The Switch

by Jc Emery

  On the side table, just feet away from me, is a small note, torn from the hotel stationary. I move in on the table and pick up the treacherous piece of paper. On it, three words are written and nothing else. They could have been “I love you” or even “Don’t leave me”. . . anything but what they actually say.

  Let me go.

  “She’s gone,” I say. I know she is, even if I don’t want to believe it. She’s just dumb enough to think she can fix everything by going back to Victor. And what does that fix, anyway? If she were my girl and she left me, I’d be gunning for the guy she was with after me. None of us are any safer than we were beforehand.

  “We’ll get her back, son,” my father says.

  “And how do you suppose we’ll do that?”

  “Chase, please,” my mother begs in reaction to my clipped tone.

  Shelby’s mother crosses her arms over her chest. It’s as if she’s trying to crawl within herself and disappear. Her father has his hands on his hips, his gut jutting out, and his chin level with the floor as he surveys the room. I’ve already looked—there’s nothing in this room I haven’t seen.

  “The gun,” he says.

  I fold my bloodied arms over my chest and stare him down. As far as I’m concerned, this is all his fault. The last thing he ought to be doing right now is bringing up weaponry. My nonresponse alerts him, and he turns to face me. His gaze travels over my stance, focusing on my crossed arms.

  “Did she take the gun?”

  I stride over to the bedside table closest to the window and open the drawer. When I came in last night, I shoved Shelby’s gun in the drawer. Despite the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, I didn’t want the gun out in the open. As it is, the other weapons are in the trunk of the rental car. Opening the drawer, I see a bible, room service menu, and personalized note paper and a pen. Beside the bible, far in the back, is the gun. I reach in and pull the gun out, showing it to the room.

  “Why would she leave without the gun?” my mother asks, puzzled. She stutters, tumbling from one discombobulated word to the next. “If she’s going to make things right, how is she doing that without the gun?”

  “Because she’s not trying to stop Victor—she’s giving herself up.” I practically spit the words out. I feel the tension rising in my chest and spilling out to my limbs. I clutch the gun tightly, afraid I’ll throw it across the room if I give myself half the chance. If Shelby’s gone, so is the rental car. I don’t even have to look for the keys to know that.

  Mr. Brignac steps away from the group with his cell phone to his ear. Placing his free hand to his other ear, he hunches forward, listening intently. His lips move in rapid succession, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Just as quickly as the call began, it ends, and he turns around to look me in the eye. His expression is blank. A knot twists in my stomach, fearing the worst. I only just got her. I can’t lose her already.

  Then he nods his head, and the devastation I’ve been waiting to see on his face doesn’t show. The corner of his mouth turns up slightly, and I know he’s got something.

  “That was Lyle—my guy on the force. He’s trustworthy,” he says quickly at my skeptical look. “We got a location on Victor and the girl. Victor left the apartment early this morning with an entire crew and came back with an extra.”

  “Shelby was with him,” I finish his thought.

  He nods.

  I grip the gun even tighter so I don’t chuck it at one of our parents. I lunge forward and grab my travel bag, pulling out a fresh set of clothes. I need that address and I need it now. “Stupid, stupid woman.”

  “Hey, kid,” Shelby’s dad says, “Lyle’s got the FBI involved. Don’t go off half-cocked. He wants us to meet him in forty-five at the command center they’ve set up a few blocks from the location.

  THE CAR RIDE is tense. Shelby’s dad is at the wheel because, in his own words, “the boy can’t be trusted.” My father, who insisted on coming along, is riding shotgun because—in his own words—“Chase used to grab the wheel when he’d get mad at his mama when he was little.” And neither man felt comfortable leaving their wives behind, so here I am wedged between Laverne and Shirley. I don’t know who’s worse—her mom or mine.

  “I just adore your Chase,” Shelby’s mother says as she leans in and stares up at me.

  I glance down at her large gray eyes—Shelby’s eyes—and try to force a smile to my face. It’s not easy. My own mother leans in and pats my knee like she did when I was a boy.

  “My Chase is a good boy,” she says.

  I bite back the rage that builds in my chest. I don’t know that I would qualify Shelby as well-behaved, but I really dislike the slight in front of Shelby’s parents.

  “He’s going to be good for my Shelby,” her mother says, then repeats the same action my mother did.

  My mother’s eyes flicker to Shelby’s mother’s hand on my knee and then back up, her church smile plastered on her face.

  Just as a nervous twitch develops in my left eye, we pull up to a squat brick building nestled between two taller plaster buildings. I encourage both women to move quickly, but neither does. Instead, they amble out of the newly rented car with the speed of a pair of turtles. Once I’m able, I squeeze past my mother—because I’d rather knock into her than Shelby’s—and stride toward the brick building.

  As I approach the door, I see the men standing watch inside from behind the curtain-covered windows. I slow my gait and wait in front of the door for it to open. It isn’t until both sets of our parents are tucked into the porch behind me that the door opens, and I’m greeted by the sight of nearly twenty men in navy blue with black Kevlar vests that say FBI in brilliant white lettering. In the far corner is an older man in a pair of khakis and a ragged polo shirt. I’m guessing that’s Lyle. He just looks more fisherman than FBI.

  “Agent Brown,” the tall man in the Kevlar says. He doesn’t offer me his hand, nor does he crack a smile. “I’m guessing you’re Officer Guilliot.”

  I go to reach out my hand to greet him properly—the last thing I want to do is to piss off the feds—but he turns abruptly and motions over his shoulder for us to follow.

  As we file into the already-crowded room, I survey my surroundings. On two walls, on opposite sides of the room, are large whiteboards that take up the better part of the wall. There are notes in black and red marker on nearly every inch of the whiteboards. I see words like diamond and gun and even cabin.

  I turn away and focus on following Agent Brown. We go down a short hallway into a dimly lit, sparsely furnished office in the far back of the building. From the awkward layout and curious wall colors, I can’t tell if this was once an office building or a residential. There’s really no sense to the floor plan.

  Halfway down the hall, I look behind me to find that our parents are still in the room where we entered. I try to relax the encroaching tension as Agent Brown comes to a halt near a bookcase and rests his elbow on the top shelf. Awkwardly, I stand there and shove my hands in my pockets. I can’t afford to piss this guy off. He might be my one chance to get Shelby back.

  “I’ve been tracking Victor Abraham and his dealings for the last eight years. I’ve gone undercover—twice—and have nothing to show for it.” He removes his arm from the shelf and turns to face me, crossing his arms over the bulletproof vest.

  “How long have you been on the force, Guilliot?”

  “A week, sir,” I say.

  “And how did you stumble upon Mr. Abraham’s business associate?”

  I shake my head in confusion.

  “The girl,” he says in clarification.

  Immediately, my muscles tense and an overwhelming fear swells in my gut. “She’s not a business associate. She was his girlfriend. She broke up with him, and this entire situation is because Abraham’s got a small dick and a bruised ego.”

  He smirks. “Yeah, Lyle told me you went and fell for her,” he says.

  I keep my expression stoic. “My personal life
has nothing to do with this case.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, kid. This entire situation is personal. Abraham has no need or want for that diamond he had your girl steal. This was about revenge, and you got in the way.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out. Now, what can I do to help get her back?”

  Agent Brown straightens his back and shoves his large hands into the deep pockets of his slacks. His eyes meet mine. He isn’t much younger than my father, but he’s fit and well-conditioned. If my focus weren’t on getting Shelby back, I might have half a mind to be intimidated by the man before me.

  “We’ve got men watching the apartment that both Ms. Brignac and her friend are in. Few men have come and gone in the last three hours since we located the building. One of the men who was on his way out had a warrant, so we picked him up. He couldn’t wait to plead down. We know Abraham is not in the apartment right now, but he will be back within the next few hours. The informant gave us the girls’ locations—one in the bathroom and one in the back bedroom. Neither have any chance of escape. Abraham has the place well guarded.”

  “Then why haven’t you rescued them yet?” I ask, incredulous at their dawdling.

  Agent Brown takes a deep breath but shows no further signs of frustration. “You want to get those girls killed? We go in right now, not knowing how many men Abraham’s got in there or what kind of surveillance he has on the place, and we might as well sign their death warrants.”

  “But you said it yourself—this is personal. He’ll want to keep Shelby alive. He wanted her back,” I snap.

  The way his eyes drop slightly and his jaw softens, I know there’s something I’m missing. Something about what I’ve just said makes this old hard-ass feel sorry for me.

  “Four years ago, I arrived on a case similar to this one. Abraham had the girl tied up in a closet. She broke it off with him, and he didn’t like it. I gave the order, and my men moved in too early. Abraham had his men torch the place before we had a chance to get her out. Had I waited just a few extra minutes, we could have had the jump on him. I’m not losing another one, so just cool it, okay?”

  Shelby’s not the first.

  Victor has done this before to someone else. And she died. He had to have known that she wouldn’t have gotten out alive. The more I think on it, the sicker the realization is. He didn’t want her to get out alive. My mouth goes dry, and blood rushes to my head. He meant to send a message—nobody walks away from Victor Abraham.

  “If that sick bastard has done this once before, why isn’t he at Angola?” I ask, seething.

  The pain in my chest is becoming unbearable. I’ve only just begun to love this girl. I haven’t had the chance to build a life with her yet. The thought of her stuck in a closet with flames encroaching sends a nervous chill up my spine.

  “We didn’t have the proper evidence, and the evidence we did have wasn’t exactly legally obtained. It was worthless. Now listen, I brought you in here because I want to explain a few things to you. You are so far out of your league here that you can’t even fucking comprehend how little you know right now. You do as you’re told, when you’re told. If you don’t, I’ll rip this vest off your chest myself and leave your ass behind. Got it?”

  Agent Brown picks up a vest and hands it to me. It’s half a second before I realize the honor he’s granting me. I’m a rookie cop. I have zero business assisting in this case. But he’s letting me.

  “Thank you, sir. I won’t screw up.”

  “You better not. I have eight years riding on this case.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, my girl is trusting that I don’t fuck this up. Her life trumps your eight years. I just want her back.”

  He nods his head and juts his chin toward the door, a silent dismissal. I hold the heavy vest in my hands and stroll out.

  Behind me, I hear him mutter, “Damn fool.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Shelby

  And I told you Victor was a bad guy.

  I LET OUT a heavy sigh and rest the side of my face against the tiled wall. I lift my tired right hand to my forehead and wipe away the sweat that’s collected at the ridge of my brow. An oppressive and sweltering heat weighs down on me. In frustration, I kick my healthy leg out at the door. There isn’t even a window cracked in this bathroom, and we’re on the third floor without air conditioning.

  “Becca, please,” I whimper. She’s still on the other side of the wall. I can hear her shallow breaths. It’s been a good hour, maybe more, since she said a word to me.

  After the preliminary discovery that she’s on the opposite side of the wall and that she’s okay—sort of—and my twenty-minute speech covering everything from what led up to her kidnapping to everything that occurred after, she hasn’t said a peep. Not that I can really blame her. Still though, her silence is like a knife in my heart, and it hurts worse than the knife I took to my leg.

  “I love you, Bec. I’m sorry.” As the words spill from my lips, the tears fall down my cheeks. The desperation seeps in, and I sob as silently as I possibly can.

  “Please, shut up,” Becca says from the other side of the wall. Her voice is rough, her words cracking on every syllable. “You’re making me feel sorry for you, and I have no room to feel sorry for you. I mean, really, Shel? Really?”

  “Please don’t hate me.”

  She lets out a heavy sigh and says, “I don’t hate you. I’m just freaking out, okay? I’m tired, scared, and I really just want for this nightmare to end.”

  Feeling a little sorry for myself because my best friend isn’t exactly pleased with me, I let a few stray tears fall.

  “And I told you Victor was a bad guy,” she says, somewhat indignant.

  I let out a sharp but sad laugh and say, “Yeah, you called it.”

  The only thing I can do for Becca now is get her out of here safely, but I don’t know how I’ll be able to manage that. I’m locked in a bathroom without a single useable object to fight my way out. Victor made sure everything I could use was taken away, including the lid to the toilet tank and the curtain rod. This was not how I imagined this going. The entire point of me giving myself up was to get Becca out safely, but apparently, I can’t even do that right.

  We fall into an uncomfortable silence with nothing but our passing breaths to measure the time. After I count a few hundred, I give up and close my eyes. I want to have that fighting spirit where I kick at the door for hours on end, screaming at the top of my lungs the entire time. I can barely lift my leg to shake away the sleep that’s creeping in. Though daylight is in full force, and has been for hours now, the exhaustion weighs heavily on my soul.

  At some point, there’s a commotion outside the bathroom door. On the other side of the wall, Becca perks up, scrambling across the floor. I go to tell her it’s okay, but before I can, the men in the living room are screaming at one another. Their heavy footfalls slam against the aged wooden floorboards as orders are exchanged. I can’t hear much through all the noise, but three little letters stick out in my mind: FBI.

  The ruckus grows louder, but thankfully, no gunfire is exchanged. When Victor brought me up here, he made sure to point out every guard and every weapon they carried. He ended the tour in this very bathroom with the words, “So you’ll be shot before you get off the premises.”

  “Please, no!” Becca screams from the other side of the wall. I pull myself up the wall as far as I can, my face pressed to the tile, getting as close to her as I can. The commotion moves into the room Becca’s in, and suddenly, her screams turn to whimpers. For a split second, the noise stops, but then an incredible banging begins on the bathroom door. I crawl backward as far as I can and arch my back against the bathtub just as the wooden door splinters under the duress. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my head to the side.

  The incredible noise slows and then quiets. I hear voices, but they fade into background noise as the thumping sound of my heart grows louder. Everything sounds as though it’s traveling through a tu
nnel at hyper speed—warped with a slicing wind cutting through the fog of their words. Little else breaks the fuzzy barrier of my consciousness.

  A pair of strong, familiar arms wrap around me as one solitary voice finally breaks through. Chase rests his gruff chin against my temple as he whispers, “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

  I unclench my eyes and blink away the spots that cloud my vision and settle into Chase’s chest, though I find something obstructing our contact. He whispers gentle, loving words, all the while keeping me tight in his arms.

  “Guilliot!” a deep, commanding voice shouts from another room. Chase’s grip around my torso loosens, and he pulls back, meeting my eyes.

  “Stay here,” he says in a cracked voice, his breath skimming across my neck and tickling my ear. I let out a soft sigh and nuzzle my cheek against his lips. He presses a kiss to my cheek and whispers, “I should be pissed at you, but all I can manage to be is grateful. Don’t scare me like that again.”

  Slowly, his arms slip from my body, and he stands, leaving me as I was before—curled into myself, huddled against the side of the bathtub. I watch him retreat, finding myself slightly taken aback by navy blue Kevlar vest he wears with the bold white lettering on the back that says FBI. Despite my initial horror that Chase is a cop, I find myself approving of the way he looks in FBI gear.

  Just as he disappears around the corner, I see the apartment is teeming with lawmen and women. In the far corner is the man I learned this morning was Chase’s Sarge. He’s handcuffed at his wrists and ankles as he sits on his butt in a rickety wooden chair.

  A young woman, small in stature with pitch-black hair strides into the bathroom. She identifies herself as FBI and then bends down to check me for injuries. She checks and double checks my person, ensuring I’m able to walk to the ambulance on the street below.

  Once she’s satisfied, she urges me out of the bathroom. “Ms. Brignac, please come with me. We need to have the EMTs check you for injury.”