Riley knew that Smokey Moran was in great danger. But the truth was, Riley's heart didn't exactly go out to the vicious career thug.
Shane Hatcher was what really mattered.
Her assignment was to put Hatcher back in prison. If they caught him before he killed Moran for the old betrayal, fine. She and Bill would drive to Moran's address without giving him any advance warning. They would call the local field office to have backup meet them there.
It was about a half hour drive from Kelsey Sprigge's home in middle-class Searcy to the much more sinister gang neighborhoods of Syracuse. The sky was overcast, but no snow was falling, and traffic moved normally along the well-cleared roads.
As Bill drove, Riley accessed the FBI database and did some quick research on her cell phone. She saw that the local gang situation was dire. Gangs had grouped and regrouped in this area since the early 1980s. Back in the era of Shane the Chain, they had been mostly locals. Since then national gangs had moved in, bringing with them heightened levels of violence.
The drugs that fueled this violence with their profits had gotten weirder and much more dangerous. They now included cigarettes soaked in embalming fluid and paranoia-inducing crystals called "bath salts." Who knew what even deadlier substances would turn up next?
As Bill parked in front of the rundown apartment building where Moran lived, Riley saw two men wearing FBI jackets get out of another car-Agents McGill and Newton, who had met them at the airport. She could tell from their bulkiness that they were wearing Kevlar vests under the jackets. Both were carrying Remington sniper rifles.
"Moran's place is on the third floor," Riley said.
When the group of agents moved in through the building's front door, they encountered several gangbanger types standing around in the cold and shabby foyer. They just stood there with their hands shoved into their hoodie pockets and appeared to pay little attention to the armed squad.
Moran's bodyguards?
She didn't think they were likely to try to stop her little army of agents, although they might signal Moran that someone was on the way up.
McGill and Newton appeared to know the young guys. The agents patted them down quickly.
"We're here to see Smokey Moran," Riley said.
None of the young men said a word. They just stared at the agents with strange, empty expressions. It struck Riley as odd behavior.
"Out," said Newton, and the guys nodded in compliance and filed out the front door.
With Riley in the lead, the agents stormed up three flights of stairs. The local agents led the way, checking each hallway carefully. On the third floor, they stopped outside Moran's apartment.
Riley knocked sharply on the door. When no one answered, she called out.
"Smokey Moran, this is FBI Agent Riley Paige. My colleagues and I need to have a word with you. We don't mean you any harm. We're not here to arrest you."
Again came no answer.
"We have reason to believe that your life is in danger," Riley shouted.
Still no answer.
Riley turned the doorknob. To her surprise, it wasn't locked, and the door swung open.
The agents stepped into a neatly kept, nondescript apartment with virtually no decor. There was also no TV, no electronic devices, certainly no sign of a computer. Riley realized that Moran managed to wield tremendous influence in the criminal underworld solely by giving face-to-face orders. By never going online or even using a phone, he stayed under law enforcement's radar.
Definitely a shrewd customer, Riley thought. Sometimes the old-fashioned way works best.
But he was nowhere in sight. The two local agents quickly checked all the rooms and closets. Nobody was in the apartment.
They all made their way back down the stairs. When they reached the foyer, McGill and Newton lifted their rifles, ready for action. The young gangbangers awaited them at the base of the stairs.
Riley looked them over. She realized they'd obviously been under orders to let Riley and her colleagues search the empty apartment. Now it seemed that they had something to say.
"Smokey said he thought you'd come," one of the gangbangers said.
"He told us to give you a message," another said.
"He said to look for him over at the old Bushnell Warehouse on Dolliver Street," a third said.
Then, without another word, the young men stepped aside, leaving the agents plenty of room to leave.
"Was he alone?" Riley asked.
"Was when he left here," one of the young men replied.
A sort of solemn foreboding hung in the air. Riley didn't know what to make of it.
McGill and Newton kept their eyes on the young guys as the agents exited. When they got outside, Newton said, "I know where that warehouse is."
"I do too," McGill said. "It's just a few blocks from here. It's abandoned and up for sale, and there's been talk of turning it into classy apartments. But I don't like the sound of this. That place is perfect for an ambush."
He got on his phone and requested more backup to meet them there.
"We'll have to be careful," Riley said. "Lead the way."
Bill drove, following the local SUV. Both cars parked in front of a decrepit four-story brick building with a crumbling facade and broken windows. As they did, another FBI vehicle pulled up.
Looking over the building, Riley could see what McGill had meant and why he had wanted more backup. The place was huge and decrepit with three floors of dark and broken windows. Any of those windows could easily hide a shooter with a rifle.
All of the local team was armed with long guns, but she and Bill had only pistols. They might be sitting ducks in a firefight.
Still, an ambush didn't make sense to her. After shrewdly evading arrest for some three decades, why would a guy as bright as Smokey Moran do something reckless like gun down FBI agents?
Riley called the other agents on her radio.
"You guys still wearing Kevlar?" she asked.
"Yeah," came the reply.
"Good. Stay put in your car until I tell you to come out."
Bill had already reached into the back of their well-stocked SUV, where he had found two Kevlar vests. He and Riley quickly slipped into them. Then Riley found a megaphone.
She rolled down the window and called out to the building.
"Smokey Moran, we're FBI. We got your message. We came to see you. We don't mean you any harm. Come out of the building with your hands up and let's talk."
She waited for a full minute. Nothing happened.
Riley got on the radio again to Newton and McGill.
"Agent Jeffreys and I are getting out of our vehicle. When we're out, you get out too-with your weapons drawn. We'll all meet at the front door. Keep your eyes high. If you see any movement anywhere in the building, take immediate cover."
Riley and Bill got out of the SUV, and Newton and McGill got out of their car. Three more heavily armed FBI agents got out of the newly arrived vehicle and joined them.
The agents moved cautiously toward the building, eyeing the windows with their guns ready. Finally they reached the relative safety of the enormous front doorway.
"What's the plan?" McGill asked, sounding distinctly nervous.
"To arrest Shane Harris, if he's in there," Riley said. "To kill him if necessary. And to find Smokey Moran."
Bill added, "We'll have to search the whole building."
Riley could tell that the local agents didn't much like this plan. She couldn't blame them.
"McGill," she said, "start on the ground floor, working your way up. Jeffreys and I will head to the top floor and work our way down. We'll meet in the middle."
McGill nodded. Riley could see a flash of relief on his face. They clearly knew that danger was much less likely in the lower part of the building. Bill and Riley would be putting themselves at considerably greater risk.
Newton said, "I'm going up with you."
She saw that his expression was firm and made no objection.
Bill pushed the doors open, and all five agents went inside. Icy wind whistled through the windows of the bottom floor, which was mostly an empty space with posts and doors to several adjoining rooms. Leaving McGill and three others to start down here, Riley and Bill headed for the more threatening stairwell. Newton followed closely behind them.
Despite the cold, she could feel sweat in her gloves and on her forehead. She felt her heart pounding and worked hard to keep her breathing under control. No matter how many times she'd do this, she'd never get used to it. Nobody could.
At last they entered the vast, loft-like upper story.
The dead body was the first thing that caught Riley's eye.
It was duct-taped upright to a post, so mangled that it hardly seemed human anymore. Tire chains were wrapped around its neck.
Hatcher's weapon of choice, Riley remembered.
"That's got to be Moran," Newton said.
Riley and Bill exchanged glances. They knew not to holster their weapons-not yet. The body might well be Hatcher's ruse to lure them into the open.
As they approached the dead man, Newton hung back, rifle ready.
Freezing pools of blood stuck to the soles of Riley's shoes as she approached the body. The face was beaten beyond all possibility of recognition, and DNA or dental records would have to be used to identify it. But Riley had no doubt that Newton was right; it must be Smokey Moran. Grotesquely, his eyes were still wide open, and the head was taped to the post so that he seemed to be staring directly at Riley.
Riley looked around again.
"Hatcher's not here," she said, holstering her weapon.
Bill did the same and walked up to the body beside Riley. Newton remained watchful, holding his rifle ready and turning to keep check on all directions.
"What's this?" Bill said, pointing to a folded piece of paper poking out of the victim's jacket pocket.
Riley took out the piece of paper. Upon it was written:
"A horse is on a 24 foot chain and eats an apple that is 26 feet away. How did the horse get to the apple?"
Riley tensed. It came as no surprise at all that Shane Hatcher had left behind a riddle. She handed the paper to Bill. Bill read it, then looked at Riley with a puzzled expression.
"The chain isn't attached to anything," Riley said.
Bill nodded. Riley knew that he understood the riddle's meaning:
Shane the Chain was now unbound.
And he was just starting to enjoy his freedom.
