I went the long way around the reception desk trying hard not to look down at Rachel and Greene’s bodies, though I swore I could smell their fresh blood still dripping from their wounds.
The bullpen was the worst photo of a post-Iraqi bomb blast you’ve ever seen. The rapid fire and huge shells of the assault rifle spread indiscriminate destruction across the rows of desks. Computer monitors were blown, files folders spilled their contents around like even more guts, as if what gushed out of the people wasn’t enough.
The people. A long list of last names all cut down, bleeding from head wounds, chest wounds and torn arteries. Some of the men held their service pistols in their hands. They’d tried to defend themselves, but were no match for a woman with no conscience. She’d slaughtered them. There’s no other way to describe it. I’ve seen hits by rival drug gangs and this put them to shame. Three bodies, four? Ha! I counted twelve, fourteen if you added the two by reception and seventeen if you counted the three in Cranner’s office.
I looked up to the video cameras in every corner of the room like a Las Vegas casino floor. Darkened orbs of glass trying and failing to look inconspicuous. And every inch of tape had my face on it.
I put the thought out of my head and focused on the good news—no Blake.
I remembered back to what Sam said about saying hi to him. I assumed she had no secret way of finding Lucas I didn’t know about so chances are she was talking about Blake.
With my eyes shut I saw blackness. Out of range. I should have been relieved. Could have used some of that blissful blankness a while ago, but it also meant I had no idea where she was headed.
It also meant I could think without fear of her tapping into my thoughts. I could finally call someone to warn them. I’d call Blake and then take the keys to one of the company cars. It wasn’t stealing if I took it in the line of duty and keeping your last remaining team member alive qualified. A row of seldom used Lincoln town cars were parked in the underground lot and the keys were all in the munitions locker downstairs which I knew was unattended.
Dammit. Adam. Make that eighteen.
HANGIN’ ON THE TELEPHONE
I called Blake’s cell. This was gonna be awkward.
“Agent Mansfield.”
“Blake, it’s Samantha.”
“Oh, hey Sam. What’s up?”
How the hell to answer that one?
“Well, first I need to know if you’ve already spoken with me today.”
“What?”
“Did I call you recently?”
“No. Why?”
“Nothing. Are you at work yet?”
“Just getting ready to leave. What’s going on?”
If he was at home then Sam knew where to find him. I needed to get him out of there. I went to the protocol of extracting an informant whose cover has been blown.
“I need you to get out of there Blake. What’s your safe destination A?”
“Sam, why isn’t Cranner calling me on this? You’re not my superior.”
“Blake, this is Gamma Omega. I need you to get to your secure location A, but I also need you to tell me where that is.” The line went silent except for his breathing. “Blake?”
“Is this a joke, Sam?”
“No.” Gamma Omega. G.O. for Get Out. Go. Sometimes being direct is more important than being clever, even in code work.
“You know it’s not protocol for me to tell you that location over the phone. Is someone with you?”
Blake, bless his heart, was all about procedure. He knew if someone held a gun to my head, using me to get to him, his instructions were not to reveal any locations of any safe houses. Protocol is to let me get shot in the head before giving anything away. And if it was anyone else calling him…
“Blake, I understand. I can’t ask you to reveal that information.” Damn procedures. My new brain was a slave to them. “For your safety I need you to get out. So I can help you I should know where to meet you, but it’s up to you to give me that information of your own free will. No one is here with me, but someone is coming for you. Look, this is me. You know when I’m lying. I might as well tell you I hate Bruce Springsteen.”
Our little code. I really did hate Bruce, but if I said that it meant I was really telling the truth. The stupid things you come up with on a three day stakeout.
He gave me the address and rushed off the phone.
NOT—SO—SAFE HOUSE
The DEA car with the government plates wasn’t quite as inconspicuous as the Vespa, but it made me feel like an agent on the case again instead and I didn’t have to deal with a helmet. I did have to move the scooter out of my two hour spot and into a 24-hour parking garage and slipped the ticket in my wallet for my future requisition form.
The address Blake gave brought me to a one-bedroom apartment in a bad part of town. The safe houses, and they call them that but there’s nothing inherently safe about them other than the fact that people aren’t supposed to know about them, they all look like this place. Cheap, utilitarian apartments meant for a one or two night stay only in an emergency. Rent is paid on time and a cleaning crew is sent in once a month to maintain the spaces and sweep for bugs—electronic and otherwise.
Blake answered the door and I could see the stress cutting lines in his face. He held his sidearm down by his waist, first time I’d ever seen him hold a gun since academy.
“Sam, what is going on?” He pulled me inside and took a quick survey of the world outside his door to make sure I wasn’t followed. Frantic as he acted, I’m sure he saw nothing but a blur of street signs, taco stands and the abandoned car wash across the street.
“Thanks for listening to me on the phone.”
“I know you wouldn’t bullshit me, Sam.”
“Do me a favor, call me Samantha. Don’t ask why, long story.”
“Okay.” He holstered his gun but kept it on his hip. Somehow it did not make me feel any safer.
“So I’ll see if I can explain this, but I doubt I can.” I sat on the edge of the bed. Blake stood. I could see in his feet he wanted to pace, but tried to keep calm for my sake. “Calder and Rizzo have hired someone to delete all evidence of the case against them.”
“What does that mean, delete?”
Blake looked more handsome than I’d ever seen him with a little concern on his face. His tan pleated pants and tucked-in button down still gave away his true nerd nature but there lurked a junior Jack Bauer underneath it all that I was happy to see.
“It’s all-out war, Blake. They took out the office. Everyone. Dead.”
Blake sank into the one chair, a lumpy swivel chair with pilled upholstery in a mustard yellow. “Dead?”