If You'll Believe In Me

"Why did she hit Hugh Willard too?" Shelby asks.

"We ran into each other trying to flee, and his head was a fortuitous accident," Silverlake explains. My thoughts exactly.

"Why not get out the moment you think you're compromised?" I ask.

"I didn't figure they'd try shooting me in the open," he says.

"They're Russian, not cartels. A cartel will kidnap you, bring you across the border, torture, maim, mutilate, and murder you. Then hang you off a bridge in Juarez. Only the end is public. Russian's assassinate people in the open. The act itself is the spectacle, not the result. It says you are not safe, anywhere."

"Well, fuck me then," Silverlake says, then crosses his arms.

"Do you have a case file?" I ask, and he nods. "Where?"

"My office. Safe under my desk. Combination is ten-eleven-twelve," he says. Just like that.

"Why are you being so helpful all a sudden?" I ask.

"I get out of here on my own, I'm dead. This way, maybe I get out alive, and find my client's daughter," he says. I knew part of it was self-preservation.

"Look at that camera, and give us permission," I say, pointing to the camera over my shoulder. He forces a frustrated smile.

"I, Henry Silverlake, give permission to search my home and office. I additionally give permission to search in a safe under my desk. You guys already have my keys. We done here?"

"For now. Don't go anywhere," I say and walk out with Shelby. Midge exits the observation room and holds her phone out.

"Jill is saying they found something in Saul's apartment, wants one of us downstairs. I'll take care of that if you take care of Silverlake's safe?" she asks.

"We'll compare notes when we get back," I say, and we split up.

--

I honestly expected his office to be ransacked. It isn't, and that might be worse. Disorganized criminals would trash the place looking for something. Competent criminals make it look like they were never there. The feeling that someone has been here does not subside, so I am leaning on the competent criminal assessment.

"We searching broad, or specific?" Shelby asks.

"Let's just get the contents of the safe," I say and walk to the office down the hall. The office looks clean too. The same semi-organized structure he entertains clients in. I sit on his chair on the opposite side of the desk. Beneath the desk is a small miniature fridge filled with soda. I do not see a safe under the desk like Silverlake said there was.

"No safe," I say, and start pulling drawers. The rack of shelves on the right don't move, and I notice a keyhole under the lip of the desk. After a moment of trying keys I find the correct one and tug the top drawer. Turns out it is a single large drawer, and inside is the door of the safe he mentioned. Digital lock with a six-digit code. Ten-eleven-twelve, unlocked.

"That was easy," I say while pulling it open. As advertised, it is filled with case files, and I start scanning for the one we need. I see mine as well, so pull it out. They were making a case I have anger management issues because I punched a patrol officer. Considering that I punched something else today, they might have had a case.

"Take them all, we'll sort it out later," Shelby says after getting frustrated. A sheet of paper slides out of the first file and floats under the desk. As he reaches under the desk, something violently grabs his attention, and he grabs my shoulders to force me down on the chair. "Chase. Don't. Move," he says in a panicked voice trying to sound calm.

"What?" I ask, and he pushes me down when he thinks I am about to stand up. He leans down and looks under the chair, then curses. I almost shit myself when I realize it. "Please tell me I'm not sitting on a bomb."

"Dead-man switch by the look of it. Otherwise, we wouldn't be talking," he says, and starts making a call. "This is Special Agent Shelby. I need a bomb squad."

"Get out of here," I say, my breathing going erratic. My hands grip the chair in case I accidently slip off because I'm shaking so hard. "Shelby, get out."

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, then provides the address.

"Don't be an idiot, man," I say, clinching my eyes shut in terror. I already feel the sweat slithering down my neck. My knuckles are white. "Only one of us looks dumb in the headline. Two officers killed by a bomb. Should have been one, but the other one was really fucking stupid."

"Ten minutes," he says then puts his phone back onto his belt clip. "You gonna be around when they get here?"

"Fuck you," I say with a desperate chuckle that makes me a cry a little.

--

Ten minutes feels like a goddamn decade. I was half tempted to just jump and pray, if not for the fact I was too petrified to move on my own volition. A fart could literally kill me right now.

Shelby is pushed out the door, and I cannot help but look at the SWAT officer behind the riot shield. He is doing a wonderful job at making me nervous as hell. At least they sent SWAT Sergeant Nathan White to alleviate my anxiety. Lord knows he isn't a sarcastic asshole. Man after my own heart. He is the only ordnance disposal technician in the city. The FBI field office keeps him on retainer.

"Good thing you've gained some weight, otherwise you'd be a lot lighter right now," Nathan says from the floor. He is on his back, shining a small flashlight onto the device. He is remarkably calm when you consider the yield might be small enough to just blow off my legs that are dangling from the chair. Nathan is without a doubt, dead, in that scenario.

"Don't you guys have robots?" I ask.

"Too expensive," he says as if we were just talking in a bar.

"How are you so calm?" I ask, my voice so shaken it sounds like I am speaking into a fan.

"If I fuck it up, it's not really my problem anymore," he says, then wiggles backward to look at me. "Let me tell you what's going on. Dead-man switch. This IED was unarmed until you sat on it, so, well done dumbass."

"Not in the mood," I say, and he smirks.

"Relax. I mean that literally. The only reason this goes off right now is if you attempt to move off it. So, don't move. Just relax," he says, and starts shining his light on it again.

"Cut the red wire," I say as a joke.

"Not how IEDs work," he replies as if I was serious. "Besides, these wires are green." There's his trademark banter. "I know you like learning new things. Does me walking you through it help you not freak out?"

"Sure as shit is better than waiting for silence to be interrupted," I say.

"IEDs have four components. Initiator, initiating explosive, bulk explosive, and a container. Variations of course, but that's the general rule. Basically, I'm trying to find the most effective means of disrupting the explosive train. The train is the process of a power source to an initiator, setting off the initiating explosive which sets off the bulk explosive. You following me so far?"

"Something like a blasting cap is an initiating explosive?" I ask.

"You are a quick study my sweaty, scared shitless friend," he says, and shifts under me to look at the other side. "It's crude, but functional. I don't see any indication of an anti-tampering device," he says, and I ask what that is even thought it sounds self-explanatory. "You know the expression duct tape fixes everything?" He asks after keeping me mentally occupied through conversation for five minutes.

"That's a comforting question," I say.

"Well, electrical tape fixes some problems too. I bet you were wondering why this thing didn't go off the movement you sat down," he says. Up until this point I was too preoccupied to care. "They wanted the victim to arm this thing. Safer for transport and placement. Whether it goes off when you sit down, or stand up, is immaterial to them. You're fucked either way. You got lucky that someone noticed."

"The electrical tape has me intrigued," I say. "Could you get to how it saves my life please?"

"When you sat down it depressed a copper spring which allowed a plastic divider held by tension to swing out of the way. When the spring goes back up it will..."

"...complete a circuit from the power source to the initiator," I say.

"I'm going to disrupt that, with some electrical tape. Those two points will then not touch, and you get to walk out of here. Sound good?" he asks.

"Why not just, disconnect the power source?" I ask.

"Because I don't know where it is. There are no obvious anti-tampering measures, but if there was one..."

"...that's where they'd put them," I say, and he nods to me.

"I'm going to tape this bitch up, and you're going home. You got it?" he asks. I nod like it was a compulsion. "Let's do it."

I can hear Nathan pulling tape like he was separating Velcro. My body is starting to go numb, which creates this insane feedback loop where it feels like I'm falling. I see the puddle of sweat -- I hope it's just sweat -- that filled at my crotch after dripping off my hair and chin. Can I trade this experience with being stabbed again? Please?

"Alright. Either I fucked up, or you live. No gray area," Nathan says, and I awkwardly laugh.

"How confident are you?" I ask, and he shrugs.

"Meh," he says and slaps my shoulder. You know that feeling of pinpricks when a limb goes numb and slowly comes back to life? Imagine that shooting through your entire body. After noticing my response to that he says, "I'm trying to ease the tension. Stand up."

"Get out first," I say, and he shakes his head.

"That's how confident I am. Stand up," he says.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My legs don't work anymore.

"Stand up," Nathan orders.

"I'm trying, I can't move," I say. He positions himself over me and slides his hands into my armpits.

"Grab my vest," he says, and my quivering hands reach around and loosely grab on. I do not have much strength left to secure myself to him. "On three. Ready?" I gasp and nod. "One. Two. Three."

I'm up, not dead, and my body goes completely limp in relief. I think I lost consciousness for a moment.

"Clear a path, coming back with him," Nathan says while dragging my lifeless body out of the room. My feet scrape across the ground as he carries me to safety. Now out of the room, he places me on the ground, leaning me against Silverlake's reception desk.

Feeling aches its way back to my body, and I start crying like a baby. Grown man, openly weeping. The fact I cannot stop myself from crying, makes me cry more. Nathan sits down next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulder. My head drops to his shoulder like a magnet sticking to metal.

"You sat on a bomb for an hour. Anyone who judges this can suck a porcupine's dick," he says, and I laugh the last of the tears out.

--

Friday -- October 16, 2026

-Zillah Calvin-

Imran Krasny is understandably angry that I failed at such a simple task. That task being merely picking up a bag. I tell him a blonde woman got there first and shot Saul in the face. Twice. What was I supposed to do? Imran states he will correct my mistake himself and hangs up. It's time to execute my escape plan.

With the clientele I've accumulated over the years, I figured it was only a matter of time before one of them figured I knew too much. The question was, would I recognize the end of my usefulness before they do? You prepare for that by buying a new identity.

This is pricy, but when you're trying to start a new life under the expectation of trying not to die, you don't want to be stingy. There is a guy who does nothing but this. For half a million, he makes you disappear. Hugh and I both paid in advance. Some of the money is used to create the identity, the rest, he places into untraceable accounts for you to access when you arrive wherever it is you're going. You don't get to pick where that is.

Today I called him. He told me to pack a small bag and wait. Two days. In two days, I climb into a van and vanish.

For now, I call into work and say I'm taking a few days off. I pack my bag and place it in the top of my closet before taking a shower. Two days.

I leave the shower in a towel with my hair wrapped and step into my living room. I jolt back when I see Imran sitting in my home with company. Including the blonde woman who killed Saul. She is still clutching her bag. The same men who picked me up in the Tahoe are standing over Imran's shoulders.

"Can I least put some pants on?" I say, and Imran doesn't reply. "That's the woman who killed Saul by the way."

"He was a bad man," the woman says, but Imran holds up his hand, and she bites her lip. There is something not whole about this woman.

"My dear Alecia is very apologetic for her actions to my associate. Aren't you dear?" he asks, and she nods rapidly.

"I got upset. I apologize," she says, exactly like a scolded toddler. I can't tell if she has Stockholm Syndrome or an Elektra Complex. Probably both. "I also apologize for missing my target. It won't happen again." She was the sniper. They sent her?

"For that, you are correct. It won't happen again. Silverlake has been located. The police found him first," Imran says, clearly aggravated by that.

"Finding him wasn't my job," I say.

"Good thing it wasn't, with what you've accomplished thus far," Imran says and stands up from the chair. This guy has no self-awareness to his own failures. "Will Silverlake talk?"

"He's a songbird," I say. Silverlake will always look after Silverlake.

"Then there is no time to waste," Imran says, and snaps his fingers. Alecia steps toward me and extends the bag. "Take it."

"Why?" I ask. Alecia keeps the bag raised, and as I watch her, Imran punches me in the stomach when I'm not looking. I grunt and fall to the floor, coughing so hard I nearly puke.

"I say do something, you do it. There is no why," he says as I cover my body for safety in case I'm hit again. Alecia drops the bag next to my trembling body and takes a step back.

"There is a silver lining to Saul's demise," Imran says as he crouches above me. "The police need someone for his murder. Alecia will turn herself in. Ask why." I hesitate to ask for obvious reasons. "Ask. Why," he repeats slowly.

"Why will she turn herself in?" I groan.

"Because it's the fastest way into that building," Imran says. He returns to an upright posture and walks toward my door. "Keep that bag. We may need it later. I hope you can handle that."

The group leaves my apartment. I crawl to my couch and pull myself onto it. "Two days. Two days. Two days. Two days. Two days," I chant to myself.

--

Friday -- October 16, 2026

-Midge Appletree-

I arrive at the CSI lab, and Jill immediately takes me into her office and shuts the door. "Have a seat," she says, offering her chair to me.

"You guys found something?" I ask, and she points to a large binder on her desk. It is open, and I can see it is full of burnable discs. The evidence bag next to it indicates it came from Saul's apartment.

"The guy wasn't even hiding it," she says. "I'm not sure on your comfort level, but I've watched enough of them to get the gist. They're films of young women, being forced to strip and twirl for a camera. Like they're merchandise being advertised."

Silverlake's claim that Saul was a sex trafficker is now credible. Fuck credible; it's true. I don't want to watch them. But this is my job. I will scream in private.

I see she has a video pulled up on her screen, and I tap the spacebar to play. As she explained, it is a terrified woman crying as she is taking off her clothes. Someone off camera is yelling at her in a language I cannot understand. Most likely Russian. After I also get the gist, I tap the space bar again. You can rape someone with fear too.

"How many?" I ask.

"In that binder? Over a hundred," she says. I think about sitting across a table from this man. How he leaned over in the same way someone hovers over a steak they want to smell. "They go back a few years. One was missing."

"What?" I ask, and Jill flips a few pages. There is a vacant slot. "How are they organized?"

"Chronological order as far as I can tell," she explains. I take a closer look to see how they're labeled. Name and date. Suddenly I have a thought.

On Jill's computer, I quickly conduct a search for the Georgian ambassador to the United States. Natia Nozadze. I ask Jill to flip pages and look for that last name. Silverlake said she was taken roughly a month ago. August 22, 2026. Ana Nozadze.

"Son of a bitch, he might be telling the truth," I say, confusing Jill. "Silverlake. He tried telling us some bullshit that he was hired by an ambassador to find her daughter. This might be her."

I eject the disc currently in the drive and Jill slaps my hand when I reach for it without a glove. I nearly jump out of the seat. "Sorry, but gloves. Do not contaminate the evidence."

"Sorry," I say once my heart stops racing from the shock of being touched so firmly and suddenly.

"Here," she says, and loads that disc. I open the file, and it is different than the last one I watched. There is no stripping, or twirling. Just a girl holding a newspaper dated August 22, 2026. It's a proof of life video. Silverlake was telling the truth.

"Why not take this video?" I ask. "What video was more important than the ransom video for an ambassador's daughter?"

"It's not more important to the person who took the other disc," Jill says. What the hell does that mean? What made that disc special?

The PA system of the station begins to alert the building of an active shooter.

"What the fuck?" I ask. 'Bunker in place until an all clear is confirmed'. "Is there a drill today?" This is not a drill.

"No," Jill says. And we bunker in place. Every five minutes for a half hour the PA system repeats the message. We pass the time mostly talking about the kids. Particularly Wendy and Jesse. I wonder if Jesse had the balls to tell Jill that he got laid. I decide that's their conversation to have on their terms.

"How are the twins?" I ask, and she pulls out her phone to show me the latest pictures. They look like perfectly beautiful one-year old girls. Other pictures show Jesse looking annoyed when he is told to help with them, but I can tell he loves his sisters. He is sitting on the living room floor as they crawl over him, and he's a great big brother. All I have ever seen is the awkward angsty Jesse, so it is nice to see some dimension.

"I miss six-year-old Jesse. But this fifteen-year-old is starting to grow on me," Jill says, and we both smile. I don't miss ten-year-old Wendy. I admire how much she's improved.

"What happened to his birth mother?" I ask. I only know Jill took in Jesse when he was six.

"His mom was, to be polite, an abusive drug addict when he was younger." That's the polite way to describe her.

"Geez," I say, and she nods. "She still around?"

"I literally threatened to put her in prison about a decade ago, and she ran for the hills. Derek keeps some tabs on her, and I know she's supposedly been sober for almost a year. Grace has asked Derek if she can see him again, but I don't know how I feel about that. She will break his heart again, and I'm not going to let that happen," Jill says, becoming more emotional than I have ever seen her. Jill sniffs and discreetly wipes a tear from her eye. "The first time I meet Jesse, she was abandoning him on Derek's doorstep. You don't get to take that back."

Jill loves Jesse. I never doubted that, but I also never realized how much. She is a stern and tough mother, but there is also so much compassion and warmth. Someone is threatening her child, and she is acting appropriately. That someone is his birth mother. That's how I feel about my kids. I would shoot their dad if I had to. Honestly, I already want to do that.

"Derek caught me by surprise this morning," Jill says with a laugh. "He's my husband, I'll back, love and support him, but give me a little warning. You know?"