Chasing Frost (West Side Series)

by Isabel Jolie

  The ladies follow a hostess through the bar and into the club area. Sam and I follow close behind. My curiosity has me asking him about the whole door admission thing.

  “So, why’d you talk to the bouncer ahead of time? I had the tickets.”

  “Wes is my security. He’s got a concealed weapon. He likes to give bouncers a heads up. Sometimes he won’t carry, but most places like this don’t mind. They tend to welcome the augmented security. They just want to know who’s who.”

  We slide into the booth. There’s a dance area behind us and one before us. Our booth is on an elevated platform. It’s in a short line of VIP booths. We can see everything, and the crowd can’t get too close as we’re in our own little area, cordoned off from the regular joes. Worth five grand? I think not. A nice little way to wine and dine some clients, if you have some that are into this kind of thing? Sure.

  Our booth is a semicircle, and the ladies slide in first, leaving Sam and me on the outside of the booth. It’s large. After all, it’s designed to seat eight. The music is pumping loudly. We have to shout to be heard.

  We order our drinks, and I yell over the table to Sam, “Security go with you everywhere?”

  I could swear I remember Jackson telling me Sam hated security. And there was this whole thing he went through with a stalker. Crazy shit, but it’s hard to feel bad for a guy for drumming up too much attention after being named one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. Yeah, when I think of all the pussy that guy must’ve been getting, I don’t feel bad for him. Not at all.

  “Not everywhere. But Wes’s been with me for a long time. He’s more than security.”

  Right about then, Wes enters the room and stands to the back. He’s wearing a black sports coat over his black t-shirt. It’s my kind of outfit. He and Sam exchange nods.

  “You want him to sit with us? I don’t mind.”

  Sydney glances over her shoulder, connecting the dots between our conversation and Wes.

  “He wouldn’t want to. He’s not going to drink on the job, and he’d say he has a better view of the area standing back there. He came in earlier and decided where he’d stand. He’s not the only security here tonight. They’re expecting quite a few celebrities.”

  “Isn’t it someone’s birthday? That’s why Calvin is doing this show?”

  “I think it’s some model’s birthday. One he’s friends with.”

  Olivia looks skeptical. “He’s not into celebrities anymore.”

  “Do you know him?”

  She smiles. “No. I read it in People.”

  Of course, this entire conversation is done while shouting and leaning across the table. It’s one of the reasons I usually only hit nightclubs when I’m looking to score. These are not the kinds of places one comes to have a conversation. My throat burns from the shouting.

  I lean back on the booth, spreading my arm across the back. Sydney sidles up next to me, and the feeling is fucking incredible. I’ll behave myself with my friends sitting at the table, but as soon as Sam and Olivia give the signal, we’re out of here. I can’t wait to take this bombshell home.

  Sydney pushes her black handbag toward the center of the table, so it rests beside Olivia’s. Women are funny. So many bags.

  Sydney and Olivia both order electric blue martinis. Sam goes for a bourbon, and I get an ice-cold beer.

  We tap our drinks together to cheer the beginning of the night. The dance floor fills with people, to the point it’s wall to wall bodies. A swarm of people pack around the circular central bar, the one that separates the entrance from the dance floor. Blue and white strobe lights flash over the bumping and grinding patrons.

  Someone comes out and announces Calvin will be out soon. The lights transition to multiple colors and the beat intensifies, pulsing louder. On the second level, a raw wood balcony circles the open room. People gather above, looking down into the crowd. I’ve never been here before, but it looks like the club must extend farther back on the second floor. The balcony floor is an unfinished metal grid, an industrial design. The whole place has a steampunk feel.

  A big muscle-bound guy with a shaved head stands in one corner. His muscles and the shine of his head draw my attention. The throbbing light highlights his enraged expression. I shift, looking over my shoulder to get a better look. I’m not gay or anything, but I notice muscles, and that guy’s got muscles of the Mr. Clean variety.

  Right about then, Wes comes running out of nowhere, screaming, “Get! Down! Get down!”

  Sam shoves Olivia down. Wes leaps over the booth wall. He lands on his side. Bam. On our table.

  “Get! Down!”

  Time slows. He’s sideways on our table. Shouting. He holds a silver gun. His fist grips my shoulder. Pain lances. I duck. Below the table.

  Olivia and Sam crouch. It’s dark.

  Screams cut the pulsing beat.

  Sydney crawls. On her knees.

  Firecracker sounds erupt above us. Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Screams. Lights.

  Beyond Sydney, on the dance floor, Wes crouches. On one knee, he lifts a pistol.

  In the next second, he’s flat on the ground. Sprawled out. Pop. Pop. Rapid fire. All around. Above us. Beside us. Behind us.

  Screams rise. The base beats a rhythm. The booth cushion slices open. Right behind Sam’s head. Bright white stuffing breaks through vinyl.

  The top of our table rings. Pop. Pop. Pop. Firecrackers. Noisemakers. Shrill screams.

  Fucking chaos.

  Lights alternate colors. Blue. Pink. Yellow.

  The techno beat pounds with bass punctuated with human screams. Cries for help.

  A woman lies flat on her back on the dance floor, sprawled in an unnatural way, her legs open wide.

  Olivia yells, “Sydney! Wait. Don’t.”

  My head hits the top of the table as I half rise, blinking through smoke.

  I find her. Leaning over Wes’s body. Two fingers on his neck.

  She leans over him. Is he dead?

  Her hand covers his.

  I blink.

  She lifts his gun.

  Pop. Pop. Gunshots. Bullets.

  The music pounds.

  I blink.

  The blue light of a phone screen shines through the dark.

  Sydney casts one glance to our shelter. Knees up to our chins. Hunkered down below a table.

  She raises onto one knee. Arms out. Gun in the air. “F.B.I.!”

  Twenty-Six

  Sydney

  Phone lights shine in the darkness. People are videoing this massacre. Welcome to the social media age.

  From the dance floor, I’m a sitting duck. I took out one shooter on the balcony. There could be more. I scan the area. It’s pitch black a few feet beyond the balcony rail. The disco lights continue to flash, as does the music.

  I need the lights on. The music off. Most everyone has taken cover below tables or against walls. I rush to the bar, gun poised. Ready to take out any additional shooters.

  One of the bartenders half rises. Bodies are packed behind the bar, huddled together.

  “Can you turn on the lights? Turn off the music?” I shout.

  He picks up his phone. Within seconds, overhead white lights flood the place, and the music stops. Muffled weeping fills the silence.

  I can now see from the balcony to the back wall. There are two sets of closed double doors on the back wall.

  “Police!” New York’s finest stream in, guns high. My gun is in the air, and the first one through the door heads straight to me, cautious and slow.

  “FBI,” I shout. It echoes. I lower my voice. “Off duty. No ID. Shooter on balcony. I hit him. He had a long gun. Automatic.” I point my handgun in the direction of the assailant. “Area has not been cleared.”

  He looks me up and down. I’m in stilettos and a little black dress. And I’m gripping a Glock 22.

  “We need an ambulance. Three are down. Probably more.”

  He lifts a handset to his mouth and ra
dios back. “Assailant down. Shooters possibly still at large.”

  Police officers in the back have already started the process of clearing out anyone near the exit door.

  He backs up and talks to one of the other armed police officers. His partner approaches me.

  “Come with me.”

  “I can help sweep. I was Top Gun.” He might not know what that means, but in a nutshell, it means I have better aim than any of these guys. Not that these men would want to hear that.

  “You’re off duty. SWAT arrived. They’ll take over. We need you outside.”

  I hesitate. Shooters could still be at large, and I left Chase under a table inside. But I need to do my part so no one else gets hurt and we can get medical attention for Wes. He had a pulse, but it wasn’t strong.

  As we exit the club, officers in bulletproof vests file in, on alert, guns raised. Ambulances line the street, as do cop cars. The whole street is blocked off. Maybe living in the age of social media isn’t so bad after all.

  “She says she’s FBI. Off duty.”

  The officer in charge steps right up to me.

  “Agent Keating,” I tell him. “I need to call in.”

  “FBI is on its way. What do you know?”

  “Club scene. Fire from the top right balcony. Automatic assault weapon. Six-foot-plus white male. Private security for one of the customers saw the assailant before he started shooting. He shouted for everyone to take cover. Then the assailant shot into the crowd. Security returned fire.” I pause, as a vision of Wes on the floor, with two visible hits, comes to mind. “He needs a medic. I took his gun and shot back. Hit him between the eyes. The balcony has two exit points. I don’t know where they lead. If there are additional assailants, I’d expect that’s where they are.”

  The officer in charge, a SWAT team member, and a few other agents who had crowded around, agree on strategy. Tactical SWAT is currently in the process of securing the location. Patrons are filing out, guided by SWAT. Farther down the street, on both sides of the barricade, both east and west, media vans can be seen.

  The muscles in my palm and fingers cramp around the Glock.

  “All clear. Location secure,” is announced nearby.

  The medics pour into the building. First responders on a mission to save lives.

  The officer in charge surveys, shouts commands, and listens, seemingly simultaneously. I return to his side and wait. After a moment, he peers down at me.

  “This isn’t my weapon. It’s the one I used to shoot the assailant.”

  He nods and directs me to a van. “Give it to Officer Carlton. Tell him it needs to be tagged.”

  Sam, Olivia, and Chase exit the building, closely following a gurney. There are no signs of injury on the three of them as they exit. My chest muscles relax. They are safe. Chase is safe.

  I float toward my friends. Warmth clasps around my elbow.

  “Keating? You okay?” Agent Hopkins stands before me, his FBI badge prominently displayed on his jacket.

  The lights, the noise, the crying, all the action slows. I recognize what’s going on. In training, I experienced a version of this. I’m coming off the adrenaline high. All my senses blend. I shot. I killed. A shot between the eyes. No one survives it. I aimed. I pulled. I took him out.

  Agent Hopkins squeezes my arm. Hard. A slight pain. Not enough to bruise. Enough to bring me back.

  “I’m fine.” I hold out the pistol. “I shot the assailant. Someone else’s gun. Need to deliver it to evidence.”

  “What happened? Was the shooter there for Chase?” Hopkins asks me, but a NYPD officer pauses. I follow his gaze to my gun.

  “Bag this as evidence.” The uniformed officer surveys me, and without saying a word, I can read him loud and clear. Who the fuck are you?

  Agent Hopkins answers for me. “She’s FBI. Undercover. She shot the assailant. It’s not a government-issued gun.”

  Officer Carlton slips on blue rubber gloves and lifts the gun with care. Swarms of officers and paramedics flood the street. An army of first responders swirl about. My breathing slows.

  I flex my hand, stretching my fingers out, then tightening them into a fist, in and out. The whir of tonight. The spray of bullets.

  “I’d like to talk to Wes. He’s private security. He alerted everyone before the shooting began. I want to know what he saw. I didn’t see the shooter. Not until after the shooting started. He used a military assault rifle. He came there planning to kill many.”

  “Most recent count I heard is nine dead, eight in critical,” one officer states.

  Officer Carlton speaks up. “I heard three shooters.”

  I glance at him. He looks like he wants my confirmation. No one is a good source of information at this point.

  “Can we go in? Check out the scene?”

  Hopkins gives a brief nod, and I follow his lead, his badge. “You wore your wire. But you didn’t carry?”

  “No. My gun’s in Sam’s trunk.”

  As we approach the doors, two more agents I don’t recognize in blue jackets with giant yellow FBI letters emblazoned on the back greet us. Hopkins introduces them, says they’re working on Operation Quagmire.

  When we step inside, it’s a completely different scene from this evening. Dead bodies remain where they fell. Investigators assail the place. A cluster of men stands up on the balcony. They’re checking out the dead assailant. Searching for clues. Unfortunately, the dead don’t always provide reliable answers.

  Without the lights and music, the place has the aesthetic of an abandoned dive bar. The walls are painted flat black. Dark matter, blood, mars the floor. Footprints abound where people traipsed through it. Bloody streaks line the floor, as if the injured were dragged or crawled.

  I center myself on the dance floor. Breathe in and out. Close my eyelids and replay the event. I raise them. I scan the bullet holes. Search for a pattern among the holes riddled along the floor and tables and the backs of booths.

  I hurry up the metal stairs, to the balcony, sidestepping the throng of men, so I can double-check my theory. Hopkins follows me. I point.

  “You can’t say he was aiming for us, specifically. But look. Every single bullet is on the left side, where we were. And we’d need to count, but does it not look like more bullets were sent to our table?”

  Hopkins surveys the area then waves at our FBI counterparts to join us on the balcony. As we discuss the bullet hole patterns, one of the officers hovering over the assailant’s body interrupts us.

  “His tats say he’s gang. We don’t know who all was here tonight. It’s possible this is gang-related.”

  Great. Now Operation Quagmire encompasses gang-related crime.

  Hopkins taps me. “What’re you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking we’ve got a shitload of chefs in the kitchen. I don’t know what we’ll find about this guy, but my gut tells me those bullets were meant to take out Chase and me. Jackson, his lawyer, was supposed to be here tonight, too. The tickets Maitlin was magically gifted came from BB&E. If Sam hadn’t brought his security with him, inside, every single one of us sitting at that table would probably be dead.”

  One of the other officers speaks up. “Twelve dead.”

  “Do you believe in coincidences?” I ask Hopkins.

  He shakes his head.

  I don’t either. But I’m skeptical we’ll be able to connect this to BB&E. Especially if that officer is right and the assailant is gang.

  I peer over a crouched officer. The assailant has a shaved head. He’s extremely muscular. A bodybuilder. Mid-fifties. Tats decorate most available skin. Hundreds of man-hours will be spent investigating him. Once we know who he is, we’ll check his bank accounts. His family’s bank accounts. We’ll look for any signs he was paid off. But there won’t be any.

  These guys are too good. The media will play it out as yet another madman. In my gut, I know there’s a connection. Because I don’t believe in coincidences. Regardless of what I believe, a ju
ry needs more than my gut and coincidences.

  I killed someone tonight. I memorize his features. Then snap out of it and focus.

  “Hopkins, if I’m right, how long before they realize they didn’t hit their targets?” My fingers visibly vibrate, and I ball them up. No one seems to notice.

  “I sent a protective detail with Maitlin to the hospital.” Hopkins is thinking ahead of me. That’s why we’re a part of a team.

  It’s three a.m. before Hopkins nudges me and tells me to go home. I’ve told my story to countless officers, both FBI and NYPD. I’ve filled out paperwork. I’ve gone play by play over every single detail I remember. I’ve drunk two bottles of room temperature water and gone to the bathroom in a bodega a few doors down that’s offered restroom access to officers. I have nothing more to add to this case.

  A metallic taste fills my mouth, and mild nausea circulates. I’ve seen every single DOA body, including my first kill. Seventeen dead. More in critical condition. For the rest of my life, I will wonder if there is something I could have done to prevent this massacre.

  I don’t go home. I head to the hospital. Wes is out of surgery. He’s in recovery. Sam and Olivia sit together in the waiting area. They tell me they sent Chase home a while ago. Neither of them questions me about my status as an FBI agent. They treat me like a friend.

  “Sam, my briefcase is still in your car. I don’t need it now, but I will.”

  “I’ll get it to you. Are you going back to your apartment, or to Chase’s?” He has his phone out, ready to send directions into the ether.

  “You can send it to Chase’s.”

  FBI headquarters as a delivery location might make more sense, but the last letters I want to utter to Sam and Olivia are F, B, and I. I want to be their friend. I don’t want to throw up my undercover role between us.

  Two men with FBI badges stand at the far end of the waiting room. I approach them. “Detail accompanied Maitlin home, right?”

  One of the men nods. I can tell he recognizes me. He’s not familiar to me, but I haven’t spent much time in our New York offices yet.

  “Two men.”