B00IZ66CZ8 EBOK

by Unknown

  Cutter’s gun hand went limp. Instead of trying to recover it, he punched Shane’s face, a solid left cross. It spun me away, but the gun came out of his hand and fell with me.

  The moment I hit the ground, I scrambled to get the Glock. Before Cutter could reach me, I had the gun in hand and pointed directly at him.

  Cutter stopped dead in his tracks. He began to pant to regain his breath. The fight was over and he knew it.

  He said, “What are you going to do?”

  “Shoot you,” I answered.

  “You can’t. If you kill me you’ll go to prison for the rest of your life.”

  “I didn’t say that I would kill you. I said that I would shoot you,” I said.

  I could see the sudden fear engulf his eyes. The demon inside of him was scared.

  “Wait! You can still get away. Most likely no one has recognized you, but if you shoot or kill me, they will find out. And I can’t tell them that you shot me. I already told Sun Good on the phone that I haven’t seen you,” Cutter begged.

  I thought about this. Then I said, “That seems like an easy lie that you could get out of. But you are right; I can’t kill you here. Not in the open like this.”

  I watched as the terror receded from his face. He seemed to relax right in front of me. That was until I raised the gun and looked directly down the sights at him.

  “Move away,” Shane commanded. They moved farther away from the edge of the hill. Now none of the agents below them could see what was happening.

  “Toss me your keys. Slowly!” I said.

  Slowly, Cutter reached one hand into his pocket and pulled out a pair of car keys. He tossed them to me. I caught them with Shane’s free hand.

  I placed the keys in my pocket and backed away from him. I scooted toward the trees and away from the river and FBI agents.

  “One more thing: Is that a bulletproof vest that you’re wearing underneath your shirt?” I asked.

  Without thinking, he simply responded like it was an involuntary reaction, a reflex.

  He said, “Yes.”

  The second that my evil, twisted grin appeared on Shane’s stubbly face, Cutter’s fear returned with a vengeance. He realized exactly what I had planned for him.

  A .40 caliber bullet at close range, which was where we stood from each other, was deadly. I had no idea what kind of vest Cutter wore. I had no idea if it was capable of withstanding a .40 caliber bullet. Some vests wouldn’t, not at this range, but that was a chance I didn’t mind taking.

  So I fired the Glock into his chest. The center mass shot was deadly. It was game over for anyone. The center of a human’s body houses most of the vital organs, including the heart and lungs. The lungs are huge targets at short range.

  Perhaps, if I had fired a second round into the vest at this range, Cutter would have been dead right then. He would have definitely died if I had unloaded the gun, but I fired only once. I needed him alive for now.

  The bullet went into his vest. Cutter fell back. The vest ripped slightly from the bullet’s impact, but the bullet didn’t puncture his skin. He rolled around on the ground in agony.

  I wanted to stay longer. I wanted to watch him suffer more, but I had to escape. The FBI agents below were not going to wait much longer. I could hear their shouting. They had already begun to storm the hill.

  I turned, scooped up Agent Cutter’s fallen cell phone, and vanished into the trees.

  Behind me I heard Cutter. He didn’t shout after me, but he tried. The sound of his voice resonated like a loud whisper. I could make out what he said.

  He said, “I’m going to kill you, Lasher. I’m going to enjoy catching you and putting a bullet in your head.

  “Run, Lasher. Run.

  “Get a head start.

  “Run.”

  |||||

  I closed my eyes and saw a vision of Cutter.

  In the parking structure, Agent Kirk Cutter stared at the empty space where his vehicle had been parked.

  Shane had stolen it.

  Cutter’s team had assembled and begun searching for evidence. The police put out an APB on the car, and the FBI began searching for the car’s GPS, but they wouldn’t find anything. Shane had ripped the GPS out of the trunk of the car and tossed it at the stoplight two blocks north of the Potomac River.

  “McCarron,” Agent Cutter said to an agent who was looking at his cell phone.

  “Yes?” the agent responded.

  “Give me your phone.”

  Agent McCarron glanced down at his phone. He’d closed whatever text message he’d been reading and handed the phone to Cutter.

  Cutter didn’t acknowledge the agent’s sacrifice. He simply walked away with the phone in his hand.

  The dastardly demon in his head recalled a number that he needed and Cutter dialed it.

  “Hello,” a female voice said on the other end of the line.

  “Lasher got away,” Agent Cutter said.

  “Go after him,” the dark female voice said. I didn’t know whom he was speaking to.

  Another FBI agent perhaps?

  “What do you suggest?” Cutter asked.

  There was a pause between him and the woman on the other end of the line.

  Then she said, “I’ll get a search warrant. You should search his penthouse.”

  “Good idea,” Agent Cutter said.

  Another moment of silence existed between them.

  Then he said, “I’ll put his name across all channels. Shane Lasher attacked an FBI agent. He is now wanted for questioning and is suspected in the disappearance of Townsend Dry.”

  “Kirk, be careful. Shane is not like the others. I know him. He is deadly. Do not underestimate him,” the female voice said.

  Kirk Cutter squeezed the phone in his hand. He said, “Don’t worry. Get the search warrant. Start the manhunt.

  “He will be dead soon enough. Just like the others.”

  A second later, Kirk Cutter was off the borrowed phone. He walked away from the group of FBI agents and looked up at the sky. Then he glanced back at the rescue chopper. It hovered over the river.

  He watched as a diver came up with a black plastic object. It was an ankle tracker, Townsend’s tracker.

  Cutter smiled. He now had evidence that suggested Townsend had passed through here.

  This evidence would help him get a search warrant for Shane’s penthouse apartment. It would help him convince law enforcement agencies that Shane was the culprit.

  This was not good. Cutter would say that Shane attacked him. Now the entire FBI would be looking for Shane. He attacked one of their own.

  The unwritten rule would be shoot to kill.

  The manhunt had begun.

  8

  Manhunt

  “I won’t let you murder it.”

  ––Muse, Our Time is Running Out

  |||||

  Traffic filled the streets of D.C. The police scanner in Agent Cutter’s car went haywire with police chatter and radio codes that made no sense to Shane.

  Someday I would invest some time in learning them, but for now I assumed that they were all in reference to Shane.

  Shane sat idle in the stolen FBI car. He rested beneath a stoplight. The light turned green. Shane drove on. Traffic was heavy, but moving. He saw two police cruisers headed in the other direction. Shane didn’t duck down; he didn’t flinch. He just casually drove in the opposite direction.

  He had to ditch the car and Cutter’s phone. Both of these items were traceable.

  He drove north. Shane looked down at the cup holder. There was a Bluetooth hands-free set rattling around in it. He picked it up and attached it to his ear. Then he searched through Cutter’s cell phone with quick glances back at the road.

  Shane saw a side street to his left that looked empty. He turned the wheel. The car cut across the road and he turned onto the side street.

  He followed the street halfway down and then slowed the car. He parked near the curb and killed the engine.


  Shane returned to looking through Agent Cutter’s contact list on his phone. He found Sun Good’s number and dialed it.

  The phone rang a couple of times.

  Finally, a voice answered it. It was Sun Good.

  “Cutter?” she asked.

  “Sun,” Shane said.

  She immediately recognized his voice.

  “Where the hell are you? Why are you on Kirk’s phone?” she asked.

  Kirk’s phone?

  She used his first name. That was the thought that raced through Shane’s mind.

  Why had she called him Kirk? He wasn’t comfortable that Sun Good called Cutter by his first name. It implied that they had a more than a professional working relationship.

  This question was an issue that he would have to revisit. If Cutter was already tracking this phone, then he could be onto Shane soon.

  Shane focused and said, “Sun! I don’t have time to answer any of your questions.”

  “What the hell is going on, Shane? Kirk said that you weren’t with him like a half an hour ago, and now you’re calling me from his phone.”

  Shane pushed the driver’s door open and slid out of the car.

  He looked up and down the street. No one was around except for a homeless man sleeping in a shaded nook on the side of one building.

  “Listen,” Shane said. “Don’t trust him! He’s lying. He’s not what he seems.

  “The FBI will tell you a bunch of lies about me, about what happened.”

  “What are you talking about? What the hell happened?”

  “Trust me. I can’t explain right now. I have to get moving,” Shane said.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “It’s probably better that you don’t know.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Look,” Shane said, and he shut his eyes and sighed.

  Then he clenched his eyes tight as if he realized what he was about to do. He just said what he thought was best.

  He said, “Goodbye, Sun.”

  “Shane? What? Why? What the hell is going on?”

  “Don’t believe them. Don’t trust Cutter. And don’t look for me. I’m going to leave the country,” he said.

  I felt the pain squirming around inside his belly, like a worm going against its nature and burrowing its way back to the light.

  There was a pause, a long one. Then Sun Good said, no, she half-whimpered, “Shane?”

  Shane opened his mouth to speak. He let the words hang on his lips. But he said nothing and simply ended the phone call.

  He paused for a moment. He rested the top of the phone on his chin. Then he took the Bluetooth out of his ear. He tossed it onto the street.

  Next he pulled off the back cover of the phone. He tore the battery and SIM card out. He tossed the card on the ground and stomped on it. He tossed the battery across the street and left the remains of the phone on the sidewalk.

  Shane pulled out his own iPhone. He knew that it would be traceable, but he wasn’t going to be on it long. He dialed his office.

  “Hello, Shane Lasher’s office,” a familiar voice answered. It was Ally Embers.

  “Ally, it’s Shane. Listen, I don’t have time to explain, but I need some information and I need it fast,” he said. He waited for her to acknowledge him.

  “The Feds have called here. They’re looking for you. What’s going on? Are you in trouble?”

  “I know. I didn’t do any of the things that they’re saying.

  “Agent Cutter attacked me. He killed Townsend Dry. I don’t have time to say anything else.”

  “I believe you,” she said. That was all she said. Ally knew that the time to sort out this mess would come later. Now she needed to get started on whatever request that Shane had for her.

  “Good. Now listen. I need you to dig into Kirk Cutter’s past. I need to know his secrets and I need them fast, faster than any research I’ve ever had you do before.”

  “I’ll get on it. Call you back?”

  “No. It’s too risky. Go into my email account and draft an email. Don’t send it to anyone. Title the subject “Lost Dog.” I’ll log on later and read it.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. Be safe,” Shane said and hung up the iPhone.

  Then he powered it down. The iPhone wouldn’t be traceable as long as it was off, so he slipped it back into his pocket.

  Before Shane abandoned the car, he opened the trunk and searched through the contents.

  He found a first aid kit, a traffic kit, and a SWAT kit.

  Shane ignored the first two items and removed a plastic cover from the top half of the trunk that read:

  S.W.A.T.

  Inside the large box, he found a helmet, layers of padding, a small blowtorch, and a bulletproof Kevlar vest.

  Shane took the vest. If we were going to be hunted by the FBI, then a bulletproof vest would come in handy.

  Shane returned to the car. He pulled his tie off and wiped down everything with it. He was good and thorough when it came to getting rid of evidence. He wiped and scrubbed everything that he had touched inside and outside the car. He wiped the steering wheel, the ignition, the handles, all the levers, and the gearshift.

  This might have been a moot precaution since they already knew that Shane had stolen Cutter’s car, but he preferred not being linked to it.

  No one had seen him steal the car except Cutter, and he wouldn’t be alive much longer to tell the story.

  Shane locked the car and threw the keys off into the distance. Without looking back, he casually walked away from the vehicle.

  He tossed his tie into a public trashcan. He liked that tie. Cutter would pay for that as well.

  He strolled on, hands in pockets.

  Up ahead, near the street corner, Shane saw a pharmacy. He walked in and glanced around the store. It was relatively empty.

  Shane went to an ATM machine. He accessed an account that he had set up under an alias. He had several.

  He took out the maximum amount that the ATM would allow and removed his card.

  Shane shopped around the store and bought some supplies: bottled water, a can of Red Bull, toothbrush, razor, shaving cream, etc.

  Then he left.

  Shane needed to find a motel room for the night. There was no way that he was going to be able to return home.

  He walked and walked through the city.

  He must have walked for two hours. Finally, he stopped at a cheap-looking motel. He rented a room for the night. Now he had a place to sleep.

  The room was tiny and not well cared for. It wasn’t infested with roaches like Shane would have suspected, but there were a few occupants of the insect kind. They didn’t bother him.

  Shane emptied his shopping bag out onto the bed and grabbed the shaving cream and razor. He went into the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror.

  The light in the bathroom had only one bulb even though there were three sockets. The single bulb flickered and forced shadows to jolt around the room.

  Shane looked up at his brown hair. He had good hair. With his perfectly toned body and his hair, Shane could have competed professionally against male models. Sometimes he even did magazine spreads. The last time that Shane had graced a magazine was a year ago. Vanity Fair did a piece on him as an eligible bachelor.

  Lately, no one had called his agent. He wondered why he wasn’t in demand anymore.

  Then he shook off his vanity and returned to the task at hand—shaving his head.

  Shane wet the razor with hot water and began shaving. The heat from the blade melted through his hair and into my lair.

  He stroked the razor slowly across his head. The blades scraped across his head. He returned the razor to the faucet of running water, rinsed it off, and then pulled it back across his head. The sound echoed into the ceiling of my house. Each hair follicle that fell over or was pulled back with the razor sounded like a shingle being torn off my roof.

 
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