Damaged Goods

It was a cell phone. A cursory inspection made it clear it was Terry’s and out of juice.

What was Terry’s cell phone doing under the bed?

Chapter Twenty-One

The find sickened me. Terry wouldn’t have left willingly without his phone. I saw no sign of a fight. Not unless they had a knock-down drag out and straightened up afterward—highly doubtful.

But the phone could have been kicked under the bed. Possibly by someone holding a gun on Terry. And if this had anything to do with my inquiries into the Georgian (or Svanetian) letter, then it could be my fault that Terry was . . . Kidnapped? Being tortured? Dead?

I tried to shut down this new train of thought, which was sheer supposition anyway. Maybe the hackers coming after him were angry enough to take him hostage. But without any struggle from Terry? Nah.

The police. I should file a missing persons report. Tell them everything I’d had done to try to reach Terry. I would leave out the part about breaking into his apartment. They could search it for themselves if they wanted to.

It was the least I could do if Blaine’s case related to Terry’s disappearance. And, at this point, the least I could do was the best I could do.

???

After exhausting every possible hiding place for clues, I left Terry’s apartment. My spidey-sense tingled. The internal poison ivy flared. That too-familiar feeling of bad vibes from my time being deployed overseas. As I walked to my car, I felt a presence behind me. The presence walked quietly as a cat, but his footsteps whispered against the pavement in a way that told me he was large and heavy. I say “he”, because I caught a glimpse of his shadow. It could’ve been Sasquatch’s.

“Excuse me,” a voice rumbled at my back. I stopped and turned. A man approached me. He was like a gorilla, with possibly a bit less hair.

The lights went out for a moment. Then, I realized the man was on the ground, out cold. I felt slightly dizzy, but remained upright. My arms ached a bit. They felt like I’d been lifting weights.

A blackout. I hadn’t had one in ages. But then I hadn’t felt this threatened in a long time.

Itchiness swept through me. Bugs crawled up my spine. I scanned the surrounding buildings. Saw a glimmer on the roof. I dove for the pavement, trying to keep my chin from scraping concrete, but not quite succeeding.

Zzzip. Crack. The sounds verified my fears. The bullet grazed the nearby shrubbery, thudding into the ground. Too close.

I pushed myself up with caution, looking toward where light had reflected off the sniper’s scope. Nothing there. I touched my chin. Blood stained my hand. Facial wounds always seem worse than they are, blood-wise, but I needed to staunch the flow before I dripped all over one of my few decent shirts.

The Gorilla Man stirred, his eyes still shut. Time to leave. I forced myself to stand and made a wobbly-legged run for the car.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I managed to start the car and pull out of the lot without getting shot at a second time, which was a step in the right direction. Now, I needed to figure out what in God’s name to do next.

/>

My mind spun with possibilities. Focus, focus, focus—my current mantra.

My first thought was to go to the cops. And not just to report what I saw in Terry’s apartment. There was the failure to contact him, the uncharged phone under the bed, plus a sniper taking shots at me in full daylight. It had to be someone staking Terry’s place out. If so, why had Gorilla Man not followed me inside? Could Gorilla Man have been looking for Terry, too? His interest in me might have been completely benign.

That’s the thing about PTSD. Your senses become too acute. Even a person’s shadow made me jumpy. And for all I knew, he might have had no connection to the sniper.

Did any of this have anything to do with my work for Blaine? Or ancient artifacts that might’ve been smuggled from Soviet Georgia (or some part thereof)?

As I drove away, my gaze darted from the rearview mirror to the road. No sign of anyone following me.

A mile or two down the road, I turned onto a side street and pulled over. I retrieved the notepad from my file and wrote down everything I remembered of the incident. If I went to the cops, they’d want a statement. Writing it now would keep the details fresh.

I felt my back twinge again. With all the excitement, adrenaline had masked the return of that blasted backache.

I considered my options. If I went to the police, what could they do if the Mob was involved? We hadn’t had any serial sniper shootings in the area since 2002 when two snipers terrorized the whole DC area and beyond. And despite my concern about Terry, how likely were the cops to make any effort to find him? Was it worth defying my wealthy client’s wishes to keep the police out of it?

But then there was Melissa. Did she fit into this picture anywhere? I’d already put in my three hours toward finding her and then some. But now my friend was missing, too. And the sniper made it clear that the Mob or someone wasn’t just screwing around.

I knew for sure that something was off. I knew from my time in the Corps that a good sniper could have taken me out. If the intent was to kill me, I’d be dead.