Nowhere to Hide

“Now, that’s something you don’t see every day,” Greg said to the group of kayakers. He was referring to a large houseboat that had somehow broken free from its moorings, floated down the river from who knows where, and run aground on an outcropping of rocks.

“I think we should board her. Someone might be injured and need help,” said Maggie, a fellow kayaker and Greg’s partner in the homicide division.

That’s what he liked about her. Not only was she a top-tier detective, she was always empathetic to others. “Ok, but just the two of us. We don’t know how stable this thing is.”

The two detectives maneuvered their kayaks alongside the houseboat. Other members of the small flotilla positioned their boats against Greg’s and Maggie’s, stabilizing the boats. Their kayaks secure, the detectives climbed aboard the stranded craft. They walked across the rear deck, calling out to anyone who might be inside. No one answered. A sliding glass door separating the deck from the main living area was open. Greg walked through first, followed by Maggie. The living room was empty. A short hallway leads into the kitchen, which is where they found it.

A large long-handled flashlight lay on the kitchen floor, surrounded by a pool of blood. Scanning their surroundings for more clues, Maggie spotted a small trail of blood leading from the kitchen into another hall. They cautiously followed the trail, searching for a victim. The spatters led them past several empty bedrooms and through the second set of glass doors opening onto the bow. From there, the detectives theorized the victim either jumped or was pushed into the water. Greg pulled out his phone and called it in.

Passing back through the main bedroom, a popping sound caught their attention. They traced the noise to a partially opened closet where a black gym bag lay on the floor. Greg carefully opened the bag, revealing two bricks of C4 attached to a misfiring detonator. He had seen more than his share of IEDs in Iraq and knew how to disable the bomb. Knowing what to do didn’t take away the fear of being blown to bits. His hands were rock steady as sweat ran down his cheeks. Greg reached in and slowly removed the blasting caps attached to the C4. The bomb was disabled, but he could still hear his heart pounding in his ears.

Walter Smith, the name Witness Security or “WITSEC” had assigned him, lay on the river bank bloody and waterlogged. His head wound throbbed. Marvin James, Walter Smith’s actual name, had survived the attack by playing dead. Once he was sure the masked man was gone, he stuffed cash into a waterproof bag, donned a life jacket, and leaped overboard. The icy river water kept Marvin from passing out as he struggled to shore. One thing he knew for sure, he was done with WITSEC. All he needed was to reach a safe location, access his secret offshore accounts, and get the hell out of the country. He wished he had never gotten involved with the cartels, but that was ancient history. Staying alive was his top priority now.

The cartel Marvin was trying to escape from was a massive organization. They owned a fleet of trucks, multiple small aircraft, go-fast boats, and a shipping company. Evading their network would be no small feet without help from the government, but Marvin felt he was up for the job.

A man sat in a black Chevrolet Suburban with stolen license plates listening to his police scanner. He heard chatter about the houseboat and the bomb, but no mention of a body or ambulance. “The little prick must have survived and got away,” he thought. “It doesn’t matter where he goes. I’ll find him and finish the job. If I don’t, they’ll finish me.”

Fingerprints and DNA from the houseboat matched no one in the system. The boat’s registration showed it belonged to a Walter Smith, who didn’t exist. Greg’s gut told him what a friend in the U.S. Marshall’s office later confirmed. Mr. Smith was in WITSEC. His contact also told Greg that only active marshals would have access to that information.

“What about recently terminated? Does any name come to mind?” asked Greg.

“Just one, Adam Kuczynski. Nothing was ever proven, but several witnesses under his care went missing. He was fired six months ago.”

Greg thanked his old army buddy and hung up. Next, he brought Maggie up to date, and the two detectives formulated a plan to catch Kuczynski.

Two days later, local news reported a man had been found suffering from severe head trauma. He didn’t know his name or how he got to town. He was being treated at Saint Joseph’s hospital. That was the break Kuczynski was looking for. He drove to the hospital, parked, and waited. He didn’t see a huge amount of police on site, so he launched his plan.

The ex-Marshall strode purposefully to the reception desk and flashed his creds.

“I need to see the man brought in by the local police yesterday. It’s a matter of national security.”

Maggie, posing as the receptionist, feigned surprise. She hesitantly gave Kuczynski the information he asked for. Once he was in the elevator, Maggie radioed Greg. As the assassin approached the patient’s room, he stopped and discreetly withdrew a suppressed handgun. He partially opened the door and saw a figure lying in bed with his head bandaged, facing toward the opposite wall. Kuczynski slipped inside, raised his weapon, and double-tapped the figure in the head.

As he lowered his weapon, Kuczynski felt the cold steel of a gun barrel against the base of his skull.

“I think you got him,” said Greg sarcastically. The room immediately filled with police and the assassin was taken away.

A week later, Marvin James was aboard a freighter in the South Pacific on his way to Australia. Unfortunately, he didn’t know the freighter was owned by the cartel he was running from.