by Hadena James
Movement caught his attention. His gym was across the street and two buildings down from the main headquarters of the New Orleans branch of the US Marshals. There was an FBI building on the next block. However, it was the Marshals building that had caught his attention. It was as if he had seen a ghost. The ghost had walked into the building, looking smug. A chill shot down his spine. Something bad was happening in New Orleans, something very bad that wasn’t being broadcast on the news. He would have to tell his father. He would need to make sure it wasn’t one of his people freelancing.
Nikita pulled his cell phone out and hit the name that would call his father. He spoke quickly, quietly in Russian, and explained the situation. His father spoke loudly, harshly in Russian, explaining what Nikita was going to do. Nikita nodded as his father talked, despite his father’s inability to see him. The last thing he wanted to do was sit here in an outdoor cafe waiting for them to exit, but that was what he had been told to do.
He sat down at the first seat he found. The menu shook in his hands as he attempted to order and blend in with the other patrons. The problem wasn’t that he had seen a ghost, that would have been fine. Ghosts were as much a part of New Orleans as tourists. It was that this ghost had looked very much alive. An Elvis song played from the speakers of the cafe. His ears picked up bits of it as he stared at the building. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it hadn’t been the SCTU that had entered the Marshals building. There had been no reports of a serial killer on the loose in New Orleans. There was no reason for them to be here.
After his second cup of coffee, he had convinced himself that he had imagined it. He was about to call his father back when a woman exited the building. She was petite with brown hair and her own set of scars. She lit a cigarette and moved away from the front door towards an alley. Even from this distance, he knew there was no mistake. He considered his options. He could go try to chat up the woman or call his father and get a suggestion. His father would send goons. Neither was a good idea. She was the devil and the company she kept was just as ruthless as any mobster was, possibly more so. He snapped a picture of her, standing in the alley, alone, smoking a cigarette, and sent it to his father. His father sent a reply: wait there.
Work
Valerie McGregor stood outside the US Marshals building. Her mouth hung open. It had suddenly gone very dry. Her lips ached with the need to be wetted, but she couldn’t even muster up the spit to do that. Her heartbeat had increased, not just the pace but also the intensity. It slammed against her ribcage and made the arteries in her neck pulsate. The hair on her arms stood up.
It was bad enough that some creep from the gym was trying to get her attention. She had walked out only to be confronted by the US Marshal boogeymen. Boogeymen that was most likely here for her. She had ducked into the first store she had come upon, which was a small bakery that smelled wonderful. However, the smell made her stomach churn as she sat near a window, hoping not to be noticed by anyone. A waiter walked over and asked if he could get her anything. She ordered coffee and a muffin.
Outside, the creep from the gym sat down. She was trapped, literally, in this spot until he moved. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she knew when she was being followed. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to catch her attention.
As she watched, Aislinn Cain walked out of the Marshals building and lit a cigarette. The defiant Marshal exhaled her first drag from her cigarette closer than twenty feet from the entrance to the Marshals building, before she sauntered around the corner to an alley. The alley was dimly lit, even by the afternoon sunlight. However, it was impossible to mistake her for anyone else. She had a presence to her that could almost be seen, as if her aura were visible if one looked at her just right.
Valerie didn’t know for sure the SCTU was there for her, but the chances were good. She hadn’t heard any news about a serial killer in New Orleans. What she didn’t understand was why the SCTU would be there for her. She wasn’t killing anyone. She was barely even damaging them. A good plastic surgeon could patch them up almost as good as new. Their wounds were superficial compared to her own.
She took the first sip of her coffee, more out of habit than desire. It helped to wet her lips and mouth, but that was it. The coffee had already gone cold. She didn’t know how long she had been in the cafe, but it felt like hours or days. She was surprised the sun was still shining.
However, Aislinn Cain still stood outside, smoking a cigarette. When she finished the first one, she stubbed it out on the bottom of her boot and lit another. The woman was going to chain smoke, continuing to hold Valerie hostage inside the cafe. She believed the man out front could be dealt with, but she didn’t want to be seen by Aislinn Cain. Rumor had it she was a genius and trigger-happy. If she saw Valerie, she might be able to guess that Valerie was responsible for the cuttings.
As Valerie watched, she noticed Aislinn Cain was in a defensive posture. She looked like she was casually smoking a cigarette, but she wasn’t. Cain leaned against the building. One hand manipulated the cigarette and the other had disappeared behind her. Her ankles weren’t crossed, as was typically the case when leaning against something. A large man came out the front door. He was dressed in slacks and a button down shirt that became skintight as he moved. Valerie recognized him as Lucas McMichaels. Cain didn’t relax as the big man rounded the corner to talk to her. Had Cain seen her through the window? Valerie wanted to flee. Her phone rang, making her jump and give a small squeal. Other patrons looked at her. She apologized while trying to hide her blushing face. The number belonged to the police department. She sent it to voice mail and called her boss at the outreach center instead.
After several intense minutes of muffled conversation, Valerie was excused from work for the evening. She had claimed the workout had been rough on her and she just couldn’t get the pain to recede. Her boss had been sympathetic, drawing out the conversation, trying to help Valerie. There was no way to help Valerie, at least nothing her boss could do. She needed the Marshals to go back into the building so she could leave.
Yet, instead of leaving, another one walked out and joined the group. This one was shorter than McMichaels and a lot lighter. His ginger colored hair shined in the sunlight. He lit up a cigarette as Cain stubbed out her second. She didn’t light up another. There was something going on. None of them looked relaxed. Valerie was dying to know what it was. She almost called the police department back to find out, but resisted the urge. It would look strange.
There wasn’t another exit, unless she caused a scene and went through the back. She began studying the faces around her, faces of strangers, busy with their electronics and uninterested in the scene that was unfolding in front of them.
Another Marshal exited the building, another woman, the one that rarely made it in the news. She was big boned and strong as an ox, but she wasn’t crazy like Cain. Like the redheaded male, Valerie couldn’t remember this woman’s name either. Immediately on her heels was the final member of the SCTU, Xavier Reece. He looked like he had a hangover, which was how he looked in most of the photos she’d seen of him. The entire group now stood in the alley having a conversation.
Valerie was positive it wasn’t a coincidence. Something was happening. Aislinn Cain had seen something and now she was quietly rallying the troops to go forth and conquer the prize. Her attention was drawn back to the man that had followed her. He looked nervous. Maybe Cain had seen something in him that set her hackles up. Maybe he had sat down hoping to blend in too. Maybe he had been following her and was now just trying to preserve his own skin. Everyone had some kind of skeleton in their closet. Valerie took better stock of her stalker.
He had a wide, prominent brow with dark hair, but it wasn’t black. Not really, anyway, it was just a very dark brown with no natural low lights or highlights. His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue, almost too pale to be real, but there was a ring on the inside and outside of the iris that was a dark, sapphire color. His skin was swarthy looking an
d he had spent some time in the sun. For the first time, she noticed the tattoo. It was only a small piece that snaked out of his collar and up his neck. She had no idea what it was, but she suddenly wanted it. No, she needed it. The ink wasn’t faded by the sun, meaning he took care of it. It wasn’t black, but the colors were muted. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what that small part could be.
Next time she was at the gym; she might talk to him. Her urge to see the tattoo had suddenly pushed away her panicked thoughts about the SCTU or the fact that she had a stalker. Besides, she was more dangerous than any stalker. She could do things that other people couldn’t. Things that other people couldn’t even imagine in their nightmares. She had gotten used to getting her way as a child and as an adult that hadn’t changed much.
Her eyes darted back to the US Marshals. Aislinn Cain was dodging traffic, jogging across the street. Valerie held her breath. Cain stopped at a table, leaned in, and said a few words to the person sitting at it, then stood back up. She shook her head. The guy she had spoken to suddenly leapt to his feet, sending the outdoor table crashing to the ground. The dishes broke as they hit the concrete. Cain jerked a small metal thing from her belt, and with a flick of her wrist, she had a baton. She was shouting orders. The others were running across the street now, guns and Tasers drawn. Valerie let out the breath. She almost felt sorry for the schmuck on the street. Almost.
She left money on the table for the uneaten muffin, cold coffee, and a tip for the waiter. In the melee that was unfolding outside, she slipped through the front door, exiting away from the US Marshals.
They were still barking orders at the guy who hadn’t decided whether he was going to run or fight. He had the look of a cornered predator. Valerie noticed he had a tattoo on his hand, one that she hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t special, an eye with tears running down a heart. There was nothing noteworthy about it. It had no colors. If there was a significance, it was lost on her.
She rounded the corner as she heard the click of a Taser being deployed.
Ten
“Get down on the ground!” I shouted one more time as Xavier drew his Taser. It was too crowded at the small cafe really to shoot someone. Despite that, Gabriel and Fiona had drawn their guns. I had my baton out. I was the smallest member of the team, so if he decided to rush anyone, it would probably be me.
“Gun!” Lucas shouted. I didn’t wait for him, I rushed. My shoulder caught him square in the side, forcing his elbow into his ribs. It was perfectly executed as though I were a linebacker taking down a quarterback. A revolver skittered across the concrete sidewalk. He started to struggle and I punched him in the face. A flash of pain started in my fingers and ended at my elbow. The calm had descended upon me as I ran across the street, now it was good and settled in to stay for a while. I punched him again for good measure. Blood gushed from his cheek, splattering the sidewalk, staining it a dark brown as it soaked into the parched concrete.
I didn’t draw back to hit him again. A bone stuck out of his face. For the first time, I realized I had punched him with the hand holding the baton. I examined my hand. Blood dripped from the knuckles, the skin split open around them. My middle finger knuckle was exposed to the air. It took effort to unclench my fist and drop the baton to the ground. It didn’t hurt, but it was going to.
“You okay?” Xavier asked.
“I do not think it is broken, if that is what you want to know,” I told him. The guy on the sidewalk groaned. I had changed positions without realizing it. My legs straddled him, pinning his arms to his side. His eyes held a glassy look. He was in La-La Land. Tomorrow, he might remember his name, but today, it was going to take effort. Not that he needed to remember it. They would figure it out for him.
For a month, I had sat on my couch staring at cold cases. One had involved an attacker with a brand. The brand had covered his entire ear. How he had managed to get it and not lose his ear was questionable. What wasn’t questionable was that the brand had been described by one of the rape victims that managed to survive. It had been a pentagram with the letters HNBLA inside the points of the star.
The last attack had occurred three years prior in New Jersey. It was a stretch to find him in New Orleans, but it was also unlikely that there was another guy wandering around the US of A with that particular brand and letters. I just could not forget some things. This had been one of them. I might not remember my nephew’s name every day, but I would remember that brand until the day I died. Maybe. Now that he had been caught, I might not.
“Do you want to continue to treat him like a horse, or should we cuff him and send him to the hospital with an armed escort now?” Xavier asked. I stood up. Lucas did the cuffing and then Xavier began examining him. Fiona had secured the revolver. I shrugged at it. No one carried revolvers anymore. They didn’t have the stopping power or the extra shots if a few missed their target. “He definitely has a concussion and a broken cheekbone. I can’t be sure of any other injuries.”
“He drew first,” Lucas said.
“That thing is a lethal weapon,” Gabriel pointed at the baton. It lay on the ground, near the drying blood.
“I don’t think it’s the baton,” Lucas looked at him. Gabriel made a face. Lucas bent down and picked up the baton. He tucked it into his back pocket. I wanted to protest, but I understood the situation to a degree. I wasn’t politically savvy, per se, but I did know that some of my methods were being questioned. There were whispers that I was a loose cannon, even using the standards of the SCTU. I thought I should have earned a huge amount of Karma points for not killing Alejandro when the chance arose, and I might have. I just hadn’t earned any lately with the higher ups that ran this special operations unit within the US Marshals. First, there was Detroit, then I had eviscerated a plague spreading mass murderer in front of news cameras, then I’d gone to South Dakota to deal with what can only be described as a disaster. I still wasn’t entirely sure I understood everything that had happened in South Dakota or why. I just knew it had involved a former US Marshal, his crazy sister, and their even crazier, but dead brother, and I hadn’t killed anyone.
Not killing anyone seemed like a good thing. Especially considering Alejandro had sent a bomb to Malachi’s house and nearly killed him. I had even requested Alejandro not be sent to The Fortress because of Eric and Patterson Clachan. The fact that this was ignored was not my fault. I had told both men that he was off-limits. They were absolutely not to harm a single part of his entire body. They couldn’t even break a pinkie finger without dealing with me. I wasn’t sure what exactly that threat meant considering they were both in prison for multiple murder, but it was a good threat. I would think of something.
However, somehow, I had still ended up in hot water after the South Dakota thing. Everything I did was being scrutinized. Everyone had been told to report on my behavior. No one was quite sure why. Of course, the SCTU was circling the wagons, so to speak, but I had just broken someone’s face in a public place with my fist and a special order baton that was not meant for competition twirling. No doubt, there were at least half a dozen videos of it being filmed as I stood on the sidewalk. I didn’t turn to scan the faces of the crowd. I didn’t need to see the camera phones recording me. They also didn’t need to see my face at the moment. By tomorrow, it would be uploaded to social media sites and shared a million times. I would go viral, yet again.
“Send my mother a text about my niece and nephew,” I told Fiona as quietly as possible. We tried to shield them from my more violent nature. Sometimes, it worked. Most of the time, it didn’t. I was beginning to hate the public as much as the press. Fiona nodded. My hand was at my side. It still didn’t hurt. I didn’t feel anything except the quiet darkness that dwelt within me. In my everyday life, I tried not to think about this feeling or lack thereof.
It was hard to admit, but I liked it. Not feeling was amazing. It opened up an entire world that went unnoticed by everyone else. When there was nothing to feel, there was
lots to observe. I could hear the murmur of voices talking in hushed tones as sirens drew closer. My gaze made sense of the stuff at my peripheral vision, including the Russian mobster that had been sitting at a table when I crossed the street and was now gone. His chair lay on its back on the sidewalk. Its fall had chipped some of the paint away and dented the metal. A rounded edge of wings at the neck and the top of the Cyrillic letters had just barely peeked out of his shirt collar. If he’d been in a T-shirt, I would have known the Russian word between the wings and gotten some kind of identifier. I was learning that where there were Russian mobsters, there was Krokodil, and we had enough problems without illegal drugs that rotted the skin while the user lived. We weren’t DEA, but I knew an agent that would have been happy to have the information. The cafe was actually a pretentious bakery. The smell of powdered sugar and yeast wafted from the open door. My guess was that they sold French pastries, since I didn’t smell any sweetened creams like a donut shop or Italian bakery. Also, we were in New Orleans and French pastries made the most sense. Someone with cologne thick enough to gag a police dog moved and his scent came at me from a new direction. I stood my ground and didn’t turn to look for the offensive odor wearer. He was probably one of those guys with a camera phone watching me, and his movement afforded him a better view of either my face or my bloodied hand.
I attempted to shake the calm. In theory, it was something I could turn on and off. In reality, I was better at turning it on. It stuck with me. My hand would require an X-ray. Its failure to shoot pain up my arm wasn’t really an indicator that I hadn’t broken it. It just meant my brain had shut down my pain receptors by flooding my brain with endorphins and other things. Xavier would want to look at my head too. He was intent on getting my brain in a machine while the calm was on me to see if he could figure out exactly what was going on inside it. So far, he had done it twice and learned nothing. I believed that part of it was physical, but most of it was chemical and electrical. If it had all been physical, there wouldn’t be two types of sociopaths and psychopaths. There also wouldn’t be me.