Randy Singer - The Justice Game

He yanked her toward the door that opened to the third level of the garage as a car came skidding around the corner. The back door flew open.

Kelly screamed at the top of her lungs.

“Shut up!” The gunman threw her in the backseat and climbed in behind her, catching her as she scrambled to get out the other side. The driver took off even before the door closed behind the beast beside her. The man’s bulk pinned Kelly against the door on her side, muffling her screams.

He whipped his gun across her face and she felt her cheekbone crack.

“Shut her up!” yelled the driver.

The ponytailed man forced her face up against the side door, wrenching her arms behind her back so he could handcuff them. Once she was cuffed, he bore down on her with his full weight until she stopped squirming. She felt a needle in her neck and the world started spinning.

The driver pulled into a parking spot and popped the trunk. Kelly tried to yell again, but her tongue wouldn’t cooperate. Her attackers were fading, spinning, zooming in and out of focus.

Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she quit fighting it, her assailants’ words lost in a blur of scrambled noise and jumbled thoughts.

Rafael Johansen paid the cashier at the exit to the parking garage. He calmly made a left on Atlantic and another left on Laskin Road. Jason and Kelly had surprised him. Jason in particular. The little jerk had mustered the guts to defy Luthor and sacrifice his own reputation.

The stupid kid had no way of knowing it would cost him his life.

Johansen called Robert Sherwood and detected a hint of panic in the great man’s voice. Things had not exactly gone according to plan on the Crawford case.

Johansen ended the call, checked his rearview mirror, and took a left into the deserted parking lot of the Surf and Sand movie theater. The yellowed signage on the large marquee still displayed its final message: Goodbye Surf and Sand. We will miss you. Love, the staff.

Last week, the locals had told Johansen the place had been sitting vacant for the past eighteen months. The doors had been locked and chained.

Johansen had scoped out the place two days ago. The parking lot was shielded by tall marsh grass and a wildlife area protected by the Chesapeake Bay Preservation Act. The theater was only a mile or so from the Hilton, set back from Laskin Road and bordered by the marsh on every side except the west end of the parking lot, which abutted the Purple Cow parking lot. Earlier today, using a bolt cutter and a crowbar, Johansen had pried open one of the back doors of the theater.

He parked the car behind the building and took a final glance around. The car could only be seen from the marsh.

Johansen opened the trunk, and a partner from his investigative firm, a large weight lifter named Tony Morris, lifted Kelly out and carried her into the abandoned theater building. Except for Johansen’s flashlight, the place was pitch black.

They duct-taped Kelly to a seat in the front row directly in front of the big screen, gagged her with a cloth, and left to abduct their second victim.

“How long before she comes out of it?” Johansen asked.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Just in time for the feature show.”

It had already been a disastrous day before Olivia ushered Special Agent Billingsley of the FBI into Robert Sherwood’s office. The agent was short, stocky, and young. He had perfect posture and light blond hair clipped short. If Sherwood had met him on the street, he would have guessed West Point graduate.

“Nice view,” Billingsley said, admiring the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Hudson River. “Do you ever find yourself taking it for granted?”

“Have a seat,” Sherwood said, motioning toward the navy blue leather chair. “I’m a busy man, and I understand you’ve got some questions.”

“Right.” Before Billingsley sat down, he placed a digital recorder on Sherwood’s desk. “Do you mind if I tape this?”

Sherwood sighed. “No.”

Billingsley took a seat and ran through a little intro for his recording-time, place, the consent of Robert Sherwood. Then he began his questions.

“Does the name Luthor mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Have you been following the Crawford trial in Virginia Beach?”

“Yes.”

“I understand that both Jason Noble and Kelly Starling at one time worked for you. Is that correct?”

“Technically, no. They worked for two law firms in town. Justice Inc. was a client of those firms. But they did spend most of their time working on mock cases for our research department.”

“Are you aware of any other clients either one of them had while supposedly working at these New York law firms?”

This brought another big sigh from Sherwood. Why did they always have to play these cat-and-mouse games? “No.”

“Are you aware of anything in either Mr. Noble’s or Ms. Starling’s past that might be used to blackmail or embarrass them?”

Sherwood narrowed his eyes. “What’s this about?” he asked.

“Somebody has been blackmailing Mr. Noble in the Crawford case and possibly manipulating jurors,” Billingsley said. He seemed to be watching Sherwood for any possible reaction. “We think it might be somebody with a lot of money at stake.”

Sherwood scoffed at the implied accusation. “You think I’m blackmailing Jason Noble?”

“I’m just asking questions,” Billingsley said.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Sherwood replied. “If I’m blackmailing Jason Noble, I’m doing a pitiful job of it.”

Jason was in his office, printing off e-mails and pulling together the documents he would need to present to the U.S. Attorney. He was supposed to be at Brad’s office by 2 p.m.

In the conference room down the hall, Andrew Lassiter was doing the same thing. When Jason had told him he was spilling the beans on Justice Inc., Lassiter had wanted to help. “I can testify about all the data they collected on employees,” he told Jason. “I know for a fact they were checking your e-mails, tapping your phones, and all that.”

At first, Jason hadn’t wanted to involve anyone other than himself. But Lassiter insisted, and Jason had to admit that his friend could provide a lot of corroborating evidence. Jason called Brad, who saw no downside in bringing Lassiter along.

As he organized his evidence, Jason was consumed with thoughts about the fallout from his decision. What would happen to his dad? Detective Corey? What would LeRon’s father say? How could Jason face him?

“Jason!”

It was Andrew’s voice from the conference room, shattering the silence, startling Jason. It was followed by the sounds of a scuffle and another muffled shout.

Jason grabbed his gun and bolted from his office, sprinting toward the conference room. When he turned the corner in the hallway, he stopped in his tracks. A large man with a ball cap and light blond hair had taken Lassiter hostage and was using him as a shield, holding a gun to his temple. The big man’s hand was covering Lassiter’s mouth.

“One more step and I shoot,” he said to Jason.

Before Jason could react, he felt a blow to the back of his head. There was a flash of color, a kaleidoscope of sparks… and this time Jason’s world went dark.

Jason drifted in and out of the fog. Stray thoughts and nightmares tumbled together through the cobwebs of his mind. He heard voices at the end of a long tunnel and felt the intense pain of a pounding headache radiating from the back of his skull. His head felt like someone had it in a vise and was screwing it tighter and tighter as Jason regained consciousness. His mouth was dry as cotton.

He felt something sting his cheek. Once. Twice. He flinched. Another slap.