by James Hunt
And if this was what he felt, then what was the point of all of it? Dunston’s death was the one thing that was supposed to make him feel something.
Grant stood and stumbled to the bathroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror. He was a stranger in his own skin. A murderer.
Streaks of Dunston’s blood had dried onto the stubble of his unshaven face. He turned on the hot water nozzle on the sink and splashed his face, rubbing vigorously. The streaks of red faded, red droplets running down his face and neck. He reached for the soap and scrubbed.
The blood’s heavy metallic scent filled his nostrils, and he grew antsy, panicky. His stomach churned. It wasn’t just the smell of the blood, it was the knowledge of how it got there, and who it belonged too.
Vomit crawled up his throat and he lunged for the toilet. He dropped to his knees and hunched over just in time. His throat burned and he gave another dry heave at the scent of his own stink, then quickly flushed the toilet. He pushed himself up and ripped off his shirt and pants, stumbling backward into the wall. He tossed them aside and reached for the shower handle. He cranked it on hot, but stepped in before the temperature had a chance to rise.
Dozens of tiny red lines trailed down his legs, cutting through the white soapsuds. The water grew hotter and burned Grant’s skin, his shoulders and back growing red from the heat. But he didn’t adjust the temperature. He wanted to be cleansed. He wanted for all of this to be done.
Grant removed the wedding ring and scrubbed it as well. It slipped from his hands and clanked to the tub’s bottom. He quickly squat and snatched the ring before it rolled down the drain. And as he clutched in his fingers, he cried.
He missed Ellen. He missed her more than he could bear. He wanted to hear her voice again. He wanted to watch her play the piano, her hands moving gracefully over the keys. They were supposed to die many years from now; together. That was the plan.
But plans had changed. The situation was hopeless. And a hopeless man might as well be a dead man.
***
Thirty minutes into climbing up the mountain, despite the chill in the air, and Mocks was soaked with sweat. Her muscles ached and cramped. Apparently spending the night in a hospital chair didn’t provide the best circumstances for thorough REM cycles. But even if she had gotten a good night’s sleep, it didn’t change the fact that she was outside. And she hated the outdoors.
“Not having any fun?” Hickem smiled, climbing on her left, he and the rest of his unit cloaked in tactical gear. They didn’t seem as bothered by the weather or the climb.
“Not my idea of a good time,” Mocks answered, her breathing labored.
Hickem nodded to her boots. “I can see those haven’t been thoroughly used. They look brand new.”
They were. Well, not brand new per se. Rick had bought them for her for Christmas in the hopes that if she got out into nature more often, then she might enjoy herself. She didn’t.
“Not much farther,” Hickem said, then nodded with his head, his boot crunching on leaves and twigs. “There should be a small ridge up ahead. We’ll have a good view of the compound from there to see what we’re dealing with.”
Mocks turned back to Hickem’s unit. “You sure you and your guys will be able to handle this? If this place is what I think it is, then security will be tight.”
Hickem gave a quick glance at the men behind him. “I have a former Navy SEAL, a Green Beret, two Marines, and a Secret Service officer.” He adjusted the pack on his back and the rifle in his hands. “I like my chances.”
Mocks raised her eyebrows. “Big dicks swinging. How refreshing.”
“My wife telling stories again?” One of the men behind her asked, which triggered a series of chuckles.
“I’m pretty sure she was talking about me, fellas,” Hickem said. “And make sure to tell your wife I’ll see her this weekend, Garcia.”
“Just make sure you mow the yard this time,” Garcia said. “I need to get something out of this deal.”
The laughter was light hearted, but laced with nerves. Mocks took it as a good sign though. She imagined it was how they coped before going on a mission like this. You’d have to be insane not to be nervous. She was.
Once they crested the top of the hill, Hickem paused, and the rest of the unit followed suit. He clicked his radio, keeping his voice low. “Jim, I need recon of the compound.”
A figure broke from the group and banked left out of Mocks’s peripheral. She crawled to the very edge of the ridge to get a better look. Slowly, she lifted her eyes above the steep slope, her mouth dropping slowly.
What may have started out as a sawmill now looked more like a modernized castle. A twelve-foot wall acted as the compound’s perimeter. An armed guard patrolled atop the wall, and she ducked back below the ridge before she could be seen. She lay flat on the cool, damp soil. The radio crackled in her ear, the report coming in.
“Compound is heavily fortified,” Jim said. “I count eight guards on perimeter patrol, and two more that entered the compound. Total number of known combatants sits at ten.”
“Copy that,” Hickem said. “Best course of entry?”
“Southeast corner,” Jim said. “Poor visibility from the high ground, and good cover on approach. Two guards on that location.”
“Hardware?” Hickem asked.
“AKs, M-16s, and AR-15s,” Jim replied. “Side arms on most of them. No explosives or heavy artillery visible. Helipad and chopper on the northwest corner.”
Hickem hand motioned to his unit and they scattered. Three of them pulled left, while one went right. Hickem crawled to Mocks and kept his voice low. “Stay here.” He reached for the side of his pack and removed a satellite phone. “If shit gets bad, use this.” He removed a piece of paper from his pants pocket and folded it into Mocks’s palms. “If I give the word, you call the number listed on that paper named Alpha One and provide them with the go codes associated with it. They’ll know what it means.”
“So I just sit here?” Mocks asked, expecting her duties to extend a little farther than secretary duty. “I did bring a gun, you know.”
“And you only use it if someone shoots at you,” Hickem said. “I don’t need you in line of fire. Stay put. Stay still. And stay quiet.”
Before Mocks responded, Hickem was gone. She pocketed the codes and satellite phone and removed her revolver. She exhaled a slow, rattling breath. It was the calm before the storm, and it was going to rain hard.
***
Grant sat on the floor, his back against the wall, the towel he used to dry himself from the shower still around his waist. The fresh clothes remained untouched on the bed, and he’d taken his wedding ring off and rolled it between his fingers.
The emptiness inside had grown. It was worse than right after Ellen’s accident. At least then he could fill the void of her absence with work and a simmering rage. But with Dunston dead, that rage and that drive had been carved out, and there was nothing to replace it, except for the old man.
Grant circled that thought, his mind defaulting to detective mode, sifting through what he’d learned. He found it odd that the old man was white. The Web, who seemed to value only keeping their own in the group, had allowed an outsider to ascend high within their ranks, which could have been out of the need for growth.
The Web needed contacts in the States to grow their trafficking business. The old man provided insight to the area and more sophisticated ways to skirt the laws. After all, the old man had designed the website, searching for his heir to the throne.
The ring slipped from Grant’s fingers and rolled onto the carpet. His hand felt lighter without it. But there was more weight to the band than just the metal it was made of. A guilt-riddled past, soaked heavy with pain, had dragged him down. And while Dunston’s death relieved him of some of his weight, the memory of his family remained.
Burying himself in his work provided the needed escape to avoid the necessary pain of dealing with his grief. But his endeavors we
ren’t fruitless. He’d recovered more abducted children than any detective in the history of the Seattle PD. That had to have counted for something. But those victories came at the cost of his own healing. And as a result, he never had a chance to move past the pain of his loss.
And now, sitting in a room in the middle of nowhere, he had run out of time and no one to blame but himself. He hoped Mocks would be okay, and that Rick had survived his injuries, and that the kids were returned to their families. At least they had a chance.
Grant reached for the ring on the carpet when his ears perked from the sound of a light pop. It was muffled, and distant, but distinctive. A gunshot. He jumped, moving to the rear of the room, pressing his ear to the wall. The pops grew louder and more frequent.
Grant turned to the bed, tearing off his towel, and quickly dressed. Shouts preceded and followed the gunfire now, along with the heavy, hurried thump of footsteps. Grant finished the knots of his shoelaces and then wrapped the towel around his fist and sprinted into the bathroom.
He cocked his arm back and rammed his wrapped fist into the mirror. Vibrations rattled his bones all the way up his shoulder, but the glass didn’t crack.
The gunfire shifted to outside his hallway. Grant cocked his arm again and hit the mirror. Fault lines traveled from the epicenter of contact and tiny bits of the mirror fell to the sink.
Grant hit the glass again, and the cracks deepened and multiplied. He unwrapped his hand and reached for one of the larger pieces that had fractured off. Blood pricked from his fingers as he removed the jagged shard from the mirror just as the bedroom door slammed open.
Gripping the serrated mirror wedge, Grant spun around as boots entered his room. He remained hidden behind the bathroom wall, poised to strike. A rifle barrel broke the plane of his vision and he knocked the weapon down while ramming the sharp mirror tip forward and through the tender flesh of a throat.
Blood erupted in quick spurts from the thug’s neck, but quickly faded into a dribble as another rushed around the corner.
Grant lifted the body to shield himself from gunfire, a high-pitched whine deafening him after the gunshots. He shuddered from the heavy percussive blasts, but training overrode fear and he lifted the stolen rifle, aimed, and pumped three rounds into the suited chest of the second thug who fell backward onto the floor.
Large pools of blood soaked into the carpet, and Grant froze, aiming the rifle at the room’s entrance. He stiffened, waiting for another thug to rush inside, but no one else followed. He lowered the weapon and checked the bodies.
He lifted a spare magazine for the AK-47 and a knife for when the bullets ran out. Armed, Grant entered the hallway rifle first. The narrow space made it difficult for him to maneuver with the rifle in firing position, and the echo of gunfire and screams kept his head on a swivel.
Grant followed the maze-like hall to the same living room where he killed Brian Dunston, finding everything perfectly back into place after he was forced to drag the body outside and dispose of it. He was thankful for the tarp, which was thick enough to mask the smell.
Grant quickly passed the room and entered another hallway. It was short, a sharp left up ahead that blocked the pair of Web thugs waiting for him on the other side that surprised him and opened fire.
Bullets obliterated the edge and forced Grant farther back. Grant dropped to his knee, making himself a smaller target, then pivoted around the corner and squeezed the trigger.
The first bullet entered the thug on the left’s stomach, and the second connected with the right thug’s left thigh. Both dropped to the floor, but not before firing helplessly into the air as Grant tucked himself back behind cover.
The groans continued, and it meant one was still alive. Grant stood, took a breath, and then spun from the wall’s edge and pumped three rounds into the surviving thug.
Grant pressed forward, the rifle raised and the gunfire growing closer. He stepped over the bodies and blood, and the hallway opened up into a foyer filled with a half dozen Web members. Their backs were turned, their focus on an enemy outside.
Grant tucked himself back behind the wall and considered his approach. He might be able to take out three before the others noticed, but that wasn’t ideal. He glanced back to the pair of bodies in the hall.
Keeping his head on a swivel, he searched their jackets, hoping to find some heavier artillery. And after turning over the second body, he did.
Grant fisted the grenade in his right hand and hurried back toward the open room. He pulled the pin on the explosive, the lever squeezed tightly in his hand. Three were clustered together, and Grant tossed the grenade in their direction. Two of them heard the thud of the grenade’s landing but realized the cause of the noise too late.
The blast left another high-pitched ringing in Grant’s ears, but the moment after the vibrations from the blast rippled through his chest, he stepped into the living room, engaging the remaining thugs who were caught off guard by the explosion.
Blood covered concrete, and smoke plumed into the air, the three thugs lifeless and in pieces. Grant entered the chaos and pulled the trigger. Three rounds dropped the first target and he pivoted left toward a second and fired another spray of three rounds. He swept the room methodically, always moving, always alert.
A Web member burst through a cloud of smoke to Grant’s right and knocked the rifle from his hands. A knee slammed Grant’s gut and he doubled over, but raised his arms in time to block the right hook to his face.
Grant countered with a leg sweep, which missed as the thug jumped, then stepped back. Grant jabbed, but the goon sidestepped him, taking hold of Grant’s arm and pinning it behind his own back.
Pain radiated from Grant’s elbow, shoulder, and wrist from the harsh twist, and the thug mumbled something in Cebuano. The thug kicked the back of Grant’s knees, and he hit the floor, his arm still pinned. A shimmer of steel caught his peripheral and Grant thrashed to escape the hold, but couldn’t as the blade drew closer to his throat.
A gunshot thundered, and the grip on Grant’s arm loosened. He spun around, the thug’s brains spread over the floor from a head shot, the knife meant to cut his throat still in the thug’s hand.
“Room clear,” Hickem said, stepping through the front entrance, scanning the area through the sight of his rifle.
Three more men followed, all dressed head to toe in tactical gear. They passed without acknowledging Grant, and it wasn’t until Hickem grabbed hold of Grant’s shoulder that he realized he wasn’t hallucinating.
“You must have nine lives, Detective,” Hickem said.
Grant shook his head in disbelief. “How?”
Footsteps echoed at the entrance along with a light panting, and Mocks jogged inside, her face sweaty and red. “Thank God.” She sprinted to Grant and slammed her body into his, wrapping her arms around his torso.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Grant asked.
“Long story,” Mocks answered, and before she could continue, Hickem’s men returned.
“Rest of the house is clear, boss. Chopper’s gone.”
“Shit,” Hickem said. “All right. Let the FAA know and see if they can track it in air space.” He shook his head and looked to Grant. “Why don’t you take a seat, Detective. It’ll be a while before backup arrives.”
Grant dropped the rifle to the floor and found a seat on a chair that had a few bullet holes in the back. He lowered his eyes to the dead bodies on the floor, Hickem’s men picking at them with their boots like vultures nipping at a carcass.
“Grant?” Mocks asked, taking a step toward him. When he looked at her, she was concerned, her hands huddled together. “Are you all right?”
His time spent here in captivity replayed in his mind in fast forward, and he twisted the wedding band on his finger, fresh blood on it. He shook his head. “No.”
“What happened?” Mocks asked. “Did you see him? The person in charge?”
“I saw something.” Grant thought about the
old man, but what he wanted to put into words sounded absurd. How did you stop something so calculated, manipulative, and evil? How were you supposed to kill the devil?
Chapter 8
The chopper landed outside another compound thirty miles from the previous site. Owen kept quiet on the journey over, contemplating his next move. He looked at the laptop that the Senator had arranged to be returned to him. The only way someone could have found that place was if they had the computer sitting next to him. Which meant someone made a copy.
The trouble must have been caused by Detective Grant’s partner, the former drug addict. And now Grant was alive, Owen’s home destroyed, and a team of federal agents hunting him down. He didn’t have much time.
The chopper bounced harshly upon landing, and Owen unclipped his seatbelt and ducked his head as he exited. Three Web members met him on his approach, and equipment was already being removed from the site and into trucks.
“How much longer?” Owen asked.
“Ten minutes.” The man who greeted Owen was shorter than him, but as wide as a redwood. All muscle, with enough brains behind the thick skull to be dangerous. Unlike his Philippine counterparts, the only tattoo on his skin was the mandatory spider web that he placed on the left side of his neck.
“And we have the assets I requested?” Owen asked, stepping inside the compound, which was smaller than the previous location. Owen rarely visited this site since it had no living quarters. It was primarily used for storage. And if the detectives had caught on to his sawmill renovations, it wouldn’t be long before they found this one.
“They’re inside,” he answered.
“Get Senator Pierfoy on the line for me,” Owen said. “Now.”