by James Hunt
“Everything came back negative,” Bryce answered.
Sarah raised the Colt in her right hand and fired, turning the guard’s head into nothing more than a lump of mushy flesh and bone. Two seconds after she fired her pistol, the silence was cut with the din of alarms. She maneuvered from her current position and headed north, keeping her eye on the house.
“What are you doing?” Bryce asked.
“Just keep me updated on the guards’ locations,” Sarah answered, her words as short as the quick breaths from her sprint. Before Bryce had to tell her about the two guards in the Jeep, it roared through the brush, and Sarah sent two bullets through the windshield and into the driver’s chest. Sarah rolled left, just missing the Jeep’s front bumper and the bullets coming from the passenger side as the Jeep careened out of control.
“Three guards from inside the house are heading toward you right now,” Bryce said. “And the three on the second-floor perimeter are on their way as well.”
Leaves and sand kicked up from Sarah’s roll. She rose wielding both pistols and fired into the rear window, splitting the back of the passenger’s head open as the Jeep smashed into one of the palm trees. Shouts from the other guards grew closer as Sarah dumped the body of the driver onto the ground and shoved the other man out the door.
The front windshield dripped with blood, and the two bullet holes from her first attack obscured any view from the driver’s position. She shoved her heels into the windshield’s corners until the glass gave way and the windshield popped out. Sarah slammed the Jeep into reverse, the wheels and engine whining from the sudden exertion after the collision.
Bullets tore into the hood and passenger side of the Jeep as three of the guards arrived at Sarah’s position. The Jeep bounced over small mounds of sand as Sarah juggled driving the Jeep in reverse and firing into the guards advancing on her position. The sights on her pistol bounced around the shoulders and arms until she managed to line up a shot that sent a .45 right through a guard’s left eye.
Sarah jerked the wheel hard, keeping her foot on the gas, and the Jeep spun a one-eighty. She flew through a cluster of trees, dodging any deadly collisions. “What’s air support looking like?”
“A few of the guards headed to the helipad, but I don’t think any of them know how to fly. They’re just sitting there,” Bryce answered.
“Good.” Sarah shifted into third gear, the clutch straining from the speed. The thump of gunshots peppered the Jeep’s back as she drove out onto the beach, the massive tires kicking up waves of sand and leaving divots in the earth behind her. She drove around the island to the north side, toward the front of the house.
The north end of the island opened up into a larger area void of any trees and brush except for those that were meant for aesthetic purposes. The heliport rested on the right side of the house, and the three guards keeping watch opened fire on the Jeep the moment Sarah entered the front yard. She floored the accelerator, shell casings dumped into her lap.
Each piece of lead Sarah fired drove the guards back. The Jeep sped closer to the house. One magazine emptied, she reloaded, shifting gears and still firing with the other hand. The Jeep sped right for the structure underneath the heliport. Just before the Jeep collided with the building, Sarah tucked and rolled out onto the sand.
Metal, concrete, wood, and glass twisted and crumbled as the Jeep drove itself deep into the house. Sarah wiped the sand from her cheek, rising to one knee. The ground felt uneven, and the images in front of her wavered and doubled. Movement rustled on her right, and she fired, dropping one of the guards that had come around the corner in a Spartan sprint, thinking he could take her alone. Sarah pushed herself off the ground, darting into the hole the Jeep had just created for her.
“The remaining guards are all converging on the house,” Bryce said.
“Where’s Finley?”
“Still locked in his room.”
Glass crunched under Sarah’s boots as she made her way to the staircase in the middle of the house. The thump of feet above told her exactly where the brutes would be coming from, and when they turned the corner, she lined each of their heads up in her sights like pins in a bowling alley. The force of the bullets flung their heads back in such jerks that their feet flew out from under them, crashing them to the floor.
Sarah leapt the stairs, two at a time, pistols up and out, poised and ready to strike for any others heading her way. The crunch of glass behind her triggered a spin while still ascending the steps, driving her heels into the wood, firing into the guards who had spread themselves out, bringing a storm of bullets from different angles.
Two bullets hit the chest of Sarah’s Kevlar jacket and pushed her backward. Her heels almost tripped over the back side of the stairs, but her legs stiffened, keeping her balance. The wooden bannisters next to her erupted in splinters as she made it to the second floor. She pushed herself behind a column, feeling bullets enter the opposite side.
Hallways jutted out from both sides of Sarah. Her pistols hung light in her hands. She checked the ammo count around her waist. Only one magazine left. She pivoted on her right foot and swung around the column, marching her legs sideways while keeping her body positioned to the front of the house. Her run caused the three guards to reveal themselves and abandon their cover. Gunshots blasted and deafened the world around her. She lined up the face of the guard on the far right and squeezed the trigger. The bullet connected and tossed the guard onto his back, dead. The slide on her right pistol opened, signaling the empty magazine. While she lowered her right pistol, she fired the left and sent a bullet into the neck of the guard in the middle, then brought the Colt’s sight to the final guard. Just before she had a clear line of sight, a bullet hit her right leg, and she collapsed. Her shoulder smacked into the hardwood floor. She brought the pistol’s barrel between the wooden bannisters of the second floor and fired, the slide in her right pistol opening as the last bullet from her magazine ejected and landed in the right eye socket of the last guard downstairs.
“Sarah! Are you all right?” Bryce asked. His voice was panicked, loud, even with her ears still ringing from the gunfire.
Sarah checked the gash in her right thigh. “Missed the femoral. Looks like it went right through.” Her fingers found the exit hole on the back of her hamstring. She pushed herself off the floor with one leg, dropping the magazine from the right pistol. “Where’s Finley?”
“The only heat signature I have left is down the hall, third door on the left,” Bryce answered.
Sarah limped down the hallway, each pressured step on her right leg sending a gush of blood rolling down the side of her pants, the dark fabric blending with the oozing blood. She holstered the Colt in her left hand and wiggled the door handle. Locked. She rammed her shoulder into the door repeatedly until it finally gave way, and she barreled inside.
A scream followed her entrance. An old man huddled in the corner by his desk. The face was the same as in the file. Finley. He held both his hands in the air, his entire body trembling. “Please!” His words were nothing more than terrified whispers. “Please, don’t hurt me. I didn’t do anything on purpose. It wasn’t my fault. Whatever they told you,” the man whimpered.
“Sarah,” Bryce said, slowly. “Put the cuffs on him, and get him on the chopper.”
“Do you even know what you did?” Sarah asked. “Do you know what you were a part of?”
The man was crying now, tears streaming down his face, big sobbing pools of regret and sorrow, beseeching mercy. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Just, please! Don’t hurt me! Don’t kill me!” Each syllable that came out of his mouth wavered and shook, like the loose skin around his neck.
Finley was an old man, close to eighty, and his years of usefulness (if there had ever been such a time) had long left him. Whatever power he clung to was just greed. He had money, capital, and that granted him a false usefulness to the people around him.
Sarah circled him, watching him tremble. Standi
ng behind him, she placed both hands on his shoulders. The cloth of his shirt was soft, the skin and muscle underneath warm and slick with sweat. “It’s over, Finley.” She quickly gripped his chin and gave a harsh twist that snapped his neck, and he crumpled to the floor. She waited for Bryce to speak, for him to say something, but it didn’t come until she had already marched through the house and onto the helipad.
“Mack wants you to come in,” Bryce said.
Sarah didn’t respond. Like the words that left Bryce’s mouth, she felt hollow and foreign. She looked down at her hands as they grabbed hold of the controls and started the chopper. They felt heavy, clunky, not like the hands she’d grown to know. “I’m not coming in.” Sarah pulled the radio from her ear and crushed it between her fingers.
5
The dishes had piled in the sink, rising in large mounds as three-day-old dirty water soaked and rotted with the leftovers each dish contained. The TV hummed a constant background noise, and Becca lay on the couch, watching the images with glazed eyes. Ella and Matt played with a few toys on the ground, and Becca felt a tug on the fresh wound still bleeding inside her. Watching her children overwhelmed her with pain and joy.
The doorbell rang, and both Ella and Matt froze. They’d reacted that way to any sudden noise since New Zealand. She’d already taken them to a psychiatrist, who told them that the sudden noise triggered a memory from the ordeal, which was a six-hundred-dollar repetition of something Becca already knew. “It’s okay, guys,” Becca said, kissing the tops of their heads. “Stay right here. Mommy will be right back.”
Becca tied the bathrobe around her waist and headed for the door. For some reason, she felt her pulse race, and her body jolted as the doorbell rang again just before she reached the handle. She checked the peephole then opened the front door. “Can I help you?” Becca kept the chain lock on the door, looking at the two men through the slim crack.
“Mrs. Hill?” one of the men asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m special Agent Taylor Grimes, and this is my partner Agent Mallory. I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I was hoping we could speak to you for a few minutes.”
Becca’s body felt like a block of ice: rigid and breakable. “I’ve already spoken to the police about my husband. I don’t have anything else to say.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your sister-in-law.”
Becca shuddered and wondered if Agent Grimes had noticed. His eyes were concealed behind his glasses, and the lines on his face showed nothing of what he was thinking or what type of questions he wanted to ask.
“May we come in?” Agent Grimes asked.
Becca shut the door, her heart beating out of her chest. She spread both her hands over the wood paneling, and after a moment, she unlocked the chain and opened the door. Agent Grimes smiled and took off his glasses, allowing her to see the blue around his pupils. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Agent Mallory gave her a curt nod, and Becca closed the door behind them. Becca squeezed her arms around her as she walked through the kitchen into the living room. “Matt, Ella, I need you two to go and play out in the backyard, okay?”
The children looked up at the two strangers then quickly scurried out the back, taking their toys with them. Becca kept the sliding glass door open and sat at the kitchen table, where she could keep an eye on them. Agent Grimes and Agent Mallory took their seats at the table on either side of her.
“What do you want to know?” Becca asked, her arms still folded over her chest, watching Ella play.
“We understand that your sister-in-law wasn’t around during the time of your husband’s death, is that correct?” Grimes asked.
“She wasn’t around a lot,” Becca answered.
“Do you know where she was during that time?”
“No. She kept to herself. Sometimes she’d come over for dinner. She and my husband had a falling out after their parents passed.”
“What happened with that?”
Becca looked over to Agent Grimes for the first time. He held a pen and a pad of paper. He leaned over on the desk, watching her, studying her, no doubt looking for something Sarah had done that was probably linked to the blackout and to the people who had murdered her husband. She wanted to tell them. She wanted to give them every piece of information she knew they were looking for. She didn’t owe Sarah anything. The woman had caused her enough pain and grief for a hundred lifetimes. “Have you ever lost someone you were very close with, Agent Grimes?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have.”
“And how did you deal with that?”
“I talked with friends, family. They made sure I was okay, helped me work my way through it.”
“It’s what a decent person would do, right?” Becca asked, unfolding her arms and leaning on the table. She squinted. “That’s not what Sarah did when her parents passed. I watched my husband have to deal with that alone, wanting to speak with someone who could understand what he was going through, and the only other person that felt the same way was his sister. You know how many times Sarah tried reaching out to Ben? Never. Not once did she try and help with any of the arrangements. Not once did she come over to talk to him about it. She didn’t even show up to the funeral.”
Grimes looked down at his pad, flipping through his notes. “She was injured at her job, correct? The Chicago Packing Company?” When Becca didn’t answer, he finally looked up. She felt the tears welling up in her eyes and running shamelessly down her face. Her cheeks burned hot with a fire she hadn’t thought existed anymore.
“Who the hell are you?” Becca asked. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You people treat this like it’s some routine, like it’s a regular traffic stop.” Becca slammed her fist into the kitchen table, rattling the salt and pepper shakers in the center. “Get out of my house.”
Agent Grimes closed his notepad and stuffed it back into the inside pocket of his jacket. He folded his hands together, his brow furrowed in a look of grief and sorrow. “Mrs. Hill, this isn’t a routine traffic stop. What you and your family have gone through… There aren’t enough words or actions that we could do to make up for what you’ve lost.” He leaned in a little closer, his voice softening. “But if there is something you can tell us, something strange about your husband’s death that you failed to tell the police, I promise you I can bring you justice.” He reached out to touch her hand, and Becca recoiled.
“You have no idea what I want,” Becca said. Her words were short, cold, and the chill of ice filled her.
The two agents rose and headed for the door. Becca followed them out, and before they could say another word, she slammed the door in their faces and rechained the lock. She wiped her eyes, clearing the tears from her face until nothing remained except the puffy aftermath. She called Matt and Ella inside, the patches of cloth on their knees and shins stained with grass. The two returned to playing on the living room floor, and Becca watched them from the couch. After a while Ella, climbed onto the couch and gave her a hug. Becca almost broke down right there, but she squeezed her daughter back and kissed the top of her head. Becca ran her fingers through Ella’s hair while the little girl continued to play with her doll.
“Mommy?”
“What is it, baby?”
“I miss Aunt Sarah. Do you know when she’s coming over again?”
“No, baby. I don’t.”
“Did I do something bad to make her not want to come?”
Becca picked Ella up and sat her in her lap, pulling her close to her chest. “No, baby, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. Aunt Sarah’s just busy. That’s all.” She rocked Ella back and forth, and it wasn’t long before Matt was on the couch with them, cuddling up to Becca’s side. The three of them stayed there until Ella and Matt drifted off to sleep. She picked the two of them up and carried them to bed. She gently closed the door and walked to her bedroom.
The door was shut. Becca placed her hand on the handle and took a deep breath. E
verything was exactly the way it had been when they were taken—the bed unmade, laundry on the floor, and the dresser covered in change from Ben’s pocket that he’d dumped the morning of their abduction. She stepped lightly around the clothes and shoes on the ground. She’d lived in this house for the past seven years, but this bedroom felt foreign, strange. She hadn’t slept in here since they’d been back. The only time she had come in was to grab a few articles of clothing when they first came home.
Becca found the business card she was looking for, and the moment it was in her hands, she hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her. She clutched the card in her hand so hard that she crumpled it. She picked up her cell phone and dialed the number listed on the front. After a few rings, a woman’s voice answered.
“Chicago Plumbing. How can I help you?”
Becca flipped the card over to the phrase that was written on the back. “I’m looking for a new water heater, preferably something around six hundred gallons.”
“One moment, please.”
A series of clicks and beeps followed. Another voice she didn’t recognize answered. “Are you alone?”
Becca paused a moment before she answered, “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“A few CIA agents just came by the house, asking questions about Sarah and my husband.”
“Okay, what did they ask?”
Becca shook her head. “Who am I speaking with?” A pause followed on the other end of the line. “I want to speak to whoever is in charge. I want to speak with them now!” Another pause.
“Hold, please.”
A few rings later, another voice answered. “Mrs. Hill? This is Mack Farr, operations manager for GSF. I apologize for all the secrecy, but I’ll need you to tell me everything that just happened.”
Becca looked down at the phone then turned it off. She was done with secret phone calls, agents, and lies. All that mattered now was her children, and she didn’t believe they were safe in Chicago anymore.