The Prophecy

29

When the elevator opened on the sixth floor, Payne stepped out cautiously while Jones stayed behind, holding the door open. Ashley’s apartment number was 615, which was approximately halfway down the hall on the right. Payne crept towards it clutching his gun inside his coat pocket. Jean-Pierre Allard, the Belgian sniper, had tracked her down in Pittsburgh, so it stood to reason that he knew all about her apartment in Philadelphia. Obviously Jean-Pierre was no longer a threat, but who knew if he had partners?

For that reason, they preceded with caution.

As Payne walked towards the door, he studied it out of the corner of his eye. The lock and door frame appeared intact, and no police tape was visible. As far as he could tell, the apartment was undisturbed. Without advanced recon, there was no way of knowing if Ashley had a roommate or a deadbeat boyfriend who stayed over all the time. Just to be safe, Payne knocked on the door and slowly walked past. If someone answered, he would apologize over his shoulder and keep on moving until he reached the stairs at the far end of the building. He figured there was no sense turning round and showing his face to a potential witness. On the other hand, if no one answered, they would move on to part two of their plan.

A minute later, after no response, Payne was confident the apartment was empty. Of course, they wouldn’t know for sure until they got inside.

With a quick whistle, he signalled to Jones, who left the elevator and strolled casually down the hall. Inside his coat pockets, he held a gun in his right hand and his lock picks in his left. No matter which hand was needed, Jones would be prepared. He put his ear against the surface of the door and listened. No sound at all. The door was cold and hollow, and made from some type of galvanized steel that had been painted the same shade of tan as the building’s exterior. The knob was fitted with a simple cylindrical lock. Nothing too fancy. A click here and a twist there, and Jones popped it open. Less than fifteen seconds from start to finish.

From their military training, they realized the next step was the most dangerous. Although they had downloaded the floor plan from the building’s website and knew the basic layout of the apartment, they still didn’t know who or what would be waiting for them. A dog seemed unlikely since there had been no barking when Payne knocked on the door. But a dog would be better than a gunman, who would be on full alert because of the knocking.

Ultimately, it was a risk they had been willing to take.

The odds of a roommate were higher than the odds of an intruder.

As an added precaution, Jones would fling the door open while taking cover in the hallway, just in case a shooter was lying in wait. Sometimes an inexperienced adversary would fire at the first sign of movement instead of the first sight of prey. This tactic was a way to avoid those bullets. After a brief pause, Payne and Jones would then breach the room in tandem, carefully scouring the apartment for trouble before they searched for evidence.

With their weapons drawn, Payne stood to the left of the door while Jones stood on the right. From this point on, Payne would be in charge — as he was in the MANIACs.

‘Ready?’ he whispered.

Jones put his left hand on the knob and nodded.

Payne counted softly. ‘Three… two… one… go.’

With a quick push, the door swung open and bumped against a coat rack with a muffled thud. Light from the hallway spilled into the dark apartment, revealing a carpeted floor and little else. While keeping their backs against the hallway wall, they struggled to detect movement of any kind, but neither man heard a thing. The apartment was completely silent.

If someone was inside, he was a professional.

But not as deadly as Payne and Jones.

Communicating through hand signals, Payne explained what Jones needed to do. No words were necessary. Years of experience and hundreds of missions had prepared them for this moment. Jones simply nodded, letting Payne know he was ready to breach the room.

Payne moved first, dashing through the door and to his right. A moment later, Jones cut behind him and headed left into the darkness. Both men stayed low and under control, their eyes sweeping for targets and their guns at the ready. Without flashlights or night vision, Payne flicked a switch on the far wall and scanned his surroundings, searching for immediate threats. Much to his surprise, the apartment looked like a tornado had swept through it: furniture was overturned and debris was scattered.

‘What the hell?’ Jones whispered from across the room.

Payne signalled for him to shut up and cover him while he checked the back rooms. Jones nodded and moved into position. With his gun leading the way, Payne eased down the hall and glanced into the bathroom on the left. It had been wrecked as well. The shower curtain had been ripped down and the cabinets had been emptied, but it was devoid of threats. Next, Payne entered the bedroom on the other side of the hall and checked the closet and under the bed, looking for targets. The room was secure but completely in tatters.

‘We’re clear,’ Payne said as he glanced back. ‘Go get the door.’

Jones hustled to the other side of the room and closed the door so curious neighbours couldn’t see inside. Then just to be safe, he locked it and used the security chain, too.

‘What the hell happened here?’ Jones asked.

Payne shrugged as he stared at the wreckage in the front room. Everything had been pulled off the shelves, and a knife had been taken to all the cushions. A thin layer of stuffing that looked like snow covered the carpet in front of the TV. Actually, where the TV used to be — because it had been overturned and torn apart as well.

‘You know,’ Jones said, ‘I’ve only seen this once before.’

‘What type of case?’

‘It wasn’t a case. It was on a cartoon. The Tasmanian Devil ripped shit up!’

Payne smiled at the image. ‘Somehow I doubt Taz was here.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s too friggin’ cold for a marsupial.’

Both of them laughed at the absurdity of his statement as they waded through the debris, looking for anything that would explain what had happened, or why.

Jones asked. ‘What do you think they were searching for? The letter?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘When this happened.’

Jones kicked aside a broken lamp. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If this happened yesterday, they might have been looking for Ashley’s travel plans so they could track her down. If this happened today, they were probably looking for the letter.’

‘Who are they, by the way?’

Payne shrugged. ‘Who knows? Maybe the Belgian Gun Club.’

‘The notorious BGC. Kinda sounds like a rap group.’

‘Hopefully, we’ll find something that points us in the right direction.’

‘Such as?’

‘What’s with all the questions? Aren’t you supposed to be the detective?’

Jones stopped searching. ‘Are you paying me for my time?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m not a detective. I’m merely your lieutenant.’

‘In that case, go get a broom and clean this mess up.’

‘I will, right after you kiss my ass.’

The two of them searched the apartment for over ten minutes, not finding anything of value until Jones wandered into the kitchen. He had gone in there for some water — the salt from the fries had made him thirsty — but found something better.

‘Hey Jon,’ he called, ‘you need to see this.’

Payne left the bedroom and walked into the cluttered kitchen. Strangely, he found Jones just standing there, completely silent, pointing at the refrigerator. Payne shifted his gaze towards its door and saw a single item hanging there, held in place with tiny magnets. Taking a step forward, he leaned in for a closer look and was stunned by what he saw.

It was a photograph of Payne and Jones.