The Prisoner

by Carlos J. Cortes

  Lionel Beckerman, the security chief, frowned. “What the—”

  “A sniper shot out my bedroom window,” Ritter muttered, wringing his hands to bolster his performance. “I saw ropes, and at least two men, perhaps more.” The security man exchanged a quick glance with his colleagues when Ritter stepped over to him. “You have to do something.”

  Something flashed across the dark irises of the security man: contempt or understanding, Ritter couldn’t be sure, but his powerful shoulders relaxed. Then the fire alarm tripped.

  Beckerman drew his weapon as the security detail sprang alive. “You two, grab an elevator to the top floor.” He turned to a giant by his side. “We’ll take the stairs.” Then he reached to his belt for a flat pad and tapped in a sequence. Light spilling from the outdoor floodlights dimmed when a series of sharp snaps sounded by the entrance doors and steel shutters dropped, effectively sealing the building. “You still carry your locator?”

  Ritter lowered the neck of his pullover and showed Beckerman the capsule.

  He nodded. “Stay here.”

  Here we go. “Could I go into the security room?” Ritter wrung his hands some more for effect.

  Beckerman made a feeble attempt to hide a sneer, but it proved too much for him. He nodded and dashed toward the stairs, speaking into the tiny microphone of his earpiece.

  Ritter waited until the emergency doors leading to the fire stairs had closed before marching to a wooden door behind the reception desk and standing before it as the overhead camera moved and panned.

  The agent who opened the door was in his early twenties and looked sheepish, but Ritter knew it had nothing to do with respect. Instead, it was embarrassment at seeing the mighty security director of the FBH running scared. As Ritter entered a room crammed with screens and recording equipment, his nose twitched at the biting smell; the men had been smoking a joint. In a secure building, that could mean dismissal or, at least, a stiff disciplinary warning.

  “Take a seat, sir. You’ll be safe here.”

  Ritter eyed the speaker over the youngster’s shoulder—a saturnine man in shirtsleeves toggling a stick to follow two shapes sprinting up the stairs—and, beyond him on the far wall, a steel emergency door. “Thank you.” Then he turned to the agent who had ushered him in. “What’s your name?”

  “Sean, sir. Sean Clancy.”

  The other agent’s eyes didn’t shift from the screen. Ritter drew his gun, rammed it in the young agent’s belly, reached over, and yanked the weapon from his shoulder holster. In a swift movement he released the clip, threw the pistol into a corner, and shoved the startled man aside. Then he turned to the seated agent. “Don’t do anything silly. We’re on the same side, remember?”

  The security officer’s hand hovered in midair as Ritter’s weapon dug into his beefy neck. “Your name?”

  “Bob—Robert Fowler.”

  After slapping his hand aside, Ritter removed Bob’s weapon, repeated the clip-releasing routine, and sent the gun clacking over the linoleum floor to join the other. Then he nodded to the door on the far wall. “The card.”

  Bob didn’t move.

  “You’re doing your duty, and I’m proud. But you’re in a bind. I can make your pension vanish in an instant, just by asking.” He lessened the gun’s pressure and leaned over, his lips almost touching Bob’s ear. “On the other hand, I never forget a favor. Someone is gunning for me and I’m not about to stay here or drive around like a sitting duck. Open the fucking door and forget about Beckerman.” He nodded to the screen. “He’ll be mad, but I’ll look after you.”

  Bob took a deep breath. “Florida?”

  Ritter nodded.

  “The boy too?”

  “Deal.”

  “In my top pocket.”

  Ritter fished the plastic between two fingers and flicked it at the young man on the other side of the room. “Open it.”

  When he could see a patch of synthetic grass out the open doorway, Ritter straightened and turned to Bob. “Now walk over to the other side and stay there.”

  “Take care, boss.”

  Ritter pocketed his weapon and gave Bob’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before bolting for the door and sprinting toward New York Avenue, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. Bob wasn’t overly concerned for his safety, but a posting to sunny places was riding on Ritter’s capacity to stay away from a sniper’s sights.

  chapter 48

  20:54

  Instead of waiting for the lights to change, Ritter descended the steps to the underpass, crossed over, and exited at Montana Avenue, taking the steps two at a time rather than the escalator. He glanced around, reached to his neck, and removed the locator. Once on the other side of the six-lane thoroughfare, by now almost empty of traffic, he walked at a brisk pace past Mt. Olivet Cemetery, careful to mingle with a group of young people moving in the same direction toward a theater. At a narrow alley cutting toward Bladensburg Road, he squeezed past people already maneuvering supermarket carts brimming with the detritus of their lives and vying for the best spots to spend the night.

  He dropped his locator into one of the carts. Then he spotted a small puddle of water on the upturned lid of a garbage bin. He dipped his handkerchief and ran it several times over his face and head. He was more afraid of alerting a policeman with his bleeding face than of whatever infection he might contract from the water.

  He could have gone in the opposite direction, to the Rhode Island Avenue–Brentwood Metro station, and boarded an underground train to get out of the area as quickly as possible, but the system was rife with surveillance cameras, on both the trains and the platforms. If whoever was after him accessed the right feeds, he could be hemmed inside the underground network—not a pleasant proposition. When he was almost at the other end of the alley—the sporadic traffic of Bladensburg Road visible between garbage bins lining the passage—his pager warbled. Ritter stopped and squeezed between two large steel containers brimming with fast-food remains. His lungs filled with the stench of congealed fat.

  GET OFF THE STREETS

  Ritter swore. Although also unknown, this sender was different from the previous one. Is the NSA giving secure pagers away in cereal boxes? He darted a quick look overhead and clipped the pager back on his trouser waistband. Whoever called the shots was guessing. Good guesses so far, but they couldn’t have tracked him. Then he froze and glanced up to the rectangle of clear sky between the buildings. They could, and they were. Satellite. He retreated further into the gap between the containers until his back rested against the brickwork, and he took a few deep breaths. He could shack up at a hotel, but his ID would flash like a beacon through the system. Within walking distance of his present position, he knew some finer establishments where a few hundred-dollar bills might replace his ID, but it was risky. Friends were a no-no; he couldn’t think of even one unconnected with the administration, at least within Washington, D.C., and the closest family he could think of languished in an Oklahoma dust bowl.

  Before leaving Mason Tower, Ritter knew the sniper had to be almost a mile away; there was no clear line of fire anywhere closer. He also guessed the contract on his life had something to do with whatever Genia Warren was attempting to do, and that could only mean Odelle. He reached to pat his shirt pocket and the flimsy piece of paper with Genia’s code. Could they have spotted Genia giving him the paper? Was her office bugged? Ritter shook his head once. Executive offices were swept twice a day. But that didn’t mean much. Security measures were in the hands of DHS personnel. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes since his window exploded and twenty-nine since the sniper realized he’d missed. Now what? The security detail from Mason Tower would have reported his disappearance, and whoever fielded the report would have sent it higher up; the sniper and his or her handlers knew he was on the run.

  Ritter darted another glance to the sky and sighed. “If you can’t beat them …” He needed a place to spend the night, something to eat, a secure computer, and a few ans
wers, and only one address came to mind where he might be able to fill his shopping list.

  Faced with the choice of trundling one hundred floors down the fire stairs or taking to the elevators, George Wilson chose a combination to reach the parking lot and his vehicle. From the rooftop, he walked four floors down, bridged the alarm circuit on the fire door, picked its lock, and exited to a corridor by the elevator bank. The express car looked tempting, but it would stop at the lobby, and there was a chance an alert security guard would spot the wet stain spreading on his tightly wrapped coat. Instead, he descended to the tenth floor and the shopping center, exited, and stood next to two women to wait for another elevator, his guitar case propped in front of him.

  “Coming to the party?”

  One of the women rubbed the sole of a cheap shoe on the linoleum and hiked a slowly sliding shoulder bag. “I haven’t been invited.”

  “Of course you have. We all have. Mr. Morris said everybody.”

  “He’s a creep.”

  “He’s the boss.”

  “A creepy boss.”

  The woman with the sloppy shoulder bag glanced at George, did an almost seamless double take over the wet edges of his coat, and sniffed.

  More people gathered before the elevator doors, eyes following the changing numbers overhead. Only one car went straight to the parking lots; the others would stop at the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye, George spotted two security guards approaching with the bored nonchalance of mercenaries. A high-pitched single bell, and the sliding doors to one of the cars opened, quickly followed by another. The woman with the keen eye filed past, not without darting another look at his coat. When the security pair was almost abreast, the far elevator pinged and slid open. George picked up his guitar case, glanced at a two-inch wet spot where he’d been standing, and filed into the car, his free hand reaching inside his coat. Once inside, George turned around. One of the security men stared at the puddle, then his lips moved and his companion burst out laughing as the sliding doors silently closed.

  At the parking lot, George waited for his traveling companions to scatter in different directions before taking his bearings. There were three elevator banks, and he’d used the farthest to the right. He checked the overhead signs: 3W—right level, wrong letter. His car was at M. After checking the lay of the letters, he hefted his guitar case once more and walked purposefully down a wide aisle, reaching into his jacket pocket for the remote.

  “Mister …”

  George glanced sideways to see a man with a walking stick, wearing thick old-fashioned glasses, set on an interception course. How beggars managed to bypass security was beyond him. Damn vermin. He glanced around and lengthened his stride, the rear lights of his rented four-wheel drive flashing twenty yards ahead.

  “Mister …”

  The voice sounded farther away; the gimpy bastard couldn’t keep up.

  He opened the vehicle’s hatchback, dumped the guitar case inside, and reached for a tire iron he’d spotted earlier. He would give the beggar some alms. He turned around, covering the iron with his body, and froze. Overhead, a fluorescent lamp flickered. George remained immobile, his eyes slowly panning the parked vehicles, the concrete pillars supporting the structure, and the aisles. The beggar was nowhere in sight. In a shoulder holster, George carried a squat Glock, safety off and a round up the spout. It would take a second to dive to the floor and roll over while his free hand flashed to his armpit. Then he heard a tiny metallic sound, like a chime, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted the slightest of movements and a glimmer. Through narrowed eyes, he followed a single silver coin—probably a dollar, no longer in circulation—as it rolled lazily toward him, and he realized that a second might be an inordinate length of time. It was the oldest trick in the arsenal of an illusionist, to divert attention to one hand while the other did the business, and he knew the beggar would be at his back.

  “Mister …”

  The first bullet tore through his neck even as he turned toward the voice, followed by a mighty kick to his chest. The hatchback’s bumper raced to crash against his head, but he didn’t feel a thing.

  In another few minutes, Ritter crossed Bladensburg Road and took a left turn to head down 22nd Street to the sanctity of Letters—a curious mix of bookstore and coffee shop frequented by literary buffs.

  As he entered, Ritter darted a quick glance through the room, his gaze stopping at a table where a tall man with an impressive leonine mop of white hair was extolling Thomas Wolfe’s stream-of-consciousness virtuosity. He stepped over to a tiny bar counter.

  “What can I tempt you with?”

  “A smile?”

  Lucia Fosse blinked, the skin around her mouth crackling under countless coats of thickly applied makeup. “Trying to seduce a working girl?”

  “One day I might get lucky.”

  She poured a mug of coffee from a carafe and slid it before him. “Perhaps one day.”

  Ritter sipped the coffee and made a face. “Yesterday’s?”

  “Almost closing time, but for you I’ll brew a fresh pot.”

  “Forget it.” Ritter darted another glance around. “I need to get out the back.”

  Lucia raised an eyebrow and her face cracked even more. Then she frowned, reached to the side for a pair of tiny reading glasses, and held them before her eyes, inspecting the myriad cuts on his face and head. “A husband?”

  “A father.”

  “I see. Messing about with the preacher’s daughter?”

  Ritter pushed the mug away. “The father I’m talking about wields convincing arguments. A sawed-off shotgun.”

  “I told you to keep clear of the mob’s goods.” She glanced at a ridiculously small wristwatch. “I’ll give you a lift in forty-five minutes.”

  “I don’t have that long. Could you get me a cab?”

  Lucia looked over his shoulder toward the sidewalk before searching his face again. “Go sit at the back. I’ll call a cousin.”

  He held her gaze for a heartbeat and moved to reach for his billfold. She laid fingers with inch-long nails on his sleeve and squeezed. “On the house.”

  Lucia’s cousin pulled around the back of the shop within ten minutes, driving a nondescript black sedan sorely begging for a merciful last trip to the scrap yard. Yet Ritter had to concede the engine sounded remarkably younger than the thing looked. A quiet man with hands much too large for the steering wheel, the driver kept his eyes on the windshield and didn’t utter a word when Ritter slid onto the rear seat. He shifted the vehicle into gear and stopped at the end of the alley.

  “Galesville,” Ritter said.

  Even though the directions were impossibly vague, the driver didn’t comment. He kept the engine idling inside the alley, waiting. When the lights changed at the nearest intersection, he slipped smoothly into the incoming traffic, eyes constantly darting between an oversize overhead mirror and smaller ones on the doors. Ritter suppressed a smile and made a mental note to send Lucia flowers, chocolates, and the works. Then he relaxed a notch, slid down onto the backrest, and reached for his pager.

  HEAVEN? he typed. He reread the single word, entered the recipient, and pressed send.

  On Atlantic Avenue, the driver kept his speed within legal limits, frequently changing lanes and adjusting to traffic conditions.

  In his hand, the pager beeped: 653 LOWERSIDE RD.

  Ritter stared at the unknown address for several heartbeats before the ploy registered. He leaned forward and read the address aloud. The driver nodded, reached to the dashboard, flicked a switch, and a GPS panel came alive. After entering the details, he resumed his careful maneuvering between the lanes. Fifteen minutes later, the car slipped onto Pennsylvania Avenue, then followed Southern Maryland Boulevard to the Greenock Road junction, where it detoured toward the coast.

  “Five minutes to go,” the driver said. “You want me to wait?”

  “No, thank you.” Ritter wasn’t sure of the procedure once they got to the supplied a
ddress, but having a car waiting wouldn’t enter into the equation.

  When the driver pointed the car down Lowerside Road, Ritter noticed they drove past the address registered on the GPS at a sedate pace, then turned around a hundred yards farther on for another run. Lucia’s cousin had definitely not acquired his savvy driving a cab, and Ritter wasn’t going to ask about his training.

  The car slowed to a stop before 653—a single-story ranch-style property with a red tiled driveway down one side and a broad expanse of manicured lawn. Ritter leaned over to the driver, a hand outstretched with two thousand dollars hidden in its palm. The man gripped the hand and was about to complain when Ritter shook his head. “We all need to eat, pal. It’s been a pleasure.” Still unsure about what came next, Ritter stepped out of the car and walked over to the main door.

  As soon as Ritter pressed the bell, the door opened to reveal a very tall black man outlined under the door frame with a white clerical collar on a gray shirt. “Here you are. Come in, come in.” The priest reached for his hand and dragged him in with a swift movement. Outside, Ritter heard the noise of the engine revving away.

  One hand firmly on his arm, the priest propelled Ritter along a short corridor, past a kitchen with obvious signs of recent cooking, and through a dining room with a large table and five or six people sitting around what looked like a large fowl, perhaps a turkey, with good-looking trimmings. A plump woman carving the bird paused an instant, smiled, and continued slicing. Ritter half hoped they would offer him a chair, but the priest moved to a set of sliding doors leading to the yard, opened them, and stood aside. “You’ll have to climb over.” He nodded to a freshly painted white fence and smiled. “The Lord be with you.” Then he slid the doors closed and drew the blinds.

  chapter 49

  21:16

  Although she’d had only half a tuna sandwich for lunch, she couldn’t face the prospect of supper. Genia Warren’s stomach had been queasy for days—nothing to do with bugs, just nerves. After flicking the pages of a document she’d been trying to concentrate on for the last hour, she sighed, rested it on a side table, and straightened to consider a foray into the kitchen to raid the fridge for yogurt. Anything else probably wouldn’t stay down.