by James Beltz
Hank scowled, spun her around once more, and removed her cuffs. She rubbed her wrists. “Thanks,” she said. She made to unbutton her jeans, plucked the mechanical pencil from her waist, and spun. His hand went for his weapon instinctively, but she was ready. Her left hand grabbed his wrist, her knee went into his crotch, causing him to hunch, and she pressed the pencil against his jugular vein. “One shove and you will bleed out before anyone can help you. Now let go of your piece.”
Hank glared at her, wondering if trying to shoot her was worth the price. Sara could read it in the man’s eyes. Gone was the mask he used to fool the world about who he really was. Here was the CIA operative accustomed to killing. In the end, Hank relented, and Sara took his gun for her own. She pressed it to his temple, tossed the pencil aside, and said, “Behind your back, Hank. Cuff yourself and turn around.”
He did as instructed. Just like she had once before. What a good little prisoner. “Now lie on the floor and look out the bathroom door. I really do have to pee. Try anything and I’ll put a bullet through your brain. And, no being a pervert and trying to peek, either.”
While she relieved herself, she questioned Hank. He told her what city and state they were in, without fuss. He was less cooperative about what Slaughter’s plan was for catching up to Seymour. When she had her pants up, she considered torturing him for the information, but she couldn’t risk doing any more damage to her reputation than she had already. Hank also played dumb when she asked where he hid his stash in the building. Every CIA operative had a stash in every safe house they owned: a cache of weapons, money, and alternate identification for vanishing when the need required. After she handcuffed him to a support column in the main warehouse, she searched until she found it. The IDs were useless to her, but the guns and money would sure help.
Now, she wondered, how does a fugitive from the CIA wanted for murder and terrorism go about gaining forgiveness from that same group of spies? There was still only one option she could think of.
Time to start working her contacts. Sara Anderson needed to fix this before it was too late.
__________
Agent Seymour Sinclair sat on a bench in the East Wing of the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., staring at a priceless oil painting. He didn’t know who the artist was, nor did he care. Most art was overrated, anyway. People paid way too much money to hang pictures on the wall. Most of it was a giant waste of capital, including the one hanging in front of him. It was a simple painting of a light blue, curving footbridge over a pond covered in water lilies. Admittedly, it was serene, and staring at it did cause some of his stress to leave, but he imagined he could have purchased a replica image in the gift shop and achieved the same results.
His face was plugged into every facial recognition program around the globe. He was a very wanted man. Sitting so casually in one of the most surveilled cities in the world should have been cause for worry. Seymour wasn’t. Not in the least. Another program was running alongside his image telling the computers searching for him that he was really a pizza delivery man named Walt Cranzer from Albuquerque, New Mexico. He could catch any plane, travel on any railway, hand his passport over to anyone in authority, and no one would be the wiser. Technology was an amazing thing to have in your back pocket, especially since there was a kill order out for him with every intelligence agency the United States had. The ones that everyone knew about, and the ones that no one knew existed.
Seymour followed the brush strokes around the canvas in front of him with curious eyes. Though he had little appreciation for Renaissance painters, he could tell the creator had approached this work with careful detail. It was, indeed, pleasing to look at. He shook his head, the corner of his mouth slightly turned up in a mostly hidden snarl of disgust. “Waste of money,” he muttered.
A woman spoke behind him. It was quiet and soft, just loud enough for Seymour to hear. Her tone was inquisitive but mildly amused. “No fan of the greats, I take it, Mr. Sinclair?”
Without turning, he shrugged, still scrutinizing the artwork. When he replied, he kept his voice low to avoid eavesdroppers. “I guess I’m more prone to office space motivation posters. Like the one with the cat clinging to a limb with one paw, and the caption telling me to ‘hang in there.’ It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but I can think of many other things I would rather spend my money on.” He turned to look up into the eyes of the woman who had gotten him into this whole mess.
Despite her age, Deputy Director Hartley had smooth features. He was reminded of the statement he had heard from other people of color: black don’t crack. Her naturally tight, curly hair had been straightened and hung about her shoulders like a raven waterfall. It must have been colored to hide the gray, he concluded. Had to be. The woman was in the neighborhood of sixty. She was of medium build, wearing an expensive gray suit. A bright red broach was pinned to her lapel: a rose with a curving golden stem. She wore no other jewelry.
She stood there, her eyes concealing the anger he knew was circulating through her veins, smiling slightly at his opinion of art. “Ah, the amateur's approach to art,” she said. “I suppose you have a velvet painting in your living room of dogs playing poker?”
Seymour shook his head. “Elvis,” he corrected. “Long live the king.”
She smiled broadly. “You are a funny man, Seymour Sinclair. With your gangly appearance, you might have made a good comedian. You still might have a second chance for being one if you were to consider a career change. You certainly don’t seem to be very good at the spy game. Perhaps I chose you incorrectly.” At this last statement, an evil spark danced in her eyes. Despite her pleasant surface, she was furious. His failures were jeopardizing her well-thought-out plan.
Seymour stood then, towering over her small frame. It wasn’t done to intimidate her, far from it. She could have him killed with a snap of her fingers. He glanced around, looking at the few patrons roaming the gallery. Any one of them could be an assassin poised to slay him with a nod of her head. He looked back into her eyes. “You’ve been in this business long enough to know that a plan consists of multiple factors. They seldom go according to script. We can still fix this. Kill Slaughter and Sam Kenny will hand over the drive. With Slaughter gone, there will be no more threat of retribution. Our problem goes away.”
Hartley smiled up at him. “I believe the original plan was for Slaughter to die in the very beginning. His whole team was supposed to be floating around in the ocean and being fed on by sharks. Your man had the jump on them all. It was going to be easy, you promised.”
Seymour paused, trying to figure out how to continue this discussion in such a way as he would be allowed to leave here breathing. Say the wrong thing, and she could decide the world had had enough of Agent Sinclair. “Anytime you plan to take out someone, the other party gets a say. Besides, you know the man’s reputation. He’s good.”
Deputy Director Hartley crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side, still beaming her fake smile. “Oh, yes, Slaughter is good at what he does. But you said Sam Kenny was better.”
Seymour took a deep breath. He was on dangerous ground. What he wanted to do was give the woman a piece of his mind. What he did was assure her a possible solution to get this under control. “Look, why don’t we just frame Slaughter for some crime; label him an enemy of the state. Let the FBI take care of him for us.”
Hartley shook her head. “Two reasons that’s a bad idea. One, by now he knows too much. As soon as his walnut-sized brain starts putting things together, he’ll start talking. All it takes is for one person to listen. Remember, Slaughter and his team still have friends in the FBI. And two, that’s not the deal we have with Sam. He wants Slaughter dead. He wants to kill him personally. I’m sure there’s some macho thing going on in his head. He needs to prove he’s better than Slaughter. If we don’t let him take care of our Slaughter problem, he won’t turn over the drive. We need that money to fund our operations, to get around the Senate Finance Committee. S
o, I have a better idea. Since you sent in a bunch of our guys on the raid at Sara’s safe house, and that failed, you are going to assist in Sam Kenny’s personal vendetta. Get a team together and lead the assault yourself. This time, if you fail, maybe you’ll suffer the same fate as your men. It should incentivize you to get it right this time.” She turned and made her way back through the gallery, not giving Seymour an opportunity to argue or convince her of another plan.
Before she rounded the corner and vanished completely, she paused to look back. She spoke again, this time loud enough that anybody close by could hear. “Fix this, Seymour. There will be no more second chances. And don’t use our own guys this time. I have enough condolence letters to write.” With that, she was gone.
Chapter 16: A+M=BAC
Abbi stood on the second-floor balcony, just outside the front door of a quaint apartment, and gave her friend a warm embrace and smile. She had met Mary Abbot when they had both been at Camp David. Abbi had been rushed away to the presidential retreat when the White House had been attacked. It was where she gave birth to Cassie. Mary had been a PFC in the Marine Corps, assigned there as part of a security force. The two had worked to uncover a traitor within the President’s inner circle. They had also managed to free a hostage used for leverage over the President’s Chief of Staff. Afterward, they kept in touch.
Mary finished out her tour and then left the Marines, focusing on using her free college tuition courtesy of the Defense Department to pursue a degree in Criminology. According to Mary, she had been inspired by the heroics of Abbi and her team. Abbi assured her it was not about heroics and adventure. It was about doing what was right. Mary wasn’t dissuaded and pushed through her degree in record time. The last time the two spoke, Mary had submitted her application to the FBI, attempting to follow in the footsteps of Abbi. Abbi didn’t like the hero worship that cropped up from time to time in conversation, but she and Mary did form a tight friendship. Because of the nature of what Abbi did, she had kept this relationship a secret. She was thankful for that choice now.
Mary snatched the baby out of the carrier on the front porch, eager to get her hands on the child. “Aren’t you the cutest thing ever?” She turned to Abbi. “Do you know how long you’ll be staying?”
Abbi shook her head and filled her friend in on everything that was going on as they went inside. She held nothing back. This was a person she trusted. She didn’t have to tell the girl to keep her mouth closed. Mary wouldn’t say a thing.
Mary informed her they could stay as long as they liked. The baby could stay even longer, she assured with a grin. Once she showed them to the spare room of her small apartment, she also showed Abbi a small arsenal of weapons in the master bedroom closet. “Just in case you were followed here, anyway,” she said with a fire in her eyes.
Abbi could see the girl owning a pistol. It was in solid keeping with Mary’s character. She was surprised to see more than a few. Mary explained that she bought the Sig P320 because that was what she had been assigned in the Marines. The AR15, she bought for the same reason, as it was similar to the M4. She had her concealed carry permit, so she needed something smaller to tuck away. That led to the purchase of the Sig P365. Then, she figured she needed something a bit more practical for home defense, so she bought a Mossberg .410 pump-action shotgun with a pistol grip. Finally, since she had committed herself to go into the FBI, and since the Bureau had switched back to the Glock, she picked up a G17 to become familiar with.
Abbi marveled over the collection. “You’re like a DJ with pigtails. You and he would get along great. But you better keep your hands off him. That gun-nut redneck is all mine.”
Mary laughed and they settled in Cassie for a much-needed nap. The little girl had been rubbing her eyes and fussing. After that, they went into the tiny kitchen to make coffee and chitchat. Mary was excited to tell her that she had been accepted into the FBI and would be starting her training in a month. Abbi gave the girl an embrace of congratulations. That was when the front door was kicked in and plainly dressed men brandishing pistols with suppressors entered the apartment. Five of them.
This was bad news.
The good news was, neither Mary nor Abbi were keen on surrendering. Fighting back was hardwired into their DNA.
The five men apparently had not been briefed on what to expect. One would think the element of surprise would have been on the side of the armed D-bags kicking in the door. It was the other way around of course. One was a trained former Marine. The other was a mother lion guarding her cub and possessing a handful of black belts in various disciplines of martial arts.
Even better news was the fact that these men had been ordered to capture Abbi and not kill her. She could only assume this since none bothered to shoot her or Mary when they had the chance. Abbi guessed they were to take her and her friend hostage and use them against DJ. It was a good plan. It might have worked, too. There was just one fatal flaw in that tactic. They didn’t bring enough men.
Abbi broke the nose of the first one with her foot, then moved on to the second one in line. Mary, on the other hand, finished off the first with a jab to the larynx and then smashing a book from a nearby shelf into his temple. That was one down, four more to go.
The second one skittered off to the side to try and clear the path for his friends to step in and help. He was busy fending off a flurry of blows for a good second before the third man came into range. Abbi then began to pivot back and forth between the two, scoring a roundhouse kick on the third that sent him stumbling away, dazed. She returned her attention to the second, stepping deftly out of the way of a jab. She caught the man’s wrist, rotated under, and flipped the much larger man over her shoulder, crushing a coffee table in the process. Size didn’t matter when leverage was executed perfectly. The ancient physicists Archimedes of Syracuse would have been proud.
The fourth man decided it was time to change tactics. After all, they were getting their heads kicked in by a couple of girls. He aimed his weapon at Abbi’s legs, intending to shoot the fight out of her. By then, Mary had confiscated the first man’s gun. She put two through the fourth man’s face before he could get off a shot.
Mary was far from done. She shot villain number two through the ear while he was recovering from Abbi’s roundhouse. She retreated around the corner of the kitchen then, as man number five decided to take out the crazy woman with the gun. Abbi was the one of value, after all. He double-tapped her but only blew holes in the wall as Mary slipped from view. Man number five next focused on Abbi, deciding enough was enough. Killing her was a far better option than capturing her.
Abbi dove across the living room, knowing there was little to hide behind. But she didn’t need to hide, she just needed to avoid the first bullet intended to kill her. It was enough time to give Mary a chance to pop back around the corner and finish him off. He dropped his gun and slumped against the wall, clutching the hole in his throat that had suddenly appeared. Next, Mary popped the unconscious form of bad guy number one with a coup de grace bullet to the head, then moved on to bad guy number three. He was still trying to recover from being flipped onto the coffee table.
Abbi shouted at her, “Wait! We need one alive to ask questions.”
Mary shook her head. “No, we don’t. We know who they work for and why they were here.”
Abbi held both hands up, trying to talk her friend down. “But think how quickly he’ll roll over on his boss when the FBI offers him a deal.”
Abbi could see that Mary was deciding if ignoring her was the better course of action. Reluctantly, she nodded. “Fine,” she said and looked to bad guy number four. The man was still slumped against the wall, gurgling his own blood. He might make it if the ambulance got here soon enough. He didn’t, of course. Mary shot him in the temple out of sheer spite. She then surveyed her blood-splattered apartment. “By the way, you owe me a coffee table.”
__________
Abbi waited for FBI Special Agent Marcus Redman’s re
ply. He looked at her like she had lost her mind. He was ok when she was explaining what all had transpired up till now, but when she asked for her favor, his demeanor changed. “Are you kidding me?” he asked. “You want me to take a prisoner off your hands, stash him someplace until you get this worked out, don’t tell anything to my supervisor, then contact the local P.D. and tell them the FBI is taking over the case of dead people in your best friend’s apartment just to buy you even more time? Do you hate me or something?”
Abbi rubbed her hands nervously. She knew it was a long shot, but she didn’t know what else to do. If they called the cops about the dead men in the apartment, she would be answering questions for days. Deputy Director Hartley would have her dead before twenty-four hours were up. She needed time to put a few things in place first. “I don’t hate you.” She replied, a frown on her face.
Agent Redman crossed his arms and shot her an unconvinced look. “Really? Looks like it. Do you realize how fired I’ll be when all of this comes out? Look, I enjoyed working with you, and DJ, and Brett, and all the others. Brett Foster was the best boss I’ve ever worked for, but respect and friendship only go so far.”
Abbi glanced back at the car and Mary sitting in the passenger seat. Her friend was turned around and talking to Cassie in the back, seat belted into her car seat. “Look,” she pleaded, facing Marcus again. “What if I told you that I can personally guarantee that you won’t get fired? What if I promised you would get reassigned to the unit back in Texas? And not only would you get your old job back, but you would probably get a promotion as well. How does running your own team sound?”
Marcus shot her a sideways look. “That’s a pretty bold claim for someone who was kicked out of the FBI. Don’t get me wrong, I heard what you guys did, or at least rumors, and you’re all heroes in my book, but you don’t have any pull with anyone in power at the FBI anymore. Those days are gone.”