“How does that tracking software on your laptop work?” he asked.
She shrugged, unsure where he was going with the question.
“The software is the simple part. As soon as the laptop is powered up, the software activates a GPS transmitter built into the motherboard. When it’s in range of a wireless network, it contacts the security company and they send me the coordinates.”
“Do they send you the altitude?”
“The altitude?” she asked.
“It’ll tell us what floor it’s on,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, already thumbing through the phone’s message book to see. “Five hundred and seventy–four feet.”
“Basement apartment, then,” said Trent, nodding to himself.
“And you know that how?” she asked.
“Average elevation in Chicago is just under six hundred feet,” he said, shrugging. She furrowed her brow and squinted, incredulous. “Some people can memorize phone numbers, I’m good with maps. It’s how my brain is wired. I saw a topographic map in a rest stop when I was driving through here a couple of years ago, and the elevation stuck with me.”
“That’s an odd talent.”
“I guess,” he said, pointing to a wrought–iron storm door over the basement apartment. “That’s probably it.”
He walked over without waiting for her and pulled the storm door open, exposing a brown wooden door beneath. She followed a step behind, expecting to hear footsteps pound the sidewalk behind her at any moment. None did, but that didn’t stop her heart from racing. The concrete steps leading to the apartment were deeply cracked, and water pooled at the bottom of the slab. Someone had drawn a stick–figure family in sidewalk chalk on the retaining wall. She pointed at it, her eyebrows scrunched together.
“Just hope the kid is still home,” said Trent, knocking hard on the door. “That way, we might not get shot as soon as the homeowner opens the door.”
That was hardly comforting. Renee rubbed her arms and looked around, thinking she had heard footsteps. Nothing stirred, though.
“This is the police,” said Trent, knocking again when there was no answer. They waited another moment before he looked at her. “Do you see anyone?”
She walked up the steps so she could see up and down the street.
“We’re alone.”
Trent didn’t waste time. He held the security door open with one hand and rammed the front door with his shoulder. He grimaced, but the wood frame holding the door cracked audibly. Renee’s heart beat fast enough that she couldn’t tell when it contracted and when it relaxed. She held her breath for a moment, hoping to calm herself. Trent rammed his shoulder against the door again, causing the wood to crack once more. The frame splintered around the deadbolt. It didn’t take much force after that to pop the door open. The interior of the apartment was dark and dingy; dust particles floated lazily on currents of air. She could smell mold even from the street.
“No kid should live here,” said Trent, looking over his shoulder. “Did anyone come running?”
Renee climbed the steps and looked up and down the street. Like before, it was empty.
“No,” she said. “We’re safe.”
Trent nodded and walked inside with her following a step behind.
This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid.
As much as she might have thought that, she couldn’t stop herself from moving forward. She felt vulnerable outside. As soon as she got in, she swung the door shut behind her, blocking some of the light from outside.
Trent’s assessment of the apartment was right; nobody should have lived there, let alone a kid. She saw mildew stains on the walls, and the carpet was so thin she could see the concrete subfloor in spots. There was no carpet pad, which was just as well because it probably would have smelled. Despite the cheap furnishings and fixtures, the apartment looked clean. The carpet looked vacuumed, the coffee table in the living room was clear, the kitchen counters looked wiped down.
Trent went directly to the kitchen and started leafing through a stack of letters on the counter. Now that they were inside, Renee’s breath was starting to come in a little easier. The living room wasn’t particularly interesting. It had a couch, a love seat and a small television on a small, collapsible table. She couldn’t see her laptop or even any signs that her laptop had been there.
“You find anything in the kitchen?” she asked.
Trent held up the letters.
“A family,” he said. “Anatoly and Annya Levitsky. The names ring a bell?”
She tried to force down some of the unease that had taken residence in her throat.
“I’ve never heard of them,” she said, walking toward a hallway that presumably led to bedrooms. “I’m going to see if my laptop’s back here.”
Trent nodded and continued flipping through his letters.
The apartment was long and narrow with three bedrooms off a hallway behind the living room. She stopped and stuck her head in the first bedroom she came to. The room was far enough from the street that little light permeated the gloom. She hesitated but then flicked a light switch beside the door. A single bulb in a fixture on the ceiling popped on. The room couldn’t have been much bigger than the interior of a large SUV. It had no furniture save a box spring and mattress opposite the door. A black crucifix hung on the wall, directly above the pillow. It looked like a monk’s cell in a monastery. No laptop.
She flicked off the light and checked out the bedroom beside it. It was a little bigger than the first, and unlike the first, someone had taken care to make the room as comfortable as he could. A multicolored throw rug covered the floor, and the walls were painted a soft yellow. Someone had tacked a child’s drawings to the walls. She doubted she’d find anything, but she pulled open the drawer on a child–sized bureau beside the bed. She found a little girl’s clothes inside. All were neatly, lovingly folded.
She pushed the drawer shut and looked around for a moment more. A small, framed picture rested on the desk. It depicted a scene from a park. A little girl with blond, curly hair sat on a swing while an older man with white hair stood behind her, smiling. Renee hadn’t seen that smile before, but she knew who it was instantly.
Her chest rose and fell as she walked into the hallway.
“This is his house,” she said, straining her voice to keep herself from shouting. “One of the guys who killed Sheriff Amerson. I saw his picture.”
Trent didn’t respond, and she couldn’t see him in the dark, so she crept back into the living room, her heartbeat increasing in tempo with every step. Trent stood beside the front door, his back flush against the wall. He pointed to the kitchen and mouthed “hide.” Renee felt her eyes widen.
She darted to the kitchen and squeezed into an alcove beside the refrigerator. The exterior of the fridge felt hot, and sweat trickled down her forehead and into her eyes. She held her breath to get herself under control. That’s when she heard them. Footsteps.
Oh, damn.
The hinges on the front door squealed mournfully as it opened. Renee braced herself against the wall, hoping it was just a breeze but knowing it wasn’t. Her eyes locked on Trent. He nodded almost imperceptibly, communicating some meaning still hidden to her. Before she knew what was happening, he threw open the front door with his left hand while simultaneously reaching into the darkness beyond with his right. He twisted his hips and pulled, yanking the older Russian she had seen in Bluffdale inside.
That movement probably would have been enough to knock most people off their feet, but the older man was surprisingly agile. He stumbled and pirouetted, raising his arm as he regained his balance. She thought she caught a glint from the streetlights off the Russian’s gun. Trent froze for a moment, apparently caught off guard by the Russian’s acrobatics. He recovered quickly, though, and lunged forward, hitting the older man in the stomach. They went down in a tumble of limbs. Renee searched the room frantically, looking for s
ome sort of weapon. The Russian’s kitchen was even emptier than her house, though. She couldn’t even find a butter knife.
By the time she looked back at the scuffle in the living room, the fight had changed. The Russian was on top of Trent with his firearm raised. He wasn’t firing, just backhanding Trent with the weapon like a club. She had to do something, so she reached into her pocket and grabbed her cell phone. It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing she had available. She hurled it as hard as she could at the Russian, hoping to distract him long enough for Trent to gain the upper hand.
The phone went wide, smashing into the far wall harmlessly and breaking. The Russian looked up quickly, locking eyes on her. He raised his gun, but never got a chance to fire. Trent jammed his thumb into the Russian’s eye, rocking the older man backwards and momentarily distracting him. While the Russian flailed, Trent leaned up and grabbed the man’s gun hand, twisting violently. The firearm spun for a second and then clattered against the coffee table.
Renee didn’t think; she just reacted. She dove forward, grabbing the gun so the Russian couldn’t get it. It felt heavy and warm. The dynamic changed entirely, then. The Russian looked at her and stopped fighting. Trent stood, breathing hard, the collar of his shirt torn. A thin ribbon of blood trickled from one of his nostrils. He helped her to her feet and took the weapon from her shaking hands.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Renee looked down her front, checking herself out. Her hands shook, but she wasn’t hurt.
“I’m okay,” she said, casting her gaze toward the Russian. He was still on his back, still breathing hard, holding his hurt wrist in front of him. “What do we do with him?”
Trent stared at the older man for a moment, apparently thinking.
“We can’t leave him like this, and we can’t take him with us,” said Trent. He cast his eyes about the room. “Did you see any duct tape or rope earlier?”
“No, but I know something you can use,” she said, going to the kitchen and opening drawers until she found one with generic plastic wrap, aluminum foil and Ziploc bags. She grabbed the wrap and took it back to Trent. He cocked his head at her, confused. “One of the fraternities at Bluffdale Saran–Wrapped their pledges naked to trees on the quad last year. Campus security had to use gardening shears to cut them off.”
Trent chuckled and wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
“When I was in a fraternity, we just tried to pick up sorority girls,” he said. He looked back at the Russian and motioned him forward. “Stand up.”
The Russian eyed them warily before rolling onto his stomach and pushing up. He winced in obvious pain as he stood. Trent pointed to one of the kitchen chairs.
“Have a seat,” he said, handing the handgun to Renee. “Keep him covered. I’ll tie him up.” He caught Renee’s gaze for a moment and winked. “And please don’t shoot me.”
Renee didn’t react beyond holding up her arm and hoping the barrel didn’t wobble too much. It was strange to think, but she was proud of herself. She and Trent were alive because of what she had done.
When she looked back at Trent, he gestured at the Russian with his chin.
“Our guest is that way.”
She looked down. The barrel had slipped down a few inches so it pointed at the ground. She corrected it immediately and nodded. Trent turned back to the Russian. It took him about five minutes to tie the older man to the chair. He ended up using the entire roll of plastic wrap, maybe a hundred yards total. When they were done, the guy couldn’t move at all. He glared at them, the muscles on his jaw working as he clenched his teeth.
“What do we do now?” asked Renee.
Trent breathed deeply, and glanced at her.
“Plan B.”
Saturday, September 14. 10:13 p.m
Chicago, IL.
Plan B started with getting the hell out of Chicago alive, a task that was easier contemplated than actually done. Before that happened, though, they needed information. Trent knelt in front of Anatoly so they were eye level. The adrenaline that had pumped through his body earlier was wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its place. He tried not to let that show, though.
“Do you have a phone book?” asked Trent.
“What do you need a phone book for?” asked Renee. He glanced at her and shook his head slightly. This was his play; he needed her to stay off the field. Eventually, she took the hint and backed off. Trent turned his attention back to the Russian. Anatoly nodded toward an oak end table beside the sofa. Trent found the phone book inside a drawer and pulled it out before looking to Renee.
“Can you do me a favor and see if you can find the phone?” he asked.
She nodded and went to the kitchen. As soon as her back was to him, Trent slammed the phone book against Anatoly’s cheek and punched him as hard as he could. The phone book distributed the force of the blow across the old man’s face, minimizing the chance that there’d be an external bruise. It had the added benefit of keeping Trent from breaking his hand. Unfortunately for Anatoly, it didn’t do much to minimize the pain, though. The older man’s head snapped back, and his eyes glazed over momentarily as his spine compressed and twisted.
“What the hell are you doing?” snapped Renee, hurrying back from the kitchen.
“Investigating,” said Trent, not taking his eyes from Anatoly’s. He threw the phone book on the ground and slapped him around until the man’s eyes focused. “Where’s the laptop?”
“I won’t tell you anything,” he said, coughing.
“Wrong answer,” said Trent, leaning down to grab the phone book again. Renee grabbed his arm before he could, panic in her eyes.
“You can’t do this,” she said. “This isn’t right.”
Trent glanced at Renee and then at Anatoly before nodding.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “This could take hours. We should probably find Annya. Give him a real reason to start talking.”
Anatoly’s back stiffened, and he spit a trickle of blood onto the ground, staining the carpet. Renee stopped moving and stood straight, her eyes wide. Before Trent could say anything to calm her down, Anatoly started talking.
“You’re too late,” he said, breathing hard. “Someone already took her.”
“Who?” said Trent, glancing at Renee and hoping she didn’t interfere. She stepped back.
Anatoly’s eyes never left a spot on the wall in front of him. His chest rose and fell as he breathed hard.
“Gregori Fortunatov.”
“And did he also take my laptop?” asked Renee. Anatoly’s eyes shifted toward her.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?” asked Trent.
Anatoly remained still.
“I asked you a question,” said Trent, reaching down for the phone book. He pressed it to Anatoly’s face. “Where is he?”
“If I knew, I would have killed him already,” he said.
Trent didn’t say anything for a moment. Anatoly could have been lying, but Trent didn’t think so. He had seen no sign of any of the apartment’s other inhabitants. At that time of night, they should have been in. He glanced at Renee and motioned toward the door with his head. She didn’t move. Her mouth was compressed to a thin line, and she looked pale. She swayed on her feet. Part of him wanted to put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her, but he couldn’t risk breaking the image he was trying to project. Eventually, Renee closed her eyes and backed off. Trent picked up Anatoly’s firearm from the coffee table in his living room.
He held the gun up, the barrel pointed toward the ceiling.
“Did you use this to shoot Pete Amerson in Bluffdale?” he asked. The older man looked away, not meeting Trent’s gaze. The answer didn’t matter; even if Anatoly hadn’t used the gun to kill Amerson, he had probably killed somebody with it. It was too dangerous to take with them. He ejected the magazine and the round from the weapon’s chamber before stuffing the gun beneath the cen
ter cushion of the couch. As soon as he was free, Anatoly would get the weapon back, but hopefully they had enough of a head start that he wouldn’t be able to use it against them.
Trent looked at Renee and put the ammunition in his pocket.
“We should get out of here,” said Trent.
“And what about him?” she asked, her chest rising and falling with every breath.
“Someone will find him eventually,” said Trent. “We should get out of here before they do.”
Renee looked around the room one more time before nodding. They went through the front door. Being in a gang neighborhood had both advantages and disadvantages. The disadvantages were obvious; they’d have to dodge some bullets and more than a few fists if they stuck around. On the other hand, gangbangers were the do–it–yourself sorts when it came to justice. They didn’t oftentimes call the police. He and Renee could use that.
Trent jogged for about half a block until he came across a car that he thought would work. It was an early–nineties Ford Crown Victoria that had probably been bought at a police auction. It had multiple dings and dents on the door panels, a bullet hole in the trunk, and chrome tire rims that looked like they were a good two feet across. They had probably cost more than the car.
Since he didn’t have a coat hanger, he stopped and looked around until he saw a broken piece of concrete beside Renee. It looked heavy enough.
“Cover your eyes,” he said, picking it up.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Not at all,” said Trent, throwing the rock as hard as he could at one of the Crown Vic’s rear windows. As expected, the window shattered. Dogs started barking up and down the street, but no one came running. Not in that neighborhood, and certainly not at that time of night. He reached inside, unlocked the front door and pulled it open. Renee opened the passenger side door as soon as he unlocked it. She brushed glass into the street and sat down.
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