Agent Hill: Reboot (10 page)

***

Agent Grimes helped the rest of his men through the swamp, keeping a mindful watch on the gators Sarah had mentioned. Despite the sarcastic tone in which she had warned them, the blood that circled the water could attract who knows what type of animals. He brushed the muck from his pants and shoes once they made it to the shoreline.

“I want search boats and choppers for ten miles up the coast, and I want a blockade ten miles up,” Grimes said. “I don’t care what you have to do. Fishing boats, rafts, canoes, anything that can float and search the water, I want out there.”

Mallory handed him a clean shirt and pants, and the two walked over to one of the vans, where Grimes stripped down out of view, drying himself with a towel. “The tracking device on the boat?”

“She ripped it out,” Mallory answered, the fight in his voice deflating slightly. “The swamp stretches for another six miles.”

“Exit points?”

“Too many to cover. We’ve already got patrol boats out there, but it’ll be dark soon, and the swamp trees are too thick for the choppers to get any real coverage of the area. Our best bet is to catch her up the coast. I don’t think we’re going to find her coming out of the swamp, if she even keeps the boat.”

“She’ll keep the boat,” Grimes replied, slipping on his shirt and getting the muck out of his hair. “She’s in a hurry; that’s the only reason she stopped us. She could have just as easily kept swimming.”

“You think she was fishing for info?”

“That and time. Did you check in with the unit at the sister-in-law’s house?”

“Yeah, nobody’s moved.”

Grimes found it odd that Becca hadn’t gone anywhere, made any moves. The last encounter the two of them had had made him think that she’d run. She exhibited all the signs: angry, paranoid, depressed. “Tell our guys to do a check-in. I want to know what’s going on inside that house.”

“On it.”

Once Mallory had left, Grimes found himself alone in the back of the van into which he’d gone to change. He could hear the units of police officers and coordinating agencies searching the area. The shouts and sirens and the barking of dogs were overwhelming, and he felt a sudden chill he blamed on the water and the wind. But deep down, it was something more troubling.

Up until this point, all Grimes had had to go on were the stories from other people who’d retold their experiences upon meeting Hill. Based on that, he had been able to quantify certain abilities, motives, and trajectories. But seeing what she could do firsthand—that was something else entirely. He knew she’d been right when she told them she could have killed them if she wanted to.
But she didn’t.

Grimes shrugged it off. The only reason he wasn’t dead was because if he were, the agency would do whatever it took to find her. There’s nothing worse when you’re trying to stay below the radar than killing a federal officer. Her face would have been plastered all over the news.

Even so, Grimes had never seen anyone move that fast, shoot that well, and just do everything she did, by herself. What if there were more like her?
Christ.
She had made his men look like a bunch of mall cops. If an entire agency full of people like her existed, then Grimes couldn’t image what that would look like. It would be worse than the Cold War or anything he’d read about in history. For the first time in his career, Grimes suddenly felt like he wasn’t the smartest man in the room.

***

The knock came at the door, and all Becca did was keep her eye on the gun in the tall man’s hand. He said nothing when he arrived, made no demands except that they remain quiet or he’d kill all three of them. When he gestured to the door with the pistol, she slowly got up from the kitchen table while he followed.

When Becca reached for the door handle, she saw her hand shaking. The man positioned himself behind both her and the door, the pistol clutched in his hand. Two men in suits, dressed in the same fashion as the CIA agent who had spoken with her earlier, smiled at her.

“Hello, Mrs. Hill. I’m Agent Lukes, and this is Agent Mills. We were hoping we could come in and have a quick word with you?”

“I’ve already spoken to your agency. A man named Agent Grimes came by earlier.”
Leave.
Just go.
In her peripheral vision, the man towered over her, his finger on the trigger.

“I understand that, ma’am, but it was actually Agent Grimes who asked us to check in on you. You don’t need to come anywhere with us, but we’d like to stay in the house with you if that’s all right.”

“No, I’m not comfortable with that,” Becca said. She felt the tall man’s eyes on her. She knew they wouldn’t be fast enough. She’d seen the tall man shoot before. He was quick and never missed. If she let them inside, they would die. Becca kept the door cracked as the two agents exchanged a look. She wasn’t sure if they’d try to force their way in or not, but the longer they lingered, the more she thought they would.

“Mrs. Hill, I’m afraid that we can’t leave here without at least checking the house first.” The tone in his voice hardened, and he unbuttoned his jacket, his hand reaching for the butt of his pistol.

Becca’s heart rate quickened. She dug her fingertips into the edge of the doorframe, turning them white, their warmth replaced by cold. She forced a smile as her voice caught in her throat. “Of course. Just give me one minute to get dressed, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Becca closed the door, leaning her head on the wood. The tall man just stood there holding his gun. When she looked at him, he gave no sign of what he would do. It was like looking at some horrible constant, some god of death and vengeance you couldn’t bargain with, no matter the reason and no matter the cause. Death would cover you like a veil, and you were powerless to stop it. “Please. Don’t do this.”

But the god of death said nothing, gave no mercy, and showed no favoritism. “Let them in.”

Becca’s heart dropped to her stomach. She reached and unchained the lock with a trembling hand. The metal slid against the lock and swung from the chain. She turned the door handle, and her face grew hot. The agents must have known something was wrong. Both rushed inside, reaching for their guns, but the moment the two of them were inside the foyer, the tall man put a bullet into each of their temples, staining the opposite wall red. The gunshots were muffled by the long suppressor at the end of the pistol. Each shot triggered a scream from Becca, and she rushed to the living room, where both Matt and Ella were huddled in the corner. She picked the two of them up and opened the sliding glass door, but before she could make it outside, she felt a hand grab her shoulder and yank her backward, sending her and the children to the floor.

Becca pulled both kids behind her, backing all three of them up against the far wall, as the tall man slid the glass door closed, still wielding his pistol. Ella and Matt’s small bodies trembled against her back, and she heard their faint sobs and cries. “What do you want?” Becca’s words came out in whispered gasps. “Just leave us alone. I haven’t told anyone anything. What do you want?” she screamed, her face flushed red and her body shaking with adrenaline.

The tall man dropped to one knee, his eyes locked on her own, the barrel of the pistol still aimed at her head. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out the picture of Sarah and her family when she was just a child. He laid it on the carpet in front of her and tapped his forefinger on Sarah’s scratched and distorted face. “Her,” he said. “I want. Her.”

After everything that had happened to Becca, being kidnapped by this man, being separated from her husband, spending days not knowing whether she and her family were going to live or die, then being freed at the last moment only to have her husband die—even with all of that, she couldn’t find it in herself to betray Sarah. This wasn’t Sarah’s fault. It was the fault of the man in front of her.

“She’ll come when she finds out where you are,” Becca said. “She’ll kill you.” The words left her mouth with a smile and tears in her eyes. “And when she does, I’ll be here to watch it. You hear me?” The shaking in her body had ceased, and she felt a calm wash over her. “You’re a dead man.”

It was the first time she’d seen any sense of emotion come from him as the corners of his mouth curled upward. He holstered the pistol and grabbed Becca by the jaw. He squeezed hard, and she felt the bone bend. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Sarah shifted the bag she carried from her left hand to her right. She shrugged her shoulders, and the loose-fitting grey shirt she’d picked up from the Goodwill draped down her right arm. She pulled it back up, feeling the effort in her muscles at performing the simple task. The bill of her baseball cap hung low on her forehead, shielding most of her face from view. At a glance, she looked like nothing more than some local looking for work.

The entire way up the coast and hitchhiking through the mountains to Illinois, she’d fought the urge to contact Bryce. It was easy enough to do, but she knew what he’d tell her.
Come in.
But the moment she did that, the chance of her getting Demps disappeared, and she’d only get one shot to get Branston to give up the name. She knew he would. And if he didn’t, then she’d chop him up one piece at a time until he told her what she wanted to hear.

The outline of the Chicago skyline appeared in the distance, and she felt a sudden burst of energy return. Her feet found the pavement in quick succession. The small suburban community with the old safe house would at least give her a place to restock on ammo, assuming it hadn’t been burned to the ground by Demps’s men. She did her best to avoid any unnecessary eye contact with the folks in their front yards. The less she had to explain herself the better off she’d be.

Sarah stopped at the front door, and behind the cover of one of the pillars on the front porch, she pulled her pistols out of the bag. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, scouring the room for anyone that could be waiting. On her way to the back of the house, she could see that all the doors were swung open.
Someone was here.

Once she checked the perimeter and determined the house was clear, she made her way into what was left of the armory. She’d taken the guns from their earlier stay, but she pulled one of the drawers out and removed a false bottom that hid a few cases of .45 bullets she’d stashed there just in case she ever needed to return. She dumped the empty magazines she’d carried with her and started loading them when the phone on the wall rang, four or five times before Sarah picked it up, and when she did it was Bryce who spoke first.

“Sarah, you need to come in, now.”

“I’m not done with the names yet, Bryce. You know I won’t come back till it’s done, and when I do, it’s just to collect the last one.”

“Something’s happened at Becca’s place.”

The bullet she held between her fingers dropped to the floor. She gripped the phone with both hands. The plastic casing around the phone creaked from the increased pressure of her fingers. She couldn’t find the words, a part of her was afraid to ask, but she mustered the grit to finally speak up. “Are they dead?” The words were hollow, deadpan, as if saying them aloud gave them the possibility of truth.

“No.”

Sarah’s legs almost collapsed from underneath her. Her knees buckled, but she managed to keep herself upright. “What happened?”

“I’ve been watching the heat signatures on the house. It’s been three ever since one of the agents that’s been tracking you visited them. About an hour ago, I got another heat signature that showed up, and it wasn’t one of the agents stationed outside watching them.”

“Who?”

“The man who killed your brother.”

Sarah dropped the phone and left it dangling on the cord, Bryce’s voice still trying to boom through the speaker. She grabbed the box of ammo and magazines and went to the garage, where the car they’d left earlier still sat.

The garage door opened, and she reversed out of the driveway, tires squeaking as she peeled out onto the street. The tires burned out in a cloud of smoke as the onlookers on their porches watched her disappear. She ran stop signs and red lights and disregarded any notion of traffic safety as she sped toward Becca’s house.

Sarah ditched the car half a mile before she made it to Becca’s place. The rest of the way was on foot, giving her the advantage of stealth. If Becca and the kids were still alive, then the man was using them as nothing more than bait. Demps must have caught wind that his board members were going down, and he’d sent his goon after her.

It was smart, going after Becca and the kids. It would draw her in, and the emotional connection would cloud her judgment, but the one thing Demps and his monster had forgotten to consider was how fucking pissed she was. It was an anger that soaked through her bones. She’d been running on it ever since she’d watched the life go out of Ben’s eyes. And now it just needed to burn a little longer.

The CIA agents’ vehicle was easy enough to spot: a grey sedan, inconspicuous and easily forgettable. Sarah kept to the west side of the house, where there were the fewest windows and places for him to spot her approach. The second-floor balcony window would be the best way in, so long as he wasn’t keeping everyone upstairs, which is what she would have done.

Whenever you wanted to kill someone, the best way was surprise, but if you couldn’t do it that way, which the man knew he couldn’t, then pulling them into a kill box and forcing them to fight on your terms was the next best thing.

The house to the left of Becca’s was two stories tall, with a tree on its far west side. She hopped over the gate and shimmied up the tree, her pistols swinging in the shoulder holster underneath her jacket that she’d changed into on the way over. When she passed one of the windows in the house, a toddler spotted her, and his pacifier fell out of his mouth. Sarah pressed her finger to her lips then kept climbing. She dashed around the back side of the roof, keeping her feet light, then crouched on the back corner edge to scan Becca’s house.

The curtains were drawn, blocking her view of the inside, but they were also thick enough that the captor couldn’t see her, either. With a quick sprint, Sarah ran to the edge of the roof, launched herself toward Becca’s house, then shoulder checked the window, shattering it and landing hard on the floor of Ella’s bedroom. When she rolled to her knees, both pistols were out.
No point in being coy.

Sarah sat there, waiting for any sound, any creak, any peep that would give away their position. Then, after a solid thirty seconds of silence, she heard the familiar creak of the third step on the staircase. She jumped out the doorway and fired down the flight of stairs. Bullets splintered penny-sized holes in the steps as the tall man retreated around the corner in the living room. Sarah slid down the bannister, both pistols poised to shoot, then landed with a light thud on the wooden floorboards. The steel in her hands shifted as she repositioned her fingers. Her feet avoided the shell casings on the ground, and she edged to the end of the wall of the living room behind which the tall man had disappeared. She slid down, crouching as low as she could, then pivoted on her left foot and turned the corner, but the room was empty. She rose slowly, the ends of her pistols scanning the room, her body moving forward in its programmed fashion, needing little help from her mind, which she used to concentrate on locating Becca and the kids.

The living room fed into a back hallway, off of which opened the utility room and a small office Becca used for side projects. That room connected back around to the kitchen, which lead back to the front of the house. It was like a disjointed circle, and as Sarah stepped into the study, the pistols almost fell out of her hands.

Becca and the kids were tied up at their wrists and ankles, their mouths gagged, and they were blindfolded. She holstered her pistols and ripped the blindfolds off their faces and yanked the stuffed pieces of cloth from their mouths. “Are you guys all right?”

“Sarah!” Becca screamed, and it came in tune with the loud thump of heavy feet behind her as the tall man brought the side of a bat to Sarah’s head, which she half blocked with her forearm, her head taking the rest of the blow. The double vision made it hard to see which hit was coming where, but before another swing could collide with the front of her skull, she rolled to the right, the bat narrowly missing her. Her fingers fumbled for the inside of her jacket as she reached for the pistol at her side. Before she could draw, her elbow was blocked and the tall man was on top of her, pinning both her arms down and slamming his knee into her ribcage.

Shots of pain rang through Sarah’s body while Becca and the kids screamed. Sarah shimmied her right leg between herself and the man’s torso and used the leverage to flip them both to their sides, allowing Sarah to free a fist that she brought to the side of the man’s jaw, giving her enough time to squirm out of his grip.

Again Sarah aimed her guns, but the tall man brought the bat across the steel, knocking both to the ground. Then he charged Sarah and picked her up in a sprint. Dishes and glasses shattered from the slam into the kitchen table. One of the glasses she landed on broke and dug into the meaty flesh of her upper back. With each ounce of pressure the tall man applied, she felt the jagged shard excavate her muscle, each tear and gash weakening her ability to fend off her assailant.

The man’s massive hands choked Sarah, and each second that passed made it harder and harder for her to breathe, the gasps that escaped becoming shorter. A shimmer caught the peripheral vision of her left eye, and she saw one of the shards from the glasses that had busted. She quickly reached for the piece then rammed the tip of the glass into the man’s arm. A gush of blood erupted from beneath his shirt, and the pressure around Sarah’s neck loosened. She immediately brought the blade toward the side of the man’s neck, which he blocked, freeing Sarah from his hold. She used the momentum and wrapped her legs around the man’s torso then rotated her hips, flinging the two of them off the table and onto the tile.

Sarah slammed her fist into his face, and the blows dented the flesh and bone in front of her. Each crunch, moan, and crack that filled the air between them only fueled her rage. She reached for another shard but caught a blow to the stomach, and the two tussled on the ground. Sarah felt the weight and power of the man, who had at least a foot of height and a hundred pounds on her. With each movement across the kitchen floor, she felt her body weaken.

Their tumbling came to an end as they fetched up against the wall. A knee slammed into her stomach, and she felt the rush of wind escape from her lungs. The man grabbed a fistful of hair and flung her body into the living room.

Sarah scrambled to her feet, wobbling as blood dripped down her back. The man smiled at her, gaps showing where a few of his teeth had gone missing. “You know, I’ve killed just as many or even more people than you. Some I’ve done with a bullet, others with a blade. But you”—he gave a light chuckle—“you I wanted to kill with my own hands.”

“That makes two of us.” Blood stained Sarah’s knuckles, and she fought the urge to collapse. The pain in her back was numbing, and she no longer saw two of him. She regained control of her breathing as she slowly circled the living room. Because of the man’s height, he had at least a six-inch longer reach than she did. If she tried staying on the outside, she’d get worked over, but trying to get on the inside was dangerous. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Time to break the rock.

Sarah moved in quick and landed two vicious jabs to the ribs before the tall man knew what had hit him. He tried pinning her down, but she spun around to his back faster than his arms could wrap themselves around her. She jumped up behind him and locked her arms like a vise around his neck, yanking him backward, and squeezed.

The thump of the man’s pulse from the vein running down the side of his neck beat against Sarah’s forearm. She increased the pressure, the man squirming underneath her grip, trying to extend what precious life he had left. His hands groped up to Sarah’s face, where she tried to avoid his fingers and thumbs attempting to dig out her eyes. Fingers pressed against her cheek, brow, nose, and jaw like hungry spiders trying to eat their way into her flesh.

The man’s elbow found Sarah’s ribs repeatedly, each blow trying to weaken the hold she had around his neck. The fourth blow caused Sarah’s body to spasm to the right, giving the man just enough wiggle room to wedge his chin between his neck and the crook of Sarah’s elbow. Another blow to the same position on Sarah’s side, and the man had enough room to free himself and flip back on top of her, bringing his fist down onto her face. His knuckles connected to her nose, chin, forehead, eyes, and cheeks, turning her skin into clusters of red welts. The vicious hits cut tiny rivers of blood that ran down her face. The warm claret heated her skin, and she tasted the metallic flavor as streams rolled over the beaten pieces of flesh that were her lips.

Before he landed another blow, Sarah twisted her neck to the left at a hard angle, and his fist smashed into the floor, cracking the wood underneath. She grabbed hold of his arm and rolled left, torqueing his arm harshly until she heard the distinctive pop of it disconnecting from the shoulder. He wailed in pain, and Sarah followed up with her heel to the point of his nose, destroying what was left of the cartilage underneath.

The two grappled on the floor. Each kick, punch, and strained effort from the exertion of her fatigued muscles brought with it a soft cry, her body’s last attempt at digging for energy it was quickly running out of. Her body was running on borrowed time, and it wouldn’t be long before her debtors came to collect.

The tall man rushed at Sarah with a burst of energy and tossed her body across the room, where it landed roughly on the hardwood floorboards. Her arms shook as she pushed herself up, the tall man stumbling over to her, his face bloodied and broken, his right arm sagging from the dislocation.