Chasing Frost by Isabel Jolie
Thirty-Two
Sadie
Agent Connor taps his shoe incessantly as we start and stop. Midtown tunnel traffic fires my nerves. It’s all I can do to not punch the horn. A current electrifies my skin. It’s an emotional response.
I breathe. The way they taught me. Deep in. Deep out. Think. When the cab let me out, what street was that?
“How well do you know Jersey?”
Now he taps the armrest. His head nods to the radio’s beat. I swallow a scream.
“I live in Hoboken.”
“Do you know the area when you exit the Midtown Tunnel?”
“That immediate area?”
“No. You turn left. Drive down one of the wide avenues.”
“Toward Jersey City?”
“Yes.”
“Get over in the left lane.”
My hands grip tighter on the wheel. Come on. Come on. Come on…
When the phone rings, both Agent Connor and I read the name on the screen. Agent Hopkins.
I press to answer on speaker.
“Are you in Jersey?”
“Yes. Turning onto Grand Street now.”
“You should’ve come back to the office.”
I don’t say anything, but simply stare at the road ahead. Agent Connor stares out the passenger window, so I can’t read him. After a moment of silence, Hopkins continues.
“Maitlin’s passport was used this morning at JFK. He’s currently on a flight to Morocco.”
“I assume by your terminology you recognize he’s not the one who used his passport.”
“It’s a possibility. Initial airport security footage isn’t clear. He’s wearing a baseball cap. But, Sadie, it’s also possible he is on that plane. It’s possible he played us.”
“What time did that flight take off?”
“1:05 p.m.”
“Timing doesn’t work, Hopkins. He couldn’t have made it to the airport on time.”
“Video shows him rushing through security.”
“He was last seen by his PR team right before noon. A whole room of people. How would he make it through JFK security in time for a one o’clock flight?”
At this point, I’m weaving through a two-lane city street, headed into the bowels of Jersey City. I can’t confirm the timing of Chase’s PR meeting, as I haven’t talked to them yet. I’m basing this on what Rhonda told me. Of course, Rhonda didn’t see Chase. She spoke to him on the phone. I glance at Agent Connor. If he was listening to Rhonda, he knows that. But no. His phone, the falafel. Sure, he could have planted that, but this is Chase. I know Chase. I’m not wrong about him.
Perspiration lines my palms. My heartrate’s too high, my breaths rapid and light. Slow it down. Focus. I inspect every person on the sidewalk. Looking for something. Anything.
“Hold on a minute, Sadie.” Someone is speaking to Hopkins, and he either muted us or muffled the receiver.
Agent Connor taps my arm and points to my left, telling me to turn. Hopkins’s voice returns through the speaker.
“Two 911 calls came in. Shots on Old Bergen Road. You near there?” I don’t have any idea, but Connor nods.
“Yes.”
“I doubt it’s anything, but you might as well check it out. I’m going to head over there, anyway. I want you to show me this warehouse you mentioned.”
“You know he’s been kidnapped, right?”
“It’s a possibility. Right now there are two running theories. But it’s coincidental gunshots were fired in the area you want to check out. And you know what I say about coincidences?”
“You don’t believe in them?”
“I believe they deserve investigating. Cops have been dispatched. You’ll probably see at least one vehicle when you arrive in the area.”
Farther up the street, a marked New Jersey police car with lights flashing, no siren, is parked beside an old warehouse building. It’s not the same building that housed the sex club, but we’re in the vicinity. There are a few random cars parked along the street, and the officer is talking to an elderly woman on the sidewalk. In daylight, the area shows signs of life, but the buildings need paint, and the chain-linked fence is rusted. Graffiti decorates buildings and the sidewalk.
Agent Connor and I park behind the police vehicle and approach him.
“Officer, I promise. It wasn’t a vehicle backfiring. I’m old enough I know what a gunshot sounds like. You need to go in there and check it out.”
She’s pointing at the large brick warehouse that encompasses the block. On this side of the sidewalk, the building is entirely brick, but above, the walls are lined with windows with metal panels.
“Can I help you?” the officer asks us as we approach.
“FBI.” I hold out my badge. “We’re currently investigating a missing person case in this area. We heard about the 911 calls and thought we’d check it out.” I scan the perimeter of the building for an entrance as Agent Connor takes a step closer to the officer.
“Calls? I wasn’t the only one who called? Our neighborhood crime prevention program is working.” She sounds giddy.
“Ma’am, we will investigate. Please go home now, ma’am. I want you to be safe.”
I listen to the officer handling the woman as I loop back to my trunk. I pull out my Glock .22 and slip it into a waist holster. Agent Connor lifts his jacket, showing me he’s already carrying. He speaks to the officer, and I stride to the corner of the building.
There’s a parking garage entrance. The left paved ramp goes up to an upper level, the right ramp goes down to a lower level.
I glance back to locate the woman, wondering exactly where she was when she heard the gunshots. My bet would be she was passing this open entrance.
Agent Connor arrives at my side. “Want to circle the perimeter or head inside?”
“I can go in, you go around?”
“No. We stay together.”
“Right.” With one more glance down the vacant street, I step forward. “Let’s circle the perimeter. Then search the stairwell.”
We round the far corner, and the officer approaches from the other side. Perimeter survey complete. The stairwell door is to my right.
“Employees from the business above were the other emergency call. They were in the top level of the parking garage. They said all employees park on the upper level, and the bottom level goes unused. The caller believed shots came from the bottom level of the parking garage.”
“Did you call in backup?” I ask. We could walk down the way a car would, or drive down, but it’s open, exposed.
“An additional officer is on the way. Shots were reported almost fifteen minutes ago. It’s been silent since I got here. There’s been no activity.” He’s talking to us with the laidback demeanor of an extremely bored traffic cop.
“Can you stand near the garage exit? We’re going down the stairwell.”
He nods and turns to take his post.
Connor pulls the heavy metal door. It opens, revealing a poorly lit stairwell. Cinder block walls. Worn concrete steps.
Fifteen minutes. My insides quake. Nausea rises.
I grip the cool metal of the Glock. Breathe in control. The shots may be nothing. Do not go to what if. Focus.
Agent Connor lifts his gun, ready, and I do the same as we descend. A metal door with a square window marks the stairwell exit at the bottom.
I ease against the wall, descending to the door. I peer through the side of the glass. A maroon van is parked in one space. A black sedan is parked behind it, blocking it in. Men stand around the vehicle.
“Three men, minimum, two vehicles,” I report back to Connor. The men are talking. From my vantage point, I can’t see details, but based on proximity to car doors, it looks like the men either recently arrived or were about to leave.
I place my gun back in the holster and adjust my suit jacket to effectively hide it, or at least remove it from immediate observation. Agent Connor mimics me, and I open the door.
The door creaks. The men go quiet. One steps back from the van.
“Hello. A neighbor called in a concern of shots fired in the area. We’re checking out the disturbance. Have you heard anything?” I ask as I approach. Connor trails at my side.
One of the men grimaces and balls his hand into a fist. Two men keep their heads bowed. Another turns his back to me.
We’ve walked in on something. I wiggle my fingers, ready. One wrong move, and it’s me and my Glock.
One of the guys looks familiar. He’s wearing a black crewneck sweater beneath a sports jacket, and black suit pants. Three of the men are tattooed and could be mistaken for gang members, but this guy is a clean-cut businessman. The man who turned his back to us steps away, farther down the side of the van. Out of sight.
The familiar guy smiles the smile of a smooth politician. One I’d never support. As he does so, I remember. He was at the sex club. It’s hard to be certain because the room was so dark, but I’m almost positive. All my investigative instincts flare. We’re in the right place. Where is Chase?
“If it isn’t Sydney. It’s Sydney, right?”
“Yes. You’ve got the advantage. I’m not sure I know your name?”
The smile doesn’t slip from his face, but there’s a sinister gleam to his overall expression. I rest my hand on my hip, ready, and purposefully make it clear I have a gun.
“Guys, this lovely young lady frequents Casablanca.” His comment has all three men looking me up and down like he just told them I’m a prostitute available at a discount price.
Connor leaves my side, walking around the van with a bored expression, scuffing his shoes along the pavement with disinterest.
“Well, we haven’t been here long, but we haven’t heard anything. Right, fellas?”
The men all nod. I count four guns.
“What are you guys up to down here?”
“Shooting the shit. That’s not illegal, is it?” He rests his hand on the butt of the gun in his holster. “Agent?”
My fingers curve around my own gun. I scan the perimeter for Connor. I hear footsteps shuffle.
The familiar man smirks.
Agent Connor steps around the van, hands held high.
I whip out my gun and aim it at Mr. Familiar. “We’re FBI. Do you have any idea what you are doing?”
The barrel of a gun appears next to Connor’s head, aimed directly into his ear.
“Here’s how this is going to play out. The two of you are going to climb in this van, and we’re all going to drive out of here. Together. Like one big, happy family. Got it?”
Agent Connor’s facial muscles are frozen; only the movement of his pupils reveal his heightened awareness. If we weren’t outnumbered, he would have already fought the guy behind him.
With my gun still high, finger on the trigger, I take one step to the side, my gaze locked on Mr. Familiar. He’s the leader here.
Garrick Carlson stands behind Connor. His head reaches the base of Connor’s neck.
“Be a good girl. Drop the gun so I don’t have to blow out your partners brains and ruin a perfectly good sports coat.”
Mr. Familiar raises his gun. From this angle, I can take out Carlson. But Mr. Familiar would shoot before I have time to take him out.
A siren breaks the silence.
Mr. Familiar glances back.
“Cops,” one of the men grunts.
“Get in the car. Let’s go.”
Mr. Familiar steps backward, his gun trained on me as he backs up to the driver side of the sedan.
I keep my gaze and gun trained on his chest. Three men pile into the back seat. One taps the front. “Let’s go.”
Connor flies face forward onto the pavement.
Garrick’s barrel points directly to me.
I keep my gun on the driver.
He ducks into his car and cranks it, and only then do I aim at Garrick.
Cold, sinister eyes glare back at me.
“Get the fuck in,” one of his buddies growls.
Garrick leers as he slides into the passenger seat.
The car squeals forward before the passenger door has closed.
I drop to one knee and fire.
The car squeals forward.
Sparks fly.
I pull the trigger. The back windshield shatters.
Pull. Pull.
The car angles up the ramp.
I sprint forward, aiming at the tires.
One hubcap clangs on the concrete.
Additional shots ring out as Connor shoots, too.
The sedan disappears.
“Did you get plates?”
Connor nods. “There’s blood on the concrete.”
My vision clouds. In slow motion, I step to the far side of the van.
A siren blares through the garage. Flashing lights dance on cinder blocks.
Agent Connor stands to the side of the van door.
I raise my gun.
The van door slides open.
Chase. Eyes shut. One chest wound.
I place my gun in the holster.
Agent Connor shouts, “Call an ambulance!”
He takes off.
Shaking, I crawl into the van.
My finger vibrates as I press it to Chase’s neck.
Sirens flood the garage.
I press. And press. Into his cool skin. A faint, too faint, pulse.
I push back his blazer. Searching. One more bullet. In the shoulder. Of all days, he’s wearing a white button down. Bright red seeps through the cloth, spreading.
I wrap my arms around him. On the garage floor. I can do CPR.
A pressure on my shoulder pulls me back.
“We’ve got him. Back up.”
The paramedic lifts him out and onto a gurney.
One of the paramedics holds two fingers against Chase’s throat. Everything fades out as I focus on the paramedic’s reaction. Is there a pulse?
The men rush to the back of the ambulance and hoist the bed. I follow.
One paramedic works on Chase. The other jumps out the back.
“You can’t ride.”
I flash my badge. “FBI.”
He squints, hesitating for half a second, then closes both doors and jumps into the driver’s seat.
The paramedic’s focus is one hundred percent on Chase. He’s hooking him up to machines, getting his IV ready, removing his shirt. Preparing him for surgery. Should they get him to the hospital in time.
He must have been shot close range. There’s a chance the bullets went straight through. Blood drenches the white cot. So. Much. Blood.
Come on, Chase. Stay with me.