122 Rules (35 page)

As gently as his shaking fingers would allow, Sam pressed around the injury. With each touch, the wound sent angry bolts of fire through every nerve in his torso, but he carried on. He stopped, examining a small bulge just beneath the skin. Just as he feared, a piece of the glass had broken off when it entered. In addition to the purchases, Sam had also retrieved a Swiss army knife and a pair of needle-nose pliers from a small toolkit on his bike. The truck stop didn’t have much in the way of surgical supplies, but he made do, setting everything on the counter. He poured the disinfectant over the blade of the knife. Steeling himself, he cut the tissue around the edge of the glass. When he set the tool down, his hands shook so hard he missed the counter, and the blade toppled to the floor.

Sam disinfected the pliers next and grasped the edge of the glass. He needed to focus. If he squeezed too hard, the shard would break into smaller pieces, and he’d be forced to dig those out as well. He took a deep breath, settled himself, and gave a slight pull, encouraging the glass to move rather than forcing it from his flesh. Pain radiated from the injury, traveling the length of his body, but he continued to work the piece out. When the edge pulled free of his skin, he set the pliers down and continued moving it back and forth with his fingers until it came out with a sickening rip. He bit down on the rag so hard, there was a chance he would just bite through it. Blackness encircled his vision and pulsed with every beat of his heart, and he leaned against the sink. After a while his sight cleared, the pain faded, and he could breathe again.

Pouring hydrogen peroxide over the wound filled it with liquid fire. He applied a bandage, securing it with tape, and then loaded everything back into the plastic bag. He walked out to his bike, stowing the items in one of the saddlebags, then filled his gas tank.

The effort to climb on then start the big bike drained what little energy he had left and sent a fresh wave of pain radiating from his injury. His entire body ached, and he slumped over the handlebars trying to recover some of his strength while the motorcycle’s heavy engine idled underneath him like a purring dragon. Taking a deep breath, he sat up, dropped the bike into gear, and headed out into the night.

Though exhaustion dogged him, Sam drove on. At one point, his vision blurred, the headlights coming towards him appearing through a prism. When his eyes tried to close, he pulled into a state park, slept for two hours, then got back on the road.

Pocahontas led him to the address Armon had given him, until she pronounced—in a computerized, pompous voice—that he had arrived.

His eyes took in the details of his “destination”—a large, abandoned-looking gray concrete building on the edge of the city’s industrial district. A ten-foot cyclone fence, topped with razor wire angled to make it difficult for people to enter, surrounded the bunker. Sam drove around the lot to the gated entrance, noting the men on the roof with automatic weapons.

A large lock secured the gate shut. He waited. Sam had faced drug-lords before but never anything on as grand a scale as this.

The sun had just started to rise in the east; early-morning shadows still lingered in the pockets of the land. If he tried to climb the fence, he had a very good chance of being shot, so he did the only other thing he could think of.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Anybody home?”

Everything remained motionless.

You’re being watched,
Chet said. His alter ego had been almost silent the last few days.

Yeah, I know, but from where?

Not sure, but they’re there.

“Hello?” Sam yelled again. “Anyone want to buy some Tupperware?”

He waited, then a door opened. Sam heard the squeak of its rusty hinges all the way across the yard. Three men brandishing large weapons exited the building, accompanied by a big black Doberman.

Don’t do anything they will perceive as threating,
Chet informed him.

Yeah, no shit. Is this the type of advice I pay you for?

You don’t pay me at all, so eff off.

Though Sam raised his hands to show he held nothing in them, the action did not seem to endear him to the large men as they approached.

“What do you want?” the first one asked. He had huge shoulders, a handlebar mustache, and, to round out the outfit, a large gun aimed at Sam’s chest.

“I need to talk to your boss.”

“Oh, really? What about?”

“I have information he will be interested in.”

“Uh huh. And what would that be?”

Sam had thought about this exact situation on the way. He had to convince these guys to let him in. “It’s not for you, it’s for him. It’s business.”

The man sneered. “Look, I don’t know what you got or who you think we work for, but I suggest you get on your little bike and pedal your ass out of here before I get even more annoyed than I already am.” He turned and started to walk away, the others following.

“I have inside information on Laven Michaels. I could go to the authorities with it, I suppose, but I thought your boss might be more interested.”

The mustached man turned and came back, regarding Sam. “What exactly do you have?”

“I’m not going to stand out here handing out all I know to some two-bit thug. Now, are you going to let me in or not?”

The man stared at Sam for a long time then motioned to one of the other men to unlock the gate. The third man, who now had the dog on a leash, kept the gun in his free hand trained on Sam. As the gate slid open, an indignant squeal of un-lubricated steel on steel pierced the vacant yard, and Sam pushed his bike through.

“No, the bike stays out here.”

Sam looked around. “In this neighborhood, it’ll get stolen. Besides, what I need is in the bag.”

“Well, that’s just a chance you’re going to have to take. You want to see my boss, you’re going to do it my way. Get what you need, but the bike stays.” Sam had expected a confrontation about his bike and been prepared to leave it behind. He wanted to make the thugs feel in control and less apt to pull the trigger.

Sam got the file he needed from the bike and stepped through the gate. The man with the dog frisked him, relieving Sam of his Sig Sauer.

Metal grated as the remaining men closed and locked the sliding gate. “Let’s go.” They surrounded him as they marched toward the door.

The gloomy light inside the building felt like a weight as the men marched Sam down the hall. The peeling paint revealed large, origin-unknown stains that reminded him of Rorschach tests.

Chet observed each of these inkblots with his usual tact.
Dead guy. Murdered guy. Gutted guy.
Why do people make such a big deal about this? Seems pretty straightforward to me.

The thugs led Sam to an open door. Inside, a large man sat at a huge wooden desk, reviewing papers that were strewn helter-skelter across its surface.

Sam added the file he had brought with him to the jumble. “I think you should look this over.”

Without looking up, the boss picked up the file and started reading. The room remained silent except for the occasional sound of turning paper. Finally, he said, “So you have a lot of information on my friend Mr. Michaels’ organization.” He looked up. “All very interesting. How did you come by such information and why did you bring it here?”

“I need a favor. Something that needs to be done in exchange.”

The man laughed quietly. “I see. Well you are not in a very good position to negotiate. I have all that I want, and you have…well, nothing.” He shrugged his meaty shoulders as if to say, “What can you do?” Sam did not reply, so the man continued, “Mr. Michaels is, of course, being released soon. The case against him is falling apart, and I see that there is information about that in here too.” He paused and appeared to be thinking.

This was the tipping point, and though Sam kept his face impassive, his heart picked up its pace.

The man behind the large desk regarded Sam for a long time. “Tell me what you want.”

Relief flooded Sam’s veins, and he began to talk.

46

Angel and Monica stopped at a joint only a little nicer than the Stardust Motel Monica had stayed at the night she’d fled the explosion. At two in the morning, fatigue had overwhelmed them, so they’d chosen it at random. Monica lay in bed, listening to the night in search of a threat, but sleep beckoned.

To her surprise, she awoke—alive—at eleven the next morning to drizzly skies. With all that had happened, she’d half expected Tyron to find and kill them during the night. Maybe Peter had taken care of him. Or maybe Peter lay dead in the middle of the dingy restaurant, and even now the madman sought to tie up the little loose end.

She nudged her friend. “Ang, wake up.”

Angel had her arm wrapped around Monica’s waist, a little puddle of drool collecting on the pillow. The corner of Monica’s mouth turned up in a half smile. At fifteen, she and her best friend had slept in this same position, except now they huddled together in a hotel somewhere south of New York while a murderer, with death inked on his heart like a tattoo, stalked them.

“Hmmm,” Angel murmured without opening her eyes.

“It’s late, hon. We should get going.”

“Are we dead?”

Monica smiled. “Not yet.”

“Is Tyron or whatever his name…is he at the door?”

“No.”

“Good. Okay, give me ten more minutes.” She snored, light puffs of air emanating from her slack face.

Monica chuckled and stroked her friend’s hair. The girl had given up her life in The Cove and had then put that life at risk for Monica several times now. Ten minutes didn’t seem like too much to ask.

An hour later, Monica and Angel picked up a map of New York City and made a plan to get to FBI headquarters.

Then comes the hard part.
“So,” Monica started, “what are we going to do when we get there? It’s one thing to say we’re gonna waltz in and demand to see Jon, but actually getting results is a completely different matter. They’ll probably just throw us out. Then what?”

Angel shook her head. “Don’t overthink it, Mon. We’ll just walk up to the front desk, tell them who you are, and ask to talk to Jon.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Monica gave her friend the once over as if really seeing her for the first time. “You know, you’re pretty good at this sort of thing.”

“I know, right? These last few days, I’ve been thinking about going into law enforcement. I could do a hell of a better job than Crew Cut.”

“That wouldn’t take much. But honestly, I’m really proud of you. No matter what happens and how this thing plays out, you need to go to school and follow through with it.”

“I will.” Angel sounded business-like, but a satisfied smile played on her friend’s face as she started navigating the busy New York City streets.

* * *

The area around 26 Federal Plaza had been cordoned off, so Angel and Monica parked the car several blocks away. Angel strode with purpose. She didn’t hesitate before barging through the door of one of the most powerful law enforcement agencies in the world.

They had to pass through a metal detector then watch as burly and well-armed security guards went through their purses before being allowed in. Monica trailed in Angel’s wake as she marched up to the front desk.

A middle-aged woman, hair in a tight bun and wearing way too much blue eye shadow, asked if she could help them, though her severe face told them she would prefer to do anything but.

Angel looked her in the eye. “We need to talk to Jon. Can you call him down please?”

The receptionist gave them a placating smile that said she dealt with crazies and egomaniacs all day. “We have several Jon’s. Do you know his last name?”

Angel looked at Monica. “He told me it’s Smith,” she said, “but somehow I don’t think that’s his real name.”

Angel turned back to the receptionist. “Then no.”

“I see. So what is this in regards to?”

“This woman”—Angel put her hand on Monica’s shoulder—“was in the Witness Protection program. Only your agents screwed up and let someone almost kill her, several someones actually. She got away, with no help from anyone here I might add, and”—she flicked her hand toward the woman’s desk—“shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

The receptionist shot her a condescending look. “No, I think I can remember it. So your...what? Client? Are you her lawyer?”

“No, she’s my friend.”

“Okay, so your
friend
was in Witness Protection? What is your friend’s name?”

“Her real name is Monica Sable, but your goons gave her the ironic name Susan Rosenberg.”

“I see. And why was she in the Witness Protection program?”

Angel sighed. “Is it really relevant? Seems like we should be telling this to an actual agent.” She paused for emphasis. “Not the secretary.”

The woman bristled, but, to her credit, remained calm. “I need to have a little more information before I know if I am going to call one of our ‘actual’ agents or if I am going to ask my uniformed friends to escort you from the premises.”