Chapter 5 - THE MAN WHO RANI ran after him.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because for the first time since landing, we had somebody physically inside the hospital who might connect Victor Shaw directly to Rachel's attack.
“Stop!”
He didn't.
He shoved through a stairwell door.
I followed three seconds later.
His shoes pounded down the concrete steps.
Fourth floor.
Third.
Second.
Then he jumped the last six stairs and hit the landing hard.
He was younger than he'd looked beneath the gray wig.
Maybe thirty.
He tore off the janitor jacket while running.
I stayed behind him.
He hit the first-floor door.
Locked.
He cursed.
That slowed him.
I reached the landing.
“Don't.”
He turned.
Pulled a knife.
Everything stopped.
“Back up.”
I raised my hands.
“Put it down.”
“Back up!”
“Hospital cameras are recording everything.”
“Shut up.”
He was scared.
That was useful.
Scared people made mistakes.
“You came here to hurt my wife?”
“No.”
“Then why run?”
“I said shut up.”
The stairwell door opened behind me.
Reyes stepped through.
The man's eyes flicked toward him.
One second.
That was enough.
Not for me.
For Reyes.
“Federal agent,” he said loudly. “Drop the knife.”
The man froze.
Reyes displayed credentials.
“You use that weapon, your life gets dramatically worse.”
The knife lowered.
Then rose again.
His breathing became erratic.
“I didn't touch her.”
“Good,” Reyes said. “Keep it that way.”
“I just delivered something.”
“Then drop the knife.”
“Shaw will kill me.”
The sentence echoed.
Reyes and I exchanged a glance.
“You work for Victor?”
The man realized his mistake.
His mouth closed.
“Drop it,” Reyes repeated.
The knife finally hit the concrete.
Hospital security arrived thirty seconds later.
His name was Evan Pike.
His phone contained messages from a prepaid number.
ROOM 417. LEAVE PHOTO. DO NOT ENGAGE.
More importantly, it contained payment notifications.
$2,000.
Sender: Halcyon Consulting.
Reyes looked at me.
“That'll do.”
“For what?”
“Probable cause to start pulling threads.”
But Victor moved faster.
By three the next morning, Evan Pike had a lawyer.
Not an ordinary public defender.
Marston Hale.
Partner at Hale, Whitaker & Price.
A law firm whose hourly rate probably exceeded my weekly paycheck.
Pike stopped talking.
By sunrise, Reyes had contacted a federal public-corruption task force.
By eight, two agents arrived.
Special Agent Leah Monroe was short, direct and visibly unimpressed by everybody.
Her partner, Agent Marcus Bell, looked like a former linebacker.
Monroe interviewed Rachel.
She didn't rush her.
She didn't push.
She explained every question.
For the first time, Rachel relaxed around law enforcement.
Afterward Monroe met us in the family consultation room.
“Your wife is credible.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning her account is detailed, internally consistent and supported by multiple pieces of independent evidence.”
“Can you arrest Shaw?”
“Not yet.”
My temper flared.
“You have Pike.”
“We have a courier paid by Halcyon.”
“We have bank records.”
“Copied records.”
“We have Rachel's testimony.”
“Yes.”
“And seven men who were outside her hospital room.”
“That matters.”
“But?”
Monroe leaned forward.
“But the difference between knowing someone committed a crime and proving it beyond a reasonable doubt is the difference between anger and justice.”
I didn't like the answer.
Which was probably why it was the right one.
“So what do you need?”
“The witness.”
“Lena.”
“Yes.”
I told her Rachel insisted Lena had found her.
Monroe's expression sharpened.
“We verified the death report.”
“And?”
“Lena Brooks is legally dead.”
“Legally?”
“A woman identified as Lena Brooks died from an overdose yesterday.”
“Fingerprints?”
“No.”
“Dental?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“No relatives locally.”
“So how was she identified?”
Monroe looked at Bell.
He answered.
“Driver's license found in the victim's purse.”
I laughed without humor.
“That's it?”
“Plus Detective Nolan signed the initial identification report.”
There it was.
Again.
Nolan.
Monroe continued.
“Autopsy was expedited.”
“By who?”
“County medical examiner's office.”
“Can you stop cremation?”
Bell looked at her.
Monroe nodded.
“Already did.”
For the first time, I felt like somebody was moving faster than Victor.
Then Rachel called my name from her room.
I went inside.
She held her phone.
“Look.”
An email.
Sent from an encrypted service.
No subject.
One sentence.
YOUR HUSBAND CAN FIND ME WHERE YOU FIRST FOUND THE NUMBERS. COME ALONE.
“What does that mean?”
Rachel stared at it.
“The old Shaw warehouse.”
“Where you first found the numbers?”
She nodded.
“They stored paper invoices there before digitizing everything.”
“Address?”
She gave it.
I forwarded the email to Monroe.
Ten minutes later, she was angry.
“You are absolutely not going alone.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good.”
“But I am going.”
“No.”
“If Lena only trusts Rachel and me—”
“That's exactly why it's probably a trap.”
“Then surveil it.”
“We will.”
“And I go.”
Monroe stared at me.
Reyes leaned against the wall.
“He won't listen.”
“Helpful,” I said.
Monroe pointed at me.
“You follow every instruction.”
“Fine.”
“You don't improvise.”
“Fine.”
“You don't touch anyone.”
“Fine.”
“You stay in the vehicle unless I tell you otherwise.”
I hesitated.
“Cole.”
“Fine.”
The warehouse stood near an abandoned rail spur twenty miles outside the city.
Broken windows.
Faded Shaw Development logo.
We arrived after sunset.
Monroe's team spread around the area.
I sat in an unmarked SUV with Reyes.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Nothing.
Then a light appeared inside the warehouse.
Once.
Twice.
Three flashes.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
COME IN. ALONE. OR I LEAVE.
I showed Reyes.
He radioed Monroe.
She cursed.
Then authorized me to approach while agents covered every exit.
I walked inside.
The warehouse smelled like rust and wet concrete.
“Lena?”
Nothing.
“I'm Cole Mercer.”
Metal scraped somewhere ahead.
Then a woman stepped from behind an old forklift.
Thin.
Dark hair.
Oversized jacket.
Rachel had shown me her employee photograph.
It was her.
Lena Brooks.
Alive.
“Where's Rachel?”
“Hospital.”
“Is she safe?”
“For now.”
Lena started crying.
“I thought they killed her.”
“She says you found her.”
“I did.”
“Why didn't you stay?”
“Because Nolan was coming.”
“How'd you know?”
“I heard the dispatch.”
“You have police radio?”
“My brother was a firefighter. I kept his scanner.”
She hugged herself.
“I moved Rachel behind a dumpster where passing cars could see her. Called 911 from a stranger's phone and left.”
“Why fake your death?”
Her face changed.
“I didn't.”
“What?”
“I didn't even know I was dead until this morning.”
The implications hit me.
“Then who is in the morgue?”
Lena started shaking.
“I think I know.”
“Who?”
“My roommate.”
My stomach dropped.
“Natalie disappeared two days ago. My wallet disappeared with her.”
A sound came from behind us.
Clap.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Lena's face went white.
Victor Shaw stepped from the darkness.
No gray suit tonight.
Black coat.
Black gloves.
“You really are remarkably difficult people to kill.”
My entire body tensed.
“Federal agents are outside.”
Victor smiled.
“I know.”
That wasn't the reaction I wanted.
“You think I'd come without checking?”
Then lights switched on throughout the warehouse.
All around us.
And I saw men standing on the upper catwalks.
Not seven.
At least twenty.
Victor smiled.
“You brought the federal government to my warehouse.”
He opened his arms.
“Perfect.”
Then police sirens screamed outside.
Lena looked relieved.
Victor looked delighted.
That was when I understood.
Those weren't federal sirens.
Local patrol cars surrounded the building.
And over a loudspeaker came Detective Nolan's voice.
“Cole Mercer! Step away from the hostage and put your hands where we can see them!”
Lena stared at me.
“Hostage?”
Victor started laughing.
Then he dropped something at my feet.
A pistol.
I didn't touch it.
May you like
Victor whispered:
“Now let's see who America believes.”
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