Closure (Jack Randall) (54 page)

Another cough and more blood ran from Sam’s mouth. He seemed to be weakening. Jack was amazed by Sam’s determination. But then there was Katie. What would he have done if the situation had been different? He had no children, so he couldn’t relate. What should he do now?

“Jack.”

“I’m right here, Sam. Let’s end this. Let me take you in. It’s the right time. You did all you could.”

“All I could . . .”

“This . . .”

“The victims . . .”

“They understand,” Jack replied.

“They need closure.”

“I know, Sam.”

Sam lifted his head and gazed around the car before meeting Jack’s eyes.

“Are your guys any good?”

Jack’s blood froze.

“No, Sam, not like this.”

“I need closure, too, Jack. Thanks. Thanks for being a friend.”

Sam straightened up to his full height and pointed the gun at Jack. Before Jack could react, the window shattered and Sam was thrown to the floor. The empty pistol spun to a stop at Jack’s feet.

Jack sank slowly into the seat and contemplated the Browning. The assault team stormed the car around him, but he hardly noticed. The vibration of the cell phone shook him out of it. He palmed the device and flipped it open.

“Jack?”

“I’m okay, Syd.”

“Your friend?”

“It’s over.”

In the United States of America, State and Federal
prisons combined hold a total of 1,470,045 prisoners.

—EPILOGUE—

H
e jumped slightly as the gate slammed shut behind him. Before he had a chance to look around, he was following the man in front of him down the tiled hallway. They were soon at another steel door with a small four-by-four window. The man looked through the glass before stepping back and waving to the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. The camera was encased in a cage to prevent tampering. A loud buzz sounded and the man pulled the heavy door open. They stepped through to be outside, but not really. A wire tunnel stretched across the open area to the next building, constructed with heavy gauge fencing topped with a razor wire crown. The joints were welded together he saw. No one was in sight on either side of the tunnel. The peak of one mountain could be seen poking above a far wall. Otherwise, the view was of the Colorado sky and that alone.

Another heavy steel door with the accompanying camera slowed them and they were joined on the other side by another man with the same serious expression. The man looked him up and down before shooting a questionable look to the first man.

“He’s clean,” the man offered.

With a nod, he led them down another hallway. This one cement, with no paint other than a yellow line on the floor. The lights were recessed into the ceiling and covered with Plexiglas. Their boots echoed off the concrete floor as they moved down the hallway. A couple of turns, both with mirrors and cameras, and they came to another door. This one opened before the wave was needed, and he was escorted in to a long room with a series of regular doors. A stern looking woman approached.

“Did you get a briefing?” she asked. Before he could reply to the affirmative, she spoke again. “Don’t touch the glass. Stay in the chair until you’re ready to go. Just knock on the door when you’re ready. I’ll be watching you on the camera. You have thirty minutes—no more.”

“I understand.”

She pulled a large ring of keys from her belt and unlocked number 6. He stepped into the room to find a chair and a small desk taking up most of the space. A mirror image could be seen through the thick glass. Instead of the phone on the wall as he expected, a microphone was present on the desk. Lacking something to do, he adjusted it to chin level. He waited.

The sound of heavy doors slamming preceded the arrival of the man he was here to see. When the opposite door opened, the man gazed at him with no expression as the cuffs were removed. When they were gone, the man rubbed his wrist without shifting his gaze, which had become one of curiosity now.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he spoke.

“Welcome, Paul. Enjoy your visit,” the guard replied before shutting the door.

Paul strode forward and sat down. He reached out and adjusted the mic before speaking.

“What do you want?”

“Your brother-in-law and I have a mutual friend. He thought I could help you, and he arranged it so I could see you.”

“Jack sent you?” Paul’s anger flared.

“He pulled a string for me, yes.”

Paul thought about this, but said nothing.

“Some changes are taking place. Calls to report crimes are up over forty percent nationwide. There are still a few copycats out there, but all around, it looks like the country is fighting back.”

Paul digested this without a word. A minute passed before he spoke.

“What do you want to know?”

“Sam’s story. Whatever you’d like to tell.”

Paul just looked at him.

“You trusted me once. So did our friend. Let me get your side out.”

“I saw your stories. They were . . . fair, I guess. Gonna get yourself a promotion are you?”

“Got an interview with the
Washington Post
next week,” Danny admitted.

Paul nodded in approval of Danny’s honesty before another long pause punctuated the silence of the room. Danny gave him all the time he needed.

“Okay, where do we start?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

Paul sat back and looked around the room for a moment before returning his gaze.

“Katie.”

Danny opened his notebook and began to write.

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Randall Wood, Author, on Amazon

Randall Wood is the author of the novels
Closure,
Pestilence
and
Scarcity.
After a life spent in occupations such as paratrooper, teacher and flight paramedic, he eventually listened to the little voices in his head and now writes full time. He currently resides on the Gulf coast of Florida with his wife, their three children, two cats and one Great Dane puppy. He welcomes readers, and fellow writers, to his website at:

www.randallwoodauthor.com

Another Jack Randall Thriller

World population projected to reach 7 billion in 2011
October 20, 2009—CNN

—ONE—

M
uzzammil Hassan was one week past his sixteenth birthday. If the day went as planned he would not see his seventeenth. As he watched the men work he thought of the small party his parents had thrown for him. Like most families in his country, his was large and poor. His mother and father had worked hard for the extra food to serve that day. His father had spoken proudly of his son to all that were present, but Muzzammil knew he would never rise to the successes his father had predicted. It was enough to simply stay alive in his country. Muzzammil knew suffering. He had lost a sister and uncle to AIDS, and two brothers to the tribal warfare that often plagued his country. His hope was that his decision would not only bring pride to his father, but provide for his family. He had been promised repeatedly that they would be well cared for and would never again suffer from hunger or lack of medical care. That his family name would be spoken with honor and reverence and he himself would be elevated to a place of distinction few of his people could hope for.