William Tyree - The Fellowship

“He’s got two kids that visit every now and then, but they live with the ex-wife.” The girl unlocked the second deadbolt, and then turned. “Hold on. Why are you talking about him in the past tense?”

Ellis shot her boss a glare before rolling her eyes.

“I’m afraid Mr. Drucker is deceased,” Speers said with a note of awkward finality.

“Oh my God. Is his body in there? Are we about to see a corpse?”

“No,” Speers said. “Look, I need to ask you to keep this under your hat. We haven’t even notified family yet.”

Rattled, the girl unlocked the last two deadbolts. The apartment was completely dark. Out of habit, Ellis held Speers at the entrance as the manager walked in to flip on the lights. She used the other hand to open her purse and grope for her SIG. In Iraq, her unit had a couple of nasty experiences during home invasions. It was amazing what naughty things people could do with a little trip wire and basic explosives.

All seemed to be quiet. Satisfied that the spacious condo was still secure, Ellis went in, noting that the place had not been ransacked. She counted them lucky. If someone had taken the time to kill Drucker in a public place, it was only a matter of time before they showed up here.

They went from room to room until they found Drucker’s study. The converted bedroom would have scarcely been wide enough to hold a queen-size bed. The walls held Drucker’s UCLA degree, as well as framed movie posters for ‘All the President’s Men,’ ‘State of Play’ and the George Clooney movie about TV journalist Ed Murrow, ‘Good Night, and Good Luck.’ All movies about heroic journalists. That figures, Speers thought. Drucker probably thought they’d make a movie about him someday. But journalists never died in the movies.

There was a computer, a printer, and also an old-fashioned analog typewriter. “This would look cool in my office,” Speers said, admiring the Smith Corona’s sleek black curves.

“It might look like a museum piece, but I think Drucker was actually using it.”

“I don’t understand those analog sentimentalists. Like those people who play vinyl records. It’s just backwards.”

“In this case, it was a security measure. A typewriter is the literary equivalent of paying cash for everything. It’s not digital, it’s far less likely to be traced, found or stolen.”

Speers unplugged Drucker’s computer and began boxing up his papers for analysis back at the office. Ellis searched through two tall filing cabinets, discovering nothing. She then went back to the living room, where the office manager had her feet up on Drucker’s coffee table and was peering into her phone. “How much longer?” she said without looking up.

“As long as it takes.” Ellis went back to the study. She climbed atop the rickety desk while Speers steadied her legs, then pushed open one of the ceiling panels and, fearing a chance encounter with a rat trap, used a plastic back scratcher to poke around in the unseen darkness. Moments later she hit something. She reached in with her hands, pulled, and was soon holding a rectangular box filled with something heavy. Behind it, she found two more that were identical. She handed the boxes one by one to Speers, grunting a little with each heave.

Then she climbed down and opened the first box. It was filled with several legal pads, as well as a bunch of old mini-cassette tapes. “I’d venture a guess that these are…”

“Interview transcriptions,” Speers confirmed after taking a quick look at the content.

He opened the second box. In it, he found a two-inch thick pile of typewritten paper. There was no cover sheet. The double-spaced type started on the first page, and it was crowded with handwritten annotations.

The third box contained a manuscript printed in bluish text, with margins that had tiny holes in it. “This came out of a dot matrix printer,” Speers said. “We actually had one of these things when we were kids. They were really noisy.”

“I think I saw one in the Smithsonian,” Ellis said. Speers chuckled before realizing that his younger subordinate hadn’t been joking.

Ellis opened the closet and found a large trail-grade backpack. She put the contents of the three boxes into it.

Glass exploded somewhere in the apartment. Stunned for only a moment, Ellis motioned for Speers to stay quiet.

She drew her Beretta and spun out into the hallway. The manager was in the living room about 20 feet in front of her, bending to inspect whatever had just been thrown through the living room window. Ellis didn’t need to get any closer to know it was bad news.

“Run!” she shouted at the manager before ducking back into the study. There was no time to try to save her. “Cover up,” she told Speers. They had only just gotten their hands over their ears when a blast rocked the entire floor.

If the size of the explosion hadn’t made it obvious, the amount of plaster whizzing past the study confirmed that the office manager was toast.

Waves of regret coursed through Ellis. Not just for failing to instruct the office manager to leave the premises, but also for involving Julian. She should have come alone. Now both their lives were in danger.

In Iraq, Ellis had learned that explosions were sometimes just a prelude to armed entry. Ellis was willing to bet that at least two invaders would be inside as soon as the dust and smoke cleared. She stood and then pulled Speers to his feet. The paunchy intelligence director was unarmed, and would be of little value in a firefight. They had no choice but to try to escape.

“Take a deep breath and hold it,” Ellis instructed. She shouldered the heavy backpack containing the manuscript and stepped out into the hallway, leading Speers by the hand. The air was filled with particles that made her eyes burn.

They went into the room opposite the study, heading straight for the window. She looked outside, hoping for a cable they could slide down, a rooftop close enough to jump to, or a fire escape. All she saw was a brick wall, with only enough clearance for a set of flowerpots.

She led Speers back into the hallway. Someone was shouting now. It could be anyone, she reminded herself. But as she looked back toward what had been Drucker’s living room, the sight of three red laser dots squelched any hope of heading out the front entrance. Drucker’s killers were already here.

She led Speers to the back bedroom and shut the door behind them. Next to the door was a tall maple wood wardrobe. With Speers’ help, she toppled it so that it was blocking the door sideways. She didn’t want to make a stand here, but at least it might stop someone from kicking down the door for a while.

Two windows looked out over a dimly lit courtyard. Once again, there were no tree branches or wires within reaching distance from the window, nor was there a fire escape. That, she realized, would have been outside the living room, which the invaders had no doubt utilized to their advantage.

“Look,” Speers said, opening the window on the other side of the bedroom.

Three floors down was a community swimming pool, illuminated by a pair of lights at the bottom. There was nobody there at this time of night. Even from her angle at the other window, the water was clearly too far to jump.

“No,” Speers said, pointing straight down. “Down there!”

Ellis’ view was blocked. Before she could stop him, Speers already had one leg out the window. She lunged, grabbing for his other leg just as he let go. They both screamed as he jumped.

Several gunshots ripped through the top portion of the door, above the substantial protection that the heavy wardrobe offered. Rays of light emanated from each hole in the door.

She pulled off the backpack, knowing that it would inhibit her ability to break her fall, and tossed it out the window without looking. Ellis turned, firing three rounds through the door just before she leapt. There was no hope of killing three assassins equipped for night operations.