Justice Run

She thought she’d gotten a break. Instead she’d walked into a trap.

Dumond’s people had overpowered her and searched her for a wire. The absence of one hadn’t improved her situation. They’d knocked her out and transported her from the meeting site to here, wherever that was. She had no idea whether she’d been moved across town or across the globe.

The whole thing had taken a weird turn when they’d started asking her about Fred, her first boss with the FBI. She’d tried to play stupid. That strategy had fallen apart when Dumond had held out a smartphone to her.

“Take this,” he said. “Look at the screen.”

She’d hesitated, then taken the phone from the outstretched hand and looked at the screen. Though she’d tried to keep her best poker face, she doubted she’d succeeded. The single image had triggered a flood of conflicting emotions—shock, grief, anger and fear being just a few. It had been a photo of Gruber, his wife, Kate, and Rodriguez, at Gruber’s retirement party. He stood in the middle of them, clad in khakis and a polo shirt, a tight grin on his lips, an arm around each of the two women. His successor, Donna Goldman, had shot the photo for him.

Rodriguez had noted the slight glaze of alcohol in his eyes and remembered how drunk he’d gotten that night, singing “Love Me Tender” with the karaoke machine, a record nine times. Aside from fueling his bad attempts at impersonating the King, the drinking had been notable for another reason. Gruber rarely drank and then in moderation. However, he’d arrived for his own party, seeming sullen and withdrawn. Kate later had confided that he hadn’t wanted to retire and that she was worried how it would affect his health. The alcohol had dissipated the black cloud around him and he’d loosened up, at least for the evening. The following day, though, he’d sunk back into his depression and remained there until he’d hung out a shingle as a private detective. Having a job had restored his sense of purpose and made him feel useful again.

He’d always sworn the PI gig had saved his life.

Since his death, she’d thought back on the bitter irony of those statements.

The photo had delivered a punch right to her heart.

Had she stared too long? Had her eyes glistened with tears? She didn’t think so. But, when it came to emotions, she knew the mind played tricks and the face sometimes could reveal too much information.

With little time to think, she’d made up the best story she could. She said she vaguely remembered meeting the couple at a party, but didn’t know them beyond that. Why did he have the photo on his phone? She’d shrugged and said maybe the guy was a pervert and liked looking at the picture. Her stomach had clenched as she’d uttered the words about Gruber, though she knew he’d understand.

It hadn’t taken Dumond long to shoot holes in her story. After more interrogation, he’d slapped his thighs, stood and given her a halfhearted smile.

“I don’t believe you,” he had said. “I will give you some time to consider your situation. Then I will come back and see you again. If you don’t offer a better explanation—” he shrugged “—I will use more aggressive methods of securing answers.” He turned the phone screen back in her direction. “I have friends in America. They would be happy to pay this woman a visit.”

His security chief, a man named Bellew, stood to his right. Dumond turned and looked over his shoulder at him. “What was her name again?”

“Kate,” Bellew said. “Kate Gruber.”

“Yes,” Dumond said. His lips split into a wider smile. “She’s a widow. Perhaps she would like the company.”

Rodriguez had tried her best to feign apathy and maintain her cover. When she’d spoken, her throat had felt tight and pushing out the words took effort.

“Hope those thoughts give your limp Johnson a little lift,” she’d said. “While we’re swinging things, you might want to think about what you’re doing here. I came here, with references, to transact business. If something happens to me...”

She let the sentence trail off. Dumond’s smile faltered for a moment before he caught himself and let out a dismissive laugh.

“See you in a few hours,” he said.

Dumond had left. She had no doubt things could get worse for her.

The arms dealer already had taken the leap of kidnapping someone he at least suspected to be a U.S. federal agent. He had to know he’d passed a point of no return, one where he couldn’t let her walk away alive. Either way, the U.S. government was going to hunt him down for this. From his standpoint, there was no incentive to leave behind a witness.

A chill raced through her, causing her to shiver even though the room was warm and stuffy. Without thinking, she stopped walking and hugged herself.

The weight of her situation hit her hard. There is no way out, she thought. They are going to kill me.

Her head suddenly felt light and her heart began to pound faster, speeding up in spite of the emotional and physical fatigue that gripped her.

Her chest tightened and she struggled to drag in a full breath. Jesus, she was going to die here. And she wasn’t even sure where “here” was.

She moved to the single bed, the room’s sole piece of furniture, and dropped onto the edge of the mattress.

Pull yourself together, she chided herself. If you give up, you will die. If you fight, at least you have a chance.

Granted, it was a small chance, but it beat the hell out of waiting for somebody to walk in and put a bullet in her head.

She looked around the room for the umpteenth time. Dumond’s people had removed everything from it except the bed. She could see impressions in the carpet, where there’d been shelving units standing against the wall, a small table and two chairs, a dresser. They’d stripped the mattress of its sheets. The bolts holding the metal frame in place were too tight to be removed with her bare hands. The bed’s frame also was bolted to the floor and couldn’t be moved.

They’d even stripped her belt and her shoe laces, presumably so she wouldn’t hang herself out of desperation.

Bringing her hands to her face, she massaged her temples with her fingertips. She’d been racking her brain for a solution for so long, she felt as though her thoughts just kept going in circles.

Yeah, she finally decided. She needed a miracle.

She again dismissed the thought. She’d spent too many years in law enforcement, seeing firsthand the pain and misery humans heaped on one another, mostly to steal a few bucks or to get their rocks off, to believe in miracles.

She heard a muffled sound emanating through the floor. Seconds later, it came again. Just a couple of pops in rapid succession.

Gunshots? Had somebody come to help her? Maybe she’d get her damn miracle after all.

CHAPTER THREE

“The crazy bitch has told you nothing?”

The statement from his security chief prompted Dumond to turn and give the guy a dirty look. Jean-Luc Bellew held his boss’s stare for a couple of beats before casting his eyes to the floor. Dumond turned away and walked to his desk.

“Is she secure?” the arms dealer asked.

“As secure as possible,” Bellew replied. “We aren’t set up as a prison. But she’s secure in that storage room. It has a heavy wood door and a couple of locks. She won’t be going anywhere.”

“She’d better not,” Dumond said.

Bellew’s cell phone began to buzz before he could make a further comment.

Irritated, the arms merchant turned to Bellew, who was digging in his pocket for his phone.

A couple of seconds later Dumond’s own phone began vibrating on his hip. He pulled it from the holder on his belt, saw he’d received a text message and began pressing buttons to access it. When he opened the text, he felt a cold sensation travel down his spine. BREECH, the message read.

He wheeled toward Bellew, his fear quickly turning to anger. The security chief had his phone pressed against his ear and was reaching under his jacket for something with his free hand.

“Don’t worry about the how,” Bellew said. “Just make sure they don’t get to the building. Send out the dogs!” He paused for a few seconds. “If you sent them out, where are they? Gone? What do you mean gone? Damn it. What? Call the police! We cannot call the police here, you idiot.”

Bellew pulled a Walther pistol from beneath his jacket and flicked his gaze at Dumond.

“I have him right here,” Bellew said. “Yes, I think you’re right. Let me call you back.”

By now, Dumond had returned his phone to its belt holder. He opened the lap drawer of his desk, withdrew a holstered Beretta and, pulling aside the tail of his jacket, attached it to his belt. He fished a couple of magazines from the same drawer and slipped them into his pocket. When he looked up, he saw Bellew staring at him.