by Captain Sammitch
1500 hours
Phil's apartment:
"NYPD! We have a warrant! Open the door!"
Nobody answered, so Gant broke the lock on the door and barged in. Everything seemed to be normal. The coffee table was clear of clutter on top and completely emptied out inside. The sofa, end table, television, lamp, and bookshelf were all cleaned off and straightened up. In the kitchen, the dishes were all put away, the table and counter were immaculate, and the refrigerator hummed away as usual.
Gant headed back to the den. He found an empty computer desk and an armchair and nothing else. Rushing into the bedroom, he saw that the bed had been made, the dresser and nightstand had been straightened up... and the closets had been emptied. There was no luggage in sight.
And no Phil Smith, either.
Patterson came in behind Gant. "Cleared out, huh?"
Gant nodded. "Everything's gone. If there were weapons, computers, and papers, they're all gone. No clothing or personal effects, either. Otherwise the house has just been cleaned up really well."
"And scrubbed of fingerprints and stray fibers, no doubt," the detective added.
"No usable evidence that he was ever here," Gant concluded.
"Except for this," Patterson said. He peeled a note off the bedroom mirror and handed it to Gant. Gant read it carefully.
To whom it may concern,
I've done quite a few things that don't fit within the parameters of the law. And I've led you on quite a chase these past few weeks. But I thought you might like to know that I'm through with all this. I'm tired of being a killer and a fugitive. I'm going to start over. And I don't want anyone to get hurt anymore. So do yourselves a favor and stop chasing me, okay? I'm turning over a new leaf. Be thankful for the good things I've done, and rest assured that no further recreational activities in that vein are planned.
Sincerely,
UM
Gant rested against the wall. "I don't believe this."
"He's skipping town," Patterson said. "Heck, he may be leaving the country."
"No," Gant said. "He hasn't left New York. Not yet."
"You sure about that?" Patterson asked.
Gant nodded. "Even if Fisher doesn't want us catching Smith, I'm pretty sure he's still bent on tracking him down. None of those FBI goons have left yet, and they're not doing any of their fancy-shmancy surveillance. Not in any new locations. They're obviously convinced he's still in town, and you and I both know something else."
"What's that?"
"There are still missing persons in the New York area," Gant said. "One girl tied to the Colombians is still out there."
"His job's not done yet," Patterson said, making the connection.
Gant nodded. "As long as she's still missing, he's still in business. He wouldn't think of leaving town if there were still something he could do. Not even with a manhunt over his head. The Unidentified Man would have to undergo nothing short of a total reversal of personality to leave this town."
1700 hours
The West Side
...And we're getting reports now that thirteen-year-old Ashley Robinson has just been found alive and unhurt by police...
Phil turned the volume up on the radio.
...The girl was reported missing from her Long Island home six weeks ago, and police feared that she had been murdered in the same manner as Alyssa Thompson and Tina Porter, who were killed a little over three weeks ago, shortly before Hector Vargas and seven associates were murdered by the sniper who has come to be known as the Unidentified Man.
The NYPD is relieved that the final remaining victim of the Colombian kidnapping ring known as Brothers of Pain has been located alive, but the FBI fears that this new development could seriously impact their search for the Unidentified Man. Special Agent Steve Fisher states that the Unidentified Man is a vigilante who has made it his mission to locate the Brothers of Pain and all their victims, and that now that the last missing girl has been found, his "mission" is essentially over. In other news this afternoon, NASDAQ is up by...
Phil switched off the radio. Was it over? Was it really all over?
He was sitting in a black Explorer parked by a civic garden in the residential district, farther out on the West Side. Central Park was a thirty-minute drive away - nothing was a short drive in the Big Apple - and Phil had four hours left to make up his mind.
Agent Fisher, he knew, had Gabriela. So whatever Phil did, he would have to make an appearance in Central Park, like it or not. The problem was that Phil wasn't sure how to strike up a bargain with Fisher to let Gabi go.
Fisher had insisted that if Phil joined the MAW, Gabi would be right there with him. But Phil wasn't entirely sure that the MAW was the place for Gabi. He had some idea of what Fisher intended to do with the unit, and he was pretty sure that locating and documenting metahumans was only scratching the surface. But whatever Fisher's plans were, they would definitely put Phil into some dangerous situations, and Phil didn't want Gabi to have to live with that kind of danger.
Gabi had her whole life ahead of her. She didn't know what she was doing. Phil didn't have anything to offer her but danger and insecurity. But Phil couldn't convince her that it was a bad idea for her to stay with him.
And worse yet, it was getting harder for him to convince himself of that.
But what could he do?
Phil was almost certain that he would have to take Fisher up on his offer. The last missing girl had been found, and all that remained for Phil here in New York was an NYPD and FBI manhunt. He had nothing going for him now.
Well, there was the little matter of the Colombian he had helped leaving him the information for the Swiss bank account used by the Brothers. Phil had checked the balance on his cellphone. Six point seven six million dollars. Almost seven million could be at Phil's disposal if he went ahead and used the account.
And what weighed even more heavily on Phil's mind was what Frank Haynes had told him. Everything Phil saw taking place seemed to agree with the preacher. God was giving Phil a second chance. But was it a good idea to use that second chance for Fisher's purposes or not? Phil wasn't sure.
He would have to figure all that out after he met Fisher.
1930 hours
Approaching JFK International Airport
The ride had been a bit bumpy, but flying first class always made the turbulence a bit easier for Leslie Kline to take.
She had gotten the call from a particularly insistent Russian four hours ago. Apparently, the GRU needed her help. It wasn't the first time Leslie had worked for Russian military intelligence, but all her previous missions had been quite a bit more specific regarding her objectives. All she had been told was to locate someone that the FBI happened to be after. She was given a rough physical description that could have applied to half the people she'd ever tracked down.
It wasn't easy being a bounty hunter.
Leslie was one up on her friends from high school who planned to break into high-paying fields. They had gone off to become business majors, law students, medical students, and other things, while Leslie, the third highest ranking student in her class, simply dropped off the face of the Earth. But what the others couldn't possibly know was that by the age of twenty-two, Leslie Kline was already a multi-millionaire.
And not even the IRS knew how much she made or where she got it.
Everyone had always insisted Leslie had a gift, but nobody could put a finger on just what it was. They said she was "naturally good with people" or had "lots of natural charisma" or things like that. But the truth wasn't nearly as glamorous as everyone thought.
Leslie Kline was a metahuman. She couldn't read minds or teleport or do any of the things she had heard that metahumans were supposedly capable of, but she didn't need any of that. She could quite literally turn on the charm and get anyone to do anything. She hadn't yet figured out exactly how she did it, but Leslie could elicit anyone's trust and was an absolute magnet for men.
Not that her looks weren't enough on their own. Five-foot-three and just slightly on the curvy side, Leslie had the face of a model, perfect hair, perfect eyes, impeccable fashion sense, and an hourglass figure that had changed the minds of dozens of formerly gay men. Even though her work as a bounty hunter required her to take on many different appearances, Leslie always managed to make them work, except when she was specifically instructed not to look good.
But her powers made things that much easier for her. Using her looks and her charm, Leslie could get closer to her targets than any other bounty hunter could dream of, and from there dealing with them was like shooting fish in a barrel. Leslie had a knack for seizing the assets of her targets, and combining that second-hand income with ever-increasing bounties and compensation from her employers, Leslie had raised quite a bit of money. Enough to maybe quit one day, but Leslie hadn't given that much thought yet. By the age of twenty-two, she had gotten everything a girl could possibly want - almost. The only problem was that the nature of Leslie's work precluded forming any kind of real emotional attachment to anyone. It was getting pretty lonely after all this time.
But all she cared about right now was finishing this job. Unfortunately, after a never-ending string of delays, she was arriving in New York far later than she had anticipated. Leslie hoped that the manhunt wasn't quite over yet.
The intercom beeped. Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are now beginning our descent into the New York area, and we expect to arrive at JFK International right around eight o'clock. We apologize for the delays, and we hope you enjoyed your flight.
Leslie sat back in her seat. Almost an hour to go. And she hoped that her target would be somewhere nearby when she arrived.