by James Hunt
If Grant didn’t give up the money, then Joza would kill him. If Grant did give him the money, then there was still the possibility that Joza would kill him. And if Joza decided to kill Mocks, then Grant would kill him.
Links lifted his head and stared at himself in the mirror with his one good, bloodshot eye. This was the cost of the game he’d entered. And it was still a price he was willing to pay.
He washed his hands and then stepped out of the bathroom, the armed escort still waiting for him. He followed the gangster through the poorly lit hallway, which fed into the main warehouse floor.
Links had chosen this location because he knew it was off the books, because he had personally made sure himself. He had places like this in every major city across the United States. He’d figured he’d have to use one eventually. He just never expected it to be in Seattle.
A single table had been set up in the center of the warehouse room, where Joza sat with two others. Each of them held a hand of cards, and there was a pile of cash in the center of the table. Links was given the last open chair.
“You’re a man in a very peculiar spot.” Joza kept his eyes on his cards and exchanged two to the dealer, maintaining the stoic expression to not give away his tell. “What do you think will happen to you?”
“I think our deal still stands,” Links said. “I think you want your son as much as I want to stay alive.”
Joza flicked his eyes toward Links. “Do you?”
“Yes. Very much.” Links swallowed, his mouth and tongue dry and uncomfortable. “Grant will be difficult to deal with. But if we give him the woman, I believe he’ll give us the money.”
“And why should I give up this woman?” Joza rearranged the cards in his hand, and the round of betting fell to him. He threw in another hundred to the pile, and that was when Links noticed that the entire stack of bills was nothing but hundreds. “I like her fire. She would give me a strong son.”
Links leaned forward, resting his forearm on the table’s edge. “She might. But you already have a son in this deal. I think trying for two would make you greedy.” The words were bold, but he had to maintain a level of strength with Joza. It was the only thing the man responded to.
Joza lifted his arms, laughing. “And look at how far I’ve come by being selfish.” He nudged the players on either side of him, who laughed in return. He set the cards face up. “I call.”
The pair of men placed their cards down, one of them holding two of a kind, another two pair, but Joza took the winnings with a full house. He reached for the smoldering cigar in its holder. “You see? I always win.”
“You win because you’re strong and you’re smart,” Links said. “And you must be both here, because the man that has your money is the same as you.”
Joza took a long drag on his cigar, and the smoke billowed from his lips. “There are no men like me.”
“We bring him here.” Links pressed his finger into the table, trying his best to ignore the throbbing pain in his skull. “We line the area with your guys, and the moment we have the money, we can kill him. But we have to make him come to us. We control the narrative. If we give him an inch, he’ll run with it, and then we’ll both be six feet under.”
Joza tapped the cigar, and the ash crumbled from the tip and onto the table. “Why would he come? If he knows that we want to kill him?”
“The woman,” Links answered. “He’ll do whatever he can to keep her alive. And he’ll be alone. Whatever he did to double-cross me, he did it against the authorities’ wishes. He’s being hunted just like we are. This is his only option.”
Joza chuckled, pointing the cigar at Links. “You were always a crafty fox. It is one of the reasons why I liked you. You’re weak, but your mind is strong.” He tapped the side of his skull. “It is good to know men like you.”
Links nodded, hoping that sentiment would carry over to his survival. “I’ll call him, tell him to meet us here. We’ll give him a deadline, make it short, then we take him out once we have the money.”
“And my son,” Joza said, gnawing on the cigar. “Let’s not forget about him.”
Links swallowed nervously, knowing that this would come up in the negotiations. “You get your son once I have assurances. And not a second before.”
“Ha!” Joza clapped his hands together quickly and then let them fall to his sides. “You see? Brains.” He removed the cigar and pressed the lit end into the ashtray, snuffing out the fire. “So you will bring this man here, we get the money, and then we kill him and the woman.”
“What you do with her after the transaction is up to you, but she cannot be harmed before the deal is done. She’s our only leverage on him.”
Joza smiled, his teeth slightly yellowed from the years of tobacco and booze and lack of hygiene. Every corner of him was rough. “Make the call, Links.” He looked around the warehouse. “I want to get out of this shithole.”
Links was handed a phone, and he dialed Grant. And as the phone rang he prayed that Grant would answer. For the sake of both their souls.
Sunsets were always Grant’s favorite part of living on the coast. While he enjoyed the views from his house in Deville, it never quite matched being able watch the sun sink below the ocean on the horizon. And it was made more beautiful by the evening’s weather.
Unlike California to the south, where they enjoyed a beautiful sunset almost every day, Seattle was plagued with so much rain and clouds that residents appreciated the view when they had a chance to see it. And on those rare clear nights, everyone flocked to their windows or the beach or the docks and reveled in the beauty. Just like today.
Grant found a spot at the end of a dock, where he sat on the edge, feet dangling over the side. There were a lot of people around, but Grant kept his hoodie up to keep his face blocked from view, and everyone was so distracted by the sunset that nobody even bothered to look at him.
It was risky coming out here. He understood that. But this might be his last sunset, and he didn’t want to miss it.
He ran through every scenario that he could think of, and every possible outcome, and no matter the path he took or the choices he made, he was a dead man. Either Links would kill him, or the FBI would.
If he was being honest, he would prefer Links to do it. After experiencing the trial four years ago after he was let go from the police department, he wasn’t sure he could handle something like that again—all the questions and the press and the looks of every accusing and disgusted pair of eyes that would dissect him and his choices under a microscope. He never understood why people wanted to be famous. But then again, Grant had never been one for attention.
No, a quick end was what he wanted. But only if he was able to get Mocks out. If he couldn’t do that, then he deserved the slow torture of the trial. It would be one last penance for himself before the end. That was if Rick didn’t kill him first.
Only a small crest of the massive orange ball remained above the waterline. The sky above had faded into those dark blues and purples and pinks that signaled the night’s return. The moon was already out, and it wouldn’t be long until the stars came out from hiding. And so would he.
The sun finally completely disappeared below the horizon, and the crowds on the docks and the shoreline lingered a little while, but fifteen minutes later, Grant found himself alone on the dock, watching the water lap against the posts.
Grant had taken a plunge in that water four years ago. It was the start of the case that ended his career. And it was the first time that Mocks had nearly died. Remnants of winter were still clinging to the city then, and the water was freezing. But he was able to get them to shore.
And now it seemed that history wanted to repeat itself, and Grant had forced Mocks back into a deadly situation.
He had never been a believer in God. When he was growing up, his family never attended church, and his late wife, Ellen, had come from a similar background. But over the past year, he had started to contemplate the afterlife and
whether there was anything beyond the grave.
In all those years he spent grieving, Grant never felt as if Ellen were speaking to him, and all those nights he spent on his knees, begging for her to speak to him, she never answered.
But maybe he had it all wrong. Maybe you didn’t keep the form you had when you passed on. Maybe you entered an entirely different realm that extended beyond the understanding of just heaven and hell.
Or maybe there was nothing. Maybe you were born, you lived, and then you died. And that was it. You had so many years and so many moments, and then after a collection of a lifetime, it was taken from you, leaving a body behind for whatever friends and family remained to grieve over.
The lights of a few boats coming in from a long day of fishing lit up the horizon, the reds and greens from their bow lights breaking through the darkness. Grant looked down to his left where he’d placed the computer he’d stolen from the building. He considered that it might have a tracker in it, and that Links and his thugs would try to hunt him down, but a small sense of recklessness had washed over him. Mainly because he didn’t think Links would want the computer traceable, lest it be able to lead back to him should it fall into the wrong hands, as was its current predicament.
Grant stood, a few splinters breaking off from the old, seaworn planks. He bent down to pick up the computer and then turned his back on the water. If that was his last sunset, he was thankful it was a good one.
He kept the hood of his jacket up, and the computer was slung lazily under his arm on his walk from the shoreline. His feet crunched into the shelly gravel that lined the dock’s entrance, which slowly gave way to a paved road.
With no idea of where Links was and no contacts to help him, he knew it was a waiting game until Links realized that he didn’t have the money and would contact Grant.
He was unsure how long it would take for Links to find out he’d been double-crossed, but he imagined it would be short. Grant strolled to a nearby taco stand, his stomach guiding him as much as his nose.
It was run by a single Asian man. Sweaty bangs clung to his forehead as the steam and heat from the grill he worked on blasted his face. He only served one type of taco, and Grant was lucky enough to have enough cash on him to buy two.
The tacos lay folded in a piece of wax paper that warmed the palm of Grant’s hand as he took a seat on the curb a few feet down from the food cart. Two bites, and the taco disappeared.
The fish was incredibly fresh, most likely caught today, and the sauce and cabbage that lined the top complemented whatever spices the chef had added to the fish.
Seattle was teeming with great seafood joints, though Mocks had never acquired the taste for it. Just the smell of fish caused her to gag. It severely limited their food options during their years as partners. Though she seemed satisfied living off strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts.
Finished with dinner, Grant wiped his greasy fingers on his pants and tossed the wax paper in the trash. The food helped clear his mind, and he opened the laptop and booted up the computer.
The battery was still at ninety percent, so he wasn’t concerned about losing power anytime soon. He just wanted to check the files, make sure everything was still in order.
And after he eyeballed the 5.8 billion dollars, he hovered over the link to the message that Links had sent him that contained the video feed. When he tried clicking on it again, he received an error message. He’d need a Wi-Fi connection if he wanted to see Mocks again.
He shut the laptop down and closed the top, and finally, his phone rang.
Grant let it ring a few times before he finally flipped it open. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”
“You’ve pulled yourself into a situation that you think you can control, Grant,” Links said, the struggle to retain a smooth demeanor evident in his voice. “You think you have us by the balls, but I have something more valuable to you than 5.8 billion dollars, and she currently has a knife to her stomach.”
Grant chewed over his next words carefully. He knew Links would play the only card left in his deck, but Grant couldn’t give in to the demands. Not now. “I don’t have everyone’s balls in a vise, Links. Just yours.” He looked down at the computer. “If you want the money to keep your life, then you will bring Mocks to a location of my choosing, and when I’ve confirmed that she is alive, then I’ll give you the money.”
“You’re not in control!” Links screamed, his voice shrieking and cracking from the sudden burst of anger. “You don’t get to make the rules here, because as apathetic as you are right now, the moment I snap my fingers, they’re going to cut that baby out of your partner’s belly. So if you want both returned in a healthy condition, then you will do what I say!”
“No,” Grant answered.
“Fine. Bring her over!”
Grant went cold when he heard a woman screaming and then a labored breath as Mocks came on the line.
“Grant? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Mocks.”
“They have a knife to my stomach, Grant.” Her voice trembled with every syllable. “I don’t think they’re bluffing. Ahh!”
“Mocks!” Grant shot up from the curb, the laptop falling to the pavement.
“Did you hear that?” Links asked. “Just the slightest little prick. Should I go deeper?”
Anger quickened Grant’s heart rate, and he white-knuckled the phone.
“Cut her,” Links said.
“No!” Grant lunged forward as if Mocks were right there in front of him. “Stop! Stop it! I’ll do it! I’ll come to you! I’ll come to you.”
“Enough,” Links said, and the bulk of Mocks’s screams faded into gasping whimpers. “Clean her up. Stop the bleeding.” Links’s voice sounded distant as he turned his mouth away from the speaker, but when he returned, he was back to that same even-keeled, smooth tone that Grant remembered. “Twenty-nine fifty-six Tully Boulevard. It’s an abandoned warehouse north of the city. We’ll know if you don’t come alone, and the moment we get a whiff of a double cross, I’ll kill them both. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, be a good lad and hurry. You have one hour.”
The call clicked dead, and the phone slipped from Grant’s ear and hit the pavement. The moment he walked into that warehouse, they were both dead. He was up shit creek without a paddle, and a leak had just sprung in the boat.
Grant looked over at the fish cart. The people in line and the chef had stopped what they were doing to watch him. With the added pairs of eyes on him, Grant quickly picked up the phone and computer and hurried into the darkness before anyone grew wise enough to call the cops.
But Grant was certain of one thing. He couldn’t show up to that warehouse alone. He needed backup, and as he scoured his pants pocket for her card, he wasn’t even sure he should call. But he didn’t have anywhere else to turn.
11
The apartment that Sam rented was small. She had always considered it a studio, but the leasing office described it as a micro loft, but the name didn’t make it any bigger.
Sam passed the galley kitchen, which contained a small fridge, a stovetop, and a microwave. She had substituted a small convection oven for the apartment’s lack of a larger one, and on her way to the bed, which was jimmied up against the counter of the kitchen sink, she grabbed a beer.
Twisting the cap off, she sat on the edge of the bed, then she chucked the cap in the wastebasket. The bedsprings squeaked with age, and she chugged half the bottle on the first swig.
The pictures that lined the walls of her shotgun studio apartment were mostly of family and her time in the academy. She stood, one of the old pictures catching her eye as she sipped from the beer a little more slowly now.
The picture consisted of Sam, Jim Turner, and Kyle Pratt. They were dressed from head to toe in tactical gear, each of them with their own sniper rifle over their shoulder, holding up their paper targets and smiling.
It was a thousand-
yard shot, and she had three attempts. The first missed wide left, the second just off the edge of the paper. But the third went right through the bull’s-eye.
The shot had been a point of pride for Sam, seeing as how the other two snipers only circled the elusive center. Though she received her fair share of ribbing about the two misses, she was proud of the accomplishment. But her instructor was quick to remind her that in the field you don’t get three shots. You only get one.
Sam still went to the range, practicing in her free time, but there weren’t any long-range shooting galleys in Seattle. When she was growing up in Texas, those places popped up like weeds.
It was her dad who first showed her how to handle a firearm. She remembered how she couldn’t stop herself from shaking, even after she fired her first shot.
The bang and the recoil and the scent of metal and fire provided a rush unlike anything she’d experienced before. But while the rush of the gun range was always a welcomed thrill, what Sam enjoyed most was the time spent with her father.
Her parents had divorced when she was young, and her mother had received sole custody. While she loved her father, he wasn’t exactly the most stable adult. He could never hold a job and had been evicted from more houses and apartments in a year than most people had during their lifetime, and he was a fan of the drink.
He was never violent or abusive, never did anything inappropriate, but he had a slew of DUIs, and after his fifth failed attempt at sobriety, her mother packed up her bags and took Sam away while he was on one of his benders.
Never in her life had she cried so much as she did on the day that they drove away. She kept her face pressed up against the hot glass of the rear window, the rows of the heat wire distorting the view of their house with thin black lines.
At the time, she didn’t understand why they had to leave. No amount of reason or rational thinking could be used to sway the mind of a six-year-old girl who wouldn’t get to see her father except for every other weekend.