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“Same as always. Keep it simple. Don’t antagonize anyone. If he’s our man, the evidence will speak for itself. We don’t need to shoot confessions out of him, alright?”
There it was again. “Fine.”
Ella floated up the stairwell, Ripley trailing close behind. Her feet barely made a whisper on each step as she ascended, favoring the surprise approach if indeed anyone was present up above. If not, they could scour the place for evidence that this Ted Kowalczyk person was their perpetrator, and while it might be inadmissible in court since they were technically trespassing, they could come back later and officially claim it.
At the top of the stairs, they reached another door. Ella gripped the lever with one hand and her Glock with the other for that sturdy reassurance. She cast a sidelong glance towards her partner, who responded with a subtle raising of her index finger.
“You hear that?” Ripley whispered.
Ella pressed her ear against the door. From within, she heard alow rumble ofaman’svoice,punctuated by occasional grunts.
“The hell?” she asked.
Suddenly, a desperate plea for help seeped through the wood. It was a tone Ella recognized; someone in dire need, someone in the throes of pain.
“Go,” Ripley said.
Ella heaved the door open, gun drawn.Her grip was firm, her stance determined. TedKowalczyk was in here and she had more than a few questions for the man. She rushed inside with no hesitation, the claustrophobic stairway giving way to a vast rectangular office, the centerpiece of which was two people locked in an unfamiliar intimate embrace.
One man lying on a couch, violently shaking and twitching.
Another man over him, his hands pressed against his shoulders.
This wasn’t any kind of therapy session Ella had seen before.
“Ted Kowalczyk?” she shouted, drawing her pistol. “Are you Ted?”
The manstood there, immobile, as if rooted to the hardwood floor beneath his feet. Jaw clenched tight, brow furrowed in rage. Ella hadn’t seen what this suspect looked like until now, but he was around five-ten, reasonably stocky, short black hair that followed the contours of his head. Despite his robust frame, he had a gaunt and pale face, as though everything above the neck had been painted on.
“Who the hell?” the man screamed, glancing between the agents and then back to his patient. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
Before either agent could answer, the sofa-bound patient tumbled onto the floor with a heavy thud. The man, whose face was hidden beneath a mass of silver locks and a wild white beard like a second-rate wizard, flung himself into a corner of the room. He frenziedlyscannedthefaces ofthe other threeoccupants, his gaze darting from one tothenext like cornered prey searching for an escape from his deathly predicament.
“This session is over,” Ripley said. “We need to talk with you, Ted.”
Ted said nothing, because all eyes moved to the cornered patient, who’d pulled out a handgun from his rucksack. With trembling hands, he trained it on Ella, then to Ripley and back again.
“Don’t make me shoot,” he said in a gruff voice. “I’ll take you all down.”
“Jessie,” shouted Ted as he edged closer to his presumably now-former patient. “It’s fine. There’s been some misunderstanding. Put the gun down.”
“No! They’re Charlie. They want to kill me.”
Ella glanced at Ella in a moment of desperation. She’d heard it too. This bearded man wasn’t a regular therapy patient. He was a PTSD sufferer, maybe a veteran. She lowered her gun and said, “Sir, we assure you we’re not soldiers. We’re FBI agents. Ted is our target, not you. Please put the gun…”
“Target?” asked the veteran. His violent convulsing worsened at the term, perhaps triggering some troubling memory. “I’ll kill you if you come closer.”
“Dark, be very, very careful,” Ripley shouted. “Ted, please come with us. We don’t want any trouble.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Why are you in my office? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ripley said.
Ella edged around the room, closer to Ted but keeping her distance from the triggered soldier. Ripley gradually walked the opposite direction, catching onto Ella’s train of thought. If someone was pointing a gun at you, you either wanted to be as far away as possible or close enough to seize their wrist at the first available opportunity. Ella would take care of Ted, Ripley the distressed soldier.
“Ted, we’re not asking,” Ella said as she raised her pistol again. Ted shifted his weight to his left leg, a sign Ella recognized as pre-flight, but a sudden gun blast shook the walls of the building, deadened her ear drums, and injected her with a shot of adrenaline.
Two blurs ran in opposite directions. Ted, hurrying for the door. Ripley, storming the cornered soldier.Ella’s brain raced, the seconds slipping away as she frantically weighed up the options. Shehad toactfast- any delay could have disastrous consequences.
