Shadow Shepherd (Sam Callahan Book 2)

by Chad Zunker

  They came up on a roundabout in the middle of the street. Sam jerked the steering wheel left without hesitating, cut into oncoming traffic inside the roundabout, causing more cars to swerve out of his way. A gray truck veered right and slammed into another car. Glass shattered and metal crunched. Sam clutched the steering wheel in tight fists. The tires of the Range Rover were squealing under intense pressure as Sam circled the water fountain in the middle at nearly full speed, looking for a good exit outlet.

  In his mirror, Sam noticed that the Mercedes driver was even bolder. He pulled the sedan straight into oncoming traffic, an effort to catch Sam on the other side of the roundabout. More cars swerved and crashed, a red van losing control and smashing directly into the water fountain in the middle. Water spewed everywhere. The Mercedes was headed straight for Sam, clearly aimed at stopping him at all costs.

  Although on a collision course, Sam had no time to reverse direction. He punched the gas pedal down even farther, swerved at the last second to avoid a direct hit. But the SUV was not brisk enough. The Mercedes clipped the back end of Sam’s vehicle at high speed, jolting him, sending the Range Rover into a spin cycle in the middle of the street.

  Sam came to a screeching halt with his front end now facing the Mercedes.

  They were thirty feet from each other. He could see the driver. A quick staredown.

  Sam quickly took in his surroundings, his heart hammering away. Smoke filled the air from the other crashed-up vehicles around the roundabout. Some drivers were already getting out of cars, dizzy, angry. The water fountain was now shooting an erratic stream of water more than a hundred feet straight up into the late-afternoon sky. There was a growing crowd of shoppers watching wide-eyed on the nearby sidewalks.

  Sam’s eyes again settled on the Mercedes.

  The driver’s door of the black sedan opened.

  A man leaned out, aimed a gun at him.

  THREE

  Sam heard screams come from the crowd of onlookers on the sidewalk.

  He punched the gas to the floor, yanked the steering wheel right, and ducked as low as possible in the driver’s seat. His back window suddenly shattered, and then he heard three more consecutive gunshot punches hit the back end of the SUV. He kept the gas pedal to the floorboard, the expensive vehicle rocketing forward. He had to swerve repeatedly in and out of traffic, so as not to crash and burn. He’d never driven a car quite like this, not even during his stealing spree as a teenager, and it was only his heightened mental abilities that now somehow kept him on the road. Up ahead and across the median, he saw a series of flashing lights coming toward him in the opposite lane. As he flew past them, he counted three white cars with swirling red-and-blue lights and the word Policia on the side. All three police cars swerved to cross the median to come after him, right behind the speedy Mercedes still on his tail. He was happy to talk with the police but not with the men in black suits nearby.

  A red light up ahead momentarily delayed traffic in front of him. Sam knew he couldn’t stop in this crowd, not with the Mercedes still so close, so he yanked the SUV up onto the sidewalk, where he darted around the stalled traffic. He cut through the grass to avoid several sidewalk vendors and their carts, and then he nearly took out two men riding bikes. He made it through the red light and yanked the Range Rover back safely into the street on the other side, where he narrowly evaded a large white moving truck. The moving truck swerved and skidded to an abrupt stop. He watched his rearview mirror. The Mercedes driver was attempting to take the same sidewalk route, but it got stuck at the red light as the white moving truck stalled and completely blocked traffic in all directions. The police cars also got stuck in the sudden traffic jam. A chorus of honking horns ensued.

  Sam figured it was time to make his move. To ditch the SUV and get lost.

  Up ahead, he spotted a sign: LAGO DE CHAPULTEPEC. He could tell it was a huge lake inside a popular city park. He looked over into the passenger seat, noticed a metal cane—the old man’s walking stick. He quickly played out a scenario in his mind, then he reached over and snagged the cane. He thought about it for only a second before he swerved the Range Rover up onto the sidewalk again, punched the gas, ducked his head, and rammed the SUV straight through a wrought iron fence that separated the park from the main road. He was accelerating through a grassy area now, the car jarring him with bumps, the lake just a hundred yards ahead of him. He carefully placed one end of the old man’s metal cane onto the gas pedal, and then he used the seat dial on the side to secure the cane in place against the front seat.

  The Range Rover was gaining rapid speed, like a jet about to take off.

  Sam aimed the SUV toward a small hill to his left, away from the crowds of people inside the park, as well as the numerous paddleboats and recreational watercraft he spotted out on the lake. He wasn’t trying to take out anyone else. He grimaced in anticipation—this was going to hurt like hell. He opened the driver’s door, dove out, hit the grass hard but kept his arms and legs tucked tight to his body. He flipped and rolled a dozen times, his head getting whipped back and forth, before finally sliding to a stop on his stomach.

  He turned, watched, as the Range Rover catapulted off the hill and sailed through the air, like one of those slow-motion scenes with a whale jumping in the ocean. The SUV hit the water with an enormous splash and began to sink almost immediately. People from all over the park started running up to the shoreline to watch. A few people were already jumping into the water from nearby rowboats and swimming toward the vehicle, probably thinking someone was still trapped inside. Sam noticed a couple of others looking over his way. He quickly got to his feet. His left knee almost gave out. He might have also broken a bone in his shoulder. It felt like someone had stuck a knife in it. He hobbled over into a wooded area to his left, away from the park crowds, and then hid behind a small dock house. He watched the scene unfold from a distance. He didn’t spot the men from the Mercedes. Surely they were smart enough to avoid the chaos and crowds.

  He’d survived. Just barely.

  Within seconds, a swarm of police cars were on the scene. The crowd was growing bigger. Sam slid down to the concrete, sat on the ground, his back resting up against the dock house. He exhaled for what felt like the first time in fifteen minutes. His head hurt. His knee hurt. His shoulder hurt. Hell, everything hurt.

  He wiped his face with both hands, a mix of sweat and blood.

  He tried to get his bearings. He needed to call his boss, David, tell him that their client was now dead and David’s newest law associate was a very close second. But his cell phone was back at the Four Seasons. As a matter of fact, everything Sam had brought with him to Mexico City was either back at the Four Seasons or still inside his hotel room at the Hyatt.

  He had nothing else. Not even two shoes.

  He took another deep breath, winced.

  He would talk to the police, sort this out, see if they could tell him who these men were who were trying to kill him. Find out what kind of minefield he’d walked into this afternoon. Sam knew very little about his new client. Only that he’d immediately paid the expensive retainer, and for Sam’s travel for this off-site meeting, so David had tossed Sam on a last-second flight from DC. He felt stunned by the sudden turn of events. Another man had been shot and killed right in front of him, just twenty feet away. He did quick math. It was the seventh time in the past year that Sam had seen someone killed up close and personal. After last November, he’d hoped he’d never have to go through another experience like that for the rest of his life. But no such luck.

  Life was throwing him another vicious right hook. Why?

  FOUR

  Natalie Foster was on the move, as usual.

  She quickly locked the front door to her third-floor DC townhome, trotted down the wooden stairwell to the first floor of her building, and found the back exit to the tiny parking lot reserved only for residents. Her silver Jeep Cherokee was parked in her normal spot, the faded Saint Louis Cardinals sticker
permanently stuck on the rear bumper—her allegiance to both her dad and her youth. She’d already changed out of her suit and heels for the day when the text had arrived. She was curled up in her usual spot on the sofa in comfortable blue jeans, her favorite gray Missouri Tigers hoodie, bare feet beneath her, a warm mug of coffee in her hands, and a good book loading up on her Kindle. Then she grabbed her cell phone, read the text, and had her evening blitzed. This was not unusual for her.

  As a reporter for PowerPlay, a popular DC political blog, she always had people reaching out to her about something. Her cell phone went off two dozen times every hour. Some were known sources, but many were unknown. She was okay with her phone number being out there for public consumption. It was all part of the gig. She needed the city; the city needed her. They’d had a great relationship the past four years. Everyone loved to be involved in a good political scandal. The most powerful and corrupt city in the world always provided her plenty of news fodder.

  She’d understandably been even busier the past eight months. Ever since she and Sam Callahan had survived assassins and broken the story last November involving the sinister conspiracy between congressional candidate Lucas McCallister, of the powerful McCallister political family, and Victor Larsen, CEO of Redrock Security, her cell phone had nearly tripled in activity.

  It was a story that had sent shock waves throughout the country.

  A story that had changed her own life in many ways.

  She thought of Sam, put the keys in the ignition.

  The anonymous texts were always wild cards. Very rarely did they ever amount to much. There were a lot of nutcases out there in this city. She had to be careful. For every twenty text messages from mysterious sources, she usually found only one decent news lead. It was most often a lot of work for very little payoff. But she loved every minute of it. It was all part of the job and her life calling—even if it interrupted her evening plans with a good book.

  This specific text exchange felt legit because of the detail involved. Which was why she’d thrown her brown hair into a ponytail, put on her running shoes, and grabbed her keys.

  Text: You still working on the Hansel story?

  Natalie: Who is this?

  Text: Can’t say. But I know something. Can we meet?

  Natalie: What do you know?

  Text: Proof he knew of payment to Barnstorm. That worth meeting?

  Natalie: I can meet now. Where?

  Text: City Center. Top floor of parking garage off 11th. Red Nissan Altima.

  Natalie: I’ll be there in 15.

  She backed out, put the Cherokee in drive, sped out of the parking alley.

  Natalie was working on a story involving Senator Todd Hansel of Mississippi amid rumors that he’d knowingly accepted money from a risky PAC called Barnstorm. A PAC started by a Mississippi businessman named Dennis Janey, who had recently been exposed as a twenty-year member of the Ku Klux Klan. Reelection was at stake. Everyone was in full-on denial mode.

  Natalie swiftly navigated busy DC traffic. The streets were crowded as the city’s buildings emptied for the end of the workday and sent everyone back to apartments, brownstones, and the suburbs. Paused at a stoplight, Natalie took a double glance in her rearview mirror at the driver directly behind her in the unmarked white van. He was bald with square glasses and a dark beard. Her eyes narrowed. She could’ve sworn she’d seen the driver earlier that day. But where? Her mind jumped through hoops, but she couldn’t quite place him. She kept her eyes on her mirrors as she moved through downtown. The white van remained behind her for several blocks, always a vehicle or two back.

  When Natalie reached the parking garage at City Center—a downtown development with condos, offices, and shopping—she slowed her Cherokee to the curb before entering, eyes locked on her rearview mirror. The white van slowly eased past, the driver staring straight ahead, and then the van turned at the corner in front of her and disappeared from view. She exhaled, relaxed. Maybe it was all in her head. She’d been on heightened alert for the past week. The reporter who’d broken the story about Dennis Janey’s KKK involvement had had his car torched outside a restaurant six nights ago. The reporter was okay, but the incident had made everyone a little jumpy. Not that Natalie needed any extra help in the paranoid department. The past eight months had admittedly been difficult for her after her near-death experience with Redrock assassins last November.

  She turned into the parking garage, got her ticket at the machine, and circled up the levels. The parked cars in the garage started to thin as she neared the top level, which was obviously her source’s intention. This person didn’t want anyone else around for their meeting. There were only a dozen or so cars still parked on level ten, with several spaces between each of them, and Natalie spotted the red Nissan Altima parked near a column in the very corner. A young guy in his early twenties was leaning up against the back of the car, waiting, hands in pockets. He wore khaki pants and a white button-down, looked like any number of political interns she met in her job throughout the week.

  She parked in an empty spot five cars over, got out.

  He seemed to register who she was and stiffened. She walked toward him. The guy had bushy brown hair and a blue tie that was loosened around his neck. He had a coffee spill on the front of his white dress shirt. She did not recognize him. He rocked on his heels, looked anxious. All good signs. If he didn’t look nervous, she would never believe his story.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “You work in Hansel’s office?” Natalie asked, stopping five feet from him.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Okay, where’s the e-mail?”

  He patted his front pants pocket. “What will you do with it?”

  “Work quickly to verify authenticity.”

  “It’s the real deal. I swear.”

  “Then verifying it should be easy.”

  “You’ll keep me out of your story?”

  “Unless you’re brave enough to go on record.”

  He gave his first quick smile. “Not a chance.”

  She already knew that would be the case; otherwise, she wouldn’t be parked on the tenth level of a random parking garage. They’d be meeting in a café in public somewhere.

  “How did you get this e-mail?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Friend of a friend.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  He sighed. “Look, I know you can track me down, if you really want, but I’ll deny ever being here with you if you do. I’m not looking to commit career suicide.”

  “Then why’re you doing this?”

  He shrugged. “I have my reasons. Can we just get this over with? No offense, Ms. Foster, but I don’t really want anyone seeing me with you.”

  “Sure, let me have it.”

  He pulled a folded white sheet of paper out of his pocket, held it out for her. She stepped forward, reached for it. When she did, the guy suddenly grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her forward, nearly off her feet. He twisted her right arm behind her back, causing pain to shoot up her shoulder, and he reached around with his other arm to cover her mouth with his other hand before she could scream.

  Natalie felt a rush of adrenaline. She reacted on instinct. She bit down hard on his hand, felt the skin give, and then she slammed her head backward into his nose as hard as she could. She heard something crack in his face. He yelled out in pain. The collision also made her dizzy for a moment. The guy didn’t let go. He was much stronger than she’d imagined. She squirmed again, fighting violently to get an arm free, jabbed her right elbow into his gut, and heard him gasp for air.

  His grip momentarily loosened. She wiggled free.

  Before Natalie could run, she heard tires squeal around the corner. Then the same unmarked white van from the street appeared right in front of her, the bald driver with square glasses and beard slamming on the brakes, blocking her escape path. In her hesitation, the intern again grabbed her from behind, squeezed her tightly in b
oth arms. The back doors to the van opened, and two more men jumped out. They wore all black, looked to be in their thirties. Nothing too distinguishable about them. While being held from behind, Natalie raised up her legs and kicked the first guy—a stocky man with a crew cut—directly in the face. He was not expecting it and dropped immediately. She couldn’t get a good lick in on the second guy, who grabbed both of her legs and lifted her up.

  Even though Natalie fought with everything she had and would not go down easy, she was greatly outnumbered. All three men now had her secure in their grips and lugged her into the back of the white van. The door closed behind them. She kept fighting them, but moments later, she had duct tape wrapped around her wrists, her ankles, and finally covering her mouth. She felt helpless.

  And then she had a black hood pulled down over her head.

  The sudden darkness was unnerving. Panic swelled up inside her.

  The van started moving. She stopped fighting. There was no point. There was nothing she could do to escape. Instead, she did everything she could to not think about what was happening and the fear that was steadily building up within her. She tried to steady her emotions, to somehow still feel in control of her situation. She began putting together a mental file of everything she could remember about the four men. The bald driver. The young intern. The two guys from the back of the van. Physical traits. Dialect. Sounds, smells. She kept mentally repeating the van’s license-plate number in her mind, something she had locked in on upon seeing it reappear in the parking garage. DC plates.

  Who were they?

  Were they connected to the Hansel story?

  She thought of her fellow reporter’s scorched car.