Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  “There now,” the man said, raising the tip of his weapon toward the ceiling, “was that so difficult?”

  The same smile that Ridge so abhorred appeared on the man’s face as he shifted to his colleague and said, “And just to be certain that our friend here doesn’t get any ideas, would you mind binding his feet up as well?”

  Just as she had since their arrival, the woman remained completely silent, nodding only in response.

  Crossing over to the closest chair, she rooted deep in the side pocket, emerging a moment later with another pair of zip ties, the glossy black plastic flashing as she turned to Ridge, her face void of any emotion.

  It was a look she would wear into eternity, the sound of breaking glass and the sight of pink mist exploding from the back of her skull happening in tandem, so fast and unexpected Ridge was unable to react in the slightest.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The next thirty seconds or so moved in starts and stops, as if spliced together from different snippets of the same movie, short bursts offset by momentary breaks.

  The first thing to register with Jackson Ridge was the sight of the woman’s head snapping back.

  Pause.

  The hole appearing in the smooth skin of her forehead, followed by a pink spray, blood and bone and brain matter expanding in a fan away from the back of her head.

  Break.

  The sound of broken glass from the bullet passing through the window above him. The feel of fine particles of it against his neck and scalp, the rush of cold wind passing through.

  Gap.

  The momentum of the shot lifting the woman into the air, depositing her back on the table. The sturdy construct of it holding her weight as her frame slid across the surface, the top of it wet with her own blood.

  Reset.

  The sound of her body thumping to the floor, the vibration of the boards as she hit hard, the feeling carrying over to him, passing through the soles of his shoes and up his legs.

  The sensation of her impact seemed to be the jolt he needed, his senses and brain finally again synching up, the scene around him transitioning from a poorly constructed movie back into real time.

  The man that had tried to pass himself off as Black was the first to react, dropping to a knee. Extending his weapon out at shoulder level, he gripped it in both hands, rotating in a quick arc, jerking the barrel in six-inch increments, eyes wide.

  Not once did he bother going to his partner, making no effort to call out or check for signs of life, it immediately clear to all present that she was gone long before she even hit the table, much less the floor.

  Second to react was Marian Ellerbe, a low and mournful wail sliding out from deep in her diaphragm. Starting low, it continued for several long seconds, gaining volume before eventually petering out, her gasping breath unable to sustain it.

  “Down,” Ridge hissed, reaching out with his clasped hands, trying in vain to grab for his colleagues and pull them to the floor. “Get below the windows, cover your head.”

  Doing the same himself, Ridge dropped to the floor, his kneecap cracking against the exposed planks, a ripple of pain traveling up his thigh and into his core. Stymying any sound that threatened to escape, he continued to claw for Beckwith and Ellerbe.

  Side by side, they both slid to the floor, Ellerbe visibly trembling, a host of sounds following suit. Beside her, Beckwith seemed to lose all control of her body, her movements so fluid she seemed to melt to the floor, hitting the ground and curling tight where she lay.

  Extending his body atop their huddled mass, Ridge lay across the pair, his manacled hands covering his head.

  “Who the hell is that?” the man said, Ridge chancing a glance long enough to see him continuing to rotate, eyes wild. “Who’ve you got out there?”

  Thoughts floated through Ridge’s mind in large clumps, starting with attempting the false bravado route, telling the man to stand down, that the place was surrounded, he had alerted the authorities and they had followed him into the woods. Just as fast they cycled through to every possible permutation, ending with the strong desire to tell the man to go to Hell.

  Deciding on an option much closer to the middle, Ridge pressed his cheek flat against Beckwith’s back, saying nothing, hoping that would be the response to incur the least amount of wrath.

  The truth was, he had no idea who was standing outside the cabin, no clue if it was friend or foe, what their motivation might be.

  All he knew was that his captors were now a person down and that the man who’d been enjoying his demise all evening was now focused on something other than tormenting him.

  “Hey! Ridge!” the man snapped, his voice louder, angrier. “Call your man off!”

  Keeping his face pressed flat, Ridge answered, “He’s not mine!”

  A brief snippet of sound erupted from the man, seeming like it might be the start of a reply, before falling short, the man cutting himself off. Instead, he aimed his face a half-inch toward the ceiling, raising his voice several decibels.

  “Whoever is out there – I have Senator Jackson Ridge and his team inside! Stop shooting and step into the cabin with your hands raised or I will kill them all!”

  The move was clearly one of desperation, the final gasps of a man trying to play out a losing hand, but Ridge did not for one second doubt the veracity of the statement. Beneath him, he could hear another moan slide from Ellerbe, her body quivering, as Beckwith seemed to wilt a bit more.

  “You have until I count to ten!” the man called. “One...two...”

  He never made it to three.

  The second shot came from the opposite window, Ridge’s eyes open, his focus on the man across from him as the bullet entered. With his hands both wrapped around the barrel of the gun, it was a simple task for the round to pass through both wrists, moving through his left and then right as if they weren’t even there, twin circles appearing on his light skin.

  With them came blood spatter spraying across the barren floor, hanging in the air, the metallic scent of blood so strong it almost caused Ridge to gag.

  Just like with the woman, it took a moment for the sounds to match up with the velocity of the round, the bullet tearing through the man’s wrists before the breaking glass became audible. Following in order was the man’s pained gasps, his face twisting up in agony as the gun slid free, thumping to the floor.

  Pulling his arms in tight against his chest, the man drew in deep gasps of air, pulling them in through his teeth, a sucking sound echoing through the cabin.

  Remaining that way for several moments, Ridge watched as bright red blood pulsated out from the man’s wrists with each beat of his heart, splashing against his chest, staining the black shirt he wore, leaving it shiny, firelight reflecting off it.

  Shifting his body just a few inches, Ridge posted his body against the women beneath him, using their forms for purchase, his focus on the weapon lying on the floor between him and the man. Drawing his knees up under him, he shifted his weight, readying himself to dive forward, to grab the weapon and end the man that had violated his office, had taken him and his staff out into the woods, intent on doing Lord knew what.

  Feeling that resolve flow through him, Ridge rocked once, twice, against Beckwith’s hip, ready to hurtle himself forward.

  But he never got the chance.

  Instead, any action he might have taken was thwarted by the door swinging open, the wooden gate exploding backward, a shower of splinters and wood shards spraying across the floor.

  For a moment there was no movement, nothing but darkness, the door a gaping maw, an entry to whatever lay on the other side.

  Just as fast it was filled as Terry Whitner strode into view.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  For as many questions as Jackson Ridge had, for all the varied reactions he felt at seeing Terry Whitner walk through the door, his first response had to be seeing to the ladies. Getting them outside, ensuring they were safe, well beyond the horrors of what was
sprawled on the floor beside them.

  Of what was sure to occur in the coming moments.

  Using the leverage of Beckwith’s body that just an instant before was to be used to hurl himself at the discarded weapon on the floor, Ridge pushed himself upright. Holding his hands out before him, he ignored the pained whimpers of the man on the floor, hopping twice toward Whitner, his arms extended.

  For a moment there was no response, Whitner only staring at him, before reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. Extracting a folding hawksbill blade, he snapped the knife to full extension and ran the blunt edge along the pad of Ridge’s thumbs, the metal cold against his skin.

  “Just so you know, we’re now even.”

  Not bothering to respond in any way, Ridge let the plastic binding fall to the floor, rubbing his wrists with either hand before accepting the extended handle of the knife. After freeing his ankles, he went to the ladies and carefully worked his way around the tangled mass of their bodies, cutting away all four bindings, Ellerbe twitching as hers were removed, Beckwith giving no response at all.

  When he was done, he walked back and returned the knife to Whitner, who accepted it without a word.

  “Give me just a minute to get them out?” Ridge asked, the words phrased very much as a question, the response nothing more than a nod.

  Waiting for nothing more, Ridge strode back to the futon and grabbed up the faded quilt from the back of it. A relic that had been in place for an untold number of years, the material was coarse and dry, almost brittle to the touch as he draped it over their skin.

  “Come on, ladies,” he said, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the continued panting of the man on the floor beside them. “Let’s get you up and out of here.”

  Slowly, carefully, he managed to get Ellerbe to her feet first, the girl’s face streaked with tears, her body twitching. Once she was standing, Ridge sure to keep her face toward the outer wall, he tugged Beckwith up as well, almost foisting her entire mass from the floor, checking to make sure she could stand under her own power once he got her there.

  Only once he was certain they were upright, that there was no chance of losing them again, did he begin to lead them toward the door, Whitner not so much as glancing their way, his focus on the man across the room as Ridge coaxed them out into the night.

  In total, he had been inside less than ten minutes, though the world felt noticeably different, somehow even darker and colder than when they had arrived. Staying out a few steps ahead of them, Ridge descended the stairs first, helping them to ground level, before taking them on to the same black SUV they had arrived in.

  Standing to the side, he waited as both women slid into the rear seat, each suffering from their own version of shock, their hands clinging to each other as they passed over the leather seat.

  Once inside, they huddled close together, the blanket wrapped around them, the vapor of their breath visible each time they exhaled.

  “I’ll only be a minute,” Ridge said, remembering the man pulling the keys from the ignition and pocketing them when they first arrived, knowing he was unable to turn on the engine, to keep them any warmer for the time being.

  “Stay strong, girls. We’re almost home.”

  There was no response from either one, both curled up tight in the backseat, Ellerbe’s shaking violent enough to cause the bundle they were hidden beneath to tremble.

  Not needing to see anymore, the guilt, the remorse, he felt pulsating through him, Ridge slammed the door shut. Setting his jaw, he strode back across the open expanse of ground, gravel crunching beneath his feet, before ascending the three stairs and stepping through the open doorway to the cabin.

  Without a door present, the temperature inside had fallen several degrees. In just the few moments he had been gone, Whitner had gotten the man up and into a chair, a tendril of blood snaking down from the man’s left nostril a sign that the move wasn’t entirely voluntarily.

  Just as he had been before, both hands were cradled against his chest, his fingers fighting a losing battle to keep his blood inside. Dark and thick, it oozed through every possible opening, painting his skin red, pulling all color from the man’s face.

  Standing against the wash basin, Whitner stood with his arms folded, a look of disinterest on his face.

  “Was it him in particular or mention of Black Water that got you out here?” Ridge asked, his face tilted a few inches to the side, his gaze leveled on the man in the chair.

  Several moments passed without a response, long enough that Ridge flicked his gaze over to Whitner, letting him know that the question was aimed in his direction.

  “Both,” Whitner eventually said. “Black Water and I have some lingering business. This is the bastard that was following you earlier.”

  He offered no more than that, though he didn’t have to. Any bad blood that existed between the two sides was likely extensive, Whitner not the kind to carry this level of grudge without purpose.

  As to the second part, if this man had been tailing Ridge he had likely also seen Whitner, an eventuality that would never be abided.

  “Who is he?”

  Still wearing the same detached mask as always, Whitner nudged his chin toward the man.

  “Ask him.”

  Not in the mood for games, hyper aware of the ladies and their condition, of the icy car they sat in, Ridge made no effort to bite back his scowl, turning his attention to the man seated in the chair before him.

  “Who are you?”

  Still pulling in breaths in rapid sequence, shallow and fast, just barely enough to fill his mouth, let alone his lungs, the man stared back in hatred, saying nothing.

  “Who do you work for?”

  A faint flicker of the same defiant sneer the man had used all evening flashed to his features, the man too weak to keep it in place, but making a valiant attempt just the same.

  Seeing it, recalling all the times it had been used on him already, all the untold people it had been deployed on before, Ridge couldn’t tamp down the acrimony that swelled within. The hostility, the pure unbridled hatred that he felt for the man and everything he stood for.

  Stepping forward, Ridge lifted the silenced 9mm from the floor and extended it at arm’s length.

  “Last time, who the hell are you?”

  Lifting his chin just slightly, the man leveled his focus on Ridge, exhaling loudly, making it quite clear he had no intention of answering.

  Jerking the weapon down a few inches, Ridge aimed for the fleshy part of the man’s thigh, the same spot he’d been resting the gun just over an hour before.

  There was no pause, no lengthy monologue, not even an attempt to let the man plead for mercy, as he jerked back on the trigger, the suppressor on the end doing its job, pulling the sound back to little more than a pop as an orange flicker ignited from the tip.

  The front end of the gun bucked just slightly, much less than the hunting equipment he was used to firing, the smell of cordite and smoke instantly finding his nostrils.

  Soon after it, the sight of blood splashing down onto the floorboards, the sound of the man gritting his teeth, pushing out a mangled noise, soon joining.

  The impact of the shot twisted the man to the side in his seat, his body listing hard to the right. Releasing his grip on his bloody wrists, he wrapped both hands around the leg, blood from his assorted wounds mixing together, painting everything red.

  “Again,” Ridge said, shifting the tip of the weapon to the opposite leg, “who the hell are you?”

  A spool of spittle appeared on the man’s lower lip, dripping down between his legs and hitting the floor beneath him, mixing with the blood droplets already painting the boards.

  Bent at the waist, the man stayed in that position, slowly raising only his head to glare at Ridge, his forehead sweaty, his eyes glazed.

  “His name is Leopold Donner,” Whitner said, the sound of his voice breaking the tension of a moment before, pulling Ridge’s focus over to the sid
e.

  Taking a step forward, Whitner raised a hand, wrapping his fingers around the barrel of the gun.

  “And believe me when I say, he isn’t getting off that easy.”

  It took a moment for the words to take hold, for Ridge to grasp what he was being told and to relinquish his grip. Easing the tension in his hands, he allowed Whitner to take the gun, the man meeting his eye and nodding once.

  “He works for Black Water, serves as the right-hand man for someone I believe you’ve already met.”

  A crease appeared between Ridge’s eyes, just as fast falling away, comprehension taking over.

  “Ames.”

  “Ames,” Whitner echoed.

  Holding the gaze for a moment, Ridge shifted his attention to Donner, to the woman beside him on the floor. “Do I need to do-“

  “No,” Whitner said. “I got this.”

  Nodding once, Ridge retreated a step. Reaching out over the table, he grabbed up the keys to the SUV, the metallic tangle cool to the touch, rattling softly.

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  General Arnold Ames was still in his dress attire when the knock sounded at the back door. After his visit to the capitol, he hadn’t bothered to take it off, knowing that there was a decent chance it would be needed again before the affair was finished.

  In most scenarios of the end game, he had envisioned that it would be the other way around, that he would be making a return jaunt, a victory lap to ensure that things were still in place.

  How it had ended up going the other way he had no idea, though as he sat with his back pressed against the rigid sofa in his living room, watching as the first hints of dawn appeared on the eastern horizon, he would be lying if he said he was entirely surprised.

  Or disappointed.