<meta content="urn:uuid:ccac7218-4474-4d14-ad38-c379d058334a" name="Adept.expected.resource"/> </head> <body> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <h1 class="h10"><a id="ncx1102"/><a id="a48"/>CHAPTER FOURTEEN</h1> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> </p> <p class="p1"> Ilse stared at Sawyer as the two of them stepped onto the curb and moved towards the dingy apartment building behind the butcher's shop.</p> <p class="p1">"You're serious?" she said. “He has a record?” </p> <p class="p1">Sawyer nodded once. "As long as my left leg.”</p> <p class="p1">"For what?"</p> <p class="p1">"Drug charges. Assault. I'm getting the full sheet now."</p> <p class="p1">Ilse glanced towards where Sawyer tapped his pocket with his phone. Mr. Whitney was a convicted criminal. He'd only been released a few months ago. Apparently, pretending to be a counselor and lying on his resume wasn't the worst of the crimes. Though, in Ilse's assumption, it was pretty damn bad. Their suspect's behavior matched his living quarters. </p> <p class="p1">A squat, four-story apartment building behind a rancid butcher's shop. The building itself looked like it hadn't been painted in fifty years. Glass bottles and bags of trash littered the ground near a dumpster, which was overflowing. Evidence of where raccoons and coyotes had ripped through the bags displayed in the small gnaw-marks on bones and the shattered eggshells scattered across the sidewalk. The smell of the butcher shop, and the overflowing trash bins only competed with the stench of cigarette smoke that wafted from the apartment building's entrance as they stepped inside.</p> <p class="p1">"Which floor?" Ilse said. She felt on edge. </p> <p class="p1">Sawyer held up two fingers. The building didn't have an elevator, and so they moved towards the stairs. Someone had made the horrible design choice of including a carpet in the building. The stain marks and fluid residue were testament to the wisdom of trusting this particular building's occupants with anything besides concrete and tile. Ilse tried not to let herself become too judgmental. Too angry. But it was a failed venture. She was simmering. Her hand clenched at her side. Sawyer marched ahead of her. She had wanted to leave her gun back in the car, but Sawyer had forced her to bring it. The weapon felt awkward where it laid against her thigh. She had a special holster, with an extra strap securing the weapon in place. It would make it more difficult to draw quickly but gave Ilse a sense of security she wasn't willing to give up.</p> <p class="p1">The two of them marched up the steps, to the second floor. As they did, Sawyer growled beneath his breath. "Ten."</p> <p class="p1">Her eyes darted along the numbering on the doors. Some of the lettering was completely faded. Other doors were metal, with dents, as if someone had tried to kick them in. But there, at the end of the hall, Ilse spotted Mr. Whitney's apartment. There was a welcome mat out front, with a giant middle finger painted amidst the bristles. By the looks of things, someone had tried to burn the mat, and the top half was charred.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer reached down slowly, unbuttoning his holster. Ilse just watched, on edge but trying to conceal her nerves.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer had an easy, laconic way about him. He didn't seem perturbed by anything outside his control. Now, calm as ever, he stood with his back to the wall, a hand extended in front of the door. He knocked—three loud retorts. </p> <p class="p1">And this time, there was no delay in a response.</p> <p class="p1">A stream of curse words and shouting echoed from inside the apartment.</p> <p class="p1">"Mr. Whitney?" Agent Sawyer called, "FBI. Open the door!”</p> <p class="p1">There was more shouting. More screaming. A few seconds passed, and the door opened. But a chain held it. A man with dreadlocks and a faint stubble stared out from inside the apartment. He glared into the hall, spotting the two of them. For a moment, he blinked as if offended by the hallway light.</p> <p class="p1">"Go away!" he snapped.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer raised his badge.</p> <p class="p1">It took the man a second. As he stood, what looked like a cloud of smoke emanated from the room beyond.</p> <p class="p1">"Mr. Whitney," Sawyer said, calmly, "we have questions.”</p> <p class="p1">“I, er... what?” </p> <p class="p1">“We'd like to speak with you, sir, if you could just open the door.” </p> <p class="p1">“I'm—wha—who's Whitney? Wrong address man. No mind. Have a g'night.” </p> <p class="p1">He began to close the door, but Sawyer caught it, frowning. “We have your license picture. We know who you are.” </p> <p class="p1">“I—oh... damn man, just joking. Just joking.” </p> <p class="p1">“I'm serious,” Sawyer said, as calm as a cadaver. “Open the door.” </p> <p class="p1">His predicament finally seemed to hit him. Whitney looked like a rabbit caught in a hunter's sights. He twitched, swallowing once, glancing over his shoulder. </p> <p class="p1">“Don't do it,” Sawyer said slowly. </p> <p class="p1">Whitney cursed and spun on his heel. He tried to slam the door, but Sawyer caught it. The chain prevented the door from opening completely, but Sawyer's foot prevented it from closing. The man in the dreadlocks yelled and then bolted, tripping over something. There was a loud smashing noise. More cursing, and more tripping.</p> <p class="p1">Sawyer grunted, took a step back, and then swung his foot, hard.</p> <p class="p1">“Wait—” Ilse began to protest. </p> <p class="p1">Too late. </p> <p class="p1">The chain shattered and the door thudded into the interior wall. Sawyer spilled into the apartment, sure-footed as ever, hopping over a discarded pizza box as if he'd had a premonition that it was there. </p> <p class="p1">“FBI!” Sawyer yelled. </p> <p class="p1">“FB—” Ilse tried to repeat, but in her excitement, her voice shaky, she coughed on the final letter, standing in the door for a moment. She winced at the broken chain-lock... Technically, they didn't have a warrant, but Sawyer always had his own methods where such things were concerned. </p> <p class="p1">This, she decided, thoughts rapid, was the greatest difference between her and Sawyer. He was the sort to barge through a door, sight unseen, taking obstacles as they came and trusting his training. She preferred to examine the room, examine the obstacles, and only <span class="t13">then </span>reach a decision. </p> <p class="p1">Now, from the far room, across a ratty, furniture-lacking apartment that smelled of smoke, Ilse heard a sudden <span class="t13">banging </span>sound and clanging. Mr. Whitney, out of sight, grunted and Sawyer darted over a shattered glass bulb, crystalline pieces scattered on the stained carpet. </p> <p class="p1">Ilse ducked inside the room at last, maneuvering slower, careful, eyes on the room where she heard the banging. </p> <p class="p1">Sawyer kicked this door open as well, and for a moment, everyone seemed to freeze. </p> <p class="p1">Mr. Whitney was in the middle of absconding out his second-floor window. He stared at them; they stared back. His hands rested on the windowsill, his eyes fixated on them in horror, half his body swung out the window. A chill breeze wafted through the apartment, carrying far fouler smells along with it. </p> <p class="p1">“Don't...,” Sawyer began to warn. </p> <p class="p1">The man raised the middle finger and then spun through the window, his knuckles white against the sill where he dangled. Sawyer cursed, lunging in. </p> <p class="p1">The man yelled then released his grip, dropping from the second floor. </p> <p class="p1">Sawyer's hand swiped through empty air. Ilse, though, didn't follow towards the window, instead, she spun on her heel and raced back <span class="t13">out </span>the door, nearly slipping on the pizza box she'd forgotten was by the door. Still, she picked up her pace, shouting over her shoulder, “I'm heading to the alley!” </p> <p class="p1">“Wait!” Sawyer called. </p> <p class="p1">But Ilse didn't. She couldn't waste time. Whitney was running, which meant he had something to hide. Adrenaline pulsed through her system, and she heard Agent Sawyer loose a strangled shout of frustration followed by the sound of pounding footsteps as he raced back out of the apartment as well. </p> <p class="p1">She reached the bottom floor landing, practically skipping down the stairs as she barreled through the glass door at the bottom. </p> <p class="p1">Ahead, ducking in the alley behind the butcher shop, she spotted a glimpse of a man in a poncho with long dreadlocks fluttering behind him like flags on a ship's mast. </p> <p class="p1">Ilse, grateful she'd worn running shoes, hotfooted up the sidewalk, ignoring the stench of the butcher's and chasing Mr. Whitney into the alley. </p> <p class="p1">“Stop!” she yelled. “Stop running!” </p> <p class="p1">The man had nearly reached the opposite end. Out of the corner of her eye, Ilse spotted Sawyer break from the apartment and begin sprinting <span class="t13">around </span>the butcher's shop to try and head off their suspect. </p> <p class="p1">“FBI!” Ilse shouted if only to distract the man.</p> <p class="p1">For a moment, the man paused in the alley, glanced back at her and smirked. Ilse slowed to a jog, then to a standstill, the stench of the butcher's shop nearly unbearable. For a moment, both of them faced each other across the alley, breathing heavily and glaring at one another. </p> <p class="p1">“I don't know nothing!” he yelled, shaking a fist. </p> <p class="p1">Ilse took a step forward, but he twitched ready to bolt. So she went suddenly still, listening faintly. Listening... but not quite hearing it yet. So instead, softly, she said, “I just need to ask you a couple of questions, sir.” </p> <p class="p1">“Damn right. Question my nuts, bitch!” </p> <p class="p1">Ilse breathed slowly, staring at the man. She didn't move towards him, didn't want to make him run. She just listened... listened... </p> <p class="p1">And there, she heard the quiet tapping sound on the other side of the building. </p> <p class="p1">“Sir,” she said carefully, “Please. Don't do anything rash. We can talk this out.” </p> <p class="p1">He snorted, waving a hand at her. “Man, bitch, please, you trying to stall!” the man winked, made a kissing face and turned to sprint away. </p> <p class="p1">It was like watching something in slow-motion. As he spun, a wild Sawyer appeared. The tapping footsteps she'd been listening for reached a crescendo, amplified down the alleyway. </p> <p class="p1">The FBI agent slammed into the man from behind, sending both of them tumbling to the sidewalk. The fellow grunted, trying to rise, but though Sawyer was thinner and less muscled, he fought like an alley cat, desperately, with wild motions. </p> <p class="p1">“Stop it!” Sawyer screamed. “Stop moving!” </p> <p class="p1">The fellow in question yelped, still kicking, still struggling, but Ilse reached him now as well. On the dingy sidewalk, in a seedy part of the city, with onlookers blinking at them from cars or shop fronts, Ilse and Sawyer cuffed Mr. Whitney. </p> </body> </html>