by PT Reade
The woman looked at me and nodded, suddenly ten years older than she seemed earlier. “I’m afraid you’re on your own Tommy-boy. I have a lot to do here.”
“I know. And thanks, for everything. I just wish I could repay you for your help.”
“Well if you want to thank me… there is one thing.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, I don’t really have any way to get home now ...”
I followed her gaze out the bar, through the window, to the deep red motorcycle gleaming in the parking lot. My trusty steed of the past twenty-four hours.
I fished the keys from my pocket and tossed them across the room to Donnie who snatched them eagerly from the air. “Take care of her out there … and take care of yourself.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Leaving behind the FBI and a team of police officers in Rey’s capable hands, I borrowed his unmarked Dodge squad car and drove through the Midtown tunnel back to Manhattan. It felt good to be behind the wheel of a vehicle that wasn’t fighting me at every turn. Something with power steering, a throaty V6, and modern brakes.
Even so, I was lost. Running on automatic. The bomb threat was over, but I was no closer to finding Teach or his target. All those failures I'd banked had been gathering interest. Frustration and despair filled my thoughts.
I just wanted to be back at McKenzie’s, staring into the bottom of a glass, but I planned to drop by the station and fill Kinsey in on the day’s events first.
My phone buzzed, and the car’s hands-free system picked up the call.
“Blume here.”
“Hey man, I think we finally have things wrapped up,” Rey spoke over the crackling line. “But I just got your email. So, who is this Luisa Quinto?” he asked. “How does she fit in?”
“It’s a long story. Probably doesn’t matter anymore,” I said, dejected.
“So, you want me to translate or what?”
“Sure, whatever.”
Rey grew silent, as though he was trying to rearrange all the pieces to make them fit, nice and neat. Momentarily satisfied, he offered a truncated translation.
“‘Colombia press in mourning’ … blah, blah … ah, here we go. Article from six months ago … ‘Local journalist, Luisa Quinto was tragically found dead in her hotel room in Cartagena on Sunday night’ …. Um, let’s see. ‘Quinto, who’s provocative articles regarding the business practices of Mountfield Resources’ … ‘was a prize-winning writer and activist.’ … Her death was considered suspicious by police, but the Hotel staff didn’t see anyone coming or going. Um, not much more. Looks like the investigation was dropped.”
“Mountfield Resources. What is it?”
“Um, let me see, I just got my laptop open. It’s … an international mining corporation with operations in Central and South America. Recently the company has faced controversy over worker exploitation and political manipulation. Headquartered in New York City, the company is owned by the larger KBH Investments Group; it’s CEO and majority shareholder, Myron—”
“Kellerman,” I gasped.
THIRTY-NINE
I swung the car into a hard one-eighty, earning a screech from the tires.
My foot hit the floor, and the Dodge lurched forward with a roar, heading downtown.
Teach hadn’t come back to do a job. He wasn’t hired to take out Kellerman. It was more personal than that.
It all clicked.
Teach hadn’t vanished, he’d fallen in love and started a family. He’d been living happily-ever-after in wide open spaces, and then it was all taken away. Luisa Quinto—the woman he loved—had been murdered for being too vocal, for digging too deep.
Murdered by Kellerman.
I knew what it was like to have your own world taken away, senselessly, violently. I understood the burning need for revenge.
The bomb threats, the phone calls, the deals between Kellerman and Harlon, they were all connected. Teach knew something, maybe what Luisa knew. Dangerous information about powerful people.
I glanced at the street signs whipping by. Less than four blocks to my destination.
I pushed the car harder, faster, weaving between traffic as I hit Broadway, clocking nearly seventy miles per hour.
Only when the City Hall junction came into did I realize my mistake.
There was no time to waste, but no one had informed the construction workers blocking off the street, shaving my patience thinner by the second. An enormous truck, two trailers long was maneuvering into the site at a snail’s pace, it reversed at a crawl, while traffic halted in both directions.
I glanced at my watch again and recalled what Rey had said.
Only in the office from 1pm for an hour.
Come on.
The bombs were out of play; EOD teams would already be sweeping Harlon’s home and garage, the FBI interrogating him about other devices. But there was more at stake for me, now; his employer.
I flicked the switch for the hidden blue lights behind the grille and weaved between the cars, blasting the horn. Vehicles tried to move aside, but space was tight. The afternoon traffic thick on the roads.
I stared at the vehicles, willing all the cars stretched before me to move out of the way. The early afternoon sun provided enough glare to heighten my impatient discomfort.
More brake lights blossomed in front as the traffic came to a complete stop. My blue lights did nothing; there was nowhere for anyone to go.
The vehicle in front sat motionless. This was going to take forever.
I glanced at my watch. 13.45.
Damn.
“Screw it.”
I climbed from the car, slammed the door and ran, heading south as fast as I could. No time to look back. I didn’t need to.
My legs began to burn as I pushed them harder, faster. Pounding the soles of my shoes against the sidewalk. My ribs ached, dull fire welling in my chest.
When the sign came into view, I slowed to a stop, breathing heavily outside the glass entrance to the Morningside Hotel. The corner of Wall Street and Pearl.
This was it. This must have been the very sight Teach had been scoping the moment the NYPD grabbed him.
I looked left and right, then at the grey monolith on the opposite side of the road, and the nameplate etched in somber steel near the door.
KBH Investments.
FORTY
After creeping into the lobby, and blending into the desk jockeys and delivery couriers as best I could, I hopped into an empty elevator, pressed the button for the fifteenth floor—the executive suites—and held my breath as the doors closed, braced for the panic I knew would follow. I still hated confines spaces, but I’d survived a lot worse; I could get through a lift ride. There wasn’t a choice, after my mini-marathon; my legs lacked the strength to climb the stairs. My limbs ached just thinking about it. I was running or rather limping, on fumes.
The lights over the door climbed higher and higher. At the sixth floor, I reached for the familiar bulge under my jacket and removed the weapon from its holster. At the tenth level, I reloaded, and at the eleventh, I flipped the thumb safety off.
Nothing builds confidence like live ammunition.
When the elevator stopped moving, I had my weapon trained on the crack as the doors slid apart.
I wasn’t sure exactly what I was expecting, but an uncomfortable silence wasn’t it. Plush cream-colored carpets and soft music. Empty desks and mahogany wood paneling. Not a soul in sight.
One end of the lobby was filled with overstuffed leather chairs, the other filled with typical office plants, arranged carefully against the walls, providing easy access to the set of double doors I suspected led to Kellerman’s office. Once again, I assumed the offensive as I pushed one of the doors open, just a crack. I’d have pushed it open wide, but it wouldn’t go.
A body lay slumped against the door. A neat bullet wound was centered in the forehead, blood staining the once spotless Berber carpeting. I recognized the clothing as matching that worn by
the goons from outside The Dog House. Combat pants, ballistic vest, tactical holster. But even a bulletproof vest doesn’t stop a man with murder on his mind.
I heaved against the door, rolling the thick body aside. I wasn’t keen on disturbing the dead, but this guy was past caring.
Revolver raised, I inched forward again. One door on the right, another at the end of the hall. The closest called to me first. Behind it was a rectangular conference room. At first glance, empty, but I stepped inside to clear it anyway, just in case. A rich-looking walnut table was surrounded by six leather chairs. One wall was lined with windows, the other with expensive-looking artworks. Kellerman certainly knew how to personify wealth, no doubt to ease the minds of his investment partners. But there was no sign of the man himself.
I eyed the second door and stepped forward to continue my search, when a muffled thump echoed down the hall, followed by another ; something heavy hitting the floor. A sound I knew all too well.
A suppressed gunshot.
Teach.
I charged towards the noise.
FORTY-ONE
I burst through the glass doors, expecting to see Kellerman, but instead, found death once more.
The revolver’s front sight scrolled across a mass on the floor. And a second. Slumped awkwardly, the bulky men were dressed in black fatigues and navy blue tactical vests, now stained a deep crimson. A pair of discarded AR-15 assault rifles told me they were part of the same group I had seen earlier—Kellerman’s goon squad.
Fearing any more surprises, I locked the door behind me and stepped deeper into the wide office space. A tapping came from the far corner.
I pivoted, and my world stopped.
Breath caught in my throat. There was a third figure in the room, standing, hunched over a laptop in the corner. He held a gun in his right hand, but it wasn’t raised.
For a moment, he seemed unaware of my presence, but I was all too aware of his.
Anger. It filled every pore, washed over every sense.
I knew his face. I knew the lean muscular frame, the shaven head, the hard features and the dark eyes. The killer in front of me.
Roland Teach.
I finally had him, the man who murdered my family. For over a year I chased him, thought of little else. And here he was. Five paces away, no more screens or monitors. No more pictures or videos. He was standing there, and I was holding my weapon, training it directly at his heart—then his brain—then his heart again.
“You,” I growled.
My hands trembled as the man looked up.
Teach didn’t seem scared. In fact, he seemed totally unfazed. It sent the anger swelling deeper. I wanted him to shake with fear, to plead for his life.
How can he be so calm?
My target turned slowly, placing his suppressed pistol on the desk and took a step back. He held his hands open and low. He’d disarmed himself, but he was far from defenseless. I reminded myself of the way he had quickly demolished the two bikers in the alley outside the police station after the blast. The grainy surveillance footage played in my head.
But the figure in front of me was unlike the cold, calculating assassin I’d expected to confront. Instead, he looked sad, almost lost as he regarded the two dead men on the floor.
“You bastard,” I mumbled.
Finally, he turned, training his eyes on my own, as though trying to read me. The infamous Roland Teach shook his head.
“Thomas Blume,” he said, the British accent thick on a tongue I wanted to tear out of his mouth. “I knew you’d find me eventually.”
“You deserve to die. You deserve to suffer you piece of shit.” My gun shook with a white-hot rage I fought to control.
Teach looked out of the window, across the city. He sighed and turned back to me. “I probably do … but killing me now won’t help either of us,” he finally said.
“You’re wrong,” I seethed. “This is exactly what I’ve been dreaming of doing for a long time.”
“I know,” he said. “But it’s far more complicated than you think … if you just—”
“No!” I barked. No explanation would bring Sarah back, or Tommy. “No! You’re going to pay.”
Teach looked away again, still oddly calm considering the situation. I followed his gaze to the cell phone on Kellerman’s desk, vibrating madly.
“Should have been faster …” Teach mumbled. “Should have seen the trap.”
I retook aim, ready to squeeze the trigger. I wanted nothing more than to rip the animal to pieces. I didn’t care about the consequences of murdering this bastard in cold blood. All I cared about was avenging the deaths of my family.
“Look.” Teach turned the laptop to face me, displaying a feed from what I assumed were the internal security monitors. Inside the lobby downstairs, at least half a dozen heavily armed men were pushing their way through the double doors.”
If Kellerman had called for help, it wasn’t to protect himself—the man was nowhere to be seen.
“There isn’t much time,” Teach said, unnecessarily.
“You’re damn right. That’s the Feds, coming to pick up the pieces of you that I leave behind.”
“I almost wish that was true. Look closer.”
Involuntarily, I looked at the screen again. Tooled up like they were about to roll into downtown Fallujah, the armed men were storming through the building, sending office workers scurrying away and people diving into cover. But they carried no insignia. No FBI patches. Then I noticed the equipment, AR-15’s and the clothing, the same as their buddies whose blood soaked into the carpet, they looked pissed. And serious.
I froze. Head spinning. “Who the hell are they?”
Were Teach and Harlon Lewis working together somehow? Was I the target or just a dumb schmuck about to be caught in the crossfire. There were too many moving pieces; I couldn’t comprehend. I couldn’t afford to stand still, rooted to the floor, but I couldn’t devise a way out either. The window was fifteen stories up—no one could survive a fall like that.
“Not the FBI,” Teach said plainly. “And they will kill us both where we stand without a second thought. We must leave.” Teach said. Surprising me.
“What?” I snapped.
“If you want to live, we have to go,” he urged.
My mind spun on its axis. The man I was about to execute was offering an escape route. Judging by the security monitor, I didn’t have much of a choice.
For another second, I held my stance. Wanting so badly to squeeze the trigger.
“We’ve both been played, Blume. I can tell you all about it, but not here.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I yelled.
“I know what happened to you, Blume. To you and your family. Me and you, we’re connected—there’s more going on than you know. But right now, there’s no time to explain. We have to go!”
Memories of my family rushed in like a tide. The grief, the sorrow, the pain. The rage I carried for over a year.
Dark thoughts swelled in my mind, a thundercloud of building pressure. A ringing in my ears built, anger raw and hot. My family, gone forever and the bastard who took them from me standing right there. The pressure grew until there was no choice.
Drowning in anguish, I fired.
FORTY-TWO
Unable to control myself, I continued squeezing the trigger, roaring with an acidic cocktail of anger, adrenaline, and satisfaction. I let the fear, anger, and pain of eighteen months of loss pour through me. Each pull of the trigger was a release of pain, a discharge of hate.
I didn’t stop firing until the cylinder clicked empty.
The decision would change everything.
Bullet holes, blood, and splintered wood littered the room. Kellerman’s hardwood desk shattered. My bullets riddled the front of it; the solid top now covered in black scars.
But Teach stood tall, amidst the destruction around him.
The man I had lain awake thinking about at night—imagining ways I
could torture him—to make him feel the pain he deserved for the lives he destroyed. I still wanted to kill him, but I couldn’t, not yet. Something more was going on here, and my anger would have to wait.
I reloaded my weapon and gripped it tightly, the cold hard metal reassuring in my hand.
“You made the right choice,” Teach said. “But we must go, now.”
Creeping across the horizon, a brilliant New York skyline filtered through the huge panoramic windows. The sun was moving; it’s glow illuminating the city, forming glass cliffs of orange and blue. The past forty-eight hours of my life had been filled with death, carnage, and chaos. Hell, my whole life had been, but I sensed I was close now. Closer than ever to real answers. The kind of answers that had been just out of reach for years. The answers that had taken me across the globe.
No more false leads, no more ghosts haunting my investigation. My family had been taken from me too soon, and there was only one way I would find out why.
I turned back to Teach, who stood tensely watching the security monitors. The armed goons were only two floors away now. Their heavy footfalls pounded up the stairwell.
I held my gun firmly as the shaking slowed and addressed the man that had poisoned my body with hatred for so long.
“Fine,” I said. Making sure he saw that I hadn’t holstered my gun. “Let’s say we do things your way for now. Where do we go?”
Teach gestured to a side door, out of the executive suite. Keeping the man in front at gunpoint, I motioned for him to go first.
The boots behind grew louder. A pounding too, as the first men reached the entrance and tried to breach the locked office.
Stepping from the office into the small wood-paneled side room, Teach lifted a hidden compartment and punched in a number. As if by magic, the wall slid open and the acid glow of bright lights filled the space as an elevator door opened.
“Move,” I said, shoving Teach ahead into the elevator ahead of me, with the revolver in my other hand.
A crash boomed from the office entrance. Shouts erupted, followed by gunfire. I didn’t need to look back to know the men had made it through. I stepped quickly into the elevator and Teach hit the button. With a ping, the doors closed concealing us both inside the metal box. I felt the elevator descend, heading to god knew where.