“Are you using again?” Astra asks.
“No. God no. Elliot has given me a second chance, and I’m not wasting it. I’ve wasted too many years already,” she replies.
“So, why would Nick think that threat would work?” Astra presses.
“Because like I told you, he doesn’t plan. He just does things. I don’t know if you know this about him, but he’s not very smart. He dropped out of school in sixth grade. He doesn’t think about anything—doesn’t have the ability to think rationally or logically to begin with. And of course, the drugs don’t help either. But that’s who Nick Zane is,” she says.
Drumming my fingers on the counter, I shake my head. As much as I hate to say it, I believe her. I believe she’s being honest with us. I came in here sure that Violet either had something to do with these abductions or at least knew something about it. Now, though, I’m not so sure.
“And you didn’t think to tell us all this before… why?” Astra asks gruffly.
“Like I said, I knew how it might look, and I was afraid,” she says. “Plus, I genuinely don’t think Nick did it. He’s just not smart enough.”
“But he’s very motivated,” Astra says. “And that can make up for a lot of shortcomings.”
I watch as a fat tear dangles off her chin, quivering before it falls, splashing onto the counter next to her mug of tea.
“I didn’t think about it like that,” she replies sadly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s why we told you how important it was that you were honest with us,” Astra growls. “Because you lied, if Nick took her, he’s had days now to do… God knows what.”
Violet’s shoulders shake as she cries. She buries her face in her hands and sobs, sounding like an injured animal. We give her a moment to collect herself, and when she finally does, I look at her with the sternest expression I can manage.
“It’s time you make this right,” I tell her. “You need to tell us where Nick is, Violet. And you need to tell us now.”
Homeworth Motel; Tysons Corner, VA
About half an hour to the west of Senator Barlow’s home in Arlington is Tysons Corner. For a long time, Tysons Corner was a rural area best known for a couple of giant shopping centers. It was also known for its rough neighborhoods and crime as well as for rampant drug manufacturing and distribution. But aggressive gentrification and an influx of technological capital and businesses over the last few years have been reshaping the area, turning it into one of the fastest growing communities near the Beltway.
But not even the steady flow of money has been able to shed light into all the dark corners. Even though it’s quickly becoming a relatively affluent bedroom community for those who work in the DC Metro area, some of the rougher areas stubbornly remain. They’re dug in deep, and I don’t think the powers that be are going to be able to root them out anytime soon.
“All right, everybody gear up. Make sure you’re wearing your vest. We have no idea what we’re walking into here,” I say.
“Shouldn’t we call in a SWAT team?” Paige asks.
“We probably should. But that’s going to invite questions Senator Barlow does not want to answer,” I respond. “As of right now, Ashley’s abduction hasn’t been linked with Peter’s, and I want to keep it that way for as long as we can.”
“Copy that,” Paige says, sounding uneasy.
I understand her hesitance. We don’t have an operational plan, any information about the layout of the hotel, or any intel about the target. For all we know, he’s sitting in his room with machine guns and a nuclear bomb. If we were following proper protocol, we’d call in a SWAT team, let them recon the place, formulate a plan, and go in with force. But we need to be more discreet than that. I’m banking on the fact that there are four of us and one guy who’s likely either high or strung out in that room alone. I’m hoping that the four of us will be sufficient to overwhelm him and get him into custody before he can even think to grab his weapon.
“Okay, Mo, Paige, you two circle around the back,” I say. “Keep him from going out the back window. Be careful and keep your heads on a swivel.”
“Copy that,” Mo says.
Mo and Paige trot off, circling around the back of the motel to get into position. There are a few people on the street watching us with a mix of curiosity and fear on their faces. I give Mo and Paige a few moments to get around back, then turn to Astra.
“You ready?” I ask.
Astra checks the safety on the M4 Carbine in her hands and tightens her crossbody strap, then nods. “Good to go.”
Unholstering my Glock, I hold it down at my side and lead Astra across the parking lot within the horseshoe-shaped building, heading for Zane’s room. Shady doesn’t begin to describe the Homeworth Motel. The yellow paint on the building is faded and cracked, cardboard is taped over some of the broken windows, and the water in the pool is a pale shade of green. This place has clearly seen better days. But the rooms are cheap, and as the sign out front proclaims, offers daily, weekly, and monthly rates. I’m sure if you asked, it offers hourly rates as well.
Adrenaline floods my system when a door to our left opens and we both spin, raising our weapons. The woman standing in the doorway gapes at us, her face frozen with fear. Astra waves her back toward the room.
“Go back inside and close the door,” Astra orders in a harsh whisper.
The woman quickly complies and shuts the door. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I feel the pressure of unseen eyes watching us from behind the ragged, threadbare curtains that cover the windows around us. Putting it out of my mind, I turn, and we continue forward, crossing a patch of dirt and dead, dried grass. We stop, each of us taking a position on either side of Zane’s door. His car, a 1990 Pontiac Grand Am that was once white but is now a dull gray with big patches of rust is parked in the lot, telling us that he’s home.
I key open my comms. “Mo, we’re at the target door,” I whisper.
“We’re in position,” her voice crackles through my earpiece.
“Copy that; stand by,” I say. “We’re about to make entry.”
“Standing by.”
I look at Astra who gives me a nod. My weapon in one hand, I reach out with the other and bang on the door with the side of my fist.
“Nicholas Zane, open up, FBI,” I call out.
The sound of a round being chambered sends a flood of ice through my veins. Astra and I lean away from the door as the first shots ring out. The bullets tear through the cheap, flimsy door, blowing holes through large enough to put my fist through. From inside the room, Zane curses as he struggles with his weapon. Moving quickly, I kick the door, shattering what was left of it and sending it flying inward.
The ragged remains crash against the wall behind it as Astra and I charge in, moving low and fast. We find Zane sitting on the edge of his bed, a jammed .45 in his hand. He looks up to find himself staring down the barrel of my Glock and Astra’s M4, and a resigned expression crosses his face. He drops his weapon to the worn carpeting with a hard thud.
