Tabby Cartwright
April 2002
Seven Months After 9/11
Today was one of those days. A day when Tabitha Cartwright regretted taking a position at a high school. Why she had let her college counselor talk her into becoming a teacher, she would never know. Or even more bafflingly, why had she stopped at her bachelor’s? Had Tabby gotten her master’s degree, maybe she could be teaching at a community college.
Would the students there have more respect than the ones at Shadow Lake High School?
She hated to be a pessimist, but in the current climate, seven months after 9/11, she wasn't so sure they would. Tempers were running hot everywhere.
She surveyed her classroom, where the proof of inflamed tempers was clear.
Someone had upended the two large trash cans and sprinkled their contents across the room. Like nasty, used confetti. A foul smell came from behind her desk, and Tabby knew, without looking, what it was. Someone had left feces under her desk. Today’s vandalism marked the fourth time that had happened, though someone had at least left the nasty business in the trash can the first three times. A deep, hot anger burned inside her.
Whoever had done this didn't scare her. It would take more than poop and trash to frighten the daughter of a retired marine.
But in the two hours after class ended, when she'd been out coaching the cross-country track team, someone had broken in and wrecked her room. Not that any real breaking and entering had happened. The lock on her door had been busted for months. Clearly, the maintenance staff did not consider fixing it a priority.
Tabby stopped to set a garbage can upright. She supposed one of the adults who was in the building after school could've been the culprit. But the scrawl across her chalkboard likely told the tale.
Terorist lover, someone had written, spelling terrorist wrong. Tabby gave a wry smile. When this had happened the first time, she’d shown the board to Gareth Meadows and Monique Pratt, the English teachers, and ask them if they recognized the spelling or the handwriting. Though the principal, Gib Galloway, already had his suspicions and was handling the situation in his typical kind and gentle, parental manner. His non-accusatory style meant the culprits weren’t put on notice, and until that happened, her room would continue to get tossed.
Tabby pressed the intercom button that called the office. A quick glance at the clock told her she had seven minutes before the office staff would be leaving.
“You still here, Tabby?” asked Willa Reynolds, the secretary, through the speaker.
Tabby liked Willa. She was motherly and kind and never appeared put out by all the requests from the Shadow Lake staff.
“Just finished with the cross-country team and came back to get my grade book,” Tabby said. “And guess what?”
“Again?” Willa asked, incredulous.
“Yep, can you call the janitors? Tell them we'll need a bucket and mop. I'll stay to help clean it up.” Tabby sighed with resignation.
“Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. I'll get right on it. I'm also going to nag Gib to get you a lock now. Not later. You let me know if you need anything. Okay?”
Tabby nodded, forgetting for a second Willa couldn't see her. She was so tired of the post-9/11 hate. Tabby knew the haters were just haters to be haters. They lived to be on the wrong side of a cause, all the while pretending to be on the right side. “Will do. Thanks.”
Tabby leaned her head against the cold concrete wall of her classroom and closed her eyes.
Terrorist lover.
Yeah, she loved Kamil Burkhari. She wasn't going to pretend otherwise. Or that he was anything other than the good son of immigrants from Pakistan. He certainly wasn’t a terrorist because his skin was dark.
Terrorist Lover.
Shadow Lake High was in Central Florida, and her boyfriend of four years was hours away in Gainesville attending medical school at the University of Florida. Whoever vandalized her classroom didn't know him. They only knew he didn't look like her—or them.
Terrorist Lover.
She didn't know what was worse, that message or the new one:
Traitors must die.
Chapter One
April 2016
Wednesday
U.S. Marshal Mallory Bodine scratched the insanely annoying itch on her scalp with her thumbnail. But because she had to go through the thick, cheap wig, she found no relief. Like she'd gone at the itch with a feather.
A bead of sweat ran down between her shoulder blades. The Seattle weather was usually comfortable in April, but the stupid afternoon sun was shining right on her. She stood before the rusty shopping cart packed tight with several black garbage bags. In the seat of the cart was a large, brown paper bag that held a rough, dirty-looking wool blanket. She fidgeted with the blanket, tucked an empty Target bag next to the blanket, then pretended to look at the dumpster to her left as if she were about to go treasure hunting.
“Go ahead and dig into the dumpster,” came the voice over her earpiece. “We'd love to see that.” Her colleague Noah Flanagan chuckled.
Mallory ambled to the dumpster as if she were going to dig. “Suck it, Flanagan,” she mumbled. She reared back as the pungent odor of rotten food and sour milk smacked her in the face.
The odor was the worst, but she refused to gag. She would not show weakness. The team in the van would never let her live it down. And she had worked hard to be where she was today. Her ultimate goal had been to be a field officer, hunting fugitives. Like Tommy Lee Jones had done in those movies, only she hoped the people she hunted were as nefarious as they appeared on their rap sheets. She had no desire to hunt innocent people. Being a field officer was why she'd worked all those long hours, protecting witnesses and judges. Funny how she hadn't pictured herself undercover as a bag lady when she'd envisioned herself in the field. She'd definitely drawn the short stick with her current assignment.
She couldn't wait to take a shower.
She glanced up and down the alley that ran behind the city's hospital, surveying the scene. Inside the hospital, their fugitive, a dope smuggler under the guise of a land-buying businessman, had come out of hiding to visit his mother. Mallory could respect that. And she would. She'd let him get his face time in and then take him down the second he stepped foot out the hospital doors. A team was inside watching the fugitive, ready to give her the alert when Mr. Five-Different-State-Warrants was on the move.
A scuffling sound behind Mallory had her looking over her shoulder. She knew it wasn't the fugitive, but she hadn't expected visitors in the alley. Their surveillance showed that few people used the alley, except for their fugitive, who was trying to stay under the radar. No deliveries were scheduled for that day.
She narrowed her eyes as she watched a guy, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, hustle a kid into the alley. The guy was dressed well enough. Clean jeans, a tucked-in polo shirt. The kid, a boy about the same age as her nephew Cy, looked to be maybe ten years old but was unkempt. His shoes were worn and his jeans dirty. The guy's hand clutched the kid's shoulder, and the kid winced in pain.
In an attempt to scare them away, Mallory kicked the dumpster and mumbled something really loud about being sucked into the spaceship and needing mayonnaise to take with her next time as a peace offering.
Which had no effect.
“Jeez,” Noah said in her ear. “What are the odds? Get rid of them, Mal.”
“Target is on the move. He left his mom's room and is in the men’s toilet,” a female voice said over the line. Pattie, an agent two years older than Mallory's thirty-four. “Looks like the visit is over.”
“Get out of my alley,” Mallory said in a low hiss, her attention swinging to the guy and kid. She had only a handful of minutes.
The guy glared at her for a second, then returned his focus to the kid, shoving him against the filthy exterior wall of the hospital. He loomed over him. “You gonna say anything to those doctors once we get inside?”
The kid shook his head, terror etched on his face.
“That's right. If there's a doctor or nurse or anyone else in the room other than me or your mom, you don't open your mouth. Hear me?”
The kid's nod was slight. Likely stunted from fear.
The guy slapped his palm against the kid’s forehead, bouncing the back of the kid's head off the concrete wall.
“I said, ‘Do you hear me?’” the guy repeated.
Mallory grabbed her bag-lady purse from the grocery cart. Inside was nothing but folded newspaper, giving substantial weight to the bag.
“Hey.” She moved toward the guy.
He cranked his head to the side and glowered at Mallory. “Mind your business, hag.” His hands came to rest on the kid’s shoulders. His knuckles turned white as he pressed his fingers into the kid.
“Don't be a hero, Mal. Just get him out of there. Get that kid out of there,” Noah warned in her ear.
Mallory watched the boy's face, her heart aching as she saw the pain and terror there. Mostly from the bully towering over him but possibly partly due to her. She was the picture of sketchiness. “Do you know this guy?” she asked the kid, pointing to the bully.
The kid nodded.
“I'm his stepdad,” the guy snarled. “What's it to you?”
It was a reasonable question. And as an officer of the law, she felt compelled to respond truthfully. Mallory cleared her throat.
Noah groaned in her ear.
“Target in the elevator,” Patti said. “ETA, two minutes.”
On the other three days the fugitive had visited his mother, he'd taken the elevator down to the first floor and exited on the side of the hospital, through the alley. A car would then pull up at the end of the alley and whisk away their man on the run. Mallory expected that car to materialize any minute.
The fugitive's mom was doing well and possibly being released from the hospital tomorrow, according to the doctor. Mallory’s team had to move now or risk losing him in the wind again.
Two minutes.
Mallory narrowed her eyes at the guy. “I see you're living up to the stepdad stereotype. Well done, you. You asked what's it to me?” She took three steps closer. “You know there's a fine line between disciplining a child and child abuse.”
“You gonna call the cops?” Bully Stepdad straightened and did his best imitation of a turkey, puffing out his chest and spreading his shoulders.
“Target is out of the elevator. One minute,” Pattie said.
Mallory mentally ran through the options of how she could pull two weeds with one yank. This guy needed to be taught a lesson.
Thankfully, her mom had never remarried after her father died. Even a kind stepdad was a hard adjustment.
“Bet you're used to that, having the cops called? Bet you'll blame the kid, too, when it was your actions that caught my attention.” She stepped closer, baiting him. Her time guarding witnesses and judges had taught her a lot about people, their coping skills, and anger management. She couldn't hit him first, but all she needed was for him to swing at her.
Bully Stepdad pointed a finger at her. “You're asking for it.”
“Want to hit me, don't you?”
“Target is exiting,” Pattie said.
Time was up.
Mallory decided to do something she hadn't since grade school. Guys like the stepdad were easily incited by what they perceived as disrespect, and they had a hairline trigger. She gulped a wad of air and called it back up, burping loudly in his face.
Precisely at the same time she burped, the exit door swung open and banged loudly against the side of the building.
The echo of the door hitting the building made the kid jump and surprised the bully stepdad, like she knew it would. Paired with her disgusting behavior, that pushed the man over the line. He reared back and swung at her.
Mallory leaned away from the swing, and his fist missed her by mere centimeters. The wind caused by his passing fist ruffled the bangs on her wig.
Mr. Fugitive, Ryan Nickles—wanted in five states—donned a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses. He glanced briefly at Mallory and the dad before striding purposefully toward the end of the alley.
It was go time.
Mallory kneed the stepdad in the groin, turning her back on him before he could drop to the ground in agony.
“Get behind the dumpster,” she told the kid. He scurried off.
Mallory’s focus was on Ryan Nickles.
A Town Car pulled up at the end of the alley.
“Jeez, Mal, don't let him get away,” Noah said. “Team B on alert. Be prepared to block the car.”
“Roger,” said a disembodied voice.
The sound of an engine turning over came through Mallory’s earpiece.
“Hey, you dropped something,” Mallory called to the departing fugitive.
Nickles glanced over his shoulder and raised a lip in disgust. But he kept moving, walking at a quick pace.
“Hey, I said you dropped something. No littering allowed here.”
He continued to walk. Glancing at her over his shoulder, he said, “You have to be kidding.”
She had seconds. Mere seconds. She windmilled her arm, her heavy bag turning with centrifugal force. Three rotations later, she let it fly, aiming for the fugitive’s back.
The purse sailed through the air, colliding with Nickles and nailing him between the shoulder blades.
He staggered forward, his sunglasses flying off his face as he dropped to one knee. In slow motion, he rotated his trunk toward her. Eyes narrowed, he surveyed her up and down.
His gaze lingered on her shoulder.
She’d donned a heavy overcoat to cloak her shoulder holster and firearm, yet she wondered whether he could tell. “You dropped something,” she repeated.
He put one hand on the ground and slowly pushed himself up. He glanced to the car at the end of the alley and the stepdad on the ground, then at Mallory.
He was assessing the situation. He looked around again, then studied the space between Mallory and the car.
In that moment, she knew he was going to run.
She'd seen this look before. Mostly on her cousin Fits’s face during flag football when he knew she had him, and he needed to book it to the end zone. Ryan Nickles had figured out things in the alley weren't as they seemed, and his fight or flight was kicking in. He was the type of guy who would do anything to get away, anything to evade law enforcement.
There was a child in the alley. A perfect hostage.
Nickles's nostrils flared, which was his tell. He leapt to his feet and bolted. Mallory took off in a sprint toward him. She caught up to him in seconds, partly because he'd swooped down to snatch up his sunglasses as he made the dash to his car and partly because she was fast as all get-out.
Like a flying squirrel, Mallory propelled off the ground while flinging her arms out wide and launched herself at him. She landed on his back and took him down to the ground. The front of her face collided with the back of his head. Pain shot through her chin as her teeth banged against each other.
They grunted simultaneously. Nickles began bucking her, trying to throw her off his back. But she was a girl from the South who grew up playing mostly with boys. She grabbed his ears and yanked back hard, so his head bent almost unnaturally.
“Knock it off!” she cried. To Noah, she said, “Get the car's driver.”
“Team B, move in,” Noah ordered. The hospital’s side door banged open for a second time, and Mallory didn't have to turn around to know Pattie was exiting.
“You're gonna rip my ear off!” Nickles screamed.
“If you move, you'll be the one ripping them off.”
Pattie ran up and cuffed him. Mallory let go of his ears and helped Pattie flip Nickles to his back. His forehead and nose were scraped with road rash. His top lip was busted up. The sunglasses he'd made a point of grabbing had been crushed by his hand in the fall.
Mallory ripped off her wig and tossed it to the ground. The cool air caressing her scalp was a heavenly relief. She reached into her shirt pocket and pulled out her badge.
“U.S. Marshals. Ryan Nickles, you're under arrest.”
From somewhere behind her, the bully stepdad groaned. Mallory chuckled. He knew he was busted too.
