Matt stepped out of the bathroom, shaking his head. “And how do you intend to do that? Perhaps I could run a classified ad. You ruined our one chance, Nigel. You and your men—”
“Hold on now,” Nigel said, stopping Matt there. “We have the bikers’ bodies, right?”
“So? I don’t see what a few butchered bikers is going to accomplish.”
“It’s simple. You are The Pinner, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“So pin. Pin a word on them that only you and Hunterman would know, the word that led you to a certain café. It would be only fitting for The Pinner,” Nigel said, winking at him.
Matt winked back “Now that’s Hollywood!”
* * *
Two days later, a dead biker was found in a dumpster near Barclay’s Center in Brooklyn. The victim was wearing a signboard, with “Rgrads” written in red. Under that, “Wednesday 1 p.m.” was written in black, in smaller letters. It was an appointment, a scheduled meeting, and only Matt and Hunterman could possibly know what it meant.
Nigel made sure that the police were in cooperation, and the press was intentionally fed only the information the Feds wanted the public to know. It was clear from the news headlines the second day that the suspect might have been involved with the attack on the hotel a week prior.
* * *
On Wednesday at one p.m., a man entered the café where Matt had allegedly met Mr. Willis for the first time years earlier, near his home in the UK. The man looked right and left and finally decided to sit at the same table where the previous meeting had taken place. Matt wasn’t there, but a minute later, a waitress told the gentleman that there was a call for him in the back, so he got up and walked back to pick up the phone.
“Next Tuesday, The Met Museum, ten a.m., Egyptian Wing. I want Willis and no one else. Tell him to wear a brown leather jacket, a brown scarf, and a baseball cap, I will be wearing jeans, a white shirt, a red, two-button jacket, and my scarf will be dirty brown.”
There was only silence.
“Did you hear me?” Matt asked, frustrated.
“Yes,” the man finally replied.
“Good. Now go have a cup of tea. It’s already paid for,” Matt said, then ended the call with a click.
The man left a half-hour later, and he was not followed. Nigel didn’t want to risk being noticed, and there was really no reason to. They could spare six days to ensure a smooth operation.
* * *
Matt refused to be bugged, and Nigel didn’t argue. The museum was the perfect selection for the encounter, as cameras covered every square inch of it, people were everywhere, and security at the gates was always high. Matt had only two things to do: shake Willis’s hand and stay alive. His right hand was covered with a tracing substance that couldn’t be washed away, no matter what soap Willis used. That sticky, almost permanent substance would stick to Willis like invisible glue for days, and he would be followed without even knowing it.
Matt arrived ten minutes early and looked around for a bit. He enjoyed viewing the contributions of the Egyptians to the world. Every statue and exhibit and mummy had a story to tell, and with all the insanity of Matt’s modern life, he was thrilled and bedazzled by the history of a civilization so different than his own.
At exactly ten a.m., a man in a brown jacket, a brown scarf, and a baseball cap touched Matt from behind. “Hello, Matt,” he said.
Matt turned and looked him over and instantly knew it was not Willis, in spite of his height and baldness. “Where is Willis?” he demanded, roughly shaking the man’s hand. “I thought I was clear on that, and you are not him.” He spoke in loud, agitated tones, so much so that a nearby tourist reconsidered his photo op with the statue and quickly moved away.
“I am Daniel. Let’s go somewhere…quieter, maybe the music section,” the man said.
Matt followed him but said. “Willis. Get me Willis,” every time the man tried to speak.
Nigel was watching from the camera room, as was the old woman who was following the two men. If anything seemed amiss, she would bump into the men and fake a heart attack to complicate matters. The plan was going well, but Nigel was as bothered as Matt was, uneasy that Willis was not there. Nevertheless, they knew they could get somewhere by tracking Daniel; whoever he was, he obviously had something to do with Hunterman.
The two men walked for a little while, but the conversation went nowhere. Daniel kept asking what Matt wanted, and Matt continued demanding Willis. Matt kept talking to him, though, buying time for Nigel and his team to check all the cameras to make sure Daniel was alone.
Near the end of the music section, there was a bathroom, and Daniel motioned to it. “I have to go,” he said.
Matt followed him in. Daniel went into a stall, but Matt opted to use a urinal. A few minutes later, they were both at the sink, washing their hands. As Matt’s back was to Daniel, there was a bit of a scuffle, as if Daniel was struggling to pull a paper towel free.
A fraction of a second later, perhaps from some sort of killer’s instinct, Matt heard a familiar exhale, that single, heavy breath one would take just before taking the life of another. A killer himself, he knew then that Daniel was about to stab him from behind. Without a word, he quickly turned around, grabbed Daniel’s hand, and pushed the man roughly against the wall, so hard he was sure he’d broken Daniel’s hand. The blade fell, and Matt pushed it away with his foot.
They stood there for a moment, face to face, before Matt tried to grab him. A flurry of fists was exchanged, but while Matt took several hard hits, Daniel took more. Both were bleeding and breathing heavily, and the fight soon had both of them tumbling to the floor. Daniel stuck his fingers in Matt’s eye socket, trying to gouge him blind, but Matt pulled his hand away. Matt then pushed with all his might and bit Daniel in the shoulder, tearing his flesh. Daniel screamed in pain and lost his grip.
Each man struggled to gain the upper hand, rolling from side to side, like two proud lions in a fight to the death. Matt repeatedly hit Daniel in the head with his elbow, then pinned him down and head-butted him twice. He twisted his head to the side and finally managed to climb on top of his adversary, who was dizzied by the pummeling. Matt then used the scarf around Daniel’s neck to strangle the last breath out of him, pulling with every ounce of strength he had left. He didn’t let go until Daniel—if that was even his real name—was totally motionless, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. Just like that, Matt had taken another life, but this time, he had to in order to save his own.
Matt was out of breath, but he knew he had to act fast. He searched for Daniel’s phone and used his left hand to dial the last number the man had called.
An eager voice replied, “Is it over? Is he dead?”
“That depends on what he you’re talking about,” Matt replied. “I will call in two days, at promptly 7:45 p.m.…and I want Willis.” Matt then memorized the phone number, deleted the history, took the SIM card out, and swallowed it, preventing anyone from getting their hands on it or the information it contained. As far as he knew, no one would think to dissect his stomach anytime soon.
Matt stood and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was covered with bruises, scratches and abrasions and sweating profusely, but that was the version of himself that he loved the most. He washed his face and quickly exited the bathroom. He looked at the surveillance camera, gave an emergency alert to whoever was watching, then opened one of the emergency doors and waited.
A minute later, Nigel was there. “We’ll handle this,” he said.
Because the door had activated the sirens, everyone was quickly evacuated from the museum, and the place soon filled with firefighters and police.
Nigel had taken plenty of precautions, but Matt was still furious. He had followed Nigel’s orders and stuck to his plan right from the start, but now he’d only been seconds away from bleeding out on the floor of a bathroom at The Met, not at all a fitting end for The Pinner. He decided it was time to
take things into his own hands.
Matt was locked alone in one of the security rooms for over two hours. It was not a very pretty place. There was nothing in it but a black leather sofa, a small coffee table, a coffee machine, an old photo of The Met on the wall, and a blue rug on the floor. There was a small bathroom in one corner, but it was nothing to brag about either. Matt had already taken his bloodstained clothes off and taken a quick shower, and he was now wearing a plain blue shirt and black trousers, given to him by one of the guards outside.
He hadn’t seen Nigel for some time. His hands began to shake with anger and frustration, and he was fuming by the time Nigel walked in, dressed like a policeman, carrying a bag in his hand.
“Here. Put this uniform on, along with that fake beard. It’s time to relive your old days, to play dress-up. And pass me that wig, would ya?” As Nigel situated the mop of hair on his head, he explained, “They might be watching, so we’ll have to be careful. We’ll go out the back exit, then head left. Our car is the first one parked there. I’ll tell you more on the drive, but let’s get outta here first.”
A few minutes later, Matt was dressed like a bearded police officer, riding in a police cruiser with its sirens blaring. They drove around the city for an hour, then finally made their way to the next meeting place. In that empty parking lot, they got into another car and headed to Matt’s place.
“Where were they, your agents?” Matt asked, furious and still blaming him for the mess. “I thought you guys had that place secure? How’d that bastard manage to plant a blade in the restroom?”
“They must have done it within an hour before you two entered. Five people were seen entering the restroom. We’re investigating the footage,” Nigel replied.
“Did you see them plant it?” Matt asked.
“We are not allowed to shoot inside the restrooms, due to privacy laws and all that shit. We did see who entered though, and we’re checking it out,” Nigel said, more firmly this time.
“What a useless bunch you are,” Matt said. He sounded extremely upset, but deep down, he was somewhat glad to hear it. The fact that there were no cameras allowed in the bathroom meant the FBI didn’t know he’d made a call with Daniel’s phone or that he’d swallowed the SIM card. Finally, Matt thought, with ideas swirling through his brilliant and frighteningly clever head, I am one step ahead.
During the rest of the drive, Nigel tried to come up with feasible ideas that might draw Hunterman in again. Matt pretended to be engaged in the conversation and acted interested, but he was still quite pissed off at Nigel and his lackluster Federal Bureau of Investigation.
By the time they reached his place, Matt had already planned his next step. He changed his clothes quickly and gave the cop uniform and fake beard back to Nigel. After Nigel left, Mat downed two bottles of beer, smoked several cigarettes, then went to sleep.
* * *
The next morning, Nigel called and told Matt to read the paper he’d left at the door, so Matt made himself a mug of coffee, picked the paper up off the doorstep, and read the front page: “Man Murdered at the Met: A man, identified as Dillon Shepherd, was found dead around noon yesterday in a second-floor restroom at the iconic museum. Dillon, an orphan from Missouri, was strangled to death and severely beaten. Police are currently investigation security footage that may reveal the assailant. A six-foot white male, dressed in dark blue jeans, a white shirt, a red jacket, and a dark brown scarf was seen leaving the restroom just moments after the death likely occurred. The man had hit the fire emergency siren and likely fled the premises unnoticed during the chaos of panicked people heading for the exit and police and firefighters making their way in. The museum would be closed for two days.”
Matt was happy with the article, for it was written in a simple but realistic way. Hunterman would be happy as well, for it seemed the victim was not being tied to them in any way.
Earlier that morning, Matt had made sure of that when he flushed the toilet. All traces of his call on Daniel’s phone, as well as any calls made before that, were now swimming in the sewage system of the great State of Virginia.
An hour later, Matt called Nigel. “Since we don’t have a next step, thanks to your Bureau’s major screw-up, I’m going out as I wish from now on. You know where I am, and I know you’ll probably put your dogs on my trail, but don’t bother me. I need some fresh air, some damn space, and a chance to think. I need some things to hide my good looks, though, so please have someone drop them by.”
For the first time in weeks, Matt had lunch all by himself. He wasn’t totally alone as he sat in the cozy little Italian place, for he knew the Feds were somewhere close by, but sitting alone was more than enough for him. I’ll tire those nosy suckers out today, he thought and grinned. He planned to watch a movie, do some shopping, and end his night at a bar. It was all part of his plan, of course, because he had twenty-four hours to kill before he would make that call to Hunterman.
He had chosen the perfect spot to make that call: a bar just outside the Verizon Center in Washington DC. Thousands would be there, watching the Wizards take on the Cavaliers, so he was sure the bar would be swarming with people. His call would take less than a minute, so even if they tried to trace it—which he suspected they would—he would be lost with the thousands watching the game. Of course, Nigel’s men would be watching the game right along with him, so if anyone got too close to him, there would be a showdown.
* * *
Twenty minutes before the start of the game the next evening, at exactly eight p.m., Matt was in the bar, sitting behind a pint of beer and engaged in a pleasant conversation with the charming young blonde who was serving him.
He knew exactly where Nigel’s men were seated, so he politely dismissed himself from the pretty barmaid and walked over to them. “I’m heading to the pisser, if either of you would care to help me. I’d love to have some free hands.”
“Shut up, Mathews,” one of the agents replied, “and be quick.”
Matt went to the back, where he had noticed a phone booth earlier, neatly tucked in a corner. He dialed the number, and it only rang once before someone answered, “Yes, Matt, it’s me. Now what the hell do you want?”
“Not so fast, Willis. I miss you. As for what I want… Well, hmm. Maybe some money. Anyway, I know your guys will track this call in twenty seconds, so I have to be going. Keep the number. I’ll call in thirty-six hours. We will do this my way from now on, since Let us do it my way, you failed twice. And, oh…go Wizards.” With that, Matt hung up the phone and made his way back to the main room of the bar.
He was only gone for two minutes, so both of Nigel’s goons were still there. They didn’t ask about the call, but if they had seen him make it, he already had dozens of stories prepared, well-concocted lies that they would have easily bought.
He sat down at the bar and enjoyed the game and left with a smile on his face, just like the thousands who enjoyed seeing the Wizards win by six.
* * *
Matt couldn’t sleep that night. His latest encounters with Hunterman had proven what he’d laid his bet on: Willis was not a normal member of Hunterman. He was a big shot of some kind, for they clearly could not risk his life or spare him. Matt had asked for him several times, but they always sent someone else in his stead. Willis was, therefore, his only ticket to Halden and greater fortune that he might need someday.
Matt knew he couldn’t trust the FBI on a permanent basis. They would only put up with the delays for so long. If he failed to deliver anything concrete on Hunterman, he would be useless to them, and he would be sent to a prison where he wouldn’t last for days. He had to act fast.
He decided that two days later, he would make another call, another demand for money, and he would lay the final bait for Hunterman. He would go through all of that alone, and he would not involve Nigel unless he backed himself into a corner somehow and ran out of other viable solutions. It felt good to be in control once again, something Matt had missed ever since
the day he’d stepped foot in the American Embassy in Argentina.
It was not all that difficult to choose the place where he would make his second call. A Muslim convention was to be held at George Mason University, a place to discuss harmony between religions, and Matt would be there. From his time in Dubai, he knew Muslims and Arabs were genuinely friendly with anyone who showed a genuine interest in their culture or faith, and they would be very helpful. He planned to engage in conversations at the convention, pretend to be interested in the speeches and presentations, then ask a random stranger if he could borrow a phone to make a quick call. He would speak for less than a minute, then politely give the phone back and leave the convention. If all went according to plan, everything would be settled within two weeks.
At two a.m., Matt finally gave up on sleeping. He changed his clothes and took a ride to the closest strip club. It was his first time in such a place, as he’d never been much of a fan of naked bodies slithering up and down and around a pole, no matter how scantily clad and silicone enhanced they were. His brain was in need of distraction and stimulation, though, and he hoped the new experience would afford him that.
Halfway through the thong-wearing brunette’s performance, Matt’s phone rang. “Mathews, things are getting out of control,” Nigel said. “I want you to know that my guys have the green light to shoot you on the spot if you pull any funny shit. To hell with Hunterman.”
“Do you consider strip clubs funny, Nigel?” Matt asked sarcastically. “Please go on back to bed, sir…and give my regards to the missus, would you?”
“You motherfu—”
Before the curse could be properly yelled, Matt hung up and stifled a laugh.
The goons caught up with Matt fifteen minutes after his arrival, and he stayed in the club for an hour and a half. He really was not all that impressed with the fact that he was surrounded by boobs; not one single dancer turned him on, but they did feed his mind crazy mind in some way, as if his head needed a late-night snack all its own.
Matt: A Matt Godfrey Short thriller Trilogy Page 13