Chapter 48: When it All Hits the Fan

Rebecca

My phone ringing before six AM is almost never a good thing. Yesterday when it happened, it was Jimmy calling to check up on me and see what measures Rod and I had come up with to try and prepare for the Sandman's reaction. At first I thought it might be him calling again, but then I realized it was the wrong side ringing.

One problem with having to be available twenty-four-seven is where to keep your phone. Most of the time it's not a problem, cell phones are so common no one thinks twice about seeing one on your belt. Let me tell you, running with a cell phone is a royal pain in the ass. Running with two?

It looks stupid as all hell, but you can run with a phone in your hand. I can't, but it can be done; I've seen it. Running clothes are really only good for two things, running, and tossing something on so you can go to the kitchen in the middle of the night when you have company you're worried about. There are usually no pockets and even when there are, you don't want a cell phone bouncing around, slamming into your body every two steps for five miles. If you've got the body, and the ego, for it, you can wear those spandex bicycle shorts. Some of them even have pockets, but they're really only intended to hold something like your locker key, not a phone. The tension on stretched spandex is enough to keep small items from moving around. A cell phone, even one of the ultra thin models still moves around, and movement equals chafing. A while back I came up with my own solution.

I have a pretty smooth stride, not a lot of jarring unless I'm sprinting or running over uneven ground; neither of which I do in a morning exercise run. Not to brag or anything but I'm better endowed than your average runner and I think the sports bra is the greatest invention in the history of women's wear. That's were I got the idea. Being in the business I get a lot of obscure catalogs containing a weird array of tactical and undercover gear. Some time back I ran across something they were billing as the world's most versatile tactical holster. Yeah, it was just about that stupid. Essentially it was a strip of padded neoprene, the kind used in wet suits and light-duty knee braces, only longer so that it secured around your waist or hips depending on your preference, either over or under your regular clothes. It was wide enough and solid enough that it wouldn't roll up around the edges or slide around. It was intended to be sort of a stretchy utility belt, but instead of little pockets, it had alternating slits that you could slide things through. They alternated large and small and went all the way around so you could mount something just about anywhere. The covering material was also Velcro friendly, so for lightweight items that you needed access to quickly you could just stick them on. The idea was that a small handgun, properly secured in the right sized pre-cut slot, wouldn't fall out while you were chasing someone, but you better not need to pull it quickly either. If you think about it you'll understand why I say that as a tactical solution it was a complete bust, but it did have its uses.

As I said, I have a pretty even stride, and I figured out that if I wear it high on my waist, just below my ribs, it wouldn't move around, much. That changes when you start adding hardware, even something as reasonably light as a cell phone. Two made it even worse... , but ... if you slide the cell phones in on either side of your belly button and then wrap an ace bandage around the whole thing you can keep everything pretty still. Getting to the call before it goes to voice mail is bit of a struggle, the sports bra makes it easier though, at least you don't have to worry about flashing the neighborhood, and it's not like there are a lot of people out at five-thirty in the morning.

I do all of this, strapping myself into all this shit, every morning, just in case my boss decides he needs to reach me. So naturally, the one time something happens that he needs to reach me, a bona fide emergency because that fat Mexican wouldn't drag his lazy ass out of bed this early for anything less, he calls my tail instead! I'm going to kill him, I swear to God, one of these days, I'm just going to ... okay, hurt him, I'm going to hurt him.

So I'm running along, minding my own business, the only sounds that matter in the world are the pounding of my heart, the steady in and out of my breathing, and the rhythmic slap of my running shoes on pavement or concrete depending on where I am at the moment. I never even heard the racing engine as my tail came roaring up behind me. My first warning that anything was wrong was the screeching of tires as they slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop, sideways, across the street just ahead of me. If that wasn't enough to tell me something was wrong, the flashing light on top of the car and the two agents bailing out with weapons drawn certainly made the point.

The one on my side opened the rear door and yelled, "On the floor! Now!"

Considering who was probably the most pissed off at me in the world at the moment I had no problem following that order, even if it was coming from a junior officer. Within seconds I was as low in the car as I could get and pulling the assault blanket over my head. Two doors slammed and we were gone in a cloud of foul smelling blue smoke. The blanket is essentially a very large version of a bullet-proof vest with additional re-enforcing to compensate for the fact that it doesn't have a solid body behind it. In addition to the 'packing' that a vest contained, it was constructed using several layers of Kevlar strips in overlapping web-like patterns.

Once we were moving I started to poke my head out to ask what the hell was going on. That didn't go over well.

"Agent Hampton, I need you to stay under the blanket, please."

"Christ! What the hell is going on guys? Talk to me!"

"I don't know. The director called, said to quote; 'Get her ass covered, now!' He said to have you call in as soon as you were secure."

"Shit!" I said, scrambling to get my phone free. I didn't bother to call the office; no way in hell was he in this early. I could hear the siren going in the background when he answered.

"Rodriguez."

"Rod, it's me, what the hell is going on?"

"Barkley and Simmons are dead."

My heart stopped, I'm sure it did. Barkley and Simmons were the night shift watching Dahrinka's back.

I took a deep breath. "And?"

"I don't know yet, we haven't been able to get her on the phone, I'm on the way to meet a team at her apartment right now, I want you in the house until we find out what the hell is going on. And the first thing I'm doing when I get back is writing you a formal reprimand for disobeying a direct order."

"What? Disobeying what order?"

"Being outside your apartment without your vest on. You going to tell me you were wearing it while you were running?"

Shit, he had me there. Worse, he knew it.

"Damn it, Hampton! What the hell were you thinking? You know who we're dealing with here. That was a stupid fucking thing to do. Being the healthiest corpse in the cemetery doesn't mean shit."

"Can I at least go home and shower?"

"Hampton..." his voice made the name a warning all its own.

"Okay, okay, I'll wear a jumpsuit. Call me when you know something." I closed the phone and lay in the darkness under the blanket, whispering a silent prayer for the families of my slain comrades.

"Ma'am?"

A simple contraction of two syllables into one; a title meant to convey respect to a woman. In this case, a thousand questions pressed into a single sound.

Everybody in this game knows the rules and the risks. You kissed your wife and kids every day before you left because you couldn't guarantee that you're going to be coming home to tell them how your day went. Everybody watched everybody else's back because you don't want to be the one that goes and tells little Johnny and Susie that daddy's not coming home. Facing Michael's parents to tell them their son was dead almost ended my career. I don't know if I would have made it if it had been his kids instead of his parents. Then again, at least with them it was mutual, they were crying at least as much for my loss as I was for theirs.

Part of being there for each other is that you don't sugar coat it. "Barkley and Simmons are dead, no word on Henslith, but she's not answering her phone. Straight to the house, do not pass go."

The house was a sixty year old three bedroom on the edge of South Pasadena. It's on a cul-de-sac with two other houses the Bureau owns. We also own the two two-stories on the next street that overlook the back yard. If a 747 goes down on top of it the neighbors are in for a real surprise. Short of artillery or running a tank into the front door, nothing short of a full scale assault is getting you in without an invitation.

I put on the best fitting jumpsuit they had hanging in the closet over my sweaty underwear. I could shower after they brought me some clean clothes. They also keep a wide selection of ordinance so I picked myself a security blanket to carry around while we waited. I don't care if the place is tighter than Fort Knox; I'm not sitting around unarmed anywhere with someone gunning for me. Rod called back forty minutes after we got there.

"Henslith's gone, no sign of her; doesn't look good. Purse is on the counter, her weapon is on the bed but the clip is missing, and there's water on the floor in the bathroom. It looks like maybe he caught her in the shower. I've got a team on the way over to go over the place."

"What about Barkley and Simmons?"

"Both dead. Barkley was still in the car. Looks like Simmons was outside having a smoke. Both shot at close range; small caliber, two shots each, both in the head, very professional. No one heard anything. Guy delivering newspapers spotted the body. Couple of dogs were lapping up the evidence. Hard to say how long they'd been there. We'll have to wait for the coroner's report. Both of their weapons were still in their holsters, they never even had a chance to draw."

Something didn't sound right, "Something isn't right here."

"Something's not right?" he demanded. "I've got two agents down and an Interpol agent missing, and the best you can come up with is something isn't right!"

"Rod, listen to me. Henslith knows who she's dealing with, she knows what he's capable of; and she knows what it means if he gets her someplace private. I've seen her in action; I may be able to take her but it would be world war fucking three. No way in hell do I walk out the door with that bastard; I'd take my shot and hope I got lucky. Worst case I hope I can hurt him before he kills me, but better that than what he is going to do to me if he gets me alone, and she knows him even better than me."

There was a pause so I kept going. "And why take her at all? He knows just as well what he's dealing with; who she is. He knows if he gives her a chance she's going to kill him or die trying, why risk it?"

"Maybe he figured she's the one who took his money and he wants it back. Did you ask?"

I knew what he meant. "No, I took your advice."

"Good, because you still don't want to know; but take my word for it, it was enough to justify doing something like this to get it back."

"That just makes my point. She would know that. She would know what it would take to get him to take the chance. Know what it would mean."

"Then my only suggestion is that she's counting on you, and your source, to pull off another miracle. I'm sending Waskoff to get you. He'll take you home to change. Evans and Reed are to go in first and make sure your apartment is safe. Pack whatever you're going to need. You're staying in the house until this is over.

"Rod..."

"No!" he cut me off. "Henslith knew what she was getting in to. She's bait for now, probably to draw you out. When he figures out she doesn't know how it was done and she can't get it back, he's going to come looking for you. If he wants you he's going to have to work for you. Bring your car with you; Waskoff, Evans, and Reed will drive escort on your way to the office."

"Fine, I think this is a mistake, but I'll wait and make my arguments in person. Just one thing..."

"What's that?" he asked.

"Be careful, okay, I don't want to have to explain this to Selena and the girls."

There was a pause and I could hear him take a deep breath and let it out. "I'll see you at the office."

Waskoff is normally pretty chatty but it was a quiet ride to my apartment. I gave Evans my key, and he and Reed went in to make sure it was safe. Two minutes to get the all clear and then the three of them escorted me inside. Once we were inside Evans went to check out my car and bring it up. While he was doing that I pulled a carry-on out of the hall closet and started packing.

What do you pack first? For me it was always underwear. Guys seem to go for jeans and shirts first, then just pack the underwear and socks into the nooks and crannies that are left, but I preferred to pack the way I dress, from the skin out. Besides, my underwear is nobody's business and if it became necessary to open my suitcase in front of one of these clowns, I mean, one of my co-workers ... Hey, Murphy's Law is alive and well in the twentieth century. Just because I couldn't think of a reason why doesn't mean it one didn't exist, and I'm not big on tempting fate. The last thing I wanted was one of these assholes gossiping about what I wear under my holster. I was trying to be optimistic so I intentionally only packed for a couple days. If he was making his move ... one way or the other I figured this was going to be over soon.

Evans was waiting next to my car when I came out. The way they handled it you'd have thought they were secret service and I was the president's daughter going on her first date. The car was parked with the engine running and the driver's door closest to the building, open. Evans was on the far side of the car with his gun out and pointed down between his body and the car so he wouldn't scare the neighbors. Reed and Waskoff walked me out, Reed in front, Waskoff behind, but he wasn't worried about the neighbors, his Glock was in his hand, still pointed down, but out and visible none the less. Once I reached the car, they broke off and went to their own vehicles. Evans waited for Reed to pull up in front of me before moving to get into the lead car. By the time he was in, Waskoff had pulled up behind me and the parade started. The lead changed at every major intersection, the car in front stopping in the intersection with lights and siren flashing until the two trailing cars had cleared the intersection, then the chase would pass me as the other car pulled in behind. LAPD was going to be pissed when the phone calls started coming in from the late morning commute crowd.