No Place to Hide

by Opa Hysea Wise

  Artie lay propped up, alone on a gurney in an ER room. She was in excruciating pain and found it difficult to take in a full breath. Her attending nurse hoped the bed position would offer her some relief until tests were taken to determine the extent of her injuries. A member of her security detail remained posted outside her room, allowing Artie to relax enough to drift in and out of consciousness.

  “Artemis Leone?” a radiology technician asked as she entered Artie’s room. Artie stared blankly at her but nodded. “Hi. I’ve come to take you for tests.” Unfortunately, Artie misunderstood the tech and attempted to rise from the gurney, causing her gasp in pain.

  “No, Ms. Leone,” the tech said as she placed a hand on Artie’s shoulder. “Stay put. I’ll wheel you on the gurney.” Artie nodded and collapsed back onto the gurney.

  “Good,” Artie panted. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m feeling a bit banged up.”

  After several hours, Artie’s tests were completed, and a diagnosis made. Her injuries were not life-threatening, and she would be released.

  “Your doctor will be in to discuss the findings and prepare your discharge paperwork,” her ER nurse said.

  “Knock knock,” came the sound of a man’s voice on the other side of the curtain.

  “Enter,” Artie replied.

  Standing before her was the recent FBI special agent assigned to Smythe’s case. She eyed him with suspicion as he approached her gurney.

  “We need to talk,” he said. With an air of command in his voice, the agent voiced his concern additional threats still existed for anyone connected to the case and cautioned her to tighten security, not only for Smythe but for herself as well. Artie regarded the agent with contempt, but she also understood his posturing. She was no longer an FBI agent and considered an outsider.

  She also knew that since the case was now over, he was under no obligation to continue to watch over Smythe, especially since she had refused WitSec. In his own way, she figured he was offering a professional courtesy by voicing his concern. She briefed him on the plan she had set into motion to flush out the team members she suspected had been compromised. She then outlined her security plan for Smythe for the coming weeks.

  “Why didn’t you notify me of your concerns about your team earlier? This could have been avoided,” the agent accused.

  “Because I didn’t trust you. It became evident that someone connected to this case placed a hit out on Carole. I still believe it’s someone from your department, but I also knew someone from my team had been tracking Smythe’s movements,” Artie shot back.

  The agent glared at her. “And you thought it was me. Whether you like it or not, we’re going to have to work together to keep your client—”

  “It’s handled. From your end, this portion of the case is over, and you know it. And let’s be clear, I contacted your director about my suspicions. Your director also has the outline of my ongoing protection of the client. If you need me, call my office. They’ll know how to reach me. Or better yet, contact your director.” Artie glared at the FBI agent as he flared his nostrils. Her security detail quietly stepped into the room. The FBI agent understood the gesture.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said before leaving her room.

  “Thanks for the backup, guys,” Artie said as they retreated to the entrance to her room.

  Smythe wearily arrived at Artie’s bedside a few minutes later, after spending the last few hours holding vigil in the surgery ward waiting for word of Dennis’s condition. She was followed in by Artie’s ER doctor shortly afterward. Smythe immediately recognized the doctor as the same one who tended to her father before he died.

  “I remember you—you spoke to my mother and me when my father suffered a massive stroke.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” the doctor said, concern etched across her face. “I see so many patients and families. How long ago was that?”

  “Don’t be sorry. I completely get it. It was earlier this year—around February. You said he would not recover. He died about three days later.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Smythe nodded.

  The doctor turned her attention to Artie, confirming she had hairline fractures on two ribs.

  “You’ll need to reduce physical activity, ice the rib cage, and use pain medication as necessary.”

  “How long before the ribs heal completely?” Artie asked.

  “Given that you have had recent trauma to the ribs already this year, it will take you roughly 6-8 weeks before you can begin work again. My recommendation is that you sit behind a desk.”

  “Given my line of work, Dr. Goben, sitting behind a desk is not usually an option. My work requires hands-on involvement. There are times, like today, that my presence requires a more physical presence. But I’ll do my best,” Artie said, nodding her head in all seriousness.

  Smythe scrunched her face at Artie.

  “You just lied to the doctor by agreeing with her. I’ll do my best—what is that?” Smythe said as she turned to face the doctor. “Don’t trust a word she says, doc. But I’ll see to it. Thank you.”

  The doctor smiled and nodded. Once the doctor left, Artie gingerly stood up from the ER gurney and smiled at Smythe.

  “Baby! I knew you were a badass. I just didn’t know to what extent. You followed my directions and then you held off my team with my weapon. I think I have a slot for you on my team, if you’re interested.”

  “When it comes to you, I’m not playin’. What now?”

  “We go see Dennis.”

  “Just so you know, I have questions.”

  “I have answers, but not here.”

  Trust Your Gut

  AFTER ARTIE WAS DISCHARGED FROM THE EMERGENCY ROOM, SHE and Smythe made their way to the intensive care unit to look in on Dennis. The main corridor leading to ICU had as much personality as a freeway. It was much like a long thoroughfare, winding its way through the hospital’s first floor with several smaller exit hallways shooting off from the main walkway.

  Artie peered at the gray walls and then at Smythe. How did Smythe know how to navigate the corridor? she wondered. Everything seemed so gray. The walls were gray, the tile was gray—even the ceiling was bathed in pale hues of gray, all of it leading family and friends onward through identical doorways edged in darker hues of gray. Making their way through yet another hallway, Artie stopped to rest, pain etched across her face.

  Smythe whispered into Artie’s ear. “Would you stop acting like such a badass already? Why don’t I find a wheelchair. We can push you.”

  Artie smiled and attempted to stretch out her torso, but she came up short. “It’s ok,” she grunted. “Honestly, I’m alright. I won’t be so sore tomorrow if I just keep moving.”

  Smythe nodded but watched Artie closely. It was obvious to her Artie was struggling. All anyone had to do was watch her gait. She had shortened her stride, and her walk had been slow enough that a toddler could out-pace her. She also took in halted breaths, which restricted her forward movement.

  After her brief pause, Artie pushed on until they arrived a few minutes later to the entrance into ICU. Leaning on Smythe, Artie stood in the doorway to Dennis’s room, observing the nurse as she checked his vital signs.

  “I’ve been told that none of his injuries are life-threatening, and his doctor expects he will make a full recovery,” Smythe began. “He took three bullets to his body; one to his shoulder, another nicked his side, and the third lodged into his thigh. His wife was here, but she had calls to make to family. She may or may not be back before we leave.”

  Artie nodded before walking in. She stood next to his bed and slowly scanned his body as his muscular chest rose and fell to the rhythm of his breath.

  Dennis had been the first person she hired into her agency. A former Navy officer, community service was a family career. His father, brothers, and wife were all in various forms of law enforcement. After his discharge from the Navy, Dennis took up the family trade, working for
the local sheriff’s department. However, after a few years, he felt he could better serve the public by protecting the innocent from those who openly threatened others instead of waiting for crime to occur. He had heard enough about gang and syndicate members and their propensity to intimidate a witness into silence.

  As far as Dennis was concerned, he could “prevent the bad guy from ever doing harm” by taking on the job as protector, allowing victims and witnesses to come forward and “do the right thing, which included testifying.” A rumor within local law enforcement circles suggested Artie had started her own personal security agency and, more importantly, was hiring. Dennis knew her work as a special agent for the FBI and all but jumped at the chance to work with this giant of a human. She hired him, taught him the ropes, and he eventually became her number two in charge—the designation modified from one of her favorite science fiction television series. That was six years ago.

  Artie raised an eyebrow and stared down at Dennis. She thought about her rogue agents. From the moment they met, Artie held an unfavorable hunch about them. After she completed a thorough background investigation, even going so far as to dig into the deep, dark web and finding nothing to confirm her hunch, she allowed Dennis to hire them. Yet, she rarely allowed them to enter into high-profile cases, keeping them at a distance—still digging for information to confirm her suspicion, still untrusting. Dennis, however, had every confidence in them both. He had grown up with one and heard “nothing but good things” about the second.

  “It was my fault, Dennis,” she whispered.” I let you talk me into these two, and look at what it cost us.”

  Artie sighed as she continued to stare at Dennis. She could give herself any number of excuses why she allowed herself to become swayed by Dennis’s argument to hire them in the first place. After they were hired and given the resources Smythe’s case was using up, she could have told herself she needed additional protection teams and that, despite her reservations, the pair checked out. She also could have told herself that she trusted Dennis implicitly, which she did, and it was just poor judgement on his part. But, in the end, she told herself none of those things. And the poor judgement, she believed, squared on her shoulders alone.

  Her body felt heavy, and it ached. She looked up at Dennis’s vital monitors and then again at him before leaning toward him to speak softly into his ear.

  “This is the last time, Dennis. This is the last time I allow you to influence me about things I know. Rarely have I not followed my intuition, and I’m at a loss as to why I didn’t listen to it. You may not understand it, believe in it or even agree—”

  She abruptly ended her one-sided conversation with him and brushed her fingers through his hair. Artie realized the conversation was pointless—he could not respond. This conversation needed to wait until he had fully recovered. She turned her head toward the door and looked out to the nurses’ station. Two additional teams had arrived to check in on him. Before leaving the floor, she gave instructions to the teams that watched over him.

  “I need to know what you know the moment you know. Everything is suspect.”

  As Smythe studied Artie, she could see she wore the garment of exhaustion. Her face was drawn, and her color had yet to return. She stole away from Artie momentarily and asked a nurse to provide a wheelchair. Artie eyed Smythe as she rolled the wheelchair before her.

  “Get in,” Smythe said dryly.

  “I’m ok, baby. I don’t need that.”

  Smythe eyes pierced Artie’s. “No, you’re not ok, and honestly, you don’t want to mess with me right now. I’m not in the mood. Get in the wheelchair now, or I’ll have the doctor re-admit you. As far as I’m concerned, you can have a room right next to Dennis. It’ll make visiting you both that much easier.”

  Artie stared blankly at Smythe before grinning widely. “Ok, ok. God, you’ve become such a badass. Where’s my kind, tender-hearted, and compassionate Smythe?”

  “She took a nap. Badass moth—”

  “Smythe!”

  “I’m in no mood, Artie. Get in. Now!”

  Artie looked down at the wheelchair before easing herself into the seat. Escorted by two members of her security detail, Smythe wheeled Artie through the emergency room exit and into an awaiting SUV. Artie shivered, causing her to groan in pain—her body contracting to an unexpected cold front that moved into the valley. They sat in wearied silence until they reached Smythe’s apartment.

  Once they were safely secured in the apartment, Smythe helped Artie out of her clothes.

  “Why don’t I sponge bathe you.”

  “No, baby. I need to feel the warmth of the water on my body. I’m alright, really. A little sleep, and I’ll be right as rain on a summer’s eve.”

  “You’ve become a poet?” Smythe asked as she smirked.

  “Hmmph. Hardly.”

  Smythe gathered Artie’s clothes and took them to the laundry room, examining each item one by one. As she held Artie’s shirt in her hands, she scanned the blood splattered across the shirt’s chest and sleeve, tracing her index finger over the outline of the bloodstains. She was unsure whose blood it was, and her thoughts drifted to Artie’s condition. The impact of the weapon’s fire against Artie’s vest caused her torso to turn black and blue, and she had a small cut under the left breast. Yet, given the amount of blood on the shirt, Smythe surmised it was Dennis’ blood.

  God, all of this feels like a nightmare. Who would have ever thought I would have played any part in it. When will it all…

  Smythe wiped away a tear, took in a breath, and let it out slowly. She started the washer, placing the blood-stained clothing into it and closed the lid. She double checked the locks on her front door and eyed the metal rod butted up against the door, trying to fend off the anxiety. She moved to her bedroom and turned down the bed before returning to the bathroom. Artie stood there, standing in the shower and peering at the floor, the water turned off only moments ago.

  “Need some help?”

  “Yeah, I do. Feeling a bit unsteady.”

  Smythe gave a smirk in Artie’s direction. “Should have let me sponge bathe you like I asked.”

  She walked to the edge of the tub, grabbed a towel, and gently patted Artie dry. She then offered her a shoulder to lean on as Artie slowly placed each foot onto the bamboo floor mat.

  “Glad this mat is high. Makes getting out of the tub that much easier.”

  “Didn’t plan it that way when I ordered it, but it does come in handy.”

  Smythe assisted Artie as she dressed into a loose-fitting T-shirt and sweatpants before walking her into the bedroom.

  “I’ll need only a couple hours of sleep, then we have things to take care of. We’ll go after that,” Artie said as she climbed into bed.

  “Go where?”

  “It’s a surprise, baby.”

  “Well, you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what happened. I’m really angry, Artie. Those weren’t our guys, yet they got into the conference room. And then they tried to kill you and Dennis! All because of me.” Smythe could feel the energy of rage coursing through her body. Her hearing was dulled by the ringing in her ears—the result of the gunfire. The remnant sound of the reverberating gunshots remained as an echo in her body.

  “Not because of you. Because of your testimony.”

  Artie took in a jagged breath, wincing in pain as she leaned back against the headboard.

  “They were our guys, baby—my guys. Both of them.”

  Smythe stared at Artie in disbelief.

  “They were fairly new to my agency; both came highly recommended and had stellar credentials. They had just come off of another security assignment—small in comparison to your assignment, but given the enormity of your days in court, I brought them on board as additional security. The thing is, when I met with them to fill them in on the assignment, I don’t know, something felt off.”

  “That sixth sense energy thing you’ve got going.”

  “Yes,
exactly. I can’t explain it, but it has never failed me as long as I’ve paid attention to it. Honestly, I should have never hired them. First time I didn’t listen to my intuition.”

  Artie sighed.

  “All I knew when I met with them was that they felt dirty. I don’t know how I knew, but I just knew they were somehow tracking your movements. So, I decided I had to flush them out. The only one I let in on the plan was Dennis. Needless to say, he was wary. Angry, even.” Artie shifted in the bed.

  “So, Dennis was in on it. Why was he wary?”

  “Well, number one, he believed in them. With my approval, he was the one who hired them. He knew one of them really well. And because both were not involved in your protection until yesterday, Dennis felt confident that they had not leaked your whereabouts when we went to the wedding.

  “So, you knew something was wrong with them during the wedding?”

  “On our return trip home, I had a hunch. We were followed at will; meaning that the woman following us up the grade knew exactly where we were. And I remembered her from an earlier attempt on your life. When I had my vehicles inspected off the grade that day, they had been tracked. I knew then that someone had either infiltrated my agency or someone in the FBI had leaked information to the syndicate… or perhaps both.”

  Smythe continued to listen in shock. It occurred to her as she thought about all of the players involved in her case that Artie had been playing a game of chess. Artie’s opponent was not just the syndicate. That opponent was bad enough. But members of her own team and the FBI were also suspect. She had to strategically get to the truth while keeping Smythe alive. Smythe slowly shook her head. The scope of betrayal by people Artie worked with seemed incomprehensible to her. Out of compassion, she unconsciously placed her hand over her heart and continued to listen.