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Racketeers and a husband and wife detective team... (Unfinished) |
| notes ▼ lyrics to I Get Carried Away ▼ video ▼ Daniel Sullivan stared at the text message floating on his phone screen. A chill unease crawled down his neck as the threat imprinted itself in his mind. Drop the racketeering case. NOW. Your wife is in danger. He pushed back his chair from the desk and stood, beginning to pace back and forth, counting his steps. His wife, Reema, looked up from her laptop at her own desk in their home office. “You okay?” “No… how can you tell?” “You only count your paces when something's stressing you out more than usual.” He sighed and nodded. Ten steps elapsed in silence. “It's the racketeers, isn't it?” Dan tried to speak and gave up. He reached for his phone and handed it to her. She studied the message and handed it back. “We aren't dropping the case.” Her voice was firm. “Hundreds of millions of dollars are getting laundered in those gambling halls, and the lead we're tracking down indicates minors are involved.” “You're not afraid?” “Honey, we didn't get into the detective business to be scared off by a little text. This is the most important case of our career. If they're threatening us it means we're getting close.” He nodded again, pausing the pacing to take a closer look at the number the text came from. It was a dead-end five-digit code, the kind that sent promos and passkey authentication messages. “From now on, we're doing everything together.” “We do most things together anyway.” *** The warnings kept coming: a note slipped in the mailbox, left under the windshield wiper, or texted from another disposable number. One morning, Dan and Reema went out to the car to find all their tires flattened and the passenger window shattered. Spray paint scrawled a command in red on the driveway: STOP. “We’re not stopping until they're stopped… right?” Dan's throat tightened. Reema was usually his shotgun rider—in a seat now covered with broken glass. “Right. We're in it for the long haul.” Her eyes met his, unwavering. He pulled a handful of business cards out of his back pocket, shuffling through them, ostensibly to find a mechanic, but also to diffuse his anxiety by ensuring they were in alphabetical order. “You know what?” He looked up at her. “May—maybe you should take a nice long retreat to a Swiss convent in the mountains.” She laughed, tossing her hair away from her face. “Aw, that's a good one!” “No, I'm serious.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “For your safety. I can't have you—” “We're a team, Dan.” She put an arm across his shoulder. “How would you wrap this up without me? You know the drill: you do the legwork, I do the research. That's how it's been since we started, three years ago. They can't faze me with petty sabotage and cheap threats.” “I—” “I'm as well trained at self defense as you are. Look, we can get this over faster together, ok?” “Yeah. But if anything happens to you…” He tucked the last business card in the back of his deck with a heavy sigh and started punching numbers into his phone. *** About a week later, Dan was preparing dinner with Reema in the kitchen. She went out to the yard to cut some fresh rosemary for the pasta. A scream tore through the air. He grabbed a butcher knife from the counter and shoved out the back door. Reema was tangling with three masked men on the side yard by the rosemary bush. She sent the smallest figure flying into the brick wall. Two larger men overpowered her. They smothered her in a blanket, dragging her towards an idling Sprinter van and hauling her inside before Dan could get there. He skidded to a stop, heart pounding, gravel flicked in his face by the van as it sped off. Dan spun on his heel. He got down in the mud, nose to nose with the one left behind. He held the knife against his throat. “Where are they taking her? If you don't tell me—” The disheveled guy struggling to sit up and catch his breath looked to be barely past twenty. “Murfreesboro—empty warehouse—near the tracks…” “Naturally.” Dan yanked the younger man to his feet by the collar. “You're coming with me.” In his car, Dan glared at the red light. He reached out to rearrange the row of rubber ducks lined up on the dashboard, succumbing to an OCD need for control. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, frowning at the wannabe racketeer slouched in the backseat. “Why'd they bring you?” “Gambling debt,” he mumbled. “I'm working it off.” Dan snorted, resuming a tight grip on the steering wheel as the light glowed green. “You bloody fool.” “I'm sorry…” “You show you're sorry by helping me get her out of this alive. Otherwise, I have no compunctions about ending your puny life.” “You—you done this before?” “Listen, I'm a private eye. I do what I have to.” Dan didn't mention he had not yet taken a human life in his career. He could only brace himself for what lay ahead. *** |
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