Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fix

“Well, that didn’t get us anywhere,” said Jamison. “Brown obviously really didn’t want to share anything that would help us.”

When he didn’t answer, she said wearily, “You know, Decker, when a person is talking to you they sort of expect a response.”

She hung up her coat on a peg by the door and turned around.

And froze.

The man had on a black hoodie tightly closed so she couldn’t see his face.

He had a gun that was pointed at Decker’s chest.

“Seems we have a visitor,” said Decker.

The man jerked his gun upward and Decker and Jamison raised their hands over their heads.

The man tossed a set of cuffs to Jamison. She quickly moved her hands to catch them. The man pointed at Decker.

“He wants you to cuff me.”

“I get that. Who are you?”

The man, in response, pulled the hammer back on his gun.

“Just do it, Alex. No more questions.”

She cuffed Decker’s hands behind his back.

The man came over and inspected them. Then he pushed Decker and Jamison toward the door.

“Where are we going?” asked Jamison.

The man rammed his elbow into Decker’s kidney, causing him to collapse against the wall, his features screwed up in pain. Then he hit him across the face with his pistol.

“Okay, okay, no more questions!” cried out Jamison. She tried to help Decker, but the man pushed her back.

Decker finally righted himself and, still listing to one side, moved slowly toward the door. The man opened it and they all passed through.

The man said in a low voice, “We meet anyone along the way, you say nothing. You so much as cough, I’ll shoot you both right here. Understand?”

Jamison said quickly, “We understand.”

They walked down the stairs and the man held the door open for them. He led them to a black sedan.

“Get in the driver’s seat,” he said to Jamison.

He put Decker in the passenger seat and then climbed into the rear seat, his gun trained on Decker. He handed Jamison the car keys and then slipped on his seat belt. “Drive. I’ll tell you where to go.”

They drove off.

The man gave directions and Jamison turned down one street after another.

“Left here,” he said.

She turned into an alley and drove to the end. There was no outlet.

Decker peered out the window. The area was blighted and the two buildings on either side of them looked burned out and abandoned.

“Out,” said the man to Jamison.

She climbed out of the car.

“Open his door,” said the man.

Jamison opened the passenger door and helped Decker out.

The man used his pistol to point to the left. “In there. Through the doorway.”

Decker had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the low doorway. Inside it was dark, cold, and clammy.

“We can’t see,” said Jamison as she moved slowly forward, her hands out in front of her.

A light came on. The man was holding a flashlight in his left hand.

“Down the steps over there.”

Decker turned and said, “Look, your beef is with me, not her. She walks, I give you no trouble.”

The man shook his head and pointed his gun muzzle in Decker’s face. “Down the steps over there.”

Decker glanced at Jamison, turned, and led the way down the stairs.

The room below was littered with debris — beer cans, used condoms, and animal feces.

Jamison wrinkled her nose up at the sight of all this. She stepped forward until her path was blocked by a wall. She turned around and looked at the man.

Decker came to stand in front of her, his big body between her and the gunman.

The man shone his light on them, even as Decker turned around and his gaze dipped to Jamison’s waist.

He then looked up at her questioningly.

She slowly nodded.

“Turn around,” barked the man. “And move away from her.”

Decker followed these instructions and stepped to the side, closest to the stair leading up out of the room.

The man set the light down on a pile of boxes so that it was pointing outward and illuminating the room partially. It was then that he opened his hood and slipped it off his head.

Luis Alvarez, the construction supervisor at the building where Tomas Amaya had worked, stared back at them.

“We were wondering where you got to, Señor Alvarez,” said Decker. “How’s life been on the run?”

Alvarez’s face was stone. “You didn’t think I was just walking away, did you?”

“You really want to add the murders of two ‘federales’ to your rap sheet?” said Decker.

“With the greatest of pleasure.”

“The FBI is almost here.”

“Bullshit.”

“I saw our apartment door had been forced when I walked in. I hit the speed dial in my pocket. Special Agent Bogart has been listening to everything we’ve been saying. And the chip in my phone has led them right here. So you’re screwed.”

“You’re lying.”

“Take my phone out and see for yourself. It’s been on the whole time.”

Alvarez looked nervously at Jamison. “Take his phone out and bring it to me. Now!”

Decker said, “You’re wasting precious time, Luis. Chances are good the Bureau guys will just blow your ass away to avoid having to spend money on prosecuting you.”

“Bring me the phone!” screamed Alvarez.

Jamison pulled the phone out of Decker’s pocket. As she did so she glanced at Decker. He whispered something to her.

She turned, held the phone up, and said, “Here, you sonofabitch.” She tossed it toward Alvarez. When he reached a hand up to catch it, Decker gave a roar and bolted toward the stairs.

Alvarez took his eyes off the phone, turned, and leveled his gun at Decker.

A shot rang out.

Decker stumbled and went down.

Alvarez looked over at Jamison. A wisp of smoke was coming off the pistol she held in her hand.

He looked down at the blood coming out of the hole in his chest.

“Y-you, b-bitch!” he screamed.

He pointed his gun at her.

She stumbled back and fell.

The next second Alvarez was lifted off his feet. His small body sailed across the width of the room and he slammed into the brick wall. He slid down the wall, slumped to the floor, sat up for an instant, touched the wound in his chest, and glanced at Decker, who’d blindsided him.

“Y-you, a-assho—”

He slumped over dead before he could finish.

Bogart sat down next to Jamison at her and Decker’s apartment. He put a hand on her shoulder.

“You sure you don’t need anything?”

Jamison’s eyes were closed and tears trickled out. She slowly nodded her head.

Bogart looked up at Decker, who sat at the kitchen table holding an ice pack to his swollen cheek. “You okay?”

“I’ve got no complaints. Alex saved both our lives.”

Milligan was standing next to Decker. “She never shot anyone before,” he said quietly. “It’s not something you get over quickly.”

Decker looked over at Jamison. “She’ll be okay. She’s tough.”

Bogart rose and came over to Decker. “We’ll post people outside just in case Alvarez has friends. You sure you guys will be okay?”

Decker nodded. “I’ll take it from here.”

Bogart and Milligan left, and Decker rose from his chair, crossed the room, and sat down next to Jamison.

“I’m sorry this had to happen, Alex,” he began.

She wiped her nose with her sleeve and sat up. “If you hadn’t told me what to do, we’d both be dead.”

“If you hadn’t done what you did, we’d both be dead.”

She sat back and stared at the ceiling. “I killed someone, Amos.”

He looked at her awkwardly. “There’s no perfect formula to get over it.”