by Steven James
A metal mesh fence surrounded the property.
A semi was backed up to one of the greenhouses, and a man was loading mannequins into it. Another semi sat nearby, idling. There was a gray sedan parked maybe ten meters from the second truck.
“Looks like we’re gonna need more cuffs,” Ralph muttered.
We called for backup, but in this weather, the best we could hope for was a response time of eight to ten minutes. That wasn’t going to help us if there were people here in immediate danger.
“Are you good to go for it, Pat?”
“I am. What’s the plan?”
“We do this fast and clean. We’ll see if anyone here knows where your wife and stepdaughter are. Start with the guy by the semi and move on from there.”
The two of us made our way along the tree line to the fence.
* * *
+++
After Blake verified with Mannie that the building was set to go up in flames, he met with Ibrahim in the lower level. Once the building had burned down, it would collapse into the basement, where the authorities would eventually find the Syrian’s charred body.
“There’s one more thing I’m going to need from you,” Blake said to him.
“What is that, Fayed?”
“Your hand.”
“My hand?”
“Here.” Blake slipped the KA-BAR’s grip into Ibrahim’s palm and then wrapped his own fingers around it to hold it securely. “Now would be the time to pray, to make peace with God.”
“What?”
“A sacrifice. Just like with Abraham and his son. God is asking me to—”
“No, Fayed.” Ibrahim started to tremble. “I’m not ready to—”
Ibrahim tried to pull away, but Blake swept the knife across the front of the man’s neck. One long, steady swipe to slit his throat.
Like a lamb.
Like a lamb to the slaughter.
Afterward, as Blake was wiping off the blade on a handkerchief, the Matchmaker approached from the stairwell. “Is that how you treat your friends?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m not sure I want to be counted as one.”
You’re not, Blake thought. And I have something even better planned for you.
* * *
+++
Ralph went south at the semi. I buttonhooked around the other side.
Mentally, I clicked through what to do: Assess the nature and severity of the threat. Take immediate action to protect innocent life. Quiet any threats through whatever means necessary.
Two men wearing Transit Corp jackets were gagged and tied up back to back on the ground near one of the trucks.
The drivers?
If so, it just made our job a little easier. Fewer threats to address.
Ralph made it to the semi’s open door while I glanced into the greenhouse, where half a dozen mannequins stood stoically beneath a sprinkler system. Wet, heavy snow was collecting on the glass ceiling above them.
“Hands where I can see them,” I heard Ralph shout.
I rushed over to help and ended up close enough to see what happened next, to watch it all go down.
The man that Ralph was confronting made a fatal mistake. Instead of complying, he drew a handgun. Ralph commanded him to drop it, but the guy raised it toward Ralph’s chest.
Ralph fired.
Three shots. Center mass.
Put him down.
Textbook.
Hot blood splattering across the snow.
While Ralph went to the body to secure the man’s weapon, I gazed into the semi, which was loaded with crates and mannequins. I wasn’t sure how much each of the silent ladies weighed, but I guessed that if they were all made of Selzucaine, with this many we could easily be talking tens of millions of dollars.
But this time, based on what Reese had told us, it wasn’t about the street value; it was about the Tranadyl. As he’d put it, the addicts would be snorting their way “into a coma or a casket.”
Movement in the truck. I leveled my gun. “Hands up!” Then I said to Ralph, “There’s someone in here!”
Fifty meters to the east, I noticed smoke coming from the first-floor windows of the office building.
Ralph joined me near the back of the semi. “Come out!” He repositioned himself to get a more direct line of fire. “And let’s see your hands!”
Suddenly, as if from nowhere, Mannie emerged from behind the crates, passed through the row of mannequins, and agilely leapt to the ground.
“Agent Hawkins,” he said.
“Mannie.”
I thought back to last summer, to the only fight I’d ever known Ralph to come away from without a clear victory—when these two had fought in Detroit. Since Mannie had managed to get away, Ralph considered it a lost fight.
I didn’t know of anyone else who could go mano a mano with Ralph.
Or with Mannie.
The giant held up his hands as he faced me. “Remember at the Field Office when I told you that you’d do what needed to be done? Now’s the time. He’s inside the office.”
“I’ve got this, Pat,” Ralph said to me. “Clear the building. Go!”
I took off in a sprint toward the burning office complex.
* * *
+++
Christie tightened her grip on the keys.
Open the door. Come on, open the door.
But the man who’d taken her didn’t free her. Instead, he drove to the top of a long sloping boat ramp that ended in the river. He angled the car to face the water, then cut off the ignition.
Oh.
Not good.
It might not be the cancer that killed her after all.
It might be the East River.
The old priest at the monastery had told her that obedience was the pathway to deeper love. She wasn’t sure if her loving feelings for God would ever return, but she did know that if it was up to her to regain that love, she would fail.
Always fail.
If it relied on her, her obedience would never be enough.
She needed grace more than anything.
A grace that might not be easy to understand but that would give her the assurance that God loved her, despite how she had failed to love him.
A Scripture verse from Romans came to mind: “Nothing can separate us from the love of God.”
Then, she heard more words in her soul, ones directed at her situation: maybe not words straight from the Bible, but ones that seemed to come straight from the Lord.
Not doubts. Not anger. Not questions. Not fear.
Not life. Not death.
Nothing.
Not lack of love. Not cancer.
No. Nothing can separate you from my love.
A prayer wrenched from deep inside of her: I do believe. Help my unbelief. I do love. Help my lack of love.
The priest had said, “Perhaps it is not your body that is the most in need of healing.”
I need you, God, she prayed. More than ever before. If you don’t heal my cancer, at least heal my heart.
And something stronger than fate warmed her soul, comforted her spirit. The Truth, the Living Truth, the Love of God, welcomed her, and she let herself fall into her Savior’s embrace.
Then Christie’s abductor exited the car, and she got ready to defend herself, but he didn’t open the door for her. Instead, he just stood in the falling snow holding a hammer in his hand, watching another car make its way along the river road toward them.
77
Keeping his gun on Mannie, Ralph held up his handcuffs. “In a minute, you’re going to be wearing these.”
“They can’t hold me.”
“Maybe not, but I can.” Then Ralph had a thought. “It was you, wasn’t it? You turned on that tracking device.
”
Mannie didn’t respond.
“But why?”
“I needed you to find us here in time.”
“And the anonymous call turning Duane Sheldrick in?”
“Yes.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“It’s not about whose side I’m on. It’s about what I’m fighting for.”
“And what is that?”
“Hope.” Mannie reached down to an ankle sheath and removed a combat knife, then tossed it to the side.
“Kneel,” Ralph ordered. “Hands behind your head.”
Mannie knelt.
Slowly, Ralph walked toward the mountain-sized man to cuff him.
* * *
+++
The office was on a slope, and the closest door was on the lower level. I threw it open and—with a sense of both caution and urgency—entered.
The cat.
The mouse.
Which was which?
Which were we?
Although there was a hazy layer of smoke, I didn’t see any flames down here in the basement.
“Hello?” I called. “Blake? Sheldrick?”
As I rounded a corner, I saw, at the far end of the room, a man seated on a chair facing away from me.
“Hands up,” I ordered. “Now!”
He did not comply.
“Let me see your hands!”
Still, he didn’t move.
I approached.
His hair was the wrong color for Blake or Sheldrick and, based on what we knew so far about who was involved in this case, I couldn’t guess who it might be.
However, as I came closer, I realized his head was drooping forward at an impossibly sharp angle.
Then I caught sight of his face.
Middle Eastern descent.
Dead. Throat slit.
Ibrahim?
Maybe.
We’d figure that out later.
A flag with the emblem of The Brigade of the Prophet’s Sword hung nearby, and a video camera sat on a tripod beside it.
* * *
+++
Mannie waited until Ralph was right behind him, then spun and went for the gun.
As they both struggled for it, it went off, the bullet burying itself near their feet in the snow.
Ralph tugged to get free, but Mannie’s strength was unstoppable. He wrenched the Glock away and tossed it far out of reach.
“Let’s settle this like men,” Mannie said.
“Alright.”
“I should tell you, I’ve never lost a fight in my life.”
“Sorry to be the one who’s gonna break that streak.”
Immediately, Mannie threw a punch, but Ralph blocked it. Mannie did the same when Ralph came at him with an uppercut. Then, after backing up to collect themselves, the two titans went at each other in the cascading snow.
* * *
+++
A voice behind me. Blake. “I’ve got a hostage here, Patrick. Do not turn around or he dies.”
78
2:02 P.M.
I froze.
* * *
+++
Timothy turned off the car, made sure he had the X-ACTO knife and the letter opener, and stepped outside to face his father.
* * *
+++
Blake said to me, “Drop your gun. Kick it behind you. Do it now.”
I hesitated.
“If you make me give you a countdown, Duane dies.”
Slowly, I knelt, set down my SIG, and slid it backward toward where Blake’s voice was coming from. Then I stood.
“You can face me now. No sudden moves.”
I turned around.
He was holding a tactical knife to Duane Sheldrick’s neck but now indicated for Duane to pick up the gun, and when he did, Blake stepped away.
Evidently, he hadn’t been planning to kill his associate after all.
Imagine that.
“Do you know where my wife and stepdaughter are?” I asked emphatically.
Blake shook his head. “No, Patrick, I don’t.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“Duane?”
“No.”
Then Blake exchanged weapons with Duane and said to him, “You’ve been waiting for this moment. Go on. He’s all yours.”
The noseless man stalked toward me with that stiff limp of his, and I whipped off my belt to use it to trap his arm and get that knife.
* * *
+++
Mannie grabbed the back door of the truck and swung it at Ralph, smacking him hard enough to knock him off his feet and send him tumbling backward, skidding across the ground.
Crouching, Ralph went in for a low tackle. Grappling was more his thing anyway—get Mannie down, throw on a sleeper hold, put him out.
* * *
+++
Tessa peered out from beneath the blanket she’d been hiding under, then gazed up from the backseat.
Timothy stood next to the driver’s door.
Another car was at the top of a boat ramp nearby, and a beefy, middle-aged man waited beside it. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him before.
Someone was in the backseat of the other car, but from where Tessa sat, she couldn’t tell who it was.
* * *
+++
I expected that Blake would either leave the burning office building or stand by to watch the fight, but instead, he crossed the room and headed up the stairs toward the heart of the blaze.
What is he doing? Why doesn’t he take off?
“Put down that knife,” I told Duane.
“I will when I’m done with it. When I’m done with you.”
I snapped the belt taut between my hands to wrap that wrist once he came close enough. “You’re the Matchmaker, aren’t you?”
“Some people call me that.” He jabbed the knife toward me but didn’t fully commit. I held my ground.
“And the Selzucaine too?” I said. “Was that you as well?”
“All part of the bigger picture.”
“Why did you come to the cemetery on Sunday night?”
“I thought I was going to meet him there.”
“Meet who?”
“The donor.”
“Who is it? Who’s the donor?”
Duane scoffed. “You have no clue, do you? You have no idea how deep this goes.”
Actually, I was starting to.
“The quantum encryption,” I said. “It all goes back to that research. To Jon’s internship.”
Then he flattened out his smile, and I got the sense we were done chatting.
As he swept the blade toward my abdomen, I went to secure his arm, but he must’ve anticipated the move because he pulled back before I could get to him. He flicked the knife around into a military grip and lunged forward, but I managed to pivot to the side in time to evade him. I readied myself for him to come at me again but then Blake reappeared on the stairs.
“I changed my mind,” he said to Duane. “You are my friend.”
Then he shot him twice in the face and spun to return up the stairs.
And I raced after him.
* * *
+++
Timothy faced his father. “How many people have you killed?”
“The number doesn’t matter.”
There’s a number for everyone.
“Yes, it does!”
His dad passed the hammer back and forth threateningly between his hands.
“Did you kill Mom?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And Julianne? And Miranda?”
“I killed them all, Timothy. All the people around you who’ve been disappearing.”
/> Timothy felt a tide of grief wash through him. “But why?”
“It’s always been a part of me, and working for the FBI just made every death richer, purer, more satisfying.”
What? The FBI?
But at least that explained a few things—like how he got the camera that was in the house and how he managed to locate Blake’s email address.
“You’re sick,” Timothy said.
“Then I do not want to be well.”
* * *
+++
Tessa craned her neck to see who was in the backseat of the other car but still couldn’t make out the person’s face.
Screw it. I’m not staying here.
Bringing the gun with her, she climbed out and headed through the blowing snow toward the other vehicle.
* * *
+++
Timothy had an idea.
Morgellons. The bugs. Mental deterioration.
“You know about my condition?” he said to his father.
“Yes. You’re the one who’s sick.”
He may have watched you in the living room but he hasn’t watched you cut.
Timothy Sabian tugged off his shirt.
* * *
+++
Tessa could see that the novelist’s chest and stomach were laced with scars and open sores. His arms were crisscrossed with more wounds.
Though her mom would’ve said she was taking the Lord’s name in vain, she still found herself whispering, “Oh my God.”
As he stood there shirtless in the snowstorm, Timothy produced an X-ACTO knife from his pocket.
“Help me make them go away,” he said to the man. As Timothy walked forward, he drew the blade across his skin, leaving red, leaking streaks behind. “They just won’t go away. They’re getting worse.”
“Put down the knife.” The guy sounded rattled. It didn’t look like he’d noticed her yet.
“I just want to be free of the bugs.” Timothy passed the blade to his left hand and went to work on his right arm. “Always crawling. Always here. Always always always.”