by M. O. Mack
Fact: Sampson hired her, and then he dropped off the radar before her first day.
Fact: None of the other operators, besides Charge, had come around the office.
Fact: Charge said he was unaware of the true contents inside those hidden rooms. (Meaning, he was likely an outsider.)
Fact: When she tried to leave her job, Charge claimed she knew too much and she would be hunted if she didn’t stay. (Ridiculous. She knew very little when it came to incriminating information. The files she’d seen on the targets contained mostly public information that anyone could uncover if they just took the time.)
So what if…
Sometime between her conversation with Sampson and that first Monday morning, Sampson and his men suspected their team had been burned and they scattered with the wind? And what if Charge and his team of agents figured out their bust was a bust (someone had tipped Sampson off)? All was lost for Agent Charge.
So then, what’s the next best thing when you need something to show for months of surveillance and hundreds of man-hours, your entire operation has gone down the shitter, and you work for the government?
I know what I’d do. She would step into the abandoned gun-for-hire business, pose as a member, and collect intel on the customers. At the very least, there’d be some arrests. Now, if Sampson and his team were being funded by the local or state government via unsanctioned operations meant to circumvent the legal system, then the “client” arrests would be even juicier. Agent Charge would catch all sorts of high-profile people in the net. A good day’s work for him and his team.
It’s all just theories, she told herself, but the pieces fit. Including the reason Charge had called her for help last night. He’d probably showed up to the job, intending to gather evidence, but found himself being checked out or hunted by Sampson’s men.
I mean, that’s what I’d do if my operation was outted. If she were Sampson, trying to figure out if they were really burned (and by whom), she would send a fake client into the office and see what happened. If someone showed up for the job, she would take him or her prisoner to get answers. Who ratted us out? Who do you work for? Etc. So maybe Charge showed up to the house, realized that Sampson’s men were waiting, and Charge called her for help.
But why call her, of all people? If Charge was a hit man, surely he could have called the other operators himself, right? He didn’t need her for that. So why call the office when no one would be there at that time of night? No one would answer.
Because he isn’t part of Sampson’s team and never was. And he knew she was in the office. The people on his team, watching suite forty-five, told him. So when they figured out that Charge had been set up by Sampson, Charge decided to call the office, knowing she would answer.
What possible purpose would that serve? The phone had to be tapped. By Sampson and by Charge’s team.
So she answered. Sampson would be listening. Charge’s team could send him a message: We know it’s a setup.
In her mind, that would get Sampson to abort his little fishing expedition, serving two possible motives for Charge. One, Charge really had been trapped and they wanted Sampson’s men to leave, or they wanted Sampson’s men to leave so Charge’s team could follow—possibly leading them to Sampson or some of his hit men.
Again, all just a theory, but if she was right, Sampson had gotten the proof he wanted; he and his team had in fact been burned. Maybe they knew how, maybe they didn’t, but that proof was all Sampson needed to hit the self-destruct button and burn suite forty-five to the ground—a huge issue for Charge and his team because now they’d be unable to continue with their sting operation against Sampson’s clients.
Unless Charge set up a new HQ?
And that led Emily to her next hypothesis: her role.
Charge’s team needed someone to interface with clients to make the operation appear like it was still up and running. They needed someone who believed they were actually working for the real Sampson and could plausibly be Sampson’s assistant.
Someone with no real footprint. The real Emily Rockford was exactly that. She was from a small religious community in Illinois. She had a birth certificate, a social, and a driver’s license. The man who’d sold Emily’s identity said that she lived on a farm and didn’t even have internet—thus the thousand-dollar premium for a nice, clean identity of a woman who’d likely never notice another person living under her name. Anyone questioning who Emily Rockford was or if Sampson had in fact brought her on board wouldn’t find much information to contradict the story. She was a perfect buffer between the clients and Charge—a way to appear like the operation was still in full swing.
As for Rick, he had probably been arrested by Charge, not killed. Caught in their sting net!
Bottom line, though, if any of her wild theories were correct, she was in deep, deep shit. An undercover team within the government had already started looking into her. Her information and picture would eventually make it into a database. Ed would find her.
Unless I can trust Charge and tell him the truth? Would he help her with Ed?
All good questions, but how to get the answers? If her assumptions panned out, Charge might see her as a threat to their operation. She really did know too much.
If I’m wrong, he’ll probably laugh in my face and say I have a wild imagination. Regardless, until she knew more, she needed to play along. A safer apartment, maybe something with an armed security guard, was not a horrible idea. Food was also good. It had been weeks since she’d had an actual meal. The dollar side salad from Wendy’s with a can of tuna was as close as she’d gotten.
Tonight, however, she would meet the team, and it would be the perfect opportunity to start poking at her theory. She’d read some of Sampson’s files. She knew a lot about the jobs the team had done. That information could be brought up in casual conversation, and if no one had a clue what she was talking about, she’d know they were imposters. Not Sampson’s men.
CHAPTER TEN
Emily showed up to the graffiti-covered, three-story building around seven forty-five, ready for anything. Dead bodies, dynamite, and everything in between.
She thanked her driver and hopped out of the red SUV. Once the driver left, she slowly crept around to the back of the building. It was already dark out, but the building had security spotlights every twenty feet or so. I swear I’ve seen a murder movie in this exact same place.
Emily peeked around the corner to see what, if anything, awaited behind the building. A single solitary white delivery truck was parked with its nose pointed in her direction. There were no men, no cars, and no security cameras attached to the building.
Okay. That doesn’t mean they aren’t hiding. She went around to the opposite side of the building and saw nothing. She swiftly moved toward the truck and opened the driver’s side door. The keys were dangling from the ignition.
“Who the fuck are you?” a deep voice called out.
She swiveled her head to see a very large Latino man with a big white hat and an even bigger gun hanging off his belt.
Crap. Where did he come from?
Four more men appeared, coming from a door just between two large loading bays.
And there’s my answer.
The men came up behind the first guy, all four wearing jeans, guns, and cowboy hats. She had the sneaking suspicion that they weren’t actual cowboys.
“I was told to pick up this truck,” she said.
“Where’s our money?” asked the first guy, who had a dagger tattooed across his neck, complete with bloody tip and the word Death on the handle.
Lovely. “Uhhh…I wasn’t told about any money. I was only sent to get the truck. That’s it.”
“Step down.”
“Sorry to bother you with this question, but how much money, exactly, did you want for this truck?”
“Two hundred.”
“Oh. Okay.” She reached for her purse. “I have a hundred on me, and I’m sure I can easily come up with
the rest.”
The men laughed.
“What?” she asked.
“Two hundred thousand.” As he spoke, the door opened again and six more men came out, looking like they were there to rodeo. On her face.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” She stepped down from the truck, but kept her hand on the door handle. “I’ll come back later, after you and my boss have had a chance to discuss things.”
“You’re not going nowhere, chica. Not until we have our money.” He rested his hand on his sidearm.
They were going to hold her for ransom? Oh hell no.
She jumped back in the truck, locked the door, and cranked the engine. The next thing she knew, she was hauling ass toward the Rusty Nail. It wasn’t long before the men were following in two black pickups, all three vehicles weaving precariously through traffic.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Heart pounding and hands shaking, she got out her phone and dialed Charge. It went to voicemail. “It’s me. You didn’t say anything about having to pay these guys, and now they’re chasing me. If you get this, I’m heading straight to the bar. Please be there. I don’t know what to do.” She ended the call and hit the accelerator. Maybe if she was lucky, she’d get pulled over and the men would drop their pursuit.
On second thought… She wasn’t sure what was in the back of the truck. I don’t want to get pulled over with dead bodies! Or dynamite!
The pickup closest to her came up on her right.
“No you don’t!” She veered right, trying to run them onto the sidewalk. The driver hit the brakes and fell back.
I have to lose them. People in the movies always drove fast to get away, but speeding would likely result in an accident or the police pulling her over.
She took her foot off the gas and began slowing down. In the mirror, she could see the pickups directly behind her and the drivers having a shit fit, waving hands and shaking fists. That’s right. Twenty miles per hour in a forty. A slow-speed chase. I’ve got a full tank, boys. How ’bout you?
The first pickup pulled into the right lane again, trying to pass her, but just as he came up, she made a left, cutting off a car in oncoming traffic. She watched as that pickup tried to follow but had to swerve and continue on.
That’s one down. The second pickup was still on her tail, so she slowed down again, took another left and then another, effectively putting her right back where she was on the main road. Then the first truck passed her again going the other way. She watched in her mirror as it made an illegal U-turn. Dammit. She’d thought they’d be down one of the side streets, trying to catch up to truck number two.
With both trucks back on her tail again, she slowed down once more and waited for the perfect moment to hit the gas.
One stoplight… Green.
Second stoplight… Green.
Come on, yellow!
Up ahead at a busy intersection, the light turned. Yes! Yellow! She waited a moment and then hit the gas and sped through the busy intersection, running the first few seconds of the red light. The cars coming from the other direction began filling the intersection, cutting off the men in the pickups.
Woohoo! Yes! Yes! They’d be running that light as soon as there was a window, but she still had enough time to get to the bar, and that sounded far better than driving in circles all night.
She went back to her phone and called Charge again. No answer.
Okay. Think. She’d be at the bar in about two minutes. She could park around back, run inside, and get Charge. He’d know what to do. Wouldn’t he?
He’d better. That sonofabitch! Why did he set her up like this?
She arrived to the dive bar in a run-down strip mall not so different from where suite forty-five had been, with the exception that this one had actual businesses. She parked the truck in the back alley, hopped out, and jiggled the door with the small “Rusty Nail Deliveries” sign.
Locked? Shit! The bar was sandwiched between a bowling alley and a pizzeria. She’d have to go all the way around.
Maybe not… She ran to the pizza place’s back entrance, said a “Please God” prayer, and tugged on the door. It opened.
“Yes!” She darted inside, the delicious smell of peperoni and fresh-baked pizza dough hitting her nose. Food. Food smells so good. She sprinted between a row of large booths with red vinyl seats, nearly knocking over some guy with a hot pizza in his hand. “Sorry!” She bolted outside to the front and hooked a right toward the bar, jerking open the heavy wooden door.
Panting, she dashed inside and stopped. The place was dark and smelled like stale cigarettes. Twangy country music played on the jukebox. All of two people sat at the long, glossy wooden bar on opposite ends. The bartender was nowhere to be seen. What the fuck? Where’s Charge? Where were the operators?
She looked around the room, unable to believe they’d bailed on her like this. Okay. Okay. Don’t panic. The truck is parked in the alley. The men in the pickups have no idea where I went. I’ll call a ride and wait over in the bowling alley. As long as the men didn’t spot her, she’d be fine.
She bolted outside—slamming right into a huge mass of muscles, falling flat on her ass.
She looked up at Charge and those gray eyes gleaming with amusement. “Seen a ghost?”
“No.” She growled up at him.
He offered his hand to help her up, and she took it, squeezing hard as she got to her feet. Jerk! She lifted her knee, going right for his crotch. He twisted his hips, stepped around her, and locked her arm against her back. It was an effortless move, like he’d done it a million times.
“What was that?” His voice was low, gruff, and displeased.
“Let me go!” She squirmed, but he was about eight or nine inches taller and had her arm positioned in that perfect spot where any movement caused pain. The pressure forced her to bend forward.
“Just as soon as you calm down.”
“That’s a little hard to do when someone just tried to kidnap me and your dick is pushed up against my ass.”
A moment passed, and then he released her.
She pivoted, the fury taking hold again. “How dare you!” She swiped a fist at him.
He pushed out his hands and blocked her. Again, effortlessly, like he was fighting a harmless mouse.
“You asshole,” she snarled. “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”
They locked eyes for a moment, but it was mostly him studying her, like somehow her outrage pleased him.
“My apologies,” he finally said. “My dick just happens to be attached to the front of my body. Your ass happens to be attached to your backside. I meant nothing by it. Now, would you mind telling me what happened?”
The two black pickups screamed down the street running along the side of the strip mall. One of the drivers must’ve spotted her because the second pickup hit the brakes and came to a screeching stop.
“They happened.” She pointed.
Charge turned his head to see who was skidding rubber. “Who are they?”
“The fucking guys who want two hundred thousand dollars for that truck you had me pick up, and who were going to take me prisoner until they got their money.”
“I have no idea who those men are. They must’ve hijacked the shipment and thought they could get some money for it.”
The pickups made U-turns in the middle of the street and started doubling back.
“What do we do?” she asked.
“Where’s the truck now?” he asked.
“In the alley behind the bar.”
“I need you to take the truck and deliver it to fifty-one West Prize Street.”
“What? No. I’m not getting anywhere near the truck,” she protested.
He grabbed her firmly by the shoulders. The pickups were now at the far end of the lot, barreling towards them. “I don’t have time to chitchat, Emily. There’s a woman being held hostage—the wife of one of my men. I need you to deliver this money and the truck.” He pulled a thick envelope from hi
s back pocket and shoved it into her chest. “I was going to do it myself, but now I need to deal with these guys.”
“But what about one of the other operators? Aren’t they supposed to be here? Can’t they help?”
“The meeting got called off because this issue popped up. Now go. And be sure to bring a gun. You’re going to a rough neighborhood, and I doubt you’ll be able to get a ride back.”
Gun? And he expected her to walk home at night through a bad neighborhood?
The cowboy-hat crew unloaded from their pickups. She could see they were reaching for guns behind their backs.
“Go!” Charge yelled at her and turned to face them.
Oh God. I can’t believe this is happening. “You and I are going to have a long talk if we live through this.”
“I’ll live.”
Oh, but she wouldn’t? Asshole!
She turned and ran into the bar, cutting straight through the tables and bursting out of the emergency exit into the alley. She slid back into the truck, still unsure what the hell was inside it or what would happen to Charge. But like every event from the past five days, there was only time enough to react and nothing more.
Maybe it was a good thing. Because if she stopped and thought about one second of all this chaos, she’d probably be in the fetal position, hiding under a bush.
* * *
Exactly forty-five minutes later, Emily had stopped by her place, grabbed more cash for incidentals (since her bank account was down to almost zero), and shoved the loaded gun in her purse. She honestly hated even looking at the thing, but if Charge told her she needed it, she needed it. Sure, she could run, ditch the truck, and never look back, but if a woman’s life really sat on the line, how could she walk away? No one had ever come for her in her darkest hour. No one had cared if she lived or died or took another punch to the face when Ed was in one of his moods. Knowing she was all that stood between such a fate for another human being was something she couldn’t ignore.
Emily pulled in front of fifty-one West Prize Street. It was a large, two-story house with white pillars and an enormous Italian-looking fountain centered in a circular driveway. The wrought-iron fence with spikes around the perimeter detracted from the elegance, in her book, but far better than her super-classy efficiency studio with the domestic abuse channel next door. For the record, the woman neighbor gave it to the man most of the time. Still sick.