down the hall.”

  “Roger that.”

  As Corbin walked off, Delgado entered the kitchen and opened the cabinet doors one at a time. He found a few basic items: aluminum foil, plastic wrap, sandwich bags, and a bottle of Windex. Interestingly, none of the boxes seemed to have been opened.

  Seeing nothing of interest, he went to the refrigerator and opened the door. Four bottles of water stood in a perfect row on the top shelf, but that was it. No butter. No eggs. No perishable items of any kind.

  He wondered what it all meant. The agency probably stocked each apartment with a few basics, so it was possible Drenna didn’t use the apartment at all. That or perhaps she just used it as a place to sleep when left with no other options. Drenna had a sister who lived in the DC area and possibly lived with her.

  As Delgado returned to the living room, he saw on the right side of the television a small table that he hadn’t seen before. On the table was a frame that appeared to display a photograph of Drenna and a man standing in front of the Jefferson Memorial. It was the first sign that she had actually been inside.

  He walked over and picked up the frame. It was one of those electronic versions that rotated digital photographs every half minute or so. Delgado studied the man standing next to Drenna. He had dark hair and appeared to be around forty. Trevor Lambert. The man who had died in the accident. It had to be him.

  Seconds later, a new photograph appeared. This one depicted Drenna standing next to another woman at an outdoor pool party. Drenna had her right hand on the woman’s shoulder and used the other one to clutch a glass of white wine. The other woman had light-brown hair, and something about her facial features resembled Drenna. It had to be her sister.

  Delgado had started to set the frame back on the table when he noticed something interesting—a bracelet on Drenna’s left wrist. Frowning, he pulled the photo in for a better look. Two tiny charms dangled from a silver cuff.

  His heart beat a little faster.

  A silver cuff with two charms. Surely, that wasn’t a coincidence. Although he couldn’t see the precise shape of the charms, they were about the size of the ones on the bracelet Delgado had found at the river. And if it was the same bracelet, then…

  “Find anything?”

  Corbin’s voice pulled Delgado out of his thoughts.

  “Just this frame.” He held it up. “Drenna’s in the photographs, so I guess she’s been here at some point.” He set it on the table. “What about you?”

  “Some hangers in the closet and a towel in the bathroom that was wrinkled like it had been used.”

  Delgado nodded. Even though she had obviously been here, it was still strange to find so little in the way of personal items. Had she recently moved in with her boyfriend? Suddenly, another possibility surfaced in his thoughts. If she was alive, maybe she had already come in and cleaned the place out. It would have been a bold move, but he couldn’t rule it out.

  “Has anyone else been here?” Corbin asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe HR sent some peopl
e over to start clearing things out.”

  “Then that would defeat the purpose of sending us.”

  Corbin shrugged. “Just seems odd to find the place so empty.”

  “I agree.”

  Delgado drew the blinds, revealing a sliding glass door and a balcony. He slid the unlocked door open then stepped out. He went to the rail and looked down. A small park was behind the building, and beyond that was Clarendon Boulevard.

  Hearing a click, Delgado turned to see his partner coming up beside him and lighting a cigar.

  “You’re really going to smoke that here?” Delgado asked.

  “Don’t be such a stiff.”

  The two stood silently at the rail. Corbin puffed on his cigar while Delgado focused on the bracelet. It was the first time that tangible evidence seemed to confirm what he had sensed from the very beginning, that Drenna Steel might really be out there somewhere.

  “You want to tell me what’s wrong?” Corbin asked through a cloud of smoke.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That look. I’ve seen it many times before. It’s the ‘something is bothering me’ look.”

  Delgado weighed his response. Should he tell his partner about the discovery? Maybe he should. Corbin was sharp and likely wasn’t going to let go. Not only that, but if Drenna was still alive, then it would help to have someone else to bounce things off of. “I think Drenna is still alive.”

  “I guess that makes two of us.”

  Surprised, Delgado turned toward his partner. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Touché. I was waiting for something to hang my hat on, and I think I just found it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Delgado paused to determine his next words. He decided on the direct approach. “I found a bracelet along the river, and Drenna is wearing one just like it in that photograph I was looking at.”

  Corbin’s expression twisted into a mixture of shock and anger. “When was this? You mean you went back to the river?”