Something about aimee, p.9
Something About Aimee, page 9
Removing the casing on the keypad by the front door with the fine edge of his knife, he pulled the red wire loose and touched it to the solenoid. The electronic lock disengaged, and he pulled the door open. A bell chimed. He silently cursed.
He entered the lobby and closed the door behind him. A long counter with a plexiglass shield ran halfway to the ceiling, separating the lobby from the reception area. Behind the counter, a door to the right opened to a lounge area for the employees, and a hallway led to a back office, bathroom, and warehouse.
A large stack of papers in the file tray on the other side of the partition caught his attention. He walked over to the door and twisted the handle. It was locked. It opened outward, so he couldn’t kick it in.
Pulling out his knife, he used the tip between the lock and the frame. It popped open, and he walked through the door. He laid the knife down on the counter, picked up the stack of papers, and began sorting through the envelopes.
Down the hallway from the reception room, in the back office, Aimee had been sorting drop-offs for half an hour when she came across a large manila envelope with dark red stains on it. It looked like blood splatter. She was about to add it to Stanley’s pile when she saw a familiar name on the front.
H.R.H. Q. Saif-Ad-Din
Urgent
The address was smeared, but Aimee recognized it as Qadir’s penthouse address.
Aimee debated opening the envelope. Giving in, she slid the letter opener along the top, removed the contents, and stared in shock and horror at the photos of dead men, women, and children lined up in rows. Men in military gear stood over them. Her hand shook as she read the names and descriptions written in Arabic at the bottom of each photo. A close-up photo showed who was in command, and his name was written at the bottom of the photo, too.
The name was frighteningly familiar.
Aimee pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, turned the camera on, and took a photo of each graphic picture. Tears burned her eyes when she turned to the last one and saw the map of Jawahir with three small circles on it.
She was about to take a photo of the map when the front door chimed. She looked up with a frown. No one should have entered through the front door—not today, anyway.
She rose from her chair, stuffing all the photos except for the map back into the envelope while silently cursing Stanley for not replacing the broken CCTV security system. She folded the map and slid it into her back pocket to study later.
On the cell phone, she switched the camera to video mode. After turning off the overhead light, she quietly opened the door. She held the phone in front of her as she exited the office, sliding along the scuffed brown wood-paneled wall of the dark hallway until she could see who was in the lobby.
All she could tell was that whoever it was, they were tall. Fortunately, the door between the reception area and the lobby was locked. That sense of relief faded when the glint of a knife appeared and she heard the man working on the lock.
She backed into the small break-room just as he opened the door. Her heart pounded when she caught her first clear view of the man. It was Anderson Coldhouse! She remained frozen, afraid to move lest he catch the movement.
He was going through the papers stacked on the counter. She glanced at the office door. She had to get that blood-stained envelope and get out before Coldhouse knew she was here.
She was about to slip back across the hallway when the bell at the front door chimed again.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Coldhouse growled. “I thought I told you to stay in the car!”
“A call came over the line. Someone noticed you entering the building.”
“Did you tell them you were in the area and would check it out?”
“Yeah.”
“What exactly did you tell them, Bert?”
“I told them I was in the area on my way to pick up some lunch,” Bert answered in an edgy tone.
“Did you mention I was with you?”
“Nah, Anderson, I didn’t say nothing about you.”
“That’s good,” Coldhouse replied.
“Why?” Bert asked.
Aimee was wondering the same thing as she captured the entire exchange on her cell phone when she heard the familiar pop of gunfire. She jumped and lifted a hand to her mouth to smother her horrified gasp.
“You’ve become a liability, partner, and I don’t do liabilities,” Coldhouse said.
The plexiglass was a mess of cracks radiating from the bullet hole. Coldhouse walked around the counter, pushed open the door, and stepped back into the lobby. Through the open door, Aimee saw Bert lying on the ground and Anderson aiming the gun at his partner again. He pulled the trigger two more times. She jumped with each shot. The gun he was holding looked like the one Stanley kept in the box under the counter.
She eyed the door to the back office, then the hallway leading to the employee exit. If she went back into the office, she would be trapped.
Deciding her best chance of escaping was to do it now, she stepped out of the break-room and slid along the wall as quietly as she could. Her heart pounded, and she kept her eyes glued to the reception door. She was halfway to the exit when Coldhouse turned around and walked through the door. Their eyes connected, his wide with surprise, hers flashing with fear and hatred.
A cruel smile curved his lips as he slowly raised the gun. There was nowhere for her to hide. She gripped the cell phone. If she was going to die, she needed to hide it. It was the only evidence she had against him .
“Payback is a bitch, sweetheart,” he said.
Aimee shook her head. “You won’t get away with this,” she forced past her frozen vocal cords.
Coldhouse chuckled. “Oh, I think I will. Especially when it becomes known that you killed a good cop today. He had a lovely wife, and a son and daughter, too.”
“Why did you do this? Does it have anything to do with a blood-stained envelope?”
Anderson’s eyes narrowed. “So, the envelope arrived.” His eyes flickered to the open office door. “Thanks for your help,” he said before he pulled the trigger.
Aimee flinched, but the gun clicked instead of firing. Anderson frowned and pulled the trigger again and again. The reprieve kicked Aimee into motion. She toppled the water cooler outside the office door and took off running.
She probably only had another few seconds until he gave up on Stanley’s gun and remembered that he had his own gun holstered on his belt.
The wood on the door frame beside her exploded from the impact of a bullet. She pushed open the door and burst outside. Turning to the left, she ran as fast as she could down the alley, turning right at the end before crossing the next street.
She ignored Anderson’s curses as he followed. The streets were her home, and she knew every place in this part of the city where she could slip through and disappear.
She ran as far as she could before her recovering lungs forced her to a fast walk. She looked back and didn’t see him. She covered her mouth, trying to smother her coughs as she struggled to catch her breath.
She had to find a safe place to hide. Sirens filled the air, and Aimee slid down behind a dumpster as police vehicles flashed past on their way to Becker’s. She knew what would have happened by now at the courier office. She had witnessed it enough times.
Leaning her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes as tears streamed down her cheeks. Coldhouse would find the file he was looking for and either hide or destroy it. Then, he would play the part of outraged partner and declare her a cop killer. The unspoken word among the Blues would be to kill on sight.
She lowered her head. Coldhouse had been wearing gloves, he had used Stanley’s gun and shot his partner through the partition. He would probably lay out some evidence and call it either a robbery gone bad or drugs. It would probably be drugs.
He’ll say I was running drugs for Biggy and using Stanley as a cover, she thought.
She fingered the phone in her hand. This was bigger than just Coldhouse. This was some serious international shit—and it involved Qadir. She swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat as she remembered the images of the people Coldhouse’s brother had murdered.
She needed help. Help that was higher up the food chain than the local police.
Another cop car flew by, and Aimee knew it would be too dangerous to make it downtown during the daylight hours. She needed to hide until dark.
Chapter Twelve
Qadir frowned when he saw the police vehicles parked in front of the Harris building. He was about to step out of the limo when he saw Tarek exit the building and stride toward the car. A bodyguard pulled the door open and Tarek entered the limo with a sharp command in Arabic. In seconds, the limo pulled away from the curb.
“What happened?” Qadir demanded.
“Carthmen is dead.”
“His heart?”
Tarek shook his head. “A bullet to the head. It looks like a suicide.”
Qadir studied his brother’s face. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Tarek shook his head again. “The angle was wrong—Carthmen was left handed. The gun was in his right hand.”
Qadir lifted an eyebrow. “Murdered? By whom and why?”
Tarek gave him a grim smile. “I can’t answer the who, but I can guess at the why. I’ve been doing some deeper research into Carthmen’s business dealings, following the money. It led to a shell company owned by Atri Holdings. The name sounded familiar.”
“Atri Holdings belongs to Andrius Bronislav, the Lithuanian billionaire,” Qadir replied.
“Yes, and he’s good friends with Rashid al Hamid.”
Qadir grimaced in distaste.
Rashid’s mother, Dima, was Qadir’s great aunt. Rashid’s father was Faiz al Hamid, a sheikh of the northern tribe, who had ruled with a brutal sword thirty-two years ago. Faiz had tried to strip Jawahir of its wealth, killing thousands of people in the process. The marriage of Dima and Faiz was intended to heal the Civil War, but once Faiz had an heir, Dima mysteriously perished in a riding accident.
Rashid had all the ruthless callousness of his late father, but it was extremely unlikely that he would ever rule. His chances of rising to the throne of Jawahir had significantly lessened with the birth of Qadir and his brothers. Rashid’s animosity flared when policies were put in place to diminish the already limited power he held in the cabinet.
“Do you think Rashid was behind the attack? What did Carthmen have to do with it?” Qadir asked.
“Carthmen could have been convenient. What I know is this: There is a connection between Carthmen and Rashid through Atri Holdings. Atri Holdings has been trying to sell our computer chips to countries on our banned list. Unrest is growing in our northern region. One of our mines collapsed, a transport of raw materials was bombed, and a man I have on the inside hasn’t checked in for over a month. Do I believe Rashid was behind the attack on you and the killing of Carthmen? Yes. Can I prove it? No. Various pieces of evidence suggest that he’s the one stirring the pot, but I think it is time I check out what is going on there in person.”
“Make it happen,” Qadir stated.
The limo slowed. Qadir frowned when he saw the street leading to Becker’s closed off. A small crowd was gathering behind a row of cars. A news reporter stood with her back to the building, talking as two people from the coroner’s office emerged from the building with a body in a large black bag. Qadir could feel the blood drain from his face as he took in the scene. He reached for the door, but Tarek covered his hand and shook his head.
“Let Hasan find out what is happening,” Tarek advised.
Qadir wanted to protest, but he knew his brother was right. The media was already becoming curious about their presence. He gave a terse nod. Tarek pulled out his cell phone and rapidly spoke to Hasan.
Qadir watched Hasan exit the vehicle in front of the limo and walk over to a police officer standing near the edge of the crowd. The man looked to be of Middle Eastern descent.
Qadir’s eyes moved back to the vehicle where the body had been deposited. The body in the black bag was too large to be Aimee. It could be Stanley—or one of the other men who worked there.
Hasan walked to the limo door. Qadir lowered the window far enough that he could see Hasan but no one could see in. Hasan bent down and spoke rapidly in a low voice.
“There was a police detective attempting to apprehend a woman who broke into Becker’s. The detective was killed. A second officer was in the area and witnessed the shooting. He said that the detective confronted her, the woman opened fire, and she escaped out the back,” Hasan said.
“What?” Qadir hissed.
“What happened to the woman?” Tarek asked.
Hasan shook his head. “There is a warrant out for her arrest.”
Qadir was about to reply when his cell phone vibrated. He glanced at it, his eyes widening when he recognized the number. He closed the window at the same time he answered the phone.
“I didn’t do it,” Aimee’s shaking voice immediately said.
“I know you didn’t. Are you alright? Where are you?”
He glanced at Tarek who nodded. Tarek would trace Aimee’s number.
“Qadir, it was—”
The sound of gunfire blared through the phone. The line went dead. Qadir closed his eyes.
“Aimee.”
Tarek was speaking rapidly to one of his security men. Qadir’s hand shook as he tried to call Aimee back. She had never set up her voicemail. He clutched his cell phone and stared blindly out of the window.
“The signal came from the old warehouse we found her in before,” Tarek announced. He turned and gave the driver the address.
“There was gunfire,” Qadir said in a voice devoid of emotion.
Tarek returned his grim look. “Aimee is smart. She will survive.”
Qadir nodded. He gazed out at the blur of passing buildings and calculated that it would take them ten minutes to get to the warehouse. A lot could happen in ten minutes.
They were almost to the warehouse when sirens behind them forced his driver to pull over. Dread filled him when he saw the plumes of black smoke rising from the buildings. Four fire trucks passed them, followed by several police cars.
“No!” he whispered, pushing open the door to the limo.
“Qadir,” Tarek called behind him.
Qadir ignored his brother and began running down the sidewalk. He cut through a side street and emerged on the other side less than a block from the warehouse. The building was engulfed in flames. Tarek stopped beside him, followed by his bodyguards. Qadir stood frozen, staring at the flames and feeling as if he were trapped in a nightmare.
“Qadir,” Tarek said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged off his brother’s hand and walked slowly down the sidewalk. The shouts of firemen and the loud sounds from their equipment drifted across the water. A tugboat with a water cannon was attacking the blaze from the harbor side.
“Qadir, there is nothing we can do here. The media will arrive soon. Go. I will find out what has happened and report back to you,” Tarek encouraged.
“Find her, Tarek. Find her and bring her back to me,” he softly ordered, his gaze locked on the building as the roof caved in and flames reached greedily for the sky.
Dawn was breaking over the horizon when Tarek finally returned. Qadir looked at his brother’s drawn, tired face. Tarek shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at him, visibly struggling to find the right words.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“The body of a young woman was found. The body—“ Tarek took a deep breath. “The body was burned beyond recognition. I will receive a copy of the coroner’s report once it is finished,” he said, looking away.
“What are you not telling me?” he demanded.
Tarek looked back at him, his eyes filled with grief. “I overheard a firefighter mention that the woman had been shot,” he confessed.
Pain seared through Qadir like a hot knife. He took a step back as it hit him. The shield he had been building over the past few hours to protect his heart burst under an intense wave of grief. He shook his head when Tarek lifted a comforting hand toward him.
“Find out… find out what happened. I want to know everything, Tarek—and I want to destroy whoever is behind this.”
“I will make sure that it happens,” Tarek vowed.
Qadir turned away. The elevator door closed behind his brother, and his resolute facade cracked. Alone again, he stared with unseeing eyes at the sun rising over the city.
An uncontrollable trembling consumed his body and a harsh sound, like that of a wounded animal, broke the silence. Gasping for breath, Qadir sat down on the edge of the chair and did something he hadn’t done since he was a very small boy. He cried.
Two weeks later, Qadir left New York for Jawahir. He had lost weight—and a piece of his soul. He held two reports in his hand. The first was the autopsy report from the coroner’s office. He had memorized every detail, searching for some hope that there had been a mistake.
Young Caucasian female; age 20-24; five foot four inches tall; evidence of recent lung infection. Cause of death: 9mm bullet to the back of the head. Body burned over 100 percent.
The second report was from their informant in Rashid’s inner circle—in a roundabout way. The informant had disappeared over a month ago and had finally been found—in pieces, but the FBI had gotten ahold of the informant’s last desperate message and passed it on to Qadir.
It gave Qadir a target. It gave him the names of the individuals behind atrocities committed against his people—and he knew it was the reason for Aimee’s death. She had given her life to save him and protect his people.
Tarek suspected that their spy had sent the photos via courier services in the hope of it making it through all the attempts to keep it quiet. Aimee would have discovered it when she was sorting the deliveries.
Colin Coldhouse must have tracked the document to Becker’s Courier Service.
