I want so badly to leave my apartment but fear holds me here. I want to call Lexi, but I know they will be listening. I want to grab Nathan Wilde and shake him out of his wheelchair and demand answers. But I can’t. I can’t call him. I can’t go and find him. I’m stuck without options. My only option is to do nothing. Nothing is worse than doing nothing, especially when everything needs to be done.
Old Sammy
Location Undisclosed
George Pruent seemed nervous. Despite being inside, he could feel a sickly wind blowing over him. The wind reeked of oil like a thick-burning, acrid smoke and it drug over his skin like fishhooks. The Golem lit up another cigarette and let his pure white eyes fall to look at the cherry following that first drag. George’s room was a wreck, there were papers strewn everywhere, a fifth lay drained on the table next to the computer and his ashtray was overflowing. George himself looked worse than the room. Something was bothering him and it was blatantly obvious.
He could feel it. He could feel trouble, only it wasn’t brewing, it was here. Those shark-like teeth bit down, grit down, and the Siren found his feet. He started to pace, that was as close to action as he would let himself go.
“All my life.” His speech was slurred; the Golem was drunk. “All my life I’ve acted, and for what? I’ve brought about pain and struggle and war.” He paused and took a long drag from his cigarette. “Pain and struggle and war. I’ve sacrificed so much. No life of my own, no friends, no family. And for what?” The ashes from the cigarette flicked and fluttered downwards, drifting into the relative darkness of the room. “This is all too much, it’s all going to break. The night will only get darker before it gets light. But what’s going to be there when we all wake up?” His tirade was broken again by a draw from his Red.
Sammy looked at the window. He knew they were out there. That phone conversation still haunted him, played over and over again in him mind. Special Agent Warren Bach. F.B.I. What have I gotten myself into? Sammy knew that the assassination was still being investigated but never in his wildest dreams had he thought it would be traced back to him. It hadn’t even been a month and there they were. Somewhere, out there, watching him. Christ, how long had they been out there? How did they find him? How did Nathan know? Sammy wanted to run. He hadn’t found answers yet. Teeth grit down, bit down, and hands clenched as Sammy stormed to the window. Fear hugged to him. Did they have snipers out there? Would he be ended by a bullet from afar just like the one that had tried to stop? Did they know that? I tried to stop the shooting! The words ripped across his mind.
“This isn’t fucking fair. I was only trying to help. I’m innocent.” Innocence mattered little in a situation like this. Sammy paused by the window, his fingers wanting to rip back the shades. He’d drawn them as soon as the phone conversation had ended. His fingers teetered at a corner. Not knowing. They edged towards the drab fabric. Were there answers out there? Would the body that Warren Bach’s voice belonged to be standing there? Old Sammy wanted to rip the curtain back, to find out. His fingers could feel the heavy material; how long have these curtains been here? Sammy couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t face the unknown. His sense of self-preservation overwhelmed him.
T.V. The remote felt oddly cool and reassuring in his hand. It was real. The tube flickered on, landing on a commercial for some sort of garden element. The absolute absurdity of the commercial’s timing (it was January, did they realize that?) caused Sammy to laugh. But his laughter didn’t last long. The escape from reality was ended as Headline News rolled back into it’s routine. Am I on here? Do they know about me?
That was it. Sammy had a way out. The news. It was the perfect diversion, it would draw people, people would beget people and soon he would have a crowd. Nothing disturbs the relative quiet of a residential city street, even one in D.C., like a camera crew. Old Sammy got to plotting.
Susan White. Two words. A name written down in the flowing scrawl of an antique fountain pen and staring boldly, leaping up from the heavy paper. She was a troublemaker and she was giving Danilo Metucchi a headache. She’d been a busy woman, a hard woman. She wasn’t a stranger to the Duke. He’d met her on several occasions, met her here in the
The phone’s clanging brass bell shook Danilo from his train of thought. The cool ivory of the handset almost jarred him back to reality.
“Hallo?”
“Danilo? This is Marques.”
“Ah, Mathew, how are things?”
“If you’re referring to the ‘Joanna’ situation, my leads haven’t turned up anything other than one Brian Corbin. We, of course, know this is not the case.” The Duke’s attention strayed from the phone call, the gold tip of his fountain pen tapping against the name, arranging a small series of black ink blots to the left. Could she? “I was actually calling to ask you something of the same sort.”
Hector. The name leaped across Danilo’s mind, sending out red spider webs that screamed danger.
“Hector is not someone to be trusted.” The comment met with silence from the other end of the phone.
* * *
“Hector is not someone to be trusted.” Mathew Marques squeezed his free hand into a ball, and slowly released it before he responded.
“Hector is a very influential individual, part of a very influential group, and is largely responsible for your being in power right now.”
“As true as that might be, there is a definite reason why Hector himself is not in power. There are some who are born to lead, others who are born to manipulate, and others who are born to follow. Hector… he is not a leader. He is a manipulator. He seeks power without responsibility. I…I cannot bend to his will merely because he wishes to further himself. I do have a people to think about.”
“Burning bridges is not a good practice sir.” Mathew didn’t like this situation, he didn’t like it one bit.
“I do not think of it that way Marques, nor do I wish you to. Hector does not wish to build a bridge; he wants a chain. I cannot allow myself to be chained down, to sink into the mire that is internal politics. Nor can I allow you to be drug down.”
“Sir, are you asking for my exclusive allegiance?” The question came out laden in shock. Marques hoped it didn’t sound so astounded. It wasn’t an honoured shock, no, his tone was one garnered out of the trepidation of perhaps losing his own place in the world.
“Not now. There is no need for that. You are valued Mr. Marques, but I do not wish to put you in a position. Hector, on the other hand, might soon find himself in a position. I’m growing weary of his parasitical ways, as is the Siren world, and I believe the world at large.”
“I’ll bear the news sir, but I cannot assure you a positive reception.”
“It matters not, Mathew.”
“Good night.”
Dark eyes met with the reflecting window. Men like Marques didn’t wonder about what was going on. But he was. Men like Marques didn’t stew over conversations he was going to be forced to hold. But he was. It had been over a decade now. Marques was an up and coming expert in his field. His ties, strong with the Parisian underground and more than a handful of Italian smuggling operations, all thanks to his ability to blend with mankind, had made up for his early ostracizing amongst his own people. He had been hated; his parents had abandoned him in
* * *
Summer 1985
The lights from the house could be seen flickering in the warmth. Marques was working his way through the racks of grapes, working his way back to the building, his mark should be there by now. All was going according to plan. He was very good at these.
“Who’s there?”
“A Spaniard.”
“With a French accent? Speaking Italian? Enough games, give me a name.”
Danilo Metucchi, quite young, perhaps 25, walked around the rack and peered into the shadow that Marques was standing in.
“My name is Galo.”
“Something is telling me not to believe you.”
“And yet I have no idea who you are.”
“Danilo Metucchi. You are in my family’s vineyard, presumably at my family’s party.” Marques stepped out into the relative light for the first time. Danilo took a long look at him. “You’re a Siren, aren’t you?”
Marques had no response other than denial. He couldn’t afford his cover to be blown. “I haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re talking about. What is a ‘siren’?”
“Don’t play games. I’ve got a gift for spotting a liar.”
* * *
Marques had carried out his kill that night, but not without Danilo knowing. That secret had remained between the two of them all these years. Their relationship had been mutual. Danilo was a much better politician than Marques, but Marques got things done. They were two loners who would on occasion team up, quite cliché in retrospect, but also quite efficient. Danilo had fallen in with the Hatter’s Guild for a host of reasons. Perhaps he wanted acceptance in the society that had rejected him. Perhaps he wanted power. And perhaps Danilo was right about people being this type or that. Damn him. Damn him to Hell.
Sammy checked his mail again, refreshing the screen in hopes that Jim Stanely had replied. Sammy had known Jim from his days back at the Post, they’d worked together on a few occasions and about six months ago Jim had taken a job at the Washington NBC affiliate. Jim would be very pleased about the tip off of an FBI team searching right here in D.C. for the would-be Presidential assassin.
He jammed the refresh button again and was greeted by a message. Without looking at anything besides the simple subject line of “No Subject” he opened the email. It wasn’t from Jim, but it almost made Sammy choke.
Sammy,
It’s been a few days since we talked, since that night. I really enjoyed myself. You are wonderful company. I think I’d like to see you again. I feel so immature saying this, but I’ve tried calling you a couple of times and no one ever picks up. I don’t know. I’m probably just being foolish.
Give me a call sometime.
Lexi
Sammy read the message four times. He swung from shock, to disbelief, to joy, to quite suddenly fear. Sammy was trapped, but did they know about Lexi? How much did they know? An absent click of the refresh button and there was Jim’s letter. Sammy’s eyes glanced over the email.
“Thanks for the tip…long time no see…Bingo. ‘We’re going to send a crew out to that address you gave us, see what we can stir up. Our people are going to call the Bureau and inquire about Special Agent Bach as well.’” Now all Sammy had to do was hope that Nathan checked his mail and wait for the camera crew to show up. Then he’d make his escape. Sammy was going to run.
* * *
Bach hung up the phone and went from calm to swearing in a heartbeat.
“Who the fuck wants to tell me why the hell the goddamn media has been calling fucking HQ asking about us?” Bach’s fists clenched and he waved one hand in the air off to the side. Washkowiak came into the control room.
“You think that’s bad, look out the window.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Tell me they’re not.”
“They are. Just NBC so far, but they’re drawing a crowd.” Denny Wetmore chimed in as he responded the Team Leader’s holler.
“Alright. Alright. Stay calm. Ben, go wake everyone up. Smitty!” Bach turned away while issuing orders, turned towards the bank of small television screens that served as the video control centre.
“Yea boss?” The only Jewish agent on the team questioned as he came into the room.
“Make coffee. We’ve got to figure something out.”
They were here. Sammy could hear the crowd outside. He’d dared to look and there, bright as day, was the NBC truck. Darkness was falling quick and then Sammy could make his move. He moved about his apartment, grabbing a long coat, gloves, a hat, his wallet. Damn, only six dollars. Hastily he pulled his wristwatch on and sat to wait.
“We could get Bureau to clear this up.” Jim tossed the idea out over the table.
“No, I don’t think they’d respond to well too that. You know how much the media trusts the F.B.I.”
“Well, what about D.C.P.D.? Get the local boys in blue up here to clear the crowd up. This is a residential street,” Price noted as he turned away from the coffee machine.
“That’s a viable option. Fucking first amendment.”
Tim stood at the rack of monitors, his arms folded and his chin gripped between thumb and knuckles. “Jeez. There are a lot of people out there. Don’t these people have something better to do? This is D.C.; they should have seen enough news crews by now. I can hardly see Banks’ house.” A silence fell over the group. “You don’t think he called them do you?”
“Timmy you’re a fucking genius.”
“The bastard did work in the media.”
“I bet he knows all sorts of contacts.”
“And he knows we’re here. He knows my name. Fuck!” Bach’s comment ended the chorus of conclusions. “He’s going to run and he wants cover. Get ready for a chase. Price, get on the phone with the local P.D., start threatening with disruption of justice if they don’t get these crowds out of here. Denny, Timmy, get the S.U.V. Ramos, get in contact with an assault team, we might need to get a capture on the fly. See about getting air clearance for a chopper over the city. Rudisill, you’re going to hold the fort down.”
The group broke in a flurry. Agents grabbed phones and began pounding numbers. Holstered weapons were sent through a quick pre-combat check, I.D.s placed within ready reach, radios grabbed. The storm brewed amongst them. Agent Washkowiak nodded at Bach as the team leader plugged his earpiece into the handset.
“Where am I going, sir?”
Bach arched a dark eyebrow as he looked up. He mentally ran through the hastily strung together plan. “Just stay close to me. We’re going to follow this guy on foot.”
“Roger that.”
It was cold out and the sun was just starting to set. Sammy crept around the side of his apartment building, a bag of trash in hand. He dropped the bag off and cast an appreciative eye on the crowd. Slowly he worked his way along the outside of the throng. He could see a reporter on camera. The whole spectacle caused a smile to cross his lips as a slick breeze blew up the urban wind tunnel.
Bach and Washkowiak hovered just inside the door, their long overcoats hiding their F.B.I. tags and impatience.
“Where’s D.C.P.D?” Bach hollered down the hall. Ben’s fingers idly picked at a spot where the odd, ugly wallpaper was starting to peel.
“En route. E.T.A. 4 mikes.” Price responded in Texan.
“Taking their fucking time.”
“Easy Ben.”
Sammy had circled the crowd to the far side, deposited his trash and started to walk down the street.
“We got him. Heading south towards the Metro station.” Agent Wetmore’s voice crackled across the team’s net. Ben’s hand brushed back the once-white curtain that covered the windows next to the door.
“Yeah, I got him, moving in a grey overcoat.” Ben thumbed the response over the net. “We going to follow, sir?”
Bach was silent. He was the storm brewing and billowing within the confines of the hall. “No.”
“Sir?”
“If we step out this door that camera will be on us. We have to wait until local shows up.”
“That’s like 3 mikes from now. He’ll be on the train by then.”
The scene of the metro a few nights ago flickered across Bach’s mind. This guy knew the system. He knew how to get in and get out. Bach thumbed his own push-to-talk switch.
“
“Uh, we’re in the alley next to the building. We got this guy for another thirty seconds before we’ll have to follow in order to maintain.” Timmy’s voice, slightly nasal over the radio, brimmed with static.
“Pull out now, round the corner, and circle back. Do not alert the suspect. We don’t want him to run before local shows up.”
“Radg.”
With one hand on his hip and the other milking at his temples, Washkowiak turned to look down the hall. He could see the barely contained chaos that was the control centre in a relative lull at the moment.
“I hate fucking waiting.”
“We all do. But until local shows up, we sit.”
“No chance for a distraction? Chuck some gas out there and nab this guy right now in the open?” Bach’s face registered the emotion of a granite wall and Ben figured he’d let the joking end there.
“Boy’s in blue just rolled by. Give them one mike to get control of the crowd. Banks has just turned west towards the metro. We’ll lose all visual in 15 seconds.”
Ben’s hand wrapped about the door handle.
“Sir, we gotta go now.”
“I know. I know.”
“Then let go of the door. You heard Wetmore. P.D.’s here.” Ben looked up at the team leader who had a good six inches on him. “Sir.” Bach’s strong black hand drifted slowly from the door, his reluctance opposed by Washkowiak’s urgency. The door was barely open enough for the stocky agent to squeeze through when Ben was already off and running. Bach hurried after him. The crowds locked onto them like a bloodhound. The camera swung about just in time to see Washkowiak wave a badge to the police and holler about crowd control. Bach’s longer strides let him catch up to the gung-ho agent.
“Mobile. Where’s the guy at?”
“Lost him in the metro. Wetmore went down there to try and keep visual. I’m illegally standing about 10 meters from the entrance.”
“Wetmore.” Bach’s voice met with nothing but black air over the net.
“I, uh, I think the subway is killing Denny’s signal.”
“Roger. We’re en route.”
Sammy was seeing F.B.I. agents everywhere. That S.U.V., half the crowd, even the guard working the booth; they all looked like Feds. At the bottom of the platform he paced about like a caged lion. He could have to wait fifteen minutes for the next train. Something told him he didn’t have that kind of time. Change at
Wetmore hovered at the top of the ramp. His usual comic grin wiped off into a slight Ranger-frown of concentration. A small, thick hand worked through a mob of yellow hair. Absently his other hand turned his metro card over and over again. He clicked his mike on and off, on and off. He wasn’t getting any comms down here, but Banks hadn’t gotten on a train yet. Denny leaned back as Sammy looked nervously up the escalator. Did he know I followed him? One thousand, two thousand, three. Denny peeked back over the turnstile. He caught sight of Bank’s foot, the only part of him that hadn’t already moved further down the track, further out of sight.
“Fuck.”
Bach and Washkowiak took the stairs by twos and threes as they sprinted down into the Metro. Their shoes sent clicking echoes off the concrete and tile walls as they hurried to pull their badges out and waved them at the soon to be irate turnstile guard. Planted hands and a quick leap negated the need for metro tickets. Ben’s “F.B.I. mack!” to the guard and a waved badge took care of the immediate.
“Wetmore.” Bach thumbed his switch and whispered into his collar-mounted mike.
Denny jumped at the sudden voice in his ear. His attention was momentarily torn from the grey-coated individual boarding two cars ahead of him. His right hand rose, a finger to each eye and then with fingers joined pointing to the car Sammy had just gotten onto. Bach nodded and gave a thumb jerk towards the road and the S.U.V. and Smitty. Denny nodded and started towards the stairs.
Sammy sat nervously on the train. His hands were numb from elements other than the cold, and sat pressed between his knees, milking for all the warmth he could muster. He looked about, tossing his attention about the train like it was payday and he wanted everyone to know. Nothing. The train was reasonably full, it was the commuting hour, and would be more so as he got closer to the Virginia-bound lines. Crowds were good. Sammy needed crowds.
“Jump on that car.”
“On it,” Washkowiak didn’t even bother to direct the call over his shoulder; he knew the team leader was right there. Ben swore he could feel his breath. The fourth train was empty, they always are. Sammy had boarded in what looked like the second car. “Can we move between cars while moving?”
“Not in this city.”
“Not even in an emergency?” Bach just shook his head.
The stops trickled by. Sammy didn’t live that far from
The agents had their routine down perfectly. At each stop one would hop off and the other would hold the door. Crowds were scanned, looking for that grey coat, that salt-and-peppered head of hair. But as each stop brought practice it also brought more people. The second and third cars seemed to fill more and more.
“Next stop maybe we should try and make it to the next car,” Ben offered his advice.
“Run.” Bach spotted that greying hair floating up the stairway. The two agents burst out into the current of people pushing at them, pushing towards the train, pushing away from their prey. They fought into the fringe and rushed towards the stairs. They’d lost sight of Banks and gained a bit of fear.
“Fuck. Where the hell di- there!” Ben hopped up and pointed. Bach nearly bounced off a woman who declared him the “rudest person I’ve ever met” and tried to run and dodge and follow.
Sammy came down the escalator, came with excellent timing as the yellow train was already there. He moved up, taking a quick seat in the first car, the nice full one. From above he was spotted, and the two agents hurried down the escalator.
“The damn train is going to leave. Which car did he get into?”
“Just hop in one, we’ll find him when he gets off.”
“Goddamn it.”
Ben paced about the inside of the moving train. “We need to get above ground. We need comms right now.”
“This guy has the single best luck I’ve ever witnessed. How the hell does he always manage to get a train?”
“You live in a place long enough I guess it just comes to you.”
“I lived in
“He’ll clean up in poker while he’s rotting in a cell.” Ben’s comment drew an few quick and nervous glances from a group of men in their early twenties.
“Relax Ben.” Ben gave Bach that look as they pulled into a station. “You take the door.”
Bach popped his head out, scanning the crowds. He strained to see as much as he could. The lights next to the track started to flicker and the door chimes toned.
“Fuck.” Bach got back in the train. “I can’t see a damn thing out there. All I see are commuters. It’s insane.” Both agents pressed up against the glass, their hearts barely beating, fear gripping them. Should they spy a grey coat with a greying head of hair working its way up an escalator neither knew what to do.
The metallic voice announced over the speaker that the next stop was Pentagon. Sammy almost cheered. He was home free, so to speak. He said a little prayer for the blue line, but he knew it was moments away. Pentagon would be busy, at this time of night it always was.
The doors opened and Ben leaped out. Bach stood at the door and kept his eye down the track, scanning just at the edge of the train.
“I can’t see a goddamn thing out here. Why is everyone in this city taller than I am?” Ben hollered to Bach, not looking away from the sea of people and their shoulders. Shifting his head for a better perspective and meeting nothing but shoulders, Ben grabbed a hold of a green metal trashcan. Hopping up he said a slight prayer for his now bird’s eye view.
Sammy worked into the crowd, he could feel them pulsing all around him. Hungry commuters in a near bloodlust of sloth over the seat he had just vacated.
“Get down from there you.”
“Federal Agent. Back the fuck off.”
“You got some papers to back that up?” Ben didn’t look. His eyes drilled away at the crowd, probing for greying hair and a grey coat. Bach let his attention stray, the strings of leadership subliminally tipping him off. Ben was standing on top of a trashcan and below him was a police officer with his hand on Ben’s calf. Bach cursed. Ben was too much of a soldier to look away. He was going to get himself into some minor trouble. Bach stepped away from the train and pulled his badge and I.D. out.
“Easy officer. He’s with me.” The badge waved in the direction of the guard. Behind him the doors chimed.
“Fuck.”
“You got him?”
“What are you two guys doing down here in the Metro standin’ on trash cans for?”
“Ain’t you been watching the news? F.B.I.’s all over this damn city. I didn’t see him, Warren.”
Behind the two agents and pesky, paunchy cop the doors to the train closed. Bach and Washkowiak exchanged glances that spoke volumes about fear and took off running towards the train seconds away from leaving. They didn’t make it.
Sammy passed up the escalator and moved towards an awning where a few other blue line commuters were waiting. He was so close to freedom that he could almost taste it. It tasted good.
“So what now?” The cop had taken the opportunity to back away from the two federal agents. He, personally, had had enough excitement for one evening. Ben on the other hand, looked expectantly, not to mention with a case of frustration, at Bach.
“I haven’t.” Bach stopped. He didn’t want to admit defeat. He turned away and looked down the track. An uncomfortable silence built between them, the kind no one wants to break because that would mean accepting the blame. Bach turned back to Ben. “We go above and re-establish comms. Get SitReps from everyone else. Get in contact with someone who can monitor that train. We start a dragnet and find this guy.” Ben nodded and the two made towards the escalator.
Sammy did his best to blend. He struck a tired pose as he leaned against a concrete pillar and he shifted his attention from his watch to the track and back again. He didn’t look up at people, he had the escalator to his back, a concrete pillar or two blocked his view. Out of sight, out of mind.
Outside the night air was not chilly, but blatantly, brutally cold. Ben shoved his hands deep into his pockets as a few steps from him
“I’m going back down there. It’s too damn cold out here.” Bach just nodded and Ben started down the stairs. He flashed his I.D. at the guard and skirted the turnstile. With his hands planted firmly on his hips, his coat brushed back, Ben surveyed the crowd. His eyes caught a grey coat and peppered hair getting onto a blue line train on the floor below.
“Got him. Blue line, VA bound.”
“What?”
“Moving after him.
“As soon as you get out of the city, establish comms. Do not apprehend alone. Repeat. Don’t take him alone. He might be meeting people.” Bach got silence over the radio. “Ben. Do not take him.”
“I heard you the first two times.”
“Roger. Out.” Bach turned and sprinted back up, leaping the turnstile and heading towards the open city.
* * *
Sammy felt the nervousness almost leave him. The Townsquare Shopping Centre was only two stops away and so far everything was going according to plan. All he needed now was Nathan. Please say he got that email. Sammy had kept it short, almost in code, but the Golem should have understood if he had gotten the message. Did they know I sent it? Could they read my email over the phone line? Sammy didn’t know. But he was almost there, almost to freedom.
The inside of the chopper was loud. The rhythmic thumping of the blades was only mildly dampened by the earphones that Bach wore. He pressed his face up to the glass and below he could see the silver string of the metro sliding through suburban
“Ben, you’re sure he hasn’t left the train? Over.”
“Roger. I’ve got visual on him right now. Over.”
Bach put his hand over the mike and yelled to Ramos, “He’s got to be going near the Townsquare. Maybe he’s got a car there or he’s meeting someone.”
“The man in the wheelchair?” Ramos’ thick Latin accent broke through the sound of the chopper. Bach didn’t respond. “If not, we can at least get some shopping done, you know?”
“Just get a team on the ground. Call the
“Roger.”
“Ben, we’re still right above you. We’re getting a team ready to meet this guy. Ramos’ll hit you with the team’s E.T.A. Over.”
“Good copy. They’re going to have to hurry. I figure we’re only 5 mikes from the Townsquare. Over.”
“Just keep your eye on the guy. Don’t try and take him, we don’t know if he’s armed or if he’s meeting people. Play it safe for once. Out.” Bach brushed the mike aside and kept his gaze out the window and on the glimmering train.
Sammy, not the religious type, raised his eyes and mouthed ‘Thank you’ as the doors opened and the metallic voice announced his arrival at the Townsquare Shopping Centre station, the last stop on the blue line. Sammy bundled his coat about him and stepped out into the concrete world of the Metro. Sammy didn’t notice the stocky, clean-cut fellow murmuring into the lapel of his black coat finding his feet behind him.
Eighteen people departed the train, the late commuters: three women professional looking, eight military personnel (six men and two women), five men of ages ranging from twenty-four to about fifty-eight, one F.B.I. agent and one Samuel Banks. As a collective they roamed down the corridor and up the escalator to the parking garage. The clicking of professional feet echoed along the stiff grey floor and ceiling and about the shiny automobiles. Ben kept his attention keenly focuses on Sammy, almost to the point where he was burning a hole in the back of his head. Every so often, trying his best to match the whims of the crowd, Ben would stop for this or that. And every so often he’d send a report back to
“Moving through the garage. Team?”
“Keep your eye on him. The team’ll be there in about 15 mikes. They’re caught in traffic. We’re going to be touching down in less than three.”
Ben didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He’d look especially obvious we he seen mumbling into his collar every so often. Plus, the guy he was following had just picked up the pace.
Sammy didn’t like what he saw behind him. He didn’t know if that guy was military or F.B.I. or if Sammy was just being paranoid. Either way he opened his stride a bit and cut into the mainstream mall. The subway entrance was dangerously close to the food court and there Sammy prayed for what he had been praying for the entire night: a crowd. He parted the glass doors and attempted to mingle into the fringe. The mall traffic wasn’t heavy, but during normal shopping hours this place was never want for people.
“He just took off. You guys better hurry. I think my cover’s blown.” Ben didn’t bother to wait for a response; he kicked up his own pace and started to trot for the glass doors and the crowd that they held beyond. The suspect, no, the target, had burst off into their midst. Ben was not going to lose them, not after he’d come this far and gotten this lucky. His arm brushed against his side and reassured him that his firearm, his trusty Sig Sauer P-226, was still there. Another quick check reminded him that his I.D. was ready for quick draw. You’d be surprised what a flashed badge and gun can get you in a mall.
Sammy had put the food court behind him. He was making his way down the neutrally coloured tile and along the various stores. That guy, must be F.B.I., was still back there. The crowd wasn’t thick but Sammy was fairly certain that he had caught a glimpse of him. Sammy cut down a service hallway. As soon as the aluminium door clicked shut behind him he started to run. Fear had grabbed him by the base of the spine and he pumped his legs as fast as he could to shake those cold hands, to shake that cold Fed in the black coat, to shake the war from making him a victim more than it already had.
Ben stopped. The target had disappeared. Look. Damn you. Look. He couldn’t have gotten far. Did he duck into a store? Fuck. Stores only have one end. Where? Agent Washkowiak scanned the sides of the mall and his eyes landed upon the universal man and woman, the bathroom sign, and the service hallway they hung above. He grabbed the door and heard footsteps echo in rapid succession, heard running ahead. Ben started after at a slow trot. He did not want to break a sweat.
The service hallways on the mall’s populated level were antiseptic white and hypnotically long. Sammy ducked into the men’s room. He knew of an entrance in here that had been “saved” from when the mall was undergoing work. The room was empty, his echo told him so, his beating heart, his heavy breath. “You’re out of shape bro.” Sammy mumbled under his breath. He jumped back as a grey-coated image confronted him. “Fucking mirror.”
Ben once again had his hands on his hips, this time his I.D. hung from his neck in a clear plastic wallet. Which door did that bastard duck into? Ben turned around and around. The hall split into a sort of T intersection with bathrooms along one wall and halls descending beyond doors to his front and right.
“Fucking mirror.” The words floated out from behind the bathroom door.
“Got you now shit bag.” Ben mumbled into his mike. “I’m entering a bathroom down a service hall, somewhere near the food court. The suspect should be cornered inside.”
“Bad copy. Ben? Say again, over.”
“Bathroom, service hall, food court.” Ben wasn’t having this anymore. He pushed the door open and stepped into the bathroom.
* * *
“Dammit Ramos. Where’s that team?”
“They should be here in like five.” Ramos yelled to the team leader as the two run from the chopper and the rotor wash, and towards the mall.
“Roger that Ben. Do not proceed. Ramos and I are en route. Stay put. Over.”
* * *
The bathroom was empty save for a slight grating noise coming from the last stall.
“Federal Agent mother fucker. Open the door and come out with your hands on your head.” Ben didn’t even realize he was yelling orders over the barrel of a pistol. The weapon was held back in his right hand while his left pushed open each stall door, one by one. Nothing. There was no sound save for his own breathing. Even that grating stone on stone noise had stopped. Two doors to go. Nothing. Ben stood back from that last door and launched forward. He connected with the ball of his right foot and sent the door rocking back on its hinges.
* * *
“Ben? Respond. Over.”
“Jeez. I hope he ain’t going in alone.”
“You know he is. You.” Bach flashed his I.D. and grabbed a mall guard.
“Sir?”
“F.B.I. I need you to show me where the service hall near the food court is. I’ve got an agent with a cornered suspect down there. I also need you to take Agent Ramos here to your central station so he can guide in the assault team.”
“That’s crazy-,”
“Don’t argue man, just do it.” Ramos pulled his own I.D. out and adjusted how his coat hung, his Latin half-grin already fixed on his face.
“Follow me sir.” The guard took the lead at a half run and grabbed his mike from off his shoulder, calling in. “Out. Agent Ramos. The Captain’ll meet you in about a block. Sir. The service entrance to the food court is about half a mile down this way. I know a short cut though.”
“Lead the way.” Bach had sunk back into the cold resolve of professionalism. It was time to get things done.
* * *
“What the fuck is this?” Agent Washkowiak found himself staring not at a toilet and scarred target, but at a hole in the wall with the iron rungs of a ladder poking up. “Why the fuck don’t I have a flashlight on me?” He leaned over the hole and looked down. The grating stone on stone sound came back and the tile wall started to slide closed. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Stop that you.” Ben pushed at the wall, but failed to stop its progress. With a quick and final kick he began looking for a level or switch. “Not the toilet, that’d be too practical.” He sent his left hand, the one not still holding his weapon, scouring over the walls pushing at tiles, one slid back. “Fucking-A right.” Ben jammed his fist and called over the radio.
“I got a secret passage here.”
“Where?” Bach’s voice didn’t come over the radio, but from the bathroom door.
“You got a what?” Ramos clicked over the net with some static.
“You got a flashlight?” Ben turned as he opened the stall door for
“No.”
“I got one.” The guard offered over his only source of protection, a heavy, four D-cell Maglite.
“He’s not?” Ben motioned to the guard absently with the barrel of his pistol.
“Quit waving that thing around. No, he’s not coming down.” Bach answered Washkowiak and then turned to the guard. “No, you’re not.”
“Whatever you say man. You want to go crawling around in dark places that’s all you. Just make sure I get that light back.”
“Come on, sir. Let’s go.” Sliding his weapon back in his armpit holster, Ben started down the ladder.
“Freeze! F.B.I.!” Bach’s strong black voice billowed down the tunnel. Ben looked over his shoulder at where the face had been and mentally weighted the distance. He climbed down a few more steps and then dropped the last dozen feet or so. He hit the ground with a thud, crumbling and rolling. He found a knee and found his pistol aiming off into the darkness.
“Hurry with that light,” Ben called back up the tunnel. There was scant light here and the target’s footsteps were nonexistent. The metal of the flashlight clanged behind Ben and sent a tube of light skittering across the floor and turned into a bright yellow ellipse. Washkowiak reached behind him and grabbed the light, pairing it with his pistol and found his feet once again.
“Team’s here. We’re en route now. E.T.A. two mikes.” Ramos reasserted himself back into existence, his voice forcing itself into the ears of both Bach and Ben. From his spot halfway down the ladder Bach hollered up to the guard.
“Make sure that team knows where to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben moved on the balls of his feet, the path of the light carving a meticulous and quick path across the walls. The light shimmered along pipes glistening with condensation, along rivulets of sweat dripping down the walls and puddles and mould as thick as moss growing on the floor.
“Sick. I thought that was carpet.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Where the fuck did this guy go?”
“Dunno. He could have ducked away anywhere. Ramos is leading the team here.”
“I heard.” Ben kept creeping forward. “Left or right.”
“I think we should wait for the team.” Bach was closing in on Washkowiak. He could see the agent, his black coat casting a ghostly outline from behind that Maglite.
“Left it is.” Ben turned the corner. Something grabbed his attention. Thirty meters or so he caught a flicker of movement, something, or someone ducked behind a corner. “Freeze! Federal fucking agent!” Ben took off running, his legs dragging him closer to the corner with every stride. The circle of light bobbed up and down, swayed left and right in rhythm with his motion. His pistol remained trained on the ground, fixed on a point roughly two meters in front of him.
“What did you see?” Bach was running after Ben. Normally he would have caught up quickly, his legs were much longer, but he couldn’t see where he was going. His own pistol came out, fixed with both hands on the ground in front of him.
“I said, F.B.I.” Ben called as he rounded the corner. The shape loomed before him, cowering in a turn next to a set of sweaty pipes and thick clumps of mould. Black shape. Gun? Ben didn’t give himself time to think. That shape was held up high, an arm blocking a face, blocking the light, his light. Ben’s own pistol rose up and clapped. One. Two. Three. Four. The echoes shook the tunnel, shook the mould, echoed along the dripping water. Shook Bach as he closed on the impetuous agent.
“Aw Jesus.” Bach stopped next to Ben, his hand resting on the agent’s shoulder.
“Ramos.”
“Yeah Boss? We’re coming down the ladder right now,
“Make sure you got a clean up crew.”
