To hell with it. No one ever did great things following orders.
He rose, pulled out his Mac from his bag, went to Priceline.com, and booked a flight to Las Vegas.
7
Mickey decided it’d be better not to tell anyone he was leaving. The bureaucracy ground so slowly, he thought there was a realistic chance that he could be back before anyone noticed he was missing. The only person he told was his secretary, and he had her forward all his e-mail to another screening agent who agreed to cover for him.
The plane was crowded and made a single stop in Atlanta.
Georgia looked about the same as it had ten years ago when he’d been there. Lots of dense, green forests with curving roadways leading to the towering city of Atlanta. He bought a sandwich and milk and sat at a table looking out at the passing travelers in the terminal.
When he was done, his watch beeped. He’d pre-cut all his pills in half, and he took two halves with the milk before rising and finding his gate.
He slept most of the way. As they flew into McCarren International in Nevada, he could see the shimmering gem of Las Vegas. Without the darkness to showcase the glitz and the glamour, it looked like a small town built in the middle of nowhere. Mickey knew every civilization had cities like this, where sin was celebrated and people could indulge the part of themselves that they rarely showed the rest of the world.
He’d been here once before with some army buddies when he was in his twenties. Back then, Vegas was just a few hotels and casinos, but the way they catered to you was something he never experienced again. They found out what people liked to eat and drink and provided it. The kind of women they preferred would always be around, hanging on their arms. That is, as long as they were gambling.
That was when the mob ran everything in Las Vegas, before the corporations took over—a much simpler time. But also a time where they buried bodies in the desert for cheating at blackjack.
The plane landed with a thud and jarred Mickey fully awake. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and yawned as the captain announced that it was a balmy ninety-one degrees with clear blue skies. Mickey waited as all the other passengers filed off the plane. He’d never enjoyed the fight to rush off the plane and preferred to wait until he was the last one to exit. The stewardess smiled, and he thanked her and stepped into the warm Nevada day.
The air was much drier than he was used to, and the heat coming up off the tarmac warmed him. The temperature had only been seventy when he’d left Ronald Reagan International this morning. Mickey slung his bag over his shoulder and hiked through the terminal. He found the car rental booths and went to the first one. Since the Bureau wasn’t picking up the tab, he opted for a smaller car than he would have liked and then went outside and waited while the car, a gray Dodge Charger, was brought out.
As he watched the people pass before him, he could instantly tell who was coming and who was going. The ones coming into Las Vegas all had a trace of excitement, and the ones leaving appeared despondent.
The car was brought around and Mickey tipped the driver before climbing into the driver’s seat and flung his bag into the back. He put the address of the hospital into the GPS and pulled out of the airport.
Mountainview Hospital appeared like an oasis in the desert. White, with arches and surrounded by palm trees, Mickey thought it could’ve passed for some New Age retreat. He parked and checked his badge before going in. He’d left his sidearm back home. Though federal agents were allowed to fly armed, their flight would be logged and Mickey wanted as little trace of himself flying out here as possible.
He went to the front desk and asked for Angela’s room. They told him a number on the fifth floor, and he took the elevator up.
When he stepped off, he didn’t need to ask which was her room. An agent was sitting beside the door. He could tell the man was an agent because of the brown shoes and dark suit with the bulge of a sidearm on his right side—federal agent dress if he’d ever seen it.
Mickey showed the man his badge.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She’s doing better. Who are you exactly?”
“Mickey Parsons. I was her trainer in the field.”
“Holy shit. You’re Mickey Parsons? I read your book on pornography and the First Amendment.”
“So you’re the one,” he joked.
The man smiled. “It was on a suggested reading list at the academy. A couple of your books were. I thought it was fantastic.”
“Thanks.” He glanced to the room. “Listen, do you mind if I see her?”
“Well… yeah, that should be fine.”
“I appreciate it.”
Mickey stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him.
8
The gym had the stench of sweat and whatever antibacterial spray the staff used to clean the cardio machines. Carrie Fetcher pumped on an elliptical till she was sucking in breath with sweat dripping into her eyes.
She’d been thirty pounds overweight at twenty but now, at fifty-one, she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her—the result of two hours a day at the gym, seven days a week. She limited her diet to salads and diet soda and had been rewarded with the figure she’d wished she had when she was younger.
She did it for her own reasons, but the attention she received from men half her age was nice, too.
The machine beeped, indicating she’d hit her target distance, and began the cool down phase. Carrie slowed and let the machine stop before getting off and stretching. As she was bent over, gripping her ankles to stretch her hamstrings, she noticed a man behind her staring at her ass. She stood up straight and looked at him. He smiled. She turned away, a grin on her face, and toweled off before leaving.
She hadn’t been in a relationship in nearly twenty years. There’d been men, of course: dates and long conversations on the phone. But anytime the relationship began to grow into more than that, she would retreat into herself. She would stop calling him, not answer the door if he showed up, and delete e-mail unread. She’d had a few sexual flings when she grew bored, but she had never followed up on them, either. She’d made up her mind that she wasn’t going to be in a romantic relationship ever again.
Her friend Melissa approached her from the free weights section, sucking on a bottle filled with red fluid.
“You done?” Melissa asked.
“I think that’s it.”
“What’re you doing tonight?”
“No plans.”
“Me and Ruth are going out. Just a girl’s night. You should come.”
“I don’t know. I was kinda planning on a quiet night at home.”
“It’s Friday, Carrie. Just come out with us. You can’t be alone forever.”
“It’s not that. It’s just I was planning on a warm bath and a book. I don’t want to get all dolled up.”
“So don’t. Who cares what you look like?”
“Mm, I don’t know.”
She took Carrie’s hand in her hers. “You’re coming out, Carrie Fetcher, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Fine, I’ll come out. Give me an hour.”
“Meet at my house.”
“’K, bye, Cutie.”
“Bye.”
Carrie used one of the individual showers in the locker room and closed the frosted glass door before letting the hot water run over her body. Insomnia plagued her, and unless she wore herself out every day, she wouldn’t even begin to fall asleep. And still she needed Ambien, or alcohol, or some other sleep aid.
She’d experimented once, and didn’t work out or take anything. She had stayed awake the entire night, and the next day at work she couldn’t think straight, much less actually work. So she’d developed a routine. An hour of running and then an hour of weightlifting or elliptical and a sleep aid before she wanted to go to sleep. Nothing else worked.
The water grew so hot that she could see her skin turning a light pink. She enjoyed the heat. It released the tension in her muscles and cle
ared her thoughts.
After a good twenty minutes, she came out of the shower and dried off. She lotioned her entire body beginning with her legs, and dressed in a light blouse with jeans. She’d been hoping she could soak in a tub tonight and maybe go to bed early, but being out with her friends had its charms, too. Melissa and Ruth were both married, but their husbands rarely paid much attention to them, so the three of them were always together. She was grateful for them and didn’t know what she’d do without them.
Before leaving the locker room, she checked her phone and saw a message. It was from Tom at work, asking her to return his call. She did, and he answered on the first ring.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said.
“What did you need, Thomas?”
“You know, you’re the only one that calls me Thomas here? Tom’s fine.”
“I like to keep it formal. What did you need?”
“Two things. The Fresh Picked file needs to have the underwriting reviewed by Monday.”
“I did it today. I just haven’t updated it to the drive. I’ll do that from home tonight.”
“Appreciate it.”
A pause.
“And?” she said. “What’s the other thing, Thomas?”
“Well… I was wondering what you were doing tomorrow night.”
“For what?”
He chuckled. “Wow, you’re not going to make this easy, are you? I’d like to take you out. Like on a date.”
“You’re my boss. I’m not sure that’d be appropriate.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“I don’t think so, Thomas.”
“Look, I… I’m not very good at this. I like you, Carrie. I always have. And I think we’re friends but that we could be more than friends.”
She sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll take that as a maybe.”
“And if you call me gorgeous again, I’m suing you.”
He chuckled. “Sorry. Lesson learned.”
She smirked and left the locker room. Thomas was attractive, though at least ten years younger. He was wealthy, but so was she. Money wasn’t a concern anymore. How odd that feeling was. For the first thirty years of her life, she had to scrape pennies together to make sure she had enough to eat. Now, as a VP with one of the most successful investment banks in the country, she could blow two hundred dollars on dinner without blinking an eye.
He’d asked her out before and she’d turned him down. Though she had a feeling they would probably get along, she knew he didn’t want a fling. He wanted a relationship, which wasn’t something she was prepared to give him. Maybe when he saw that he’d stop paying attention to her.
As she was coming out of the locker room, she glanced up at the televisions in front of the treadmills. The news was on the first station and she saw the photo of a prison. Closed captions ran across the bottom of the screen.
WARDEN GILLS HAS MADE AN OFFICIAL STATEMENT THAT THE TWO INJURED FEDERAL AGENTS WERE INDEED PART OF THE MANHUNT FOR ESCAPED INMATE ZAIN TAMORA. MR TAMORA ESCAPED FROM CUSTODY ON…
Carrie’s heart felt as though it sank into her stomach. She didn’t even notice she’d dropped her phone and gym bag. She just stood staring at the screen. She hadn’t read or heard that name in so long; it’d been buried somewhere that she thought she would never have to dig up again.
Instantly, everything came back to her. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Carrie ran out of the gym and only at the door realized she didn’t have her phone or bag. She ran back in and retrieved them. Melissa saw her and said, “You all right?”
Carrie didn’t respond. She dashed for her car and jumped in, the tires squealing as she peeled out of the parking lot and onto the road.
9
Mickey took in what he saw and it made his stomach churn. Angela Listz lay in a hospital gown with her eyes closed. The head of the bed was at a forty-five degree angle, so her hair fell naturally to her shoulders. IVs connected to bags of fluid stuck out of her arm, and she appeared ghostly white.
She stirred and opened her eyes. Tilting her head, she saw him and a smile parted her cracked lips.
“Is this what it takes to get you to come see me?” she rasped quietly.
Mickey crossed to the bed. Instinctively, he put his hand over hers. She wrapped her fingers around his. Mickey could feel how weak they were, how little strength she had left in her.
“When you getting out of here?” he asked.
“Few days, a week. They don’t really give me straight answers.”
Mickey’s legs were already feeling fatigued, and he shifted his weight from one to the other. “I called your ASAC before I got down here. He said it was a knife wound to the gut. You were lucky it didn’t puncture your lung.”
“That’s what they keep telling me, that I’m really lucky.” She grimaced as she shifted her body slightly to the right. “I don’t feel lucky.”
Mickey knew better than to ask what had happened. She’d probably already told the story three or four times, and if it’d sunk in that she’d almost died, the trauma would start making it painful to talk about.
“They won’t tell me what happened to David,” she said. “Did you ask about him?”
He nodded. “I did.”
“And?”
Mickey was silent. He exhaled and kept her gaze.
“Shit,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and turned away from him. Mickey wanted to throw his arms around her to protect her from… this. And this atrocity was something he’d known she’d witness. The first day he got her as a trainee, he’d liked her right from the start. And he’d known that one day she’d have to see the true horror of their work. They didn’t just chase evil; evil chased them, too.
“Poor bastard,” she said. “I never shoulda went down there without backup.”
Mickey didn’t say anything for a moment. “Don’t do that to yourself. There’s a million things you could or couldn’t have done. Doesn’t really matter and doesn’t change what happened. Every agent knows the risks.”
She shook her head. “I went down to the cellar by myself like an idiot. I shoulda called it in the second I got there and waited for backup.”
“Where were you exactly?” Mickey said, sensing that this was his moment to get her talking.
“Zain Tamora’s fucking house. What was his house. Someone bought it after the murders and I’d heard they didn’t change a thing. Didn’t touch it. So I thought maybe there’d be something there that could lead me to wherever the fuck Tamora’s hiding.”
“Why wouldn’t they change anything?”
“I don’t know. There’s these serial-killer, like… ‘groupies’ I guess you’d call them. They buy up houses murders took place in and turn ’em into, like, museums. I thought it was maybe that.”
“What’d you see, Ange?”
“I just… it was dark. Completely dark. And, like, I ran my flashlight over these eyes, but I didn’t know they were eyes. And then I just felt this pain. It came from my belly and it was so fucking intense it just dropped me.” Tears were in her eyes now and Mickey could tell she was fighting back sobbing. “And the fucker stood over me. He stood over me and was just staring down at me. He tilted his head, like he was some fucking puppy. Just watching me.” She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “And then I heard David and the fucker moved on him.”
“Was it Tamora?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. He was huge, though. Easily six five or six six. But Tamora was a big dude, too, so it was probably him.”
Mickey nodded and looked over to one of the bags of fluid that was draining into her. “I’m guessing they didn’t find him?”
“No. House was clear… How did David die?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Can you do me a favor? Can you find out? I need to know.”
“No, you don’t.”
She sniffed and wiped away the rest of the tears. “Yes, I do.
Or I’ll be guessing the rest of my life. And it’ll be worse than what it actually is, I bet.”
He hesitated a moment. “I’ll find out.”
“Thanks. How long you here for?”
“I just wanted to come out and see you. I’ll hang out a couple more days and make sure you don’t need anything before I head back to Quantico.”
She stared at him. “You’re not here to help on the manhunt?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Wait a sec. You flew all the way out here just to see me?”
“I did.”
She chuckled. “That’s really sweet, but what I need is for you to find the fucker that killed David.”
“I’m not here for that, Ange. I’m sorry. I came for you.”
“Well, that’s bullshit. What good is it being the trainee of the great fucking Mickey Parsons if he won’t even help me find the guy who almost ripped my guts out?”
Mickey said nothing. He could tell she wanted to scream right now, to scream at Tamora and the guards that hadn’t prevented his escape, at David Chan for dying, at her boss, the Special Agent in Charge of the Las Vegas office… but she couldn’t yell at any of them. The only person to yell at was Mickey, and he let her do it.
“Fuck,” she said, the tears flowing down her cheeks again.
“What’s brown and sticky?”
She looked at him like he was insane.
“A stick.”
She laughed despite herself, but then held her side. “Don’t make me laugh. It fucking hurts.”
10
The traffic on I-15 was smooth sailing as Jordan and Wendy Hossman cruised to Las Vegas. Wendy polished her nails as Jordan drove. He was thin and lanky with a somewhat ridiculous haircut, but they’d married young, just out of college, and were now in a comfortable routine. Wendy glanced at him. Not the most handsome man she could’ve landed, but she didn’t have any regrets. He would provide for her the rest of her days and make sure she never wanted for anything. And he would never lift a hand to her. Good enough was sometimes all someone could expect out of life, though she did wish he was more spontaneous.
The Bastille - a Thriller Page 4