Against the Clock (17 page)

"Which means, they'll be one step ahead of us…again."

"I'm more concerned about what else he may have told them."

"I used a secure cover."

"And how did you reach Gerald?" Barratt asked, wanting to understand every connection.

Shirin froze.
Shit!
Ben's sister. How could she have been so stupid? She had gotten Gerald's contact information through Ben's sister. Gerald knew that. And now Gerald's killer knew that.

"We have to go!
Now!
"

chapter 6

"if there is 'the hunter,' there must also be 'the hunted'."

the book of seekay

17:44:12

Smith inserted the short end of the L-shaped torque wrench into the bottom of the keyway. The lock was a standard residential Schlage deadbolt tumbler lock. He inserted the half-diamond hook pick gently, and carefully identified the six pins within the locking mechanism.

Applying a clockwise tension on the cylinder with the torque wrench, he tested the stiffness and return of each pin. It was slow work, and most younger agents tended toward the raking or bump key approach, but for Smith, those agents were inept.

Smith quickly became familiar with the lock's characteristics, exploited the sensitivity of his surgical steel torque wrench, and systematically set the first three pins.

He could have raked or brushed the pins, it would have been faster, but he knew it would also have delivered the telltale jimmying noise of manipulating the lock, and on closer examination after the fact, the tumblers would demonstrate markings of a forced entry. As the fourth pin was maneuvered into position, he appreciated the skill he had developed.

Adjusting the torque with a practiced precision in his dominant hand, Smith felt the fifth pin set into position. One more to go.

The woman was home. From his position at the back door, he could hear water running through the old copper pipes. She was in the master bedroom en suite, in the shower. From across the road, he had watched the house and surrounding yard through an infrared heat signature scope. One of Zelig's men was still there, monitoring for unexpected visitors. Smith didn't expect any interruptions any time soon, but it was slightly comforting to know he had eyes and ears on the outside, just in case.

According to Zelig, she had a daughter, sixteen years old. She was not home. Zelig wanted this woman to talk. To talk about who Katie Jones was, and the relationship she shared with her. It was clear to Smith that Katie was indeed Shirin Reyes. Zelig believed it, too, but he had to be sure.

If what Gerald Maier had discovered was true, the government, the world, was about to change forever. He had delivered the audio file of Gerald's interrogation along with a copy of the flash drive files to the old man. He would no doubt be able to decipher its truth or falsity. The big picture was important, but for now, Smith had other things on his mind.

The sixth pin set into position. Slowly, silently, Smith turned the locking cylinder all the way. The bolt retracted into its frame. Without a sound, Smith entered Robyn Mills’ home.

He closed the door behind him, re-engaged the lock, then stood still, listening. He didn't move for two minutes. Just wanted to understand his surroundings intimately, to sense and feel every sound and movement before making his way through the house.

He could hear the shower running. From the pattern of water falling, there was someone in the stall. There was no other sound in the house.

Smith removed the pistol from its holster and took a step forward. His heavy combat boots were silent on the tiled floor, the thick rubber soles absorbing all vibration and sound with each deliberate step.

He stood straight, felt no need to hide as he walked with confidence from the back door through the living room, down the long corridor, and into each adjoining room.

He found a home office filled with books. Fantasy, mostly. A guest room with a bed made and ready, but telltale signs of dust indicating it was rarely used. A girl's room, cluttered but clean, adorned with photos and posters. The main bathroom, and then the laundry room.

Satisfied, he headed back down the corridor toward the center of the house. The master bedroom and the woman were on the other side.

He reached the kitchen. It was of modest design; the laminated bench tops were wiped clean, decorated with colorful labeled jars and containers. A single coffee mug stood alone near the sink. Smith picked it up, felt its base; slightly warm, perhaps twenty-five minutes old.

He stood in front of the refrigerator and scanned it for information. It was littered with magnets from places the woman had traveled, all domestic. There were photos of her alone and photos of her with a young girl. He recognized the young girl from the photos throughout the house; the woman's daughter, Smith surmised. They shared the same smile. No men in the photos, he noted. Interesting.

Smith opened the fridge. It was sparsely stocked, perhaps the end of her shopping cycle? He moved onto the pantry. It, too, was largely depleted. He noticed several chocolate bars stacked neatly in a corner, a guilty pleasure.

He heard a different rhythm of falling water from the master bedroom. He froze, listened carefully. It continued. She was likely shampooing her hair.

Unperturbed, he moved on to the waste bin under the kitchen sink. Remnants of a finished avocado, scraps from yesterday's vegetables and salad…Healthy diet, he thought to himself. It seemed in keeping with the athletic frame captured in the photographs of her.

Before he left this house, he would know her intimately. There wouldn't be any part of her he would not understand and know, completely. That was his job, and tonight, it was her destiny.

He turned to leave the kitchen, noticed a pine-colored wooden knife stand on the far side of the sink, and smiled again. He loved his job. He selected the knife on the lower right, gripped its molded handle, and slowly withdrew it from the bamboo block. The naked blade shone in the light. Its blade was long and tapered at its end. In the hand of a skilled chef, it would have looked spectacular; in his hand, it looked terrifying.

Smith re-holstered his silenced pistol and felt the balance of the kitchen knife as he moved closer and closer to the master bedroom.

A pair of feminine pink joggers lay spread out on the made double-sized bed; beside it, a pair of thick wool socks, a long sleeve T-shirt, and a pair of faded pink cotton panties.

He moved closer to the bed and ran his hand along the edge of the bed cover. It was soft and fluffy. He pushed down on the mattress, testing its firmness, and smiled. The steam from the ensuite leaked out through the open doorway like a mist floating along the ground, licking at his boots and swirling up around his legs. He could feel the warmth of it rising, and he could smell the sweet scent of vanilla body wash tempting his appetite.

Running his open hand along the fresh clothes laid out on the bed, Smith scooped up the panties, brought them to his mouth and nose, and breathed them in deeply, searching for her underlying scent trapped within its fibers. Beneath the smell of fabric softener, he detected something faint, something of her, and he liked it. He took another deep breath.

Smith placed the sharp knife on the dressing table. Its mirror-like blade danced with the reflection of light coming from the bathroom. Soon, it wouldn't be so clean, so pure. What a shame, he thought to himself.

He stepped into the doorway of the ensuite bathroom, brave and emboldened with anticipation, and stared at her, naked, beautiful, and for the moment, unaware.

17:51:43

Barratt stomped on the clutch, pulled the gearstick back hard, downshifted, and ripped into the corner. Mid-turn, he dropped the clutch, hammered the accelerator, and flew into the straight. The engine of the stolen Capri screamed its objection but complied dutifully as he pushed it to its breaking point, navigating it vigorously out of the business district and into suburbia.

He had tried twice to call Robyn Mills. Each attempt had run out. There were a dozen reasons she might not answer, but considering how they had found Gerald Maier, only worst-case scenarios occurred to him.

He knew they wouldn't kill her; they needed her alive―at first, anyway. She was Zelig's only link to finding the woman who had hired Gerald to investigate the stolen account reports. By now, Zelig must have surmised the Katie Jones alias was Shirin Reyes. It made keeping Robyn Mills out of harm's way all the more urgent. It was true, they wouldn't kill her straightaway. But there were worse things they could do to her, and a part of him feared he was too late.

Shirin and Barratt had split up at Gerald's building. Operational awareness needed little discussion between them. They understood that Zelig would grab the girl, convince her to tell everything she knew of Katie Jones. And Zelig would have her tortured, just to be sure. Then he'd have her killed. A cursory look into her records would identify a brother. Zelig would send a team to grab Ben. Dead or alive wouldn't make much difference. They would just chop off parts of him, show her, and keep hacking pieces off him until she talked. She wasn't a trained operative; it wouldn't be long. And what could she tell them, anyway? Either way, after tremendous suffering, they would both die. Unless Shirin and Barratt could get to them first.

With time running out to save them, Shirin and Barratt split up.

17:53:29

Smith stood at the door of the master bedroom ensuite. His eyes devoured her. Robyn Mills was naked, turned away from him, standing under the hot steaming water, washing her hair. She was completely unaware of the man watching her only three feet away.

The glass shower door provided a full view of the tiled cubicle. There was no place for her to hide, no covert corner screened from his hungry glare, and nowhere to run.

He waited, patiently, the anticipation building. His heart filled with a rare excitement; his loins stirred, tingling to life. He wondered how she would react when she saw him. Would she scream? Would she fight? Or would she succumb to his force too soon, too easily? He hoped not.

Her shoulder-length hair fell behind her like a glistening waterfall, straight and smooth, the white suds flowing down, breaking apart at the small of her back and hugging the curves of her round buttocks. The foam clung to her pale skin, gripping to, almost climbing back up between her legs, before falling to her feet.

He watched as though each molecule of the rinsed suds were a part of him, exploring every intimate part of her, cleaning away the unwanted, leaving only the truth behind.

That was what he would do for her, too. He would strip her of everything untrue, rip away the falsities society had insidiously implanted in the minds of the masses, and finally he would give her the greatest gift of all―to feel true fear, to feel true hatred, and to feel the true desire to live. And then, when he felt satiated and completely spent, he would take it all away.

She turned around under the hot water, her face directly under the nozzle. Raising her hands, she, massaged her face, then brushed her hair back smoothly over her shoulders. Her eyes were still closed; she hadn't seen him take a step closer.

If not for the glass shower door, Smith was so close to her that he could reach out and cup her large breasts as they bounced joyfully with each movement of her body. She was a magnificent specimen. He paused to imagine how wonderful her breasts would feel pressed against his chest, and how soft yet firm her naked body would feel as she struggled beneath him. And he fantasized about that moment when her fight to resist him evaporated into a mist of complete helplessness; when he looked into her eyes, and with each thrust, he could see her spirit breaking.

17:54:51

Robyn exhaled loudly. It had been a long day. All she'd wanted to do was come home, lie in a hot tub for hours, drink a little wine, and dream of a less stressful life. But she didn't have a bathtub, so a long shower would have to do.

With her daughter away on a school trip to Europe, it was the first time in sixteen years she knew she'd have the house all to herself. She wanted only to be alone. To eat takeout food every night, not worry about cooking or cleaning or having to be responsible.

But two days after her daughter left, she already felt lonely. There was no man in her life, and ordinarily she didn't want one, but with her daughter gone, she was all alone. She found herself fighting off a feeling of sadness. That wasn't like her. Rinsing her face under the hot water of the showerhead, she vowed to call her brother, Ben, and agree to go rock climbing with him on the weekend. It would scare the crap out of her, but anything was better than this, she thought. Besides, she wanted to snoop into his life and find out more about his mysterious girlfriend, Katie.

Robyn wiped the water away from her eyes and was about to reach for the soap when she saw a dark figure―a man. Standing on the other side of the shower door, only one foot from her. In her bathroom.

A strange man!

Robyn screamed. Her heart hammered in her chest. She reeled back in shock, stopping at the cold wall of the shower stall. She rubbed the water from her eyes, hoping and praying it was all a mistake, but the man was still there. Smiling.