Vengeance is Mine

by Alex Ander

  Digging the right heel of her black chunky one-inch high heels into the brittle planks, she scooted backwards, until she came to the end of the porch, her upper body thrust against the bowing handrail. A split-second later, the door exploded when Peterson’s bulk crashed through it. Cruz saw the slide locked back on his weapon and slid her index finger from the trigger to the frame. She shouted. Still recovering from being shot, her commands were mixed with coughs. “Stop…right…there.”

  Peterson let go of his sidearm, leapt from the porch and landed in the bed of the truck. Scrambling over the side, he climbed into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.

  Cruz struggled to get to a standing position. With every movement, the sharp needle-like sensations pricked her back. Taking inventory of her injuries, she felt lucky. Ashford appeared on the porch and dashed to her side. His voice was strained when he addressed her.

  “Cruz, are you hurt? Are you okay? Did he shoot you?” Bobbing his head up and down and flicking his eyes left and right, he searched for bullet wounds.

  Bent over and her head hanging down, she waved him off. “I’m good. I took them in the vest.” She coughed. “I’m good.” Her left arm jerked toward the truck. “Take the left side. I’ll come up on the right.” Ashford ran toward the handrail on the opposite side of the porch, crashing through it, instead of going over it. Cruz rose to her full height, arched her back and leaned from side to side. Having cut the fuel line on the truck, she was in no hurry to go after Peterson. He was going nowhere and his empty weapon was lying on the porch. With a two-handed grip on her service weapon, she took the single step off the porch and drew alongside the right window of the truck, staying several feet back from the door.

  Since getting into the truck, Peterson had been cranking the engine nonstop. Groaning, the battery hardly had enough power to engage the starter. He turned the key again, but all he heard were the commands of Special Agent Cruz.

  “End of the line, Peterson.” Cruz was staring at him over the sights of her pistol. She shifted her eyes to the left. Ashford had drawn up on the left side of the truck, stopping short of creating a deadly crossfire situation between the two of them. “Exit the vehicle with your hands up.”

  Peterson rotated his head to the left and stared down the muzzle of Ashford’s pistol. He swung his head back toward Cruz. His mind searched for any weapons he may have stashed on his person or in the truck—nothing. He was not stupid. He had no cards to play and he knew it.

  “Hands, Peterson…I need to see those hands.” Fixing her gaze on Peterson, Cruz’s eyes narrowed. “And, if I see anything in them…it won’t end well for you.”

  Ashford barked a similar command, but his voice boomed in the stillness of the quiet night. “Get out, now!”

  Peterson raised his right hand, while opening the door with his left. He swung his legs outward and slid out of the seat, while Ashford took a step backward.

  Cruz moved around the front of the truck, stopping at the left corner. “On your knees…get on your knees.”

  Peterson was out of options, but he was not going to go out without some satisfaction. His hands at his sides, barely above his waist, he pivoted to face his female opponent. A crooked grin formed on his lips. “You get on your knees, bit—”

  Ashford had advanced and driven his foot into the back of Peterson’s knee, dropping him and cutting him off in mid-sentence. Ashford followed with a blow to the back of Peterson’s head, propelling the disgraced border guard forward, until he was sprawled on the ground, face-first in a spread-eagle position. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Stevie.”

  Cruz lifted her head and stared at her partner.

  Ashford saw her. “What?”

  “You just have to hit someone, don’t you?” Shaking her head, she holstered her gun, retrieved her handcuffs and circled around Peterson.

  “Hey, he shot you,” growled Ashford. “He’s lucky to be still sucking wind.”

  Cruz planted her left knee into her quarry’s lower back and clamped a handcuff onto his right wrist. “Stephen Peterson, you have the right to remain silent.” She brought his hands behind his back and smacked the second handcuff around his left wrist. “Anything you say can and will be used against you…”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Chapter 3: Refreshed

  January 9th, 8:39 a.m.

  Washington, D.C.

  Special Agent Cruz yawned, blinked and stretched her arms and legs, dragging them across the smooth bed sheets. Shoving her arm under the covers, she ran her fingers up and down her leg, feeling the prickly hairs. Certain tasks were neglected when chasing criminals across the country for several days at a time.

  After arresting the border patrol agents, Cruz and Ashford handed off the mundane administrative tasks to the first FBI team to arrive at the cabin. Deciding to stay in Florida and drive back to Washington, D.C. in the morning, they booked two hotel rooms. The next day, they took turns driving and made the fifteen-hour trek in fourteen-and-a-half hours. Closing the front door to her house around Midnight, Cruz had headed for the only place she wanted to be—her bedroom, specifically, her bed. Taking only enough time to strip out of her clothes, use the facilities and slip into a red satin teddy, she was asleep minutes after her body slid beneath the covers.

  Cruz grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand, hoping to see she had missed a call from her boyfriend. She had called Derek several times on the long drive home. Each attempt went to voicemail. They had last spoken three days ago. He said he was going out of town for a business meeting. At least that is what she thought he had said. She had been searching a hideout used by Peterson and Lopez. Distracted, her focus was not on the phone call. Since Derek worked in international banking, the out-of-town meeting was plausible.

  Derek and Cruz had been dating for more than two months and she felt ready to take their relationship to the next level. For her, that meant taking him to meet her mother. She had dated many men, but none came close to making it this far with her. Cruz had never introduced any of her boyfriends to her mother. That was a sacred moment, not to be squandered on the wrong man. Derek might be the one with whom she would spend the rest of her life. She was getting ahead of herself, but falling in love did that to people.

  Yawning, Cruz scanned her text messages. “They can wait,” she murmured, her voice gravelly. Before she could put the phone on the nightstand, it vibrated and she flinched. Scratching her head, she cleared her throat. “What’s up, Ash?”

  “Good morning, Cruz.”

  She caught the distraction in his voice.

  “I wanted to give you a heads-up…the director wants to…meet with us this morning…ten o’clock in his office.”

  Cruz took the phone away from her ear and checked the time. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the office.”

  “You’re at work already? Did you even go home last night and get some sleep?”

  “Of course,” he said, giving Cruz his full attention. “I’m not as old as you. I understand you folks need more sleep.”

  Cruz let a puff of air slip past her lips and chuckled. She heard Ashford’s smile and let him revel in his verbal victory.

  “Besides, I thought I’d get started on the paperwork.”

  Bless you. Cruz hated paperwork. She never ceased to be amazed at how the simplest of tasks required multiple forms being filled-out and submitted. No one ever warned her about that aspect of law enforcement. “Do you have any idea why he wants to see us?”

  “Not a clue,” replied Ashford, his distraction returning. “I need to put the finishing touches…on this masterpiece…I’ll see you at ten.”

  “Thanks, Ash.” She disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto her bed before shuffling into the bathroom, located off the bedroom. Standing at the sink, she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

  Two months ago, Cruz celebrated her twenty-ninth birthday. Despite the last couple of rough days, she felt great. Her s
lim, well-toned five-foot, eight-inch figure proved she had taken care of her body throughout the years. Falling well below her shoulders, her dark brown hair matched her equally beautiful set of dark brown eyes. She had a long face with high cheekbones and a flawless complexion.

  She turned her head from side to side, while turning on the faucet. Bending over to splash water on her face, her back muscles seized and she clutched the sides of the sink. She arched her back and tilted her head backward. Her face contorted and the memories of taking down Peterson and Lopez flooded her mind, especially the three shots to the bulletproof vest. Letting go of the sink with one hand, she pulled the teddy off, drew back her long hair and eyed the damage in the mirror. Three red welts, forming a triangle, were centered above the small of her back. The act of twisting her torso to see over her shoulder sent new shockwaves of discomfort to her brain. She expanded her lungs and exhaled, the air whistling through pursed lips. She let the teddy drop to the floor, grabbed a razor and eased her body into the shower.

  Twenty minutes later, Cruz felt refreshed. The hotter than usual water had loosened the muscles in her back and relieved the pain. Wearing a basic white bra and cotton high-cut briefs, she slid hangers left and right along the metal bar inside the bedroom closet. Selecting a matching red blazer and slacks, she laid the outfit on the bed. After three days of wearing dark colors, I need to brighten things up a bit. She added a black form-fitting turtleneck sweater and black chunky one-inch high heels to the ensemble before getting dressed, securing her hair in a mid-rise ponytail and heading downstairs to the kitchen. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, she left the house.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Chapter 4: Take the Day

  9:58 a.m.

  J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, D.C.

  Phillip Jameson sat at his desk. He split his attention between examining the contents of a case file and writing on a notepad. He pushed aside a piece of paper and picked up an eight-by-ten photo. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. The photo depicted an attractive woman wearing a two-piece bathing suit. In red marker, a childlike drawing of a crown had been added above the woman’s head. To the right of the crown, also in red marker, the word ‘winner’ was printed. Jameson placed the print to the left and continued thumbing through the rest of the pages.

  FBI Director Phillip Jameson had recently turned fifty, though no one could have guessed his age. He was physically fit, following an exercise regimen of weightlifting and jogging. He stood five-feet, eleven-inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. His work attire consisted of a black suit, black shoes, white shirt and a red tie. He changed the shade and print of the tie, but the color was always red. His clothing was a projection of what could be expected from him—a man who displayed impeccable leadership and decision-making skills, while demanding his agents uphold the same high standard of integrity.

  For the next couple of minutes, he added to his notes. Hearing a knock on his office door, he paused, glanced at the digital clock on his desk and went back to writing. “The door’s open.”

  Special Agents Cruz and Ashford entered. Ashford closed the door, while Cruz slipped between two straight-back chairs, facing Jameson’s desk. She smiled. “Good morning, sir. You wanted to see us.”

  Not looking up, Jameson pointed with his pen. “Have a seat.”

  Cruz sat in the chair to Jameson’s left and crossed her legs, resting her hands on her thigh. She saw Ashford claim the other chair.

  Jameson let go of the pen, put his eyeglasses on the notepad and rocked backward in his chair. Letting out a sigh, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Righting himself, he donned his eyeglasses and skimmed the contents of the file folder. “I got a call from a friend of mine—” Jameson stopped short. “First of all, I want to congratulate the both of you on apprehending Peterson and Lopez.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Ashford, crossing his legs.

  “It’s good to know they’re out of play.” Jameson took a hard look at his agents. “I know you’ve got to be tired after all the hours you’ve spent tracking them down.”

  Remembering their phone call and Ashford’s age-related joke, Cruz shot a sideways glance at him.

  Jameson picked up the photo from the file folder. “However, I need you two to do me a favor. As I started to say, a friend of mine, the sheriff of a small town to the north, contacted me about a body discovered this morning. I’d like you to head up there and see if you can help him out with the investigation.”

  “Do we have jurisdictional authority?”

  Jameson shook his head.

  “Is the victim somehow connected to the government?”

  Jameson held up his hands. “That hasn’t been determined yet.”

  Cruz glanced toward Ashford. “Sir, with all due respect, how does a small-town murder case involve the FBI? We have enough work to keep us busy. Let the locals take care of their own problems.” She was familiar with what happened when federal agents showed up at local investigations. The hometown police were never pleased and usually became obstacles in the pursuit of justice. Still tired, she was not feeling up to going toe-to-toe with a sheriff and his deputies.

  Jameson rotated the photograph and set it on the opposite edge of his desk, facing her. “This was found on the body.”

  Cruz uncrossed her legs and leaned forward to see the image. Her body stiffened. “That was found with the victim?”

  Jameson nodded. “I thought you’d be interested.”

  Cruz squinted. “It could be a coincidence. It might not mean anything.”

  “Or, it could mean something.”

  Ashford pinched the picture between his thumb and forefinger and leaned backward. “Whoa, she’s hot. Is she a witness?”

  Jameson ordered the pieces of paper and slid them into the file folder.

  Ashford let out a low whistle. “I’m not sure I’ve seen a skimpier bathing suit.” He whipped his head toward Cruz. “I call dibs on the interview.”

  Cruz’s cheeks flushed and she felt her body perspiring. “Give me that.” She snatched the photo from his hands. “Show some professionalism.” She placed it on the desk, face down.

  Ashford shied away, his head cocked, eyebrows arched.

  Trying to re-collect her composure, Cruz resumed a relaxed posture and crossed her legs. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “It’s all in here.” Jameson handed over the file folder. “You can review it on your way up there. Take the day and meet with the sheriff. Maybe you can shed some light on what happened.”

  Taking the cue the meeting was over, Cruz and Ashford stood. She hung back, while Ashford made his way to the door. Retrieving an envelope from the pocket of her suit coat, she placed it on the Director’s nameplate and walked away.

  “What’s this?” Jameson flipped over the envelope and saw his name written on it.

  Reaching the doorway, Cruz spun around and lifted her chin toward him. “Open it and find out, sir.”

  He pushed aside the unsealed flap and slid out a simple light blue greeting card. In dark black ink, the numbers five and zero took up most of the cover. He opened the card and read it to himself: …is the new 39! At the bottom was handwritten: Happy Birthday, Cruz

  Cruz saw a barely perceptible grin flash across his face.

  He regarded his agent. “How’d you find out?” Jameson had never celebrated a birthday at work. He had kept the date, today’s date, to himself. He was a private person and did not like people making a fuss over him.

  She shrugged. “You’re not the only one who has contacts in the bureau.” Beaming, she left the office.

  He read the card again. This time, alone in his office, he allowed himself to show a real smile. His joy did not come from the wit of the card maker. He could not care less about his age. It was only a number. No
, he was happy Cruz had taken the time to remember him, even managing to do so without drawing unwanted attention. He carefully situated the card in front of the clock on his desk, so he would see it whenever he checked the time.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Chapter 5: Burden

  11:11 a.m.

  Interstate 270 North

  45 minutes outside of Washington, D.C.

  After hearing the first few words of Derek’s outgoing voicemail message, Special Agent Cruz pressed a button on the dashboard of her Charger, ending the call. Her irritation with him for not taking her calls had morphed into worry. Something must be wrong. The twisted knots in her stomach had been telling her the same thing. He had taken several business trips during their relationship and he always managed to contact her.

  Okay, Raychel, calm down and take a breath. It’s only been three days. He could be…tied up in meetings and unable to break away. He could be… She exhaled slowly. Relax. He’s fine. Don’t jump to conclusions. Curling her fingers around the turn signal lever, she checked her side mirror, changed lanes and passed a slow-moving vehicle.

  “I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about this picture that’s familiar.”

  Cruz shot a glance to her right. Since leaving Washington, D.C. forty-five minutes ago, Ashford had been reviewing the file from Jameson. Most of that time had been spent staring at the photograph of the woman.

  “This seems to have been taken years ago, but I feel like I know her.” Cupping his chin, he paused. “Usually, I never forget a face.” He turned toward Cruz and lifted his eyebrows twice before adding, “Or, in her case, a body.”