Blind Justice

by Ethan Cross

  He reached for Gerald’s pocket to feel for his phone, but the big man caught his arm and shoved the pistol into Munroe’s palm. Gerald wrapped his large fingers around Munroe’s hand and squeezed reassuringly, his message clear.

  You can do this.

  But Munroe wondered what the hell good the gun would do him. He could fire blindly, but he would never be able to hold them off until help arrived. He didn’t even know how many rounds were left in the weapon.

  Adrenaline pounding in his ears, he placed his back against the car’s door and waited. Within a few seconds, he heard the sound of cautious footsteps coming down the hill. He scooted closer to Gerald and butted his hand against his friend’s body, trying to conceal the weapon clenched in his right fist. He remained perfectly still and stared straight ahead. The footsteps circled around them from both sides, both of the attackers keeping their distance.

  “Is he dead?” the first man said, his voice moving closer. “His eyes look dead, but I think he’s still breathing.”

  “He’s blind. His eyes might look like that all the time,” the second attacker replied from less than ten feet to Munroe’s right.

  “I’ve never killed a handicapped person before.”

  Munroe held his breath and then reacted. He needed to take out both of them in one move, or he wouldn’t stand a chance. He had hoped that both men would approach and announce their position in some way. It was his only chance. And his wish had come true.

  Picturing them in his mind, he raised the gun and squeezed off two rapid-fire shots in each man’s direction. Shouts of pain followed each pair of shots, and he heard both men drop.

  Jumping to his feet and screaming with rage, Munroe fired again at the sounds of movement in the grass and continued to squeeze the trigger until the slide drew back and the gun clicked empty. He listened and waited for more noises, any indication that they were still alive, but both of the gunmen were silent.

  Still shaking and breathless, Munroe collapsed against the car, for once relieved that he could not see what surrounded him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Annabelle finished filing the final report from a case involving DARPA and the embezzlement of funds from a new sonic weapons technology project. She cracked her neck and checked the time. Having worked through lunch, she was overdue for a break. She considered working on a photo book she was creating for Deacon’s girls, Chloe and Makayla, but she really wanted to escape the computer screen for a while.

  Glancing at the gym bag sitting in the corner of her Pentagon office, she wondered if she would have time to run a few miles on the elevated track encircling the outer perimeter of the Pentagon’s private gym. Unfortunately, it would take nearly as long to walk from her office through one of world’s largest office buildings and change into her workout clothes as it would to actually complete her run.

  Still, running had always been her passion and one that she had neglected as her workload from Deacon had increased over the past several months. Her talent for running had given her confidence and a toned body in high school, but at the time she hadn’t dreamed that her running shoes would eventually carry a girl from a poor servant family into the halls of a prestigious university on the back of a track and field scholarship.

  She would never forget the moment that running truly entered her life. A few of the girls from affluent families who attended her school had cornered the poor black girl beside the softball diamond and, after knocking her down and rubbing dirt into her hair, had danced around her in a circle chanting, “dirty little monkey.” She hadn’t fought back. She just curled into a ball and tried to shut out the rest of the world. Through the tears in her eyes, she had watched Deacon and Gerald come to her rescue, throwing clumps of mud at the other girls and threatening worse.

  Afterward, Gerald had said, “Next time, you come get me if they give you any trouble. Your legs are strong. You can surely outrun that group of little princesses. If you run, they’ll never catch you.”

  She had taken the words to heart, and they had become a sort of mantra for her. If you run, they’ll never catch you. She had run from her parents and her ancestral home as soon as she could and had barely looked back. When things had gotten difficult in law school, she had run to a lesser-paying job as a law firm’s investigator. She still wondered if she had actually run the same way in Baltimore as her marriage crumbled.

  The thought forced her to think of her ex-husband, Stuart. It had been nearly a week since he had left a message for her, requesting some time to “talk.” She knew what that meant. He had a tendency to try to win her back after each new girlfriend failed to live up to his standards. She couldn’t think of another reason he would want to speak with her. They had no connections left. No kids. No joint property or papers to be signed. Not even a dog or common friends. The only other thing could have been a death in his family. She had always loved Stuart’s mother, and she felt a pang of guilt at the possibility of missing her former mother-in-law’s funeral.

  The decision made, she steeled herself and dialed Stuart’s office. The secretary patched her through almost immediately. “It took you long enough to return my call,” Stuart said on the other end of the line.

  She wanted to return the condescension in his voice but resisted, just in case there was a valid reason for his call. Instead, she said evenly, “I’ve been very busy with work.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. Deacon’s probably been keeping you late.”

  His voice was thick with sarcasm and implication, but she didn’t rise to the bait. They had been down this road several times. She didn’t speak a word, just held the phone and used the silence as a weapon against him.

  After a few awkward seconds, he said, “Anyway, I was really hoping that I could come down to DC and take you out to dinner. Maybe this weekend.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Come on, Bella,” he said. Stuart was the only person who had ever called her by that name. It had sounded sexy and exotic to her ears during the early years of their relationship. Now it sounded like something you would name the family dog.

  “I don’t know why you keep at this.”

  “Maybe I don’t like giving up on a good thing.”

  “Please...you never felt that way during the marriage or in the months of separation. You seemed to think there were plenty of good things out there.”

  “Now I know better.”

  “Good for you. I need to go.”

  “Wait, I’m serious. I know that I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I’m truly sorry. I’ve been going to counseling, and my therapist thinks that maybe she could help you and me work through the problems in our relationship. Maybe we could put the past behind us and find something new. I wanted to ask you about it over dinner, but…”

  She just held the phone. He had tried to talk her into his bed several times since the divorce, but he had never actually apologized and had always refused her attempts at seeking the advice of a marriage counselor.

  “Bella? You still there?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say, ‘yes.’ Listen, I’ve even been talking to the counselor about kids. She’s helped me realize that I never wanted kids because of the issues from my own childhood, but we’re working through all that. I’m thinking that maybe I could deal with a baby now.”

  “I never wanted you to ‘deal with’ having a kid, Stuart. I didn’t want you to ‘give in.’ I wanted you to be my partner and be excited about creating a family with me.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You’re twisting my words.”

  “You don’t even like kids.”

  “You’re right. But maybe that’s because I never had one of my own. Besides, I’m not asking you to have a kid right now. I just want you to visit the counselor with me, and we’ll see where it takes us. Please.”
r />   Her cell phone vibrated on her desk, showing a number she didn’t recognize. She declined the call. “I don’t know, Stuart.”

  Almost immediately the phone rang again, and she declined. “Come on,” Stuart said. “My doctor even said she could refer us to someone in DC to make it more convenient for you.”

  The cell phone rang again. The same number. It had to be something important. “Stuart, I’m going to have to call you back. I have another call coming in on my cell. It might be Gerald or Deacon.”

  She was about to hang up when Stuart said, “You know he’s the real reason our marriage broke up.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t even try to deny it. You’ve always had a thing for him. I got so sick of hearing how great a husband and father he was. How the hell was I going to live up to the great Deacon Munroe? For all I know, you’ve been screwing him for years.”

  “Actually, Stuart, the ‘real’ reason our marriage broke up is that you’re a narcissistic prick. Goodbye.”

  She slammed down the receiver to her office phone and snatched up her cell phone. The voice on the other end was calm and comforting, but the words spoken didn’t match the tone. The world spun, and it became impossible for her to breathe.

  Gerald had been shot and had died on the way to the hospital.

  She analyzed the sentence, and a part of her understood the meaning. But another part still couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

  Dropping the phone, she sank from her chair and pressed her palms against her eyes to hold back the tears.

  Before she knew what was happening, she was on her feet and running out of her office. She passed uniformed military officers, civilian staffers, and dark-suited intelligence operatives as she sprinted down the wide, white corridors. She didn’t know where she was going or why she was running, but she couldn’t make herself stop. She just focused on the sound of each footfall and pressed forward faster and faster.

  If you run, they’ll never catch you.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Feeling with his left hand, Deacon Munroe found the edge of his sideburn and used it as a landmark to start the shave. His right thumb flicked on the electric razor, and he brought the device up against his left index finger that rested against the sideburn’s edge. He brought the razor down, continually using his guide hand in front of the razor to trace the contours of his face.

  Even the simple act of shaving made him think of Gerald. They had learned how to shave together. Gerald’s father, who had always treated Munroe like his own son, had instructed the boys in the ways of manhood, something his own father had never even considered. He remembered teasing Gerald that he looked like a mummy from all the little pieces of toilet paper covering the shaving nicks on his smooth, dark skin.

  The memories overwhelmed him. He couldn’t breathe. The pain and anger coursing through his blood made his whole body feel warm and cold at the same time.

  He smashed the razor down against the sink, feeling the plastic pieces shatter against his palm. Screaming, he ripped the mirror down from above the vanity and smashed it against a nearby cabinet. The rest was a whirlwind of angry fists contacting any surface he could reach. He lost his bearings and stumbled into the wall. His fists kept working. He felt his hand puncture the drywall, and he slammed it through again. This time his knuckles jammed against a stud, and pain shot through his hand and forearm. He tried to lose himself in the simple pain, a pain he could quantify, understand, and overcome. He slid down the wall to the floor and could no longer hold back the tears.

  The door to the bathroom swung open, and Annabelle said, “What the hell are you doing? Dammit, Deac, there’s glass everywhere.”

  He felt her kneel down beside him and raise a hand to his cheek.

  “I miss him too. But now’s not the time to fall apart. He wouldn’t want that.”

  “It’s too much,” he whispered. “I’ve lost too much already. I can’t imagine going on without him.”

  “I’m not going to listen to you feel sorry for yourself. You’re better than this, stronger than this. Come on. Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”

  Raising his hand to her face, he traced the lines of her features and stroked her thick, wavy hair. The prominent cheek bones. The soft skin. The full lips.

  He had loved her for as long as he could remember. When they were growing up, Annabelle and Gerald had been his true brother and sister, much more so than his actual flesh and blood siblings. His emotions had felt strange and confusing at first. Then he had fought them out of respect for Gerald and the differences in age between Annabelle and himself. A three year gap had seemed like a lot when he was seventeen. He had moved on in college, found the love of his life, married, started a family. Beth had been his everything, but through it all, his love for Annabelle had never flickered out. Even though Beth had been gone for many years, he still felt guilty for the feelings he harbored toward his best friend’s sister. And now he couldn’t fight them any longer.

  He pulled her close and kissed her deeply and passionately. Her skin smelled like jasmine, and he tasted strawberries on her lips. The feel of her soft skin against his gave him strength and hope.

  Then it was gone. She shoved him away. He could hear the tears in her voice as she whispered, “Damn you.”

  She stood and moved to the door. “Damn you, Deacon. How dare you?”

  “Annabelle, I—”

  “Don’t. Do you have any idea how many years I’ve waited for you? And now you pull this.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re devastated and looking for something to hang on to, anything to make you forget. You’re looking for a port in the storm, an anchor, and I just happened to be here. But I’m not going to be your painkiller. I deserve better.”

  “It’s not like that. I—”

  She slammed the bathroom door and stormed off down the hall. He heard her angry footfalls moving down the stairs, his front door opening and slamming shut, and her car starting up. His hands ached from his stupid outburst, and his heart ached from her words and the pain and hurt he had heard within them. Sitting in the glass and drywall dust of the ruined bathroom, Deacon Munroe felt more alone than he ever had in his life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Under normal circumstances, Jonas Black would have liked the private cell in the Administrative Segregation building better than the communal living of the general population dormitory. Unfortunately, the prisoner in the cell directly above his was a member of the Southern Brotherhood, and some kind of design flaw in the Ad Seg ventilation system allowed the man to piss into his vent and have it rain down right onto Black’s cot. He had moved his mattress to the floor, but the smell inside the tiny block-walled space was overwhelming. And the Alabama heat seemed to be multiplied by twenty inside the walls of Ad Seg. Complaining would do him little good and only announce to the white supremacist with the overactive bladder that his attacks had succeeded. Jonas refused to give him the satisfaction.

  A guard—petite, black, and female—knocked on the small glass window embedded in the cell door. Jonas couldn’t imagine the kind of things she had to put up with as a guard at Holman, and he respected her for that. “Black, you have a visitor.”

  “A visitor? Who?”

  As the female officer unlocked the chuck hole used to insert a food tray into the cell, she said, “Do I look like your butler? They told me you have a visitor and to come get you. That’s what I’m doing. Let’s get cuffed up.”

  He knew the drill. He turned around backwards and stuck his hands out of the chuck hole. She slapped on the restraints and called into her radio, “Open L-23.”

  The door slid open, and she led him through the cell block past a hundred sets of eyes peering out the tiny windows of the gray cell doors. Anything happening on the block constituted entertainment to th
e prisoners of Ad Seg. His tennis shoes squeaked across the concrete floor with every step. The whole block smelled faintly of sweat and excrement.

  Connected to the cell block was a small room that the Warden and Captains often used to have private conferences with the prisoners. An old wooden table with a scarred surface that had been spray-painted gray sat in the center of the room. Four white, plastic chairs—the kind that people typically used as lawn furniture—surrounded the table.

  The female guard shoved him down into one of the chairs. The restraints behind his back forced him to sit uncomfortably on his hands. A man wearing dark, expensive-looking, designer sunglasses sat in one of the chairs opposite him. He guessed by the look of the quality of the man’s suit that it cost more than Jonas had made from a week with hazard pay. The guy had the stink of a government agency all over him, the kind identified only by initials. Jonas Black, like many other soldiers that had witnessed firsthand the casual attitude toward sending men to their deaths that alphabet agencies displayed, was instantly distrustful of anyone representing such a bureaucracy. The woman next to the sunglasses man had skin the color of dark chocolate, wavy black hair that fell to her shoulders, and the prominent cheekbones of a model. Her eyes were red and puffy, like she had been crying.

  The man stuck his arm out over the table as if to shake Black’s hand. Couldn’t the guy see that his hands were cuffed behind his back?

  The woman said, “He’s restrained, Deacon.”

  “Apologies.” The man’s hand fell back under the table. “My name is Deacon Munroe. I’m a special investigator with DCIS. This is my associate, Miss Annabelle Dixon.” When he spoke, the words were smooth as silk. He had a Southern accent, but it didn’t have a country or redneck feel. Instead, it had a cultured quality like that of a professor.