by Chad Zunker
Story of his life, he supposed.
He couldn’t help but wonder where they’d grabbed Natalie or what they’d done to secure her. She was a fighter. She would not have gone with them easily. No way. So how did they get to her? Did they drug her? Was she hurt? Again, he tried not to think too much about that, but it was damn near impossible. He stared at the screen on the burner cell phone, begging for it to ring or for a new text message to arrive from her takers.
Still nothing. He felt helpless.
He didn’t know enough Spanish to follow much of what was going on with Mass down front, which was fine. He really needed to think, anyway, to clear his head, to start putting things together, and begin to map out a new plan. His mind drifted back to the brief meeting he’d had earlier with Tom Hawkins—before his world spun out of control when that assassin shot his way into the hotel room. He needed to remember everything about that meeting, every small detail, every single word that had come out of Hawkins’s mouth. Natalie was in trouble, and Sam was convinced it had everything to do with his meeting with Hawkins.
He knelt in the pew, hands together, facedown, and closed his eyes. A proper prayer posture. So no one would pay him attention.
Then he relived the entirety of the meeting in his mind.
Sam was standing there alone, but Hawkins was already looking beyond him, searching for someone or something else—as if he recognized Sam but wanted to see if anyone else had come along for the ride. His bloodshot eyes traveled all the way down the hallway toward the elevators. Hawkins looked nervous from the very first moment Sam put eyes on him. His fingers were jittery; the glass of brown liquid trembled in his left hand. Sam noticed that right away. Hawkins wore tan slacks and an untucked Hawaiian button-down shirt. He looked to be in his midfifties, balding with gray hair on the sides, and very tan, like he enjoyed the golf course several days a week. Sam could see the tan lines at the sleeves, the collar, and around his left hand, where he might often wear a golf glove.
They’d had a meeting on the calendar for 5:00 p.m. that day, one scheduled just the day before when Hawkins had called the law firm. Sam was exactly on time. He’d actually waited in the lobby of the Four Seasons for five full minutes so as not to be too early. This was his first client meeting without his boss at his side. He wanted to make a good impression. David thought there might be good money here for the firm. He said when a potential new client calls you, immediately pays the expensive retainer, and offers to fly you internationally overnight for a meeting, it usually meant he is quite desperate and money is no object.
Those were the very best kinds of meetings, David had said with a grin.
His boss knew Sam didn’t care too much about the money—that’s not at all why he’d pursued law school and become an attorney. Still, Sam wanted to serve his boss well. David had taken very good care of him after the FBI manhunt last November, working diligently for many weeks to help restore Sam’s public image, personally handling the hundreds of TV interview requests after Natalie’s big story broke and exploded. Most important of all, David had amicably worked out his situation with Director Luther Stone and the FBI. His boss had been a fierce advocate for him throughout the whole crazy deal, had allowed him to return to his semi-normal life as a third-year law student, and he’d even made good on his offer to make Sam his newest associate upon graduation from Georgetown last month.
Sam felt very loyal to him. If this meeting was important to David, it was important to Sam. Besides, David had insisted, if the meeting turned out to be a bust, Sam could still go enjoy the Mexico City nightlife, all on the firm’s credit card. Consider the trip a quick retreat, David suggested. Get a massage. Sip on some daiquiris. Lay by the pool. Play some golf.
“Callahan?” Hawkins said, eyes narrow.
“Sam Callahan, Benoltz and Associates.”
Hawkins nodded without another word, and then he opened the door fully and allowed Sam to enter the luxurious hotel suite. Sam noticed he took yet another quick peek up the hallway before leading Sam to a sitting area in the spacious living room. Hawkins never took a moment to introduce himself or to shake Sam’s hand or any of those normal pleasantries. Things felt off from the beginning. Sam could actually see sweat beading up on the man’s shiny forehead, even though the hotel suite was a very comfortable temperature.
“You want something to drink?” Hawkins offered. His voice told Sam he was probably a native Texan. There was a touch of a drawl there.
“No, thank you, Mr. Hawkins.”
“It’s Tom, all right? Just Tom.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hawkins said it with irritation, although Sam didn’t get the sense the irritation was aimed at him. Hawkins went back over to the bar area and refilled his glass, quickly tossed it back. Sam studied him. The man was a walking bundle of nerves right now, like he might unravel at any moment. Sam wondered why. He figured he’d find out shortly, even though Hawkins didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get started.
“Make yourself at home,” Hawkins insisted. “We could be here awhile.”
Sam set his briefcase down, took off his suit jacket, and folded it over one of the chairs. Then he sat, crossed his legs, tried to get comfortable, which was easy in his new high-dollar business suit. He owned four of them now: two black, one dark blue, one dark gray. David had brought his own personal tailor into the office on Sam’s very first day with the firm to take his precise measurements. As David’s new right-hand man, Sam should be dressed in something more appropriate than the cheap off-the-rack numbers he currently had hanging in his closet, David had said, taking Sam through a complete wardrobe overhaul.
Sam was wearing the dark-blue suit. It fit perfectly on his lean six-foot frame. The black leather shoes were also pricey, although Sam never saw the actual bill. He knew David spared no expense. His boss worked hard and enjoyed the benefits, and he wanted Sam to do the same—even though Sam still felt like an outsider in his new world. He wasn’t sure he would ever truly adjust to his new life as a well-paid attorney. After all, for more than two years of his street life, his one solid meal a day—usually a PB&J, an apple, and a hard-boiled egg—came from the free-food truck that regularly showed up on the corner of Vallejo and West Barberry.
Sam took in the hotel suite. Full living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms on opposite sides. Hawkins had splurged on the hotel accommodations. Was he staying at the hotel? Or just there for the day? Sam didn’t notice much that told him he’d been there for too long. Everything was cloaked in mystery. Sam was making mental notes, ready to get to the bottom of this deal, find out who this guy was and what he was doing there.
Hawkins didn’t immediately join him in the sitting area; instead, he walked to the sliding glass doors of the balcony, pulled open the doors, and looked outside. Sam could feel a hot breeze push into the room. He expected Hawkins to get started, but he just stood there silently for a long moment. Sam tried to break the ice, get things moving along.
“There seemed to be real urgency behind this meeting, Tom.”
Hawkins answered without turning around. “There is, believe me.”
He did not expound. It was almost like the weight of the moment had rested on him, and Hawkins knew once he opened this door, he could never go back. Sam had a very thin file on Hawkins. The man was an attorney for a small firm in New Orleans called Hebbard & Hawkins, LLP. He was a name partner. According to their website, the firm had been founded only three years ago and specialized in oil-and-gas exploration and litigation. There was not much to Hawkins’s online profile. Undergrad, Sam Houston State. Texas Tech law school many years ago. There were no details about Hawkins’s specific problem or how they could help him—Hawkins had insisted they talk about his situation only in person today.
“I hear your firm is good at working out deals with the government.”
“Which government?” Sam asked.
“United States,” he clarified. “Hell, maybe Mexico, too. Who the hell knows
what all I’ll need to get out of this mess?”
“I suppose that depends on your situation. David has a very good working relationship with our government. I can personally vouch for that.”
“Has he ever put someone into protective custody?”
“Like witness protection?”
Hawkins nodded.
“Yes. Many times. Do you need witness protection?”
“If we share what we know, we’ll need to disappear quickly. They’ll stop at nothing to eliminate us, believe me. How fast can you make that happen?”
Sam stared at Hawkins. Eliminate? “I’m not sure I can answer that until I know more about your situation.”
Hawkins nodded. He then moved to the bedroom on the left of the hotel suite and disappeared inside. Hawkins had mentioned we in his declaration—we share what we know, we’ll need to disappear. To whom else he was referring? Hebbard? The other name in the law firm of Hebbard & Hawkins? Or maybe a wife? Someone else? Hawkins returned with a small silver briefcase that had heavy-duty security locks on it. He set it on the coffee table in between them, took a seat on the plush sofa.
“There is a lot to go over,” Hawkins began, finally getting serious. “This thing reaches beyond anything you can possibly imagine.”
“Mind if I take notes?” Sam asked, reaching for his own briefcase.
“Sure, no problem.”
The man’s small briefcase seemed to have digital fingerprint readers. Hawkins set his right thumb on one scanner, and the lock clicked open. Then he set his left thumb on the second scanner, and it also clicked. Before fully opening the briefcase, Hawkins’s cell phone beeped loudly in his shirt pocket. He paused, pulled his phone out, stared at the screen with bloodshot eyes. The change in Hawkins’s face was quite noticeable. He suddenly went very pale, like someone had pulled the plug and the tan was instantly draining out. Sam actually thought the man might pass out right in front of him. A guy who had looked only nervous when he got there now appeared completely terrified. Whatever was in that text message was clearly alarming.
“They’re coming,” Hawkins announced. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
“Who’s coming?” Sam replied. “What’s going on, Tom?”
“Zapata’s crew! That’s who!”
That didn’t register. “Who is Zapata?”
Hawkins cursed again, shook his head, his eyes bouncing all around the room, as if he wasn’t sure what to do first. “It’s all in the briefcase. We’ve got to get out of here right now, before it’s too late. Do you hear me?”
“Who the hell is Zapata?”
Sam was getting pissed. The man was freaking out and needed to start answering his questions. A sudden pounding on the hotel-room door interrupted their heated exchange. Sam felt a spike of adrenaline push through him. Something told him the pounding wasn’t from a room-service waiter. Zapata? Hawkins’s eyes shot to the door, then he looked back at Sam and noticeably swallowed.
Sam didn’t like the hollow look in the man’s eyes. It was the look of defeat.
Hawkins reached around with a shaky right hand to his lower back, pushed up his Hawaiian shirt, and then pulled out a small black revolver. Sam felt a second jolt of adrenaline. The balding attorney was carrying a gun, seemed intent on using it.
Who the hell was outside that hotel-room door?
Sam tried to defuse the situation. “Whoa! Tom, wait. Let me talk to whoever is out there. I’m your attorney. Surely I can negotiate your way out of this. There has to be a better way.”
Hawkins actually chuckled, although it was more a maniacal laugh. The man was losing it right in front of Sam. “There’s no negotiating with these people. They’re killers. They’ve already proven that. It’s too late.”
“What people?”
Hawkins was no longer listening to him. His mind was elsewhere. But then, as if he found a moment of clarity, he looked Sam square in the eyes. “You’ve got to find Rich.”
Hawkins then tried to explain how Rich was somehow Sam’s long-lost father, leaving Sam staring at the man, dumbfounded.
“He’s already on the run.” Hawkins held up his cell phone, as if that info had been included in the text message he’d just received. “Rich has what they want, too. He’s the only other person who can bring them down. If you get away, find him.”
Sam had no time to stand there and argue with Hawkins. His head jerked around when he heard three consecutive silent thumps at the door, and he could see that the wood around the door handle was splitting and being blown apart. Sam cursed. Someone in the hallway was shooting his way into the hotel suite with a gun and silencer, which was a very bad flashback for Sam. He immediately thought of Square Jaw, the ruthless assassin who relentlessly had hunted Sam last November. Only professional killers used guns with silencers.
As the door to the hotel suite burst wide open, Hawkins took off running for the bedroom on the right. Sam saw the man in the black suit holding the gun. Thankfully, the assassin’s eyes were not yet on Sam but instead were locked in on Sam’s fleeing client. On instinct, Sam dove to the carpet behind the sofa, to avoid being targeted and shot on the spot. Beneath the sofa, he saw the assassin’s black dress shoes chase after Hawkins, who didn’t get very far away. Sam heard another thump and then saw Hawkins drop heavily to the carpet in the entrance to the bedroom. Hawkins lay perfectly still. He was gone. Sam was sure of it. The assassin then knelt down and started digging inside Hawkins’s pockets.
Sam had to get out of there. Hawkins was right. There was no negotiating with someone like that. His mind quickly splintered in different directions, showing him a couple of ways to get out of the suite. His options were limited. He chose one, scrambled to his feet, but then spotted Hawkins’s silver briefcase still sitting on the coffee table. When he grabbed the handle, it fell fully open. Sam paused in shock.
There was nothing inside.
TEN
Spencer Lloyd surveyed the scene. He wore a standard dark-blue windbreaker, zipped to the neck. Peering into the darkness down the sidewalk, Lloyd gave a waving motion with two fingers. Three of his FBI agents appeared, deftly racing across the front yard to the opposite corner of the house. The neighborhood was just east of the Anacostia River, outside Washington, DC. The tiny brick house sagged, as if ready to sink into the earth. A trash can had toppled over near the front sidewalk, its contents littering the small yard. It was more like dirt. No grass. A rusted brown van sat in the driveway. Weeds were growing up around the flat tires. The van hadn’t been moved in months. The house sat in the shadows, no lights on outside, one of a dozen identical dumps lining the block. One front window was boarded up; the other, though cracked and caked in dust, showed signs of life inside. The flicker of a TV set. They were looking for a man who was supposedly connected to an underground domestic-terrorist group responsible for killing a prominent American Muslim couple with a car bomb in Baltimore three months ago.
Lloyd turned to the two agents with him, whispered, “Let’s go.”
They pulled weapons out of holsters, scooted quietly up to the edge of the house.
Lloyd had already sent a group around the back. They had the place covered.
Inching toward the front door, Lloyd grimaced as a dog began to yelp across the street. He stared over and focused in on his nemesis. A white poodle, of all things, stuck behind a chain-link fence. He hated poodles. His ex-mother-in-law used to always carry around a little white yapper in her giant purse. This one seemed to be staring right at him. Mocking him.
He picked up the pace, met two agents at the front door.
Lloyd listened for any movement inside. Nothing. He turned to the agent directly across from him, gave a quick nod. The agent stood straight, stepped away from the door, and kicked powerfully. The front door splintered open, and Lloyd and the rest of the team rushed inside. Lloyd immediately heard the rear door collapse and the flutter of familiar footsteps. They had the house.
“FBI!” Lloyd shouted. “N
obody move!”
The agents covered the house, moving in practiced form, weapons drawn and ready to fire. Lloyd crossed to the center of a filthy living room. He found a small TV tuned to some random cop movie. Robert De Niro filled the screen. A worn leather recliner bandaged together with duct tape sat empty in front of it. The carpet was covered with beer cans. He noticed cigarette smoke rising from a cluttered ashtray. The perp was here. Somewhere. He turned to an agent behind him, mouthed silently, “Bathroom.” The agent bolted down the hallway.
Stepping toward the recliner, Lloyd paused. His eyebrows dipped. He tilted his head. He could hear something. A nervous breathing pattern. From the opposite side of the recliner.
He alertly raised his weapon. “Freeze! Stay put! Don’t move!”
But his demand was ignored. A skinny man with a black goatee and dressed only in white boxers dashed out from behind the recliner. Lloyd could easily take him out, but they needed him alive, and Lloyd didn’t have a Taser on him.
“Stop! FBI!”
Lloyd saw the man’s eyes. They were glazed over, drug induced, and he wasn’t listening or stopping. Without breaking stride, the near-naked man raced straight toward the only available window in the room and dove headfirst through the glass, shattering it all around him before toppling over into the front yard. Cursing, Lloyd hustled to the window, peered out. The man gathered himself from the dirt, cut and bleeding all over, stumbled forward, and moved toward the street.
Lloyd yelled, “We’ve got a runner!”
Two agents were already in pursuit out the front door.
Lloyd hit the sidewalk, watched a group of his men chase down the street. The skinny man in boxers was surprisingly fast.
Lloyd’s eyes dissected a path through the neighborhood, his old mind at work, predicting his runner’s likely route. He’d driven the neighborhood beforehand, knowing something like this could happen. The legs surrounding him were twenty years younger, but he knew the criminal mind. He knew desperation. Instead of chasing along with the others, Lloyd hurried across the street and cut through a neighbor’s yard. He shot a glare at the poodle, fought the temptation to put a bullet in the mutt. He hopped a chain-link fence and pushed through a wooden gate.