Erased

ERASED

By Jordan Marshall

Published by Timber Hill Press

Copyright 2010 by Jordan Marshall

Cover art copyright 2011 by Timber Hill Press

Published by Timber Hill Press

All characters and events in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to real people or situations is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgement:

To Special Agent Steve Kodak of the Washington, D.C. branch of the F.B.I.: my deep and sincere thanks for your knowledge, patience, and willingness to help. As for the artistic license contained in the following pages, you have my apologies.

Chapter 1

Wednesday, 6:00 PM

“I’ll kill her! I swear to God I’ll blow her brains out!”

Omar, the heavily tattooed ex-con at the far end of the room held his strung-out blonde girlfriend in a headlock, with the barrel of his revolver pressed up against her temple. What was her name? Jennifer? Brandy thought so. Jennifer sobbed hysterically.

Rookie Special Agent Brandy Jackson stood just inside the apartment, her body half-shielded by the outer living room wall. She surveyed the scene carefully, taking it all in. Omar’s index finger danced perilously on the trigger, the hammer already cocked. His finger hadn’t strayed from inside the trigger guard since she’d arrived. Brandy didn’t dare take a shot.

Omar stood with his back against the inside wall where he had a clear view of the front door and the windows. His eyes were wild, frenzied; his naked chest rose and fell in quick pants. He was dripping with sweat. The idiot was high. Brandy was reasonably sure she had a couple of meth heads on her hands. That didn’t bode well.

Brandy hadn’t been expecting a gunfight that afternoon. She’d accompanied Agent Smith to Omar’s address while investigating a bank robbery involving Omar’s cousin. Omar had seen them coming, and had taken his girlfriend hostage. Brandy had managed to talk herself into the foyer, but it was stalemate now.

 “Calm down,” Brandy said in the most reassuring tone she could muster. “We’re going to talk about this.”
Keep him talking
, Agent Smith had said before he disappeared around the back of the building.
Give me time to get in there.

“Nothing to talk about. You make one move and I’ll kill this bitch!”

Brandy kept her eyes focused on Omar but she concentrated on the area at the edge of her vision. The hallway was a tall, rectangular blob. If Smith was in there, she couldn’t see him.

“It doesn’t have to end like that,” Brandy said. “You’re holding the cards, Omar. You’re in control.” She moved slowly, sliding her .40 caliber Glock 23 into the holster at her side. She showed her empty hands. “See? I just want to talk. What do you want? Money? You want a plane ticket?”

Omar’s eyes flickered. Brandy could tell he hadn’t even thought about that. His whole plan had been to go out in a blaze of glory.
Good. Slow him down.

“Yeah, I want a million bucks!” Omar said. He burst into laughter. It was a joke, but Brandy used it.

“We can do that,” she said. “It’ll take a couple of hours to get it together.” That was an outright lie. Nobody was going to cough up a million bucks to save a violent ex-con and his trashy girlfriend.

Brandy’s watch beeped and she became conscious of the time. Backup was en route. In a few minutes, the SFPD would show up in force, probably accompanied by a SWAT team. Brandy hoped to have the situation resolved by then.

Brandy’s two-year probation was almost up, and if Agent Smith’s evaluation wasn’t satisfactory, Brandy could lose her job. Little did Omar know that her entire career rested in his shaking hands. Thank God, he didn’t have a clue.

“Just say so, I’ll make the call,” Brandy lied. “You want anything else?”

Omar was silent, probably thinking about all the things he could buy with that money. Brandy noticed a flicker of silver in the hallway. That was Smith. “You want a boat?” she said. She took a small step forward. She wanted to make sure Omar’s attention was anywhere but that hallway.

Omar’s reaction was immediate. He swung the revolver away from Jennifer and trained it on Brandy. “Back off, nigger!”

Brandy’s jaw tightened but she kept her face serene. She took a slow step back. At the same instant, Smith flipped around the corner of the hallway and raised his weapon. “Drop it!” he shouted.

Omar threw his arm out and let loose with three rounds. The first shot hit the bookshelf, the second hit the TV. The third shot hit Smith in the shoulder. He went down, dropping his pistol as he fell. Because of the hostage, Smith hadn’t even managed to squeeze off a shot.

Brandy went for her sidearm but she couldn’t find an opening. Omar zeroed in on her. She leapt to the side, rolling past the doorway, and landed a few steps down the hall. She came up in a kneeling position, gun in hand, eyes trained on the entryway. She waited, finger on the trigger, hoping Omar was dumb enough to stick his head around the corner.

“Goddamn cops!” Omar shouted. He fired. Gypsum board exploded next to the entryway. A second shot rang out, this time closer. Brandy noticed that the bullets were penetrating the outside wall. She hoped there weren’t any neighbors standing around outside.

One more shot,
she thought.
That was five. He’s got one more.
Brandy’s ears were ringing. Omar’s high-caliber revolver was like a bomb going off inside the close walls of the apartment.

KABOOM!
Plaster rained down over her head.

That was number six. Brandy smiled. She jumped up and rushed the entryway. Omar was still standing against the far wall, revolver smoking in his hands. She leveled her sights on him and noticed Smith’s semi-automatic in Omar’s belt.

“Drop it!” she shouted.

It took a split second for Brandy to register that Omar was alone. He wasn’t holding Jennifer anymore. Omar smiled. A broomstick came out of nowhere and cracked against Brandy’s wrists. Jolts of pain shot up and down her arms. Her hand opened reflexively, and her Glock went clattering across the floor.

Omar lunged for it. Brandy jumped forward but the broom came down again, smacking her on the side of the head. She stumbled sideways and dropped to the floor, arms raised to shield her face.

Brandy came to rest lying next to Agent Smith. He was conscious, but barely. His lids were heavy, his pupils dilated. He was in shock.

Omar rolled with laughter. “Stupid cops!” he shouted. “Stupid freakin’ cops!” He kicked Brandy’s pistol down the hallway.

Jennifer cackled hysterically, still clutching that broomstick. She pointed at Brandy. “I tricked ya! I was actin’!”

No kidding.

Omar pulled Jennifer close and grabbed her ass. She turned towards him, the broom dangling loosely in her grip, and they started making out. Brandy felt a slight movement next to her thigh and she glanced down. It was Smith’s hand. He was offering her his backup weapon, a .38 snub-nosed revolver. She slid her right arm down to accept the weapon and then quietly concealed it beneath her chest.

Omar pulled back and turned to face Brandy. “What are we gonna do with you?” he said. He licked his chops like a hungry pitbull. “Hey babe, you wanna watch me rape this stupid cop?”

Jennifer laughed crazily.

Brandy glanced at Jennifer. “You like to share your boyfriend?” she said. “Or are you just too ugly to keep him happy?”

Jennifer snarled and lunged forward, coming between Brandy and Omar. She lifted the broom with both hands and brought it down with all her might. Brandy threw her left arm out and caught the end of the broomstick. She yanked on it, pulling Jennifer off balance, and then kicked her legs out from underneath her. Jennifer’s face was a mask of shock as she crashed to the floor and landed flat on her back.

Omar’s eyes went wide. He went for Smith’s pistol in his belt, but Brandy was a half-second faster. She raised the .38 and fired. The first shot hit Omar left of center. He took an awkward step back, gun flailing wildly as he squeezed the trigger and unloaded two rounds into the far wall. Brandy’s second shot hit him dead center in the chest. Omar went down in a heap.

Brandy leapt to her feet. She double-checked Omar’s pulse and confirmed that he was dead. She stepped away from his body and hovered over Jennifer, gun pointed straight at her face.

“Roll over and put your hands behind your back,” Brandy said between clenched teeth. Jennifer started sobbing hysterically.

It was much later when Brandy got home to her 5th Avenue apartment on the west side of Mount Sutro. The neighborhood was quiet, as usual. She’d picked her apartment for that very reason. That, and the sweeping views of Golden Gate Park and the Pacific. The place was a bit on the pricy side, and a bit worn down, but it was a rare oasis of quiet in the middle of the busy city. Plus, it reminded her of the neighborhood where she’d grown up in Salem.

Matt, Brandy’s husband, was sitting at the kitchen table when she came in. He raised his eyes from his laptop. “You’re late,” he said. “Rough day?” Then he saw the look on her face.

Matt walked to the entryway and threw his arms around her. Brandy pressed her face into his shoulder. They stood that way for a minute, until Matt pulled back and looked into her eyes. “What happened?”

“Some guy called me a nigger.”

Matt frowned. “What did you do?”

“I shot him.”

Chapter 2

Thursday, 8:30 AM

The twelve-hour flight from Beijing to San Francisco International Airport was torture. Michael wanted to sleep but only managed a series of short naps. Every movement jarred him. Every time a passenger coughed or a flight attendant walked down the aisle, his eyes snapped open and his hands fumbled for the aged leather briefcase on his lap. The dry leather creaked in his white-knuckled grip.

It was safe. It was locked.

Michael leaned back in his seat and narrowed his eyelids to slits. He gazed suspiciously at the other passengers until the drone of the jet engines once again lulled him into a brief, fitful sleep. This was the best sleep he’d had in three months.

At eight-thirty a.m. pacific time, the plane finally circled in for a landing. Michael’s pulse accelerated when he saw the
city by the bay
peaking out through the thin marine-layer of fog. He began wringing the briefcase handle nervously. He ignored the flight attendant’s instructions to shut off his electronics, and he got on his cell phone. He bent down, out of sight, and made three calls, each to the same number. He got no answer all three times. Then he sent a text message.

Twenty minutes later, Michael left the International Terminal and headed for the front of the building. He wore his precious briefcase secured by a strap over his shoulder and had another travel bag in tow. His anxiety ratcheted up as he weaved through the crowd.

I’m not in China anymore,
he thought as he observed the heavy flow of tourists wearing flip-flops and towing carry-ons behind them. Somehow, he didn’t feel any safer.

Michael stepped onto the escalator and began the slow descent into SFO’s Main Hall. Long lines of people snaked around the check-in area in chaotic, multicolored rows. He saw the wall of windows at the front of the building, and the busy street beyond. Taxis and shuttle busses lined the sidewalk. Dozens of people stood around, crowding the front of the building. Michael felt panic rising in his chest.

“Is that you?”

The unfamiliar voice yanked him out of his thoughts and he glanced up nervously. The speaker was an elderly man with silver hair and friendly gray eyes. The man spoke with a slight southern accent and he wore an old wool suit that was nice but several decades out of style. He stood a few steps above Michael on the slow-moving escalator, leaning against a cane.

“I’m sorry?” Michael said. His eyes flitted from the elderly man to the young couple standing behind him. They were staring.

“That music,” the man said. “Is that your cell phone?”

“Oh! Thank you.” Michael yanked his phone out of the cargo pocket in his pants. The old man smiled and nodded. The couple laughed. Michael was so nervous that he hadn’t even heard the ethereal new-age music playing over the noise of the airport. He glanced at the screen and almost sighed when he saw the name that came up on caller ID. It said only one word:
Fortress
. He answered:

“It’s about time. I’ve been calling you for an hour.”

“Sorry,” said Fortress. “I’ve been busy.”

Michael reached the bottom of the escalator and walked across the terminal to a quiet corner. “Busy?” he said angrily. “You need to get your priorities straightened out. You’re eating caviar and drinking champagne while I’m risking my life. Maybe I should just throw this stuff in the dumpster and go home.”