Girl Under Fire (A Sam Hemming FBI Thriller Prequel) Page 3

  Chapter 4

  Upper Basement

  As I reach the top of the stairs, I hear voices in the distance. This part of the building is lit but dimly so. I soon find out why. There are rows of racks—all holding bottles of liquor. As I reach for the frame right in front of me, I find that they are expensive bottles. None of them have a custom's seal indicating that they entered the country without paying the appropriate import taxes. Is there anything this guy does that falls within the letter of the law? I wonder. There must be a thousand racks, and each rack must have a hundred bottles. I look at the label of one, and it is a product of Italy. One is a product of Israel, and the other, a product of South Africa. As I make my way across, I find there are expensive bottles, each likely over a thousand dollars from almost every country in the world.

  Then I look carefully, and I realize that this is not a custom's and excise tax issue; this is still part of the money laundering mechanism. Each bottle here was at least fifty years old. Worth over a hundred thousand dollars in most cases. A quick number-crunching exercise makes me realize that there are over ten billion dollars in liquor bottles here. This was not what they drank – this was how they laundered part of the money they brought in. I will come back to him later, and I promise myself as I move forward.

  The voices in the distance are coming from the top of the stairs that leads to the street level. I hear the conversation loud and clear. They are discussing how easily they had taken down the SWAT team. There are three of them talking as they smoke their Cubans. I can smell the Cohibas from down here.

  "You think more will come?" the American with the southern accent asks. I assume he means more FBI SWAT.

  "No," the deeper voice answers. He has a regular accent. Sounds Hispanic, something that you would find on the south side of L.A. "We managed to cut them down without the rest of the Bureau knowing about it."

  "That's crap," says a third guy. Now, this guy is Mediterranean. Probably Greek. Someone who had spent much of his time in Cyprus, judging by the confluence of his accent. "That's not why they won't come."

  "Why do you say that?" the southern guy asks with his broken English. I can almost picture him to be buck-toothed and hideous-looking.

  "Because," The Greek answers, "it's true. They won't come because Boos is paid up with the right people."

  "In the FBI?" The Hispanic asks.

  "Not just the FBI. It goes all the way to the Department of Justice. Boss knows a hit before it is even approved."

  As they talk the comm radio comes alive." She's not here," an American says. His language is clear. He is from around here – the tristate area, I conclude. But the way he says what he says, blows my mind. "Are they talking about me?" I find myself whispering.

  "Anyone found Special Agent Hemming?" He asks over the radio, presumably to the others who are out scouting the massacre up top. One by one, the others come back, answering in the negative.

  They are looking for me, I realize.

  "We have to tell boss," the first guy on the radio says.

  The conversation between the three guys further up now changes. They begin to talk about me. They've heard the same communications I just did.

  "She was the one they needed to hit today, and she is the one they missed. Boss is not going to like that," The Greek commented.

  "Why not?" the clueless buck tooth asked.

  "This whole thing was arranged so that we kill Agent Hemming. She had been on our tail for a year, and she was coming close. Boss needed her killed in an ambush so that our mole in the unit is not exposed.

  That's the moment I froze. Those people died because I had done my job. All those men died because this was an ambush to get me. My instinct not to call the Bureau yet was right. It would be nice to put a bullet in him and leave him for dead. It would be payback for the families who would be told tonight that their sons and husbands won't be coming home tonight.

  But I took an oath, and it was to bring those who committed crimes against my country to justice. Killing Nyke would not be justice, it would just be an eye for an eye. I may have been persuaded to run for my life and leave Nyke for another day, but not anymore. Now, I wanted him in cuffs and at Federal Plaza by dawn, and I had to do it quietly.

  I had to move now, and I had to get him soon since I only had about an hour.

  "So, you're heading back with the boss again," the Hispanic asked the Greek. Their conversation had resumed after the brief interruption.

  "Yeah. I go where the boss goes," he replies with a bit of pride in his position.

  "How did you get to be so lucky?" Bucktooth asks.

  "A lot of bodies," he answered simply. Nyke needed someone who would have his back and kill efficiently, and so he chose me.

  "What time are you guys leaving?" The Hispanic asked.

  "Flight leaves Teterboro at 1 am. We will leave here at midnight," the Greek answered.

  I look at my watch, it's a little past eleven. I have less than an hour, and I realize that the timing is perfect, even if it's a little tight. I just need to get Nyke alone.

  But there is just one problem. If they can't find my body on the street, they will have to suspect that I am either in the building or making my way back to safe ground. Then it hits me. I know how to get everyone off my heels.

  Chapter 5

  In the Wind

  I pull out the Groveling Greek's phone and extract his thumb from my ankle pouch. Placing it on the screen the phone comes alive and I get to the app store. I download the TOR app and get connected. The Voice-over-IP call would not be traceable, even by the FBI.

  I call the Bureau's emergency line. "Agent Samantha Hemming, badge number six-five-eleven-eleven-nine. Emergency. SWAT team down. Only one left standing," I whisper through the phone.

  "Standby for voiceprint, Agent Hemming," the person on the other end said. It didn't take long before she came back. "Voiceprint confirmed, Agent Hemming. Patching you to Director Steward.

  "Director Steward?" I say, surprised to myself. I am getting patched directly to the Director of the FBI – at almost midnight on Christmas Eve?

  "Agent Hemming. I am glad you are alright. Where are you?" Director Steward says.

  "Director, they are all dead, sir. My entire team. I managed to get out by the skin of my teeth."

  "Where are you. I am chasing up a lead, sir. I am on my way to Teterboro. I should be there in about three minutes. Nyke is supposed to leave on his private jet at 1 am."

  "Where is he now?" Director Steward asks.

  "I believe he is still at the Bleecker Street location or has just left."

  "Special Agent Harold Brass will lead the team into Teterboro."

  "Harold, sir?"

  "Yes, he is right here, in front of me."

  "Harold Brass is alive?"

  "Yes, Agent. It's only by God's graces that the two of you seemed to have made it out alive."

  But that's not possible, I tell myself. If he were alive, Harold would have answered me when the shooting started. I was sure they had shot him. The confusion began to reign down on my mind and shake my hold on reality.

  "Here, you talk to him; the two of you need to coordinate this," Director Steward said, passing the phone to Harold.

  "Sam?" He said, seeming surprised, but not as he came on.

  "Harold, I am glad you are alright," I said, masking my confusion.

  "How did you get out of the ambush?" He asked as I began to wonder more and more about his sincerity.

  "I got out a block earlier than I was supposed to," I answered. It was the only way that I could have escaped the ambush. If I told him that I had made it all the way to the building, they might deduce that I was still in the building, and since I could not trust anyone, I could not offer up the truth for the moment. At least not until Nyke was in custody, and I knew what was what.

  I disconnect the line without engaging in usual pleasantries. It would have seemed as though the line got cut off. I didn't mean to be on th
e phone for more than three minutes in case they could back-trace the call across the TOR circuits. I went back around the steps and climbed up to the upper basement. The three men that stood at the top of the stairs on the ground floor had now moved away. I had a clear shot to the ground floor. I decided to take it. This would be the true test.

  To my surprise, the coast is clear. I made it to the ground floor and found a clear path to the steps that led to the first floor. From here onward, the building is decorated in plush style. Classic interior design is mingled with antique furniture. The hardness of the stucco walls balanced with the velvet drapes’ softness; the darkness of the timber floors underfoot was balanced by the illumination of the soft chandelier hat hung from fresco ceilings. For a gangster, Nyke and his cohort did have style, I had to admit. But I soon reminded myself that all that extravagance was paid for by blood.

  Again no one interrupted my assent to the second floor. Across the second floor had walls adorned with life-sized paintings from the masters and busts of Roman emperors. I could see the reason why the staircase was deserted and easy for me to utilize. No one used the stairs since there were a pair of elevators on the north side of the building. The stairs, I figured, were for the help to serve the bosses upstairs.

  I wasn't ready to get to the second floor as my instincts told me that I needed to stop here for a minute. A look up the flight of stairs revealed the reason. Closed-circuit cameras located at the top of the stairs would have alerted the goons that I was in the building. If there were CCTVs there, then there was a control room it was all tied to. Since there weren't on the floors below, I was confident they were here on this floor.

  "Alright, Sam," I said, you don't have much time."

  Moving with my Glock pointed up, I checked the ceiling and the walls of this floor for cameras. None. This floor seemed to be unmonitored. Even with all the art and sculptures, security here seemed lax, until I realized why. The kind of people who visited this place did not want to be caught on camera. Cameras could be hacked into, recordings could be admissible in court, and video evidence could be used to blackmail. For this reason, there were no cameras, I figured. That had to be it.

  It occurred to me then that the paintings here were not just for the art lover. The crates that were stacked up were the kinds that held expensive paintings. These were pieces of art used in the money laundering business, just as the expensive bottles of liquor down below were. I wondered how much Nyke would stand to lose if I torched this building. But I am sure all of it was insured.

  I moved further inward and found a door at the end of the room. It had to be in the control room. As I moved closer, I listened for sounds. I was talking, breathing, walking – anything that would give me an idea of the number of goons behind the door. But there was nothing there. Not as far as I could hear.

  I rushed to the door to catch whoever was behind it by surprise and found only one guy at the table. More than thirty screens spread across the wall in front of him. By the time he could react to my presence, I dispatched a bullet for a rendezvous with his head. I closed the door and took my time. Pushing the dead guy to the corner of the room, I sat on another chair and scoured the landscape.

  Most of the men were gone. Only a small group of men were out on the sidewalk and on the streets. I could see footage from the drones that remained in hover mode above the surrounding intersections. I could see the intersection where the team was ambushed. The SWAT vans had been cleared. I wondered where they took them too. They probably dumped them in the River. Then I realized that most of the men involved in the ambush did not seem to be anywhere on the screens.

  "Odd," I whispered. "Where did they go?" But that was not my real concern at this point. I scoured the images for the third floor. None of them had Nyke on them, but the cameras showed there was no one else either. Aside from a small contingent of men in the lobby, the rest of the building had hollowed out.

  I found the control panel and scrubbed back a few minutes and saw the men all assemble in the lobby then leave out the front door. They got into their vehicles and left. Scouring the drone footage, I could see they headed into the Holland Tunnel. And they were in a hurry.

  It was time to lay it all out on the table. I exited the control room and moved swiftly to the stir, and made my way up. It did not matter if the camera was on since the control room was now unmanned. I reached the top of the stairs to find it empty; only voices came from one of the three doors at the end of the vast hall.

  I moved quickly to where I thought I heard the sounds form and bust in to find five men sitting around a table. These were Nyke's local affiliates. I could recognize each of them. Nyke was the man at the head of the table. It was apparent none of them expected me, but the one with the quickest reflex was Nyke. He moved for his gun but was not fast enough as I buried one of my bullets in the shoulder of his shooting arm. By the pain that escaped him in a grunt, I could tell it had severed the Brachial Plexus. His arm fell to the side, as his brain could no longer control it. The injury was not severe enough to kill him, but it was enough to immobilize him.

  "I thought you were in Teterboro," Nyke finally says.

  I pretend I had other things to do while I passed around plastic ties to all the others around the table. They obediently bound ankles and wrists and sat on the floor as they were told. To Nyke, I gave him just the hand ties which he did himself without the use of his right arm.

  I pulled out the phone I had taken in the basement, placed the dead man's thumb on it, and called a friend of mine.

  "It’s me,” I said as he answered his phone.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked right away, noting that the VoIP call came from behind layers of obfuscation.

  “Remember the Nyke bust I told you about?” I asked as Nyke stared at me coldly.

  “Yeah,” Pat answered.

  “Well, it went sideways. There is a mole at the Bureau, and I am not sure how high it goes,” I tell him.

  “So, you want us to scoop Nyke?” Pat asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, almost in a whisper, as I stare back at the man who thinks his stare is enough to intimidate me.

  “Where is he now?” Pat asks.

  “He is right in front of me. You need to come now.”

  “Where?” Pat asks. I explain the whole thing, and he promises to send the Secret Service team that is stationed in New York. The Secret Service is not just tasked with the security of the President. A role not many people know about has to do with counterfeit and money laundering activities.

  “That’s not far. We’ll be there in ten,” he assures me.

  “Will you be coming too?” I ask, suddenly needing to see a familiar face.

  “Of course. I am already on my way.”

  As promised, the Secret Service arrived in under five minutes and swarmed the building taking down the goons at the entrance and taking Nyke and the four other men into custody. Nyke just smiles as he glares at me. I get the look. He’s telling me that this is not over and that he will be there to take me down in the near future.

  **

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