“It’s all gone,” Matt swept his arm in a circle. “Everything I used to publish my blog and writing. It’s all there in a gooey pile.”
“And the smell!” Carling sniffed. “Whew.”
“How much time do you think we have?”
“We’ll have an answer to that when we hear them. And here we are, trapped in the basement with no way out. It doesn’t look good, eh?”
Carling and Matt heard the first CleanSweep siren approaching.
“We’re screwed. Unless…” Carling paused. “If you do have a way out, now is a good time to let me in on it.”
They could hear more sirens, a chorus of howling, all coming to a stop in front of Matt’s building. Muffled voices could be heard shouting commands, followed by the sound of running footsteps. Agents were gathering just outside.
One of Matt’s phones rang. Matt held it to his ear as Carling watched. When he was finished, Matt turned back to him.
“Cyberia couldn’t get the warning to us in time. He says they have dispatched a special bus containing a small army of agents. We only have minutes before they’ll have us totally surrounded.”
Carling didn’t bother to ask who Cyberia was or why someone by that name would even know such things. Instead, he pulled his jacket lapel back and reached behind his back to retrieve a pistol. “I don’t know whether this will do any good,” he said. He shrugged and put it back.
“We have one chance,” Matt said, “I told you. I have a way out—maybe. If they haven’t thought to rip the boards off the coal shed outside, we may have a chance. I tried to make it look like it’s been boarded up for years.”
With that, he kicked at the wood panel covering the escape door and gave a nod to Carling. Matt led the way. Spiders had reclaimed the space, and Matt forced aside his fear of them as he brushed the cobwebs out of his way. Carling followed close behind.
“Pull the door shut behind us,” Matt ordered the detective. “It works as a cover and may give us more time. If you pull that string,” he pointed, “the wood panel will fall back in place and hide the door—I hope.”
Carling nodded and obeyed. When he was done it was almost completely dark in the tunnel, a thin slat letting in a glimmer of light. Matt led the way, crawling up the sloping wood ramp. It reminded him of the time, as a boy, he’d tried to climb a slide in the park and kept slipping back down. The former coal chute, unused since about 1946, was still full of coal-dust residue, and the two men were covered in black by the time they scrambled up and into the interior of the attached shed. They both did their best to brush the dust off, without much success. The shed was located in a narrow alley at street level. Matt hoped his camouflage had really made the shed appear as though it were permanently boarded up.
They could hear voices nearby. “There’s nothing back here, boss.”
“Or here,” said another voice, coming from a different direction—toward the back of the building.
“Post someone at the back door. The rest of you, follow me.”
“I just heard on the radio. There’s nobody in the apartment. Now they’re searching the building floor by floor,” one of the agents said.
“Some old lady shit herself when we busted into her place.” Whoever said that seemed to think it was funny.
Matt and Carling held their breath until silence returned. They could hear activity in the front and back of the building, but the side lane stayed quiet.
“I only tested this once,” Matt admitted. He pulled a board away from the front of the shed and motioned for Carling to do the same on the back. They peered out.
“Nobody here,” Carling said.
“Here either.” Matt pulled on an old door. “I fixed it so it would look unusable from the outside, but it should work fine.”
It opened without effort.
Carling seemed to make a decision. “Let’s do it. What do we have to lose? I really hope you have something in mind for getting us away from here? Otherwise, your escape plan really sucks.”
“Follow me.” Matt felt a rush at being in charge. He knew exactly where to go.
In a few quick strides, they were across the narrow lane and standing by a side door to the next building. Matt had covered that door’s lock striker with duct tape so it wouldn’t lock. He easily pulled it open. They were in a different building now, but both found themselves holding their breath again and listening for any threat, still feeling vulnerable. Matt tore the tape away and pushed the door closed. They could hear the satisfying clunk as it locked.
“If they try the door and find it locked I’m hoping they won’t think we came this way and bother to check farther.”
“What is this place?”
“Our friendly neighborhood dry cleaner,” Matt said as their vision adjusted to the low light. “Follow me.
They dodged plastic-covered packages of clothes hanging on overhanging rails. “The owner divided the space and now subleases that part to a nail salon,” he said, pointing with his chin. “There’s a door between the storefronts. It’s there.” He pointed to a door that had been painted over. It took both of them kicking and lunging to break through, but soon they were standing in the front of the nail salon.
“Stand back,” Carling said. He moved closer to the front window, careful to avoid being seen. “I can see them,” he snorted. “They’re all back by your building. There must be twenty or more standing around.”
“That command-team bus will be here soon, and then we won’t even have this edge,” Matt said, urging him to hurry.
There was another door on the west wall. “That leads out to the street,” Matt said. “I hope they don’t have this area covered yet. Maybe they are all concentrating on my building.” The far-side door was locked from the inside, so all they had to do was turn the locking handle and step out into the adjoining street.
“There’s no time to waste,” Carling whispered. He looked both ways. It was dark, and large trees covered the street like an umbrella. “I don’t see anyone,” he said, leaning close and speaking in a soft voice. “So far…”
He didn’t finish.
“It’s going to be dicey getting across the road,” Matt said, pointing back to the streetlights on Queen Street. They walked up to the corner. To Matt, each footstep sounded like the bang of a drum. Carling reclaimed the lead and stopped. He peered around the corner, first to the left and then to the right. He judged the moment.
“This is our chance. When I give the signal, we just run as fast as we can. Ready? Now!”
Carling led the way. First, they sprinted two doors to the left and then zigzagged right, crossing the street between parked cars. They ran farther west, to the nearest corner, where they turned right into a side street. It wasn’t far from there to an alley where a quick turn took them away from discovery. Not bothering to be quiet, they ran down the alley and stopped at a garage just ahead and to their left.
Matt saw the grille of the unmarked police car Carling had parked there before coming to the apartment peeking out. They stepped toward the garage door and looked in. They let out a loud breath, in stereo, when they didn’t see anyone waiting to arrest them.
“Throw your stuff in the backseat, and then get in the car and buckle up. I’ll close that garage door as best I can. We aren’t going anywhere yet, but be ready. If we have to try and outrun them, you will be glad you’re wearing that,” Carling said, tugging at Matt’s seat belt.
Matt felt his leg starting to spasm. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and urged himself to be calm.
“So far, so good,” Carling said.
CHAPTER 34
We Have Him…We Have Him Not
Angela was on the carpet—again. No, make that the hot seat. Called to Claussen’s office, she was desperate for good news to pass along. Just then, her phone rang. She held it to her ear and listened intently; a s
mile curled her lips as she did.
“We have him. We know where he is, boss!” Bristol couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice.
“Where—?” she started to ask the obvious, but he cut her off.
“He lives in the Beaches, some crap building that hasn’t been upgraded in years. After one of our spotters thought she saw him and called in her report, one of our facial-recognition cameras matched him. The camera spotted him going in the front door. I sent Sarah Reznat to check it out. She showed his photo to a couple walking up to the building, carrying groceries. They said he lives in Apartment 304. We’ve been chasing a ghost, but now we have him, boss. Reznat said she hasn’t seen anyone except an unknown male leave since she’s been there, and he was way too old to be Tremain.”
Angela Vaughn didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled. “Are you sure he’s still there?”
“He hasn’t left the building, and a light is coming from one of his apartment windows.”
“We have to take him alive. No rough stuff. You have a green light. Let me know when you have him in custody.”
“The watcher said there was a man with him. We have nothing on him.”
“Do you know who?” Angela was curious.
“No idea, boss. Reznat used her phone to send us his photograph, and the techs are starting to match it with our database now. What about him? What do you want us to do with him if we catch him?”
“He’s expendable,” she said.
• • •
“Now!” Bristol said after his call to Angela Vaughn. He turned to one of the agents with him—Adams, his second in command. “The boss says it’s a go. He’s in there,” he said, pointing. “Apartment 304.”
He stood back and watched two men run up to the front door of the building. Watching them rip it open, he motioned to the rest. A team of men and women wearing protective vests stormed the lobby, guns drawn.
He heard Adams shouting. “You two, front stairs! And I want four more right behind. When you get to the third floor, call me on the C frequency. You two, take the back stairs and make sure nobody comes down!”
Bristol stepped into the lobby and looked at Adams, who was holding a radio to his ear. “Roger that,” he said.
Adams turned to Bristol and said, “We’re ready to go in.”
Bristol gave a nod, and Adams clicked the radio, shouting, “Go, go, go!”
It was an agonizing wait for Bristol.
“Fuck.” It was Adams. “He’s not in his apartment, sir.” He reported that their teams had searched all four floors, and Matt Tremain was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?”
“The basement!” Bristol shouted. “Have you checked the basement?”
Adams turned and, with a wave of his hand, directed four agents. They ran to the back of the hallway and began to pry the locked basement door open. Adams stood at the top as they crowded down the steps. He saw them stop and look around at the bottom. Then he ran down to see for himself.
“It’s a total mess down here, boss—and no sign of Tremain,” Adams radioed.
Bristol ran down and joined Adams. They looked around at the destruction and stood without talking.
“It’s impossible,” Adams said. “He has to—”
“You have to see this, boss.”
Bristol and Adams turned and looked at the agent who had spoken. He was standing by a strip of wood paneling. He pulled it back from the wall, exposing a door. Kicking the door open, the two officers darted inside the coal chute, shining their flashlights on the ramp. They could clearly see the trail of two sets of footprints that Matt and Cliff had left behind.
“Who the hell is with him now?” someone asked.
“This isn’t going to end well for us,” Bristol said. “Vaughn is going to have us for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“And dessert.” Adams groaned as he watched Bristol dial her number.
• • •
Angela was looking in the mirror, admiring her broad smile, when the phone rang again. That would mean they had Tremain at last, and she could look forward to meeting with Claussen. This had to be Bristol, with the details. She held the phone to her ear and watched her reflection change as her smile begin to fade and the color drained from her face.
“How—how? You said you had him!”
She listened for another moment and clicked the phone off without a word. She pressed a number on speed dial. It was the number for Amber, her part-time lover and the only person she could confide in.
“It’s over, Amber. I have to tell Claussen we let Tremain get away. Again.” She listened briefly to the commiseration coming from the other end of the line. “My team tracked him to an apartment building and had the area surrounded. They didn’t know he had a planned escape route through the basement.” She observed her frown in the mirror as she listened.
“It’s no use. It’s way too late for excuses. My agent in charge, Bristol, said when the dry cleaners next door opened for business they heard a commotion—lots of shouting. It was apparent Matt had escaped through there, and then broke into a shop next to it, too. We have no idea where he went from there.”
She contemplated the woman in the mirror, not wanting to believe it was her own image staring back.
“Bristol mentioned something else, Amber. Bristol said there was evidence of two people. We know that there was a man with Tremain earlier, but we looked at the surveillance tapes and realized he left before we moved in. That man got on a streetcar, and nobody there thought to follow him. We listened in on a call, though, and it confirms someone else is with him. Who in the hell is he collaborating with now?” It was a question she knew Amber couldn’t answer.
Vaughn listened. “Thanks, Amber, but I have to get it over with. I have to give Claussen his bad news, gone worse.”
She disconnected the call and took one last look at the face reflected in the glass. Her eyes were swollen and red, and several frizzy curls hung over her right eye, showing her someone other than the consummate professional she was used to seeing. Another woman walked into the room and looked startled when Angela muttered to herself, “I might as well tell him and get it over with.” She was surprised as the woman to find that she had said it out loud.
The phrase “dead man walking” came to her as she slunk down the hallway to Claussen’s office. “Dead woman walking” is more like it, she thought. She did her best to walk slowly. When she arrived at the door, she paused, then knocked softly.
“Come.”
Claussen looked up. When he saw Angela, he started to smile—until, that is, he noticed her appearance. Her red eyes were a clear warning sign. His smile vanished into a grimace. He stood slowly and leaned forward with his hands on his desk. He already knew what she was about to tell him, and he knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
Angela saw his jaw tighten and a flush of crimson climb his face like mercury in a thermometer.
“I depended on you.” His voice was cold.
She knew it was useless to offer excuses. Her options had expired with this last missed chance. She didn’t bother to straighten her hair or fix her appearance. She stretched back her shoulders, standing at attention. It was like she was standing before a firing squad, and she intended to face her demise with dignity.
“I depended on you,” Claussen repeated. This time, the frozen tone thawed. Not exactly warm, but not as cold, either. “If Tremain links up with that damn news reporter…”
Angela realized she was still holding her shoulders back at strict attention. Wait…I’m still alive, she thought. With neither one speaking, the silence fueled her unease. This is worse than being yelled at. When is he going to explode?
“We have to find him and stop him. We have to find Susan Payne as well,” Claussen said, breaking the quiet. “Do whatever it takes. Taking them alive is no
longer a necessity. It’s not a valid option. You have to stop them. Do you have what it takes, or—?”
Angela realized she was being given one last chance. “I am going to take direct charge, sir. This is too important to handle just by issuing directions from my office. I’m going into the field.”
Claussen looked at her for a long time. It was more than a gaze, but short of a stare. Angela couldn’t read the meaning behind the expression. Finally, she nodded and attempted to execute a precise military about-face. It would have been perfect, except that her heels didn’t click together as intended, so she tilted to one side with an awkward motion.
What the hell am I trying to do? she thought. She turned and walked out the door, letting it close behind her. Just when I thought he was going to explode at me, he didn’t. Why?
She pulled her phone out of her pocket while she walked. “I want a car, now!”
CHAPTER 35
Never Trust a Drunk
“Dispatch, three one two five, is ten-fifteen this location. I need a supervisor ten-twelve.” The radio went quiet. Sitting in the undercover police car, Matt and Carling listened to the radio call.
Matt turned to Carling with a questioning look.
They were seated in the car, a police services handheld radio resting on the dashboard. The detective reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another radio, smaller and sleeker, then placed it next to the first as he explained.
“‘Ten-fifteen’ means they have a prisoner in custody, but there must have been witnesses who observed the arrest. They’re warning their supervisor to use utmost discretion when he gets there,” Carling explained. He chuckled. “That was what the ‘ten-twelve’ meant.”
“How do you make sense of all the calls? It’s a jumble of noise to me.”
“Anyone working radios develops the knack,” Carling said. “Your mind learns to ignore all the chatter, the useless noise, until you hear your call sign. That call you just heard was from car twenty-five in the thirty-one division. That was my first post as a rookie, so I still pay attention to their calls.”
The CleanSweep Conspiracy Page 27