by M. O. Mack
She cautiously continued through the room, noting a few boxes and crates with more guns stacked neatly in the corner. Was Sampson preparing for Armageddon?
She opened the heavy steel door leading to the next room, which, if her calculations were correct, would place her somewhere behind the walls of the vacant dry cleaning business next door. It seemed like the strip mall, which was a long rectangular building divided into six individual business spaces, was also divided down its length. Six shops on one side faced the street, and hidden rooms on the back side of the building. This layout was pretty ingenious, actually.
She flipped on the light in the next room to find several monitors sitting on a desk piled up with newspapers. No laptop or computers, though. Sampson probably had those locked away. On the other side of the room were open-faced shelving units filled with manila folders like she’d seen at her dentist’s office.
She walked over and plucked out a folder. It had a number on the upper right-hand corner. This one in particular was “#68.” She opened the folder and thumbed through the handwritten notes.
“What in the…?”
Client: 68
Job: Reverend Thomas Moore.
Verified: 3 victims. Ages 8, 11 and 12. Females.
Fee: $80,000
Assigned to Operator: 18
The notes went on to describe Moore’s daily routine—which stores he liked to frequent, how he liked to go to the gym across the street from a daycare facility, and when he was most likely to be at home.
So Sampson researches people first. The rest of the file contained photos, news articles, a police report and a copy of a court proceeding. Emily’s eyes scanned the tiny print for details, noting that Mr. Moore’s court case had been dismissed. On the last page was a form that looked to have been filled out by Sampson.
Closed: April 8, 2015
Completed by Operator: 18
Payout: $50,000
Bonus: N
She placed the file back in its spot and grabbed another. Number three-ninety-four. This one was for a man named Rodrigo Hernandez.
“Verified eighty-four murders? Jesus, was he a serial killer?”
But no. Emily went on to read that he was a member of one of three cartels in Northern Mexico who apparently lived on this side of the border. There was a list of addresses, the names of his victims, the number of people living in his house, including the maid and girlfriend.
Fee: $2,000,000
Assigned to Operator: 12
She flipped to the back page, noting the payout was two hundred thousand dollars, completed by operator twelve. She also noted there were discrepancies between the fee the client paid and what the operator received. Did Sampson keep the difference for himself? For business expenses? Both?
She reviewed several more files, finding a governor—who’d murdered some man’s wife—another drug dealer, and a CEO of some chemical company who was dumping military-grade toxic waste into a river that was the only source of water for a Native American tribe in Utah. Over fifty documented deaths.
Wow. Who the hell was this Sampson guy? Because this operation did not seem like your average group of criminals looking to make a few bucks. Specifically, four things jumped out at her in these files: (1) Only the target’s identity was revealed. The payer, or client, was never mentioned, nor was the operator’s name. She guessed this information was kept somewhere safe. (2) Mr. Sampson appeared to only take jobs for people who were not so nice. In fact, he seemed to take great care in verifying the targets’ misdeeds along with collecting key information for the operator. (3) Sampson was keeping a lot of freaking money for himself. (4) The man she’d met with the gray eyes wasn’t the only operator.
How many were there? Where did they live? How did Sampson get ahold of them? These were all questions of curiosity more than anything. Because this was some very serious, very scary shit.
Emily set the file back in its place and whooshed out a breath, scrubbing her face with her hands. She strongly suspected that Sampson was dead. Considering the level of organization and attention to detail in these files, it seemed out of place that Rick’s job never got done over the weekend and that Sampson missed a payment to Mr. Cold Eyes. That was where the mix-up happened. When she’d handed Rick’s cash to Cold Eyes, Cold Eyes thought he was getting paid for some other job he’d completed. He’d had no clue the money was from another client for another job. Rick’s job.
Anyway, Sampson had dropped the ball at least twice now. Three times if she counted the woman from today. Given the life-or-death stakes of this business, it didn’t seem probable Sampson would just leave without putting anyone at the helm. Not that she knew the man, but the odds didn’t look good for Sampson. As her dad used to say, “Even beekeepers get stung.” It meant that despite being experts in bees and wearing protective gear, the fact was they surrounded themselves with stinging insects. And, no matter how good they were at their jobs, people made mistakes. The natural consequence of making a mistake as a beekeeper is getting stung.
The natural consequence of managing a group of hit men is that you’ll get hit.
What she couldn’t understand, though, was why hire her? This seemed like the type of business that required a high level of secrecy and trust. Didn’t take me long to figure out what they really do. So why bring in a stranger, knowing she’d find out? It wasn’t as if Sampson had had a lot of time to research her and know for certain she wouldn’t blab. She had seen his ad in the local paper: Wanted: Receptionist to answer phone. Must be trustworthy. We pay cash. She’d called the number, which sent her to some Google Voice account, like the one she had, since she didn’t dare give out her new burner cell number to anyone—too easy to trace. Then she’d left her name, number, and email address per the instructions in the ad.
Sampson emailed her two hours later and then called for the “interview” that evening. She supposed he could have done a quick search on her name, but there were hundreds of Emily Rockfords in the US.
Anyway, that interview turned out to be a series of short questions—“Do you do drugs or have a drinking problem? Have you ever been fired from a job? Are you able to write legibly?”
No, no, and yes, she’d replied. He then said he’d try her out and see how things went. She said okay. He gave her the instructions regarding where to go and what to do. No fanfare. No application to sign. No request for her social.
He probably planned to kill me if things didn’t work out.
A shiver crept up her spine. These were very dangerous people. Her only option now was to leave this city and never look back. The problem was making sure Mr. Cold Eyes didn’t come after her, looking for his payout. He would likely assume she took the money and ran.
If only I could pay him before I leave. Then he wouldn’t follow. Hell, maybe I could even stay in El Paso.
Sampson had to keep money around to run his business. Right? It was probably in a safe, along with the lists of names—clients and operators. She spun around in the center of the room. There were at least four other sections to this strip mall. Six retail spaces total.
Her eyes caught the slight indentation—a long vertical groove—in the wall exactly where another door should be. She walked over and was about to touch it when she felt the hairs on her arm stand straight up. She pulled back her hand.
What is that? She brought her hand close to the wall again. The fine reddish-blond hairs lifted from her skin. Static. She leaned in a little closer and listened, detecting a faint buzzing sound inside. It reminded her of those power lines by Aunt Mary’s old house. On a windy day they sounded like a swarm of insects.
Whatever was on the other side of that wall, she suspected it was booby-trapped like the AC, which meant it was something Sampson wanted to protect. Money? Files? His computers? All of the above? Either way, she wasn’t about to end up like a toasted marshmallow.
She flipped off the lights, placed the cabinet key under the coffee maker, went to her desk, and wrote
out a brief note saying that she was sorry. She’d only been trying to help that woman.
Would Mr. Cold Eyes even care about the reason for not getting paid? Fat chance. The guy killed people. For money. It was highly unlikely he’d wake up tomorrow and say, “Yanno what? This getting-paid part of my murder job is getting old. I should just do it for free.”
Which was why she signed off her note:
I don’t know where Sampson is. I have no money. Don’t bother looking for me because you won’t find me. – Jane
That last part was a hope more than a statement, of course.
She placed the note on the desk before heading out.
This time, she really meant it. She would not be coming back. Not for anything.
* * *
That night, Emily did some quick research on her phone to prepare for her departure to Yuma, Arizona, her “plan B” location right on the Mexican border. Her mind kept drifting back to those hidden rooms inside suite forty-five. She had grown to like puzzles over the last few years. Or perhaps it had just been more of a habit, cultivated by the need to survive. Being around Ed and his crew had taught her to keep her mouth shut and listen carefully. They always spoke in codes, thinking they were clever, but it never took long to figure out what they were really up to. In short, her secret hobby had taught her a lot about how they operated and what kind of people they were. It had also led her to the terrifying, horrible truth about Ed’s side business.
Ed will pay. The day was coming. She’d make sure of it.
Back to the rooms, though. The thing she was learning about Sampson was that he liked puzzles, too. The strip mall was a puzzle made of rooms. The office was a puzzle with keys and traps to keep his secrets safe. His business was structured like a puzzle with numbers and codes. Honestly, it’s like Sampson’s daring me to figure out where his money is.
If she did that, she could pay Mr. Cold Eyes, and with the debt paid, maybe he would leave her alone. Then she could stay in town and focus on what she really wanted: working on her plan for Ed. Moving, finding work, and saving money for another new ID—if she could even get one—would set her back months.
So was it worth it to go back to that office and look one more time? Again, it wasn’t like she planned to rob Mr. Sampson. She merely wanted to make things right and pay Cold Eyes.
Her duffel bag already packed and sitting on the bed, she decided to take it with her. If she couldn’t crack the puzzle to get into that other secret room, she’d head straight to the bus station and keep going all the way to Yuma.
CHAPTER SIX
Just past nine p.m., the Uber driver dropped her off three blocks from the office, at a dive bar with a flashing neon sign of a naked woman kicking her legs to the sides. She wondered what sort of clientele it attracted because, to her, it looked like a warning: Get your hot gonorrhea here! Fiery STDs for ya!
Uh. No thanks.
Dressed in her travel clothes—a plain white tee, blue hoodie, jeans, and black Converse—she waited until the driver was gone before hoofing it to the suite. Just didn’t feel right letting him know where she was really going. Truth was, she felt a little guilty going to look for money that didn’t belong to her.
She went into the gas station across the street to grab a Red Bull, taking a few extra moments to peruse the magazines near the plate-glass window at the front. From there, she had a view of the entrance to the office. Though it was fairly dark over there, she didn’t see anything—lights, movement, cars, or people.
Well, here goes. She paid for her drink, chugged it outside, threw the can in the recycle bin, and dashed across the street, with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
The entire front of the strip mall was quiet save for the passing trucks on the street behind her. She bent down, found the key right where she’d left it—thank God—and slipped inside the office, only using the light of her cell to look for the second key.
Wonderful. This place is even creepier at night. The glass from the broken carafe crunched beneath her tennis shoes as she made her way to the counter. She would’ve cleaned up the mess, but with what? Mr. Sampson didn’t even have a Kleenex in this place. Just lots of guns.
She grabbed the key from under the Mr. Coffee and opened the panel leading to the first hidden room. Once inside, she closed the door and flipped on the lights.
The room lit up with blinding fluorescents. After her eyes adjusted, she set down her bag on the concrete floor and took in the space. Mr. Sampson liked to hide his keys. Why? Maybe he was old school. Maybe he knew how easy it was for things like fingerprint scanners or number pads to get hacked. Basically, anything with a chip could be messed with—according to Ed’s thugs. A key, on the other hand, was simple. You had it or you didn’t. Keys could be hidden anywhere. Right under a person’s nose, for example.
“No way would he make it that easy.” She walked past the files to the electrified wall and inspected the floor. Nothing.
She pulled a rubber band from her pocket, tied back her hair, and got on her hands and knees to take a closer look. A few loose strands of brown hair flopped in her face, reminding her she was way overdue to dye her red roots. She couldn’t alter her body type (unless she hit the lotto so she could eat nonstop or get plastic surgery), she couldn’t change her five-five height or wear annoying contacts to modify her green eyes, but her hair was something she could transform. And it gave her a drastically different look. More serious. More grown up. The red always made her feel self-conscious. People expected her to be a fiery, brave, wild woman—an image she could never live up to, even when she wanted.
Maybe it’s time to rethink that. But how, exactly, did one go about changing themselves on the inside? She wished she knew, because she would give anything to stop feeling so afraid all the time.
Emily tucked away her fallen locks and ran her fingertips over the floor. She didn’t see anything. No cracks. No seams in the concrete.
She stood, tilted back her head, and examined the ceiling. It was made of smooth white stucco. No edges. No ripples. Nowhere to hide a key.
She pivoted, doing a three-sixty. Where would I hide a key? Maybe in one of the folders? Under K for key?
K was the—she counted on her fingers—eleventh letter in the alphabet.
She shrugged. Wouldn’t hurt to look. She quickly sorted through the file cubbies and found folder number eleven. She pulled it out and—
The contents spilled to the floor. There was a photo of what used to be a woman. Bound. Gagged. Very bad things done to her bloody face. Emily’s stomach rolled. Who had done that to her? It almost made her grateful that people like Sampson existed.
Not wanting to see the gruesome image again, she looked away and used her fingers to feel for the photo, sliding it back into the folder facedown. If she never ever saw anything that horrific and gory for the rest of her life, it would be too soon. She just hoped that the person responsible had been dealt with.
Emily quickly thumbed through the remaining contents of the folder, noting that the last page said:
Closed: November 2, 2009
Operator: 1
Good. The asshole who did it was dead, compliments of operator number one. She would bet her only pair of PJs that was Sampson’s number. He was the boss.
I wonder how he got all this started. People, in her opinion, did not get into these shady lines of work by plan or by choice. They stumbled into it or were pushed. Her husband, for example, had been lured in by his brother, his brother by an uncle. But it didn’t really matter who got them started, because it worked the same for everyone. It began with an insider asking for “a favor.” Generally, an illegal favor. “Hey, Joe. I need someone to pick up my lost suitcase from the airport. They finally found it and called. Can you help me out?” From there, the group owned their asses. “You do what I say, Joe, or I’ll be sure the DA finds a nice video of you carrying that suitcase full of heroin.” One favor, one misstep suddenly turned into another errand, then anoth
er, ending in a lifetime of servitude, with each crime getting bigger. The money that eventually came with these errands took the sting off. Ed, for example, bought a boat. His uncle owned a villa in Florida. Sugar-coated bitter pills. Maybe some in their group eventually acquired a taste for it, like a junky addicted to being bad. The point was, she suspected that a person had to fall into this line of work. Sampson likely started the same way. He’d had a bone to pick with someone, or maybe a friend asked him to help right a wrong. Who knew? But, from looking at the dates on these files, this was a business he’d been growing over time.
Her question was: Why kill instead of sending the targets to jail? None of them looked like nice people, and if Sampson was able to scrape up enough evidence to satisfy his own moral compass, then why not hand it over to the police?
An image of her dirty-cop brother-in-law popped into her head. Never mind. Cops like him were the exception, but she could understand why Sampson’s customers might not want to risk these people getting away.
She sighed and placed the file back. Her hunch had been wrong about that hiding spot for the key, but she knew, given enough time, she would crack this. Unfortunately, the last bus for Yuma was leaving in an hour, and waiting until morning for another bus was not a smart choice. By then, Mr. Cold Eyes would be looking for his hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar payout.
She dug around the room some more, checking under every surface—desk, computer monitors, file cubbies. Whatever was in that protected room had to be important because Mr. Sampson hadn’t made it so easy this time.
Speaking of time…
She looked at the clock on her phone. She had to go. Even if she didn’t want to run again, there was no way to stay.
She grabbed her bag and froze. Something urged her to keep trying.
No. It’s time to leave. Be smart! She drew in a steady breath, reminding herself that if she ended up dead in El Paso, her plans for Ed would never come to fruition. There would be no one to stop him.
Think about the women. Think.