guy passed out. There wasn’t time to talk his way into the morgue, and to be honest, Callahan wasn’t in the mood to try.
He dragged the unconscious body around the corner, and tucked it in a janitor’s closet. The door to the morgue was locked, and there was a small keypad on the wall. Callahan flipped through his PDA, looking at the codes Weller had uploaded. He found the line marked Greenville and typed in the five digit code. The door hissed and the lock snapped open.
He stepped through double swinging doors into a white tiled room that held two stainless steel metal carts and a bunch of drawers in the wall. It’d been a while since Callahan’d been in a morgue.
He opened the first drawer and tugged out the body, a blond man with a bullet hole in his chest. No other markings. He appeared to be in good shape, but nothing to give away his training. When Callahan checked the other four bodies, he didn’t find any indication who sent these men to kill him. Short haircuts, bullet holes, a few scars, but no tattoos or anything else that stood out. If he had to guess he’d say military, but beyond that he couldn’t put a finger on which division. He took photos. When he snapped one of the guy he interviewed, he marked it with a caption.
The skin on the bodies was all ashen, and gray, except for the bullet holes, which had dried reddish brown. Hours of training at the range had paid off again. Nice shots.
Callahan texted the pictures of the bodies to Weller.
He left the morgue and checked on the labcoat. The guy was stirring. His breathing was normal. Time to get the hell out of there.
John and Ashley stepped into her apartment. They hadn’t talked on the car ride from Jersey City. John had tried once more to ask what the hell was going on, but Ashley just shook her head and turned up the radio. “Thunder Road.” John spent the rest of the trip breathing through his mouth so he didn’t smell the smoke anymore. And flexing his forearms to stop the tremors.
The apartment was cluttered. Three day old newspapers were scattered across the table. The room smelled faintly of old coffee. A half filled glass of wine was on the floor next to her chair. It rested on top of a folder with a name on it. John could make out “Peter,” but not the last name. He hadn’t been to her place in a week, and he wondered how long that glass had been there.
The room felt cold. He took a breath through his nose, and let it out through his mouth. The smell of smoke was still there.
“Why did you come for me, Ashley?”
“I saw you on the news. They said you got arrested. I wanted to help you.” She picked up the wine glass and grabbed the file underneath. “Come on, we don’t have time.”
John closed his eyes. Things just weren’t clicking for him. “Time for what?”
“We’re running, John. We’re getting the hell out of here. Starting over wherever we can get to.”
“What are you talking about?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she went into her hallway closet, dragged out a suitcase into her bedroom. She emerged two minutes later, the suitcase behind her. Clothes had been thrown into it. She put the folder in it and then zipped the case.
“I made a mistake, John. I thought I was trying to do the right thing and help.”
It didn’t register with John immediately, but somewhere in the back of his brain it clicked in. He imagined standing outside the Starbucks, looking through the window and seeing Frank facing him. The woman Frank was talking to. The back of her head, the brown hair peeking out from the hat. The crook of her arm, the way she moved. The idea John had been trying to block out for weeks now.
“Have you been seeing Frank? Was it you in the Starbucks?”
Ashley shook her head and leaned forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw you talking to him. Like three weeks ago, at the Starbucks in Montclair.”
Ashley closed her eyes. John could swear she went a little paler.
“I think
He dragged the unconscious body around the corner, and tucked it in a janitor’s closet. The door to the morgue was locked, and there was a small keypad on the wall. Callahan flipped through his PDA, looking at the codes Weller had uploaded. He found the line marked Greenville and typed in the five digit code. The door hissed and the lock snapped open.
He stepped through double swinging doors into a white tiled room that held two stainless steel metal carts and a bunch of drawers in the wall. It’d been a while since Callahan’d been in a morgue.
He opened the first drawer and tugged out the body, a blond man with a bullet hole in his chest. No other markings. He appeared to be in good shape, but nothing to give away his training. When Callahan checked the other four bodies, he didn’t find any indication who sent these men to kill him. Short haircuts, bullet holes, a few scars, but no tattoos or anything else that stood out. If he had to guess he’d say military, but beyond that he couldn’t put a finger on which division. He took photos. When he snapped one of the guy he interviewed, he marked it with a caption.
The skin on the bodies was all ashen, and gray, except for the bullet holes, which had dried reddish brown. Hours of training at the range had paid off again. Nice shots.
Callahan texted the pictures of the bodies to Weller.
He left the morgue and checked on the labcoat. The guy was stirring. His breathing was normal. Time to get the hell out of there.
John and Ashley stepped into her apartment. They hadn’t talked on the car ride from Jersey City. John had tried once more to ask what the hell was going on, but Ashley just shook her head and turned up the radio. “Thunder Road.” John spent the rest of the trip breathing through his mouth so he didn’t smell the smoke anymore. And flexing his forearms to stop the tremors.
The apartment was cluttered. Three day old newspapers were scattered across the table. The room smelled faintly of old coffee. A half filled glass of wine was on the floor next to her chair. It rested on top of a folder with a name on it. John could make out “Peter,” but not the last name. He hadn’t been to her place in a week, and he wondered how long that glass had been there.
The room felt cold. He took a breath through his nose, and let it out through his mouth. The smell of smoke was still there.
“Why did you come for me, Ashley?”
“I saw you on the news. They said you got arrested. I wanted to help you.” She picked up the wine glass and grabbed the file underneath. “Come on, we don’t have time.”
John closed his eyes. Things just weren’t clicking for him. “Time for what?”
“We’re running, John. We’re getting the hell out of here. Starting over wherever we can get to.”
“What are you talking about?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she went into her hallway closet, dragged out a suitcase into her bedroom. She emerged two minutes later, the suitcase behind her. Clothes had been thrown into it. She put the folder in it and then zipped the case.
“I made a mistake, John. I thought I was trying to do the right thing and help.”
It didn’t register with John immediately, but somewhere in the back of his brain it clicked in. He imagined standing outside the Starbucks, looking through the window and seeing Frank facing him. The woman Frank was talking to. The back of her head, the brown hair peeking out from the hat. The crook of her arm, the way she moved. The idea John had been trying to block out for weeks now.
“Have you been seeing Frank? Was it you in the Starbucks?”
Ashley shook her head and leaned forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw you talking to him. Like three weeks ago, at the Starbucks in Montclair.”
Ashley closed her eyes. John could swear she went a little paler.
“I think
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