Chapter twelve, Martin passed. Martin was teeing up his drive on the eighth
hole a congressional country club when Ricardo got the call. He had heard his
mobile phone ringing as Ricardo sat lounging in the cart an exorbitantly expensive cigar clamped
between his teeth. Martin's shoulder slumped, and he clucked his tongue to himself.
It was so rude, he thought, for Ricardo to answer his phone
while they were on the golf course. He did it all the time.
How is Martin ever supposed to win around if he was distracted by the incessant
chirping of the senator's cell phone, He probably does it on purpose, Martin
theorized. As he swung and hit. The ball went into the right bunker.
Martin swore under his breath, not my day. Martin called out to
the Senator in a sing song voice, but he soon realized Ricardo had walked
off. Still on the phone, he paused, straining to hear Ricardo's conversation,
but he had wandered off by some trees at the edge of the golf
course, and Martin was too far away to hear. He felt the nervousness
start to creep in, just as it did every time he and Ricardo played
golf and Ricardo received a phone call, or every time he and Ricardo played
golf and he didn't receive a phone call. Martin walked back to the golf
cart and, rummaging around in the front pocket of his club bag, pulled
out his prescription bottle of Paxel. He fished out five of them and swallowed
them down without water. Those little pills would calm him down. They always
did. Martin was finding he needed to take more and more of them these
days. Three or four weren't cutting it anymore, and that was all because
of Ricardo and his little scheme he had put Martin up to. He had
developed an ulcer on top of things, and was finding it increasingly hard to
concentrate. His psychiatrist wanted Martin to attend twice weekly sessions with him, but
Martin had only gone to see him in order to be prescribed the drugs.
The guy was a total quack anyway. Martin told him he was stressed and
overworked and needed something to take the edge off. The doctor suggested yoga.
It wasn't until Martin reminded the doc that he had a good bit of money
invested with Essential Management himself, and that it would benefit him greatly if Martin
could score some drugs to concentrate on the market that the doctor finally gave in
that same day, he was filling a prescription for one hundred tablets of Paxel.
He had refilled that prescription shortly thereafter. He had a feeling his wife
was taking some too, stealing some. He didn't tell her he had gotten
prescribed it. For that very reason, he didn't put it in the medicine
cabinet along with all of the other pills. He had kept it in his
golf bag in the garage, but he had noticed that the pills seemed to
disappear quicker than he had anticipated. What a thief, his wife. You
really couldn't trust anyone these days, not even your own spouse, Martin thought
to himself, how utterly sad. While he sat in the golf cart and
waited for Ricardo to return, he fiddled with the scores on his golf cart.
He liked to refer to what he was doing as tweaking. Never changing,
Martin figured that during this round, at least he had been screwed out
of no less than six or seven shots, one of them being the most
recent tea off. He would lower his score by five in order to be
fair about it. He was still behind Ricardo, so it was no big
deal. Besides, he was going to let him win. He always did.
Martin could play better, he just chose not to. He didn't think
it would look very good if Ricardo's financial adviser beat him in golf twice a
week. That was not a very smart thing to do, and Martin was
nothing if not smart. As he continued to watch Ricardo speak on the phone
and flail his arms about yelling into the mobile, Martin thought of different possible
scenarios of the outcome of this. Ricardo would come back to the golf course
and be so incensed about his and his friend's money that he would yell at
Martin, mercilessly beat him with a golf club, probably his wooden driver because
that thing was long and heavy as shit, and bury his body in the
woods alongside the eighth hole, or not bury him at all, and leave
his body to bake under the Florida sun, animals nibbling at him until he
ceased to exist. Another option was Ricardo would come back, having found out
about the money losses, give Martin a stern talking to, and tell him
to get his act together and forgive him. The last scenario was Ricardo would
come back, slap Martin on the back and tell him that he had been
on the phone about another matter altogether, let Martin know how happy he was
to have him as a friend, and treat him to lunch at the end
of nine. As Martin watched Ricardo return from the woods, studying his face
intently, he discerned that what he was facing was somewhere between the first and
the second scenario. Leaning more towards the first. Martin had placed a few
million of the Mexican's money into a ship penny stock, and then, just
like he had planned, and at the same time talk those stocks up to
his investors in the hedge fund. Most of them were skeptical because the companies
in which he was urging them to invest were not well known, nor were
they doing very well in the market. But he convinced a good little chunk
of investors to invest enough to float it. The investors he couldn't convince Martin
put most of their portfolios into the stock as well. They would thank him
when they made a zillion dollars. He waited for the stock to go up
up, and eventually it did. It was time for Martin to sell everyone
shares and reap the benefits of his pump and dump scheme. He had been
flying under the radar successfully for about a year, and it was finally about
to turn a profit. Problem was, Martin didn't time the cell exactly right.
He had timed it a smidge too late. By his calculations, he
was supposed to sell the shitty stocks on a Tuesday. Tuesday was the guaranteed
day, the sweet spot, when the stocks were to have reached their peak.
Instead on the day before that Monday. When Martin sauntered into the office
at nine am, he looked at the New York Stock Exchanged ticker and his
heart sank. Coffee cups plus the stock he had touted that had reached sky
high limits mostly thanks to him, an essential management had fallen dramatically in the
span of one night. What the fuck Martin had thought? That wasn't supposed
to happen for at least another week. He panicked, reading the numbers over
and over. That can't be right, he thought. Martin decided to look
at his other less lucrative investments. At least he could still sell some of
those. He thought he was wrong again. Those stocks had fallen too,
not as dramatically as Coffee Cups Plus, but enough to render them basically worthless.
Martin was screwed. He immediately sold what was left of one of the
smaller penny stocks and realized he had made a grand total of forty two thousand,
eight hundred twenty six dollars and one cent from the sale. Factoring that
into his calculations, Martin now owed his investors sixty two million dollars, give
or take a few hundred thousand. With ten million of that owed to Ricardo,
he had about two million in the fund. The plan was to use
the pump and dump scheme to make more money to then launder it for the
Senator. Martin had been laundering some so far with whatever funds he could scrape
together. Typically, he would funnel the small bundles of money he received into
the senator's fate company, a lawn care service, an actual laundromat, and
Ricardo even held ownership in a sleazy strip club in rural Maryland. Sometimes Ricardo
would even hand over actual duffel bags filled with cash to Martin, which was
exciting, but then Martin would be expected to write the Senator a check for
the amount, minus a very small cut, and Martin's check needed to clear.
At first that was doable, but now times were desperate. Martin's last
two checks to cover the cash had bounced, and now Martin was screwed.
He gulped down ten paxel that day and murmuring an excuse to the few brokers
in the office who gave him disinterested looks as he sped by, raced home,
planned to unplug his phone, shut off his computer, and think.
Martin stopped at the liquor store on the way home about two fifths of whiskey,
and ignored his wife's startled inquiries as to why he was home at ten
o'clock in the morning, locked himself in his office and proceeded to get past
out drunk. When he came to five hours later, he groggedly, powered
on his mobile, plugged the landline jack back into the wall, and fired
up his email. He could do this, he thought, giving himself a
little pep talk. This was nothing. It was then that he realized he
had twenty nine missed calls on his cell phone and ninety seven new emails,
a record, Martin thought, and for a minute smiled, deriving a small
sense of pride after accomplishing this feat, until the ringing of the landline on
his desk snapped him back to reality. He answered it stupidly, and the
minute he heard his assistant Jeremy yelling at him on the other end of the
phone, asking where he'd been for the last seven hours and did he know
that Coffee Cups Plus was down and most likely worthless, and every investor was
calling with questions and demanding their money back. So can Martin please call everyone
back? A sap and blah blah blah. Martin slammed down the receiver without
saying a word, and ripped the phone cord out of the jack again.
His head was pounding like a motherfucker, Martin. His wife yelled from outside
the door. Everything all right in there, Martin yelled back. I'm fine,
I'll be out in a minute. That paxel stealing bitch, he thought.
Why couldn't she ever just leave him alone? He had half a mind
to run away, leave his daughter and his wife, skip off to the
Dominican Republic, tan on the beach and drink his cares away. For all
of time, he always thought that plan sounded good, But then he would
remember he didn't speak Spanish very well and would remind himself that the Dominican was
close to Mexico and Ricardo's guys were Mexican, so he usually ended up scrapping
the plan because of the two countries proximities. Martin found that way too risky
for his liking. That did remind him to put a little more money into
his hidden account, though he had continued to pay himself and had since the
beginning of the inception of Essential Management. By setting up a trust in the
name of his daughter, the money could be touched only by her. It
wasn't much, two million dollars or so, but it was something Martin would
only use it in case of an emergency. Only he knew about the hidden
money. The documents proclaiming his daughter the keeper of the money were hidden away
in a safe past box, and he had hidden the key long ago.
The ship had hit the fan two weeks ago, and for two weeks Martin
had been lying low. Investors would call day and night demanding their money back.
Martin would ignore them. Investors would email demanding their money back, or
they would go to the SEC, the Attorney General, or anyone who would
listen. The emails went unreplied to. The only investor Martin hadn't heard from
was Ricardo. So when the Senator cheerily confirmed their weekly golf game, Martin
was skeptical, but he figured it looked worse not to show up. So
there they were on the eighth hole and Martin was waiting, waiting for something
to happen. Ricardo sat down in the golf cart with a huff, cocking
his head toward Martin and shaking it left to right. He tapped his golf
club on the roof of the cart. I hate those kinds of calls,
Martin. Martin wondered if this was some kind of trap. He decided to
humor Ricardo and respond, What kinds of calls? Martin asked, nervously,
ripping little tears in his golf card. Oh you know. Ricardo was silent,
chewing on the cigar that was now nothing more than a stump covered with
saliva. He he Martin laughed nervously to cut through the silence. When Ricardo
still didn't answer, Martin pressed on what kinds of calls? Ricardo finished chewing
on his cigar and tossed it to the ground. He turned to look at
Martin head on, and his left hand shot out to grip Martin's right forearm
hard. The calls, the calls I get from some of my most trusted
confidants telling me that I have lost a large sum of money. Oh,
Martin squeaked out. He tore the golf cart in half. These calls I
do not like. And do you know who has allegedly lost that large sum
of money for me? Who? Allegedly? Martin asked, turning his head
from the senator, You, Martin, My trusted advisers tell me it is
you. They are not very happy. I am not very happy. Tell
me how much money is it you have lost of mine? Martin squirmed in
the golf cart. I'm working on it, Ricardo. Nothing is absolute at
this point. I have hit a rough patch, sure, but it's nothing
that can't be fixed. Trust me on this one, Ricardo laughed, throwing
his head back. Trust you, for years I have I have put my
trust in you, and you have abused it and taken me for granted.
Why Martin, when I have been nothing but a good friend to you.
I will get you your money, Senator. I promise. I have a
lot of goodlies on stocks. Things are looking up. You will get me
my money. Ricardo said it as a statement. I will ten million dollars.
I will. You will do this. You have my word. Ricardo's
face broke into a wide grin. He slapped Martin on the back and leaned
back against the golf cart. Wonderful, my friend, he exclaimed, That
is all I needed to hear. You will get me my ten million.
I have your word. Martin breathed a sigh of relief. Ricardo seemed in
a much better mood. Martin can stall him for a few more days,
he thought, no problem. He would come up with the cash somehow.
He laughed nervously and pointed to the golf cart. Ignition, shall we yes,
Ricardo gestured toward the explants of the golf course in front of them.
But first I must make another call. I will expedite it, I promise.
Please excuse my rudeness. Did you tea off already? Yes, Martin
explained, I'm in the bunker. Please, my friend, take a mulligan.
It is the least I can give you for being so rude. Are
you sure? Martin was already up on his feet, swinging his golf club.
I insist. Ricardo smiled again and hit one button on his phone.
He began to speak in Spanish to the person on the other end. Martin
took his mulligan and kept it out of the bunker. As he drove home.
Martin couldn't help but wonder how he had gotten so lucky. He needed
to buckle down and arrange for a way to make a lot of money and
quickly. But first he would take a hot shower and have his wife order
him a pizza with pepperoni and pineapple, his favorite. Arriving home, he
pulled up to the curb in his Mercedes. He liked to leave his other
cars out on the driveway instead of in the garage so his neighbors would be
jealous. Whistling, he put the car in park and took out his mobile
phone. Thirteen missed calls while he was on the golf course. Twelve messages,
not bad for a day when he had skipped out of the office.
These days, any number below twenty over a given couple of hours was a
low one. He hit the button to listen to his messages. The first
one was from his wife, telling him that she and Jessica had gone out
shopping and for him to order a pizza if he got hungry. Probably out
shopping with plenty of his Paxel in her system, he thought bitterly. As
he deleted the message and waited for the second one to begin, he glanced
out his car window to the left and caught sight of a small black car
with flame decals covering the side of it, parked across the street in front
of the Green's house. That's odd, Martin thought, rolling down his window
for a better look. He had never seen a trashy car like that anywhere
near his ritzy suburban neighborhood. He couldn't make out anything through the tinted windows.
He put the phone up to his ear again, and as the requisite
piste off investor began yelling on the machine, Martin heard a scuffle coming from
outside the window. In a flash, he saw three men jump out of
the small black car and run toward him. They wore handkerchiefs across their faces
and were dressed all in black. Before Martin could react. One of the
men opened his car door and another dragged him out out of his seat.
Martin yelped and dropped the phone. He was dragged over the sidewalk and to
his front lawn, the force of the pavement against him, ripping away most
of the clothing on the left half of his body. Once on the grass
just inside the sidewalk, he was deposited by the man and was kicked hard
in the robe cage. Martin screamed and tried to curl up into the fetal
position, but the men were quicker, punching him and kicking him as they
yelled in Spanish. One of the men grabbed Martin's thumb on his right hand
and jerked it back until he heard it snap. He then did the same
to every other finger. Martin was too much in pain to scream or make
noises other than grunts. He watched in horror as, after a swift kick
to the mouth, two teeth flew out and landed on the grass beside him.
He felt the blood pour out of his mouth and run down his cheek.
One of them and grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up
to his mouth. Ten million dollars. Essay, we come here for you
because of mister Hernandez. Next time we come for your wife and daughter.
Okay. The man slammed Martin's head back down in the grass, and rearing
his leg back, kicked him in the balls. Martin finally screamed out in
pain. Come pren day, the man said, and they all backed up,
finally leaving Martin alone. Watching the men leave, coughing up blood and
whimpering, Martin had only one thought. No matter his wife and daughter,
he could never endure that pain again. He was royally screwed and there was
nothing he could do about it. They were going to kill him if he
didn't come up with the money, and there was no way that he could.
It was time to go to the sec himself. It was time to
turn himself. In chapter thirteen, Ryan passed his first witness protection case with
the FEDS. Was pretty cut and dry. A Russian mob member snitched on
another Russian mob member, and Ryan and his partner Sam were in charge of
the snitches protection while he was in and out of trial. Twenty four hour
protection was provided to Seragey Kutznikov. They stuck him, his wife and his
ten year old son in a shitty motel outside of town, and every day
and night, either Ryan or Sam would watch them parking the car outside their
motel room, which was at the far right corner at the back of the
motel. Ryan would bring them dinner every night, which usually consisted of a
blt sandwich and fries from the eyehop across the street. He and Sam escorted
Seragey and the family to trial every day for two weeks. They would drive
up to the motel and their government issued vehicle with blacked out windows. They
would wear sunglasses and escort Sergey, the wife, and the son from their
tiny room to the waiting car. Once at the courthouse, serge was locked
in a separate room until it was time for his testimony. This was to
ensure that he did not see the person against whom he was testifying. The
wife and son would be locked in a separate room. Ryan would wait outside
Sergey's room every day until his name was called to testify. Then Ryan would
walk him down the long corridor and safely deposit him in the courtroom. Ryan
would stand at the back of the court, listened to his testimony, and
after he was finished, escort Sergey back to the locked room. After two
straight weeks of that, Serge, his wife and son had two rounds of
psychological counseling and were shown a video of their new location. Ryan and Sam
then found them new names, new social Security numbers, and new birth certificates.
This took a few more weeks. They were relocated to eastern Tennessee.
Saragey's mistress was taken to a separate, shitty motel off of Root sixty six.
Unlike her former boyfriend and his family, Vadlena was demanding and a nightmare
to surveil. Seragey, The wife and son were boring. They woke up
in the morning, ate their breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the motel,
and went to sleep at night. There was never any drama surrounding them,
and they never made wild requests of Sam or Ryan. With Vladilenna,
it was different. Within two hours of arriving at her motel, Vladilenna summoned
Ryan into her room and powderly proclaimed that she was bored. She was wearing
sky high clear plastic heels, a black miniskirt, and a red top that
plunged low enough to blay huge fake breasts. Her naturally dark hair was dyed
a crunchy bottled blonde color, and dark magenta lipliner outlined her lips. She
looked like a stripper, probably because she was one. This was not the
only time led Lena annoyed the shit out of him. For two weeks,
she pranced around in those hideous heels, offering to have sex with Ryan if
he let her leave the motel, just for a night, just to make
some money at the strip club, just to go see her other boyfriend,
Bogdon, owner and proprietor of said strip club, just to blah blah blah
blah blah. Ryan stopped listening to her after he realized she was never going
to stop hounding him, and within three days stopped coming into her motel room
altogether. Anytime she beckoned. If he got her food, he would leave
it on the doorstep, rap three times with the knocker to signal its arrival,
and run back to the are power locking the doors, his sunglasses always
on. When vled Lena realized she wasn't going to be able to persuade Ryan
to let her out with sex or otherwise, she became increasingly angry and took
to flipping him off every time she opened the door to retrieve her food.
Ryan didn't care. His job was to protect her, but that didn't mean
she was anything more than a trampy, gold digging Russian whore. After Sergey
and his family were relocated, Ryan and Sam set to work on obtaining vled
Lena's papers. She was relocated to north central Missouri. She made it four
months After that time, vled Lena voluntarily left the program. SEC witnesses were
heavily advised against doing so, but the program was not mandatory, so if
a witness or family member wanted to leave, there was nothing anyone could do
about it. Asked, Ryan heard Vladlena had moved back to the DC area,
where she was killed in a shooting at the strip club where she had
gone back to work. Bog Don, the esteemed owner, proprietor, and
boyfriend, had been killed as well. Serge and his family were, to
everyone's collective knowledge, still safe in Tennessee, living a quiet existence. Ryan
was always hungry for more witness protection cases. He liked playing the hero.
He supposed it was because of his inability to save his father so many years
ago. His father had died in the room next to him and Ryan had
been helpless and inefficient. The federal Marshal program and wit Sek especially had given
Ryan another chance to be the hero. It wasn't so much the glory he
craved. It was more the fact that people's lives depended on him. They
depended on him not to screw up and to keep them safe. The oath
that Ryan had taken to do so he had taken to heart. He took
the most pride in taking care of the children that were involved in wit SEC.
They were the innocent ones, the ones who had no choice as to
why their lives had to be upended, torn apart, begun anew. There
were not that many children in the program. Mostly it consisted of criminals who
were in need of safe housing, but if the criminal had a wife and
children, they would obviously enter into it as well. The criminals had chosen
their path, but their children were unlucky and unfortunate standbys. Ryan found that
the wives were typically less at fault when it came to the criminal activity,
but not blameless. Countless wives knew what their husbands were up to and never
turned them in, whether out of fear of repercussions or out of fear they
would have to acclimate to a much less lavish lifestyle. The wives of criminals
enjoyed a certain quality of life and were not about to have that ripped away
from them. A little bit of Ryan thought that he was so intent on
saving children because he had never been able to give his wife the children she
so wanted. Even though it didn't matter to Ryan whether or not he had
them, he had always felt a sense of failure at not being able to
provide that for her. It had been partly to blame for the demise of
his marriage. But Ryan was no longer a failure when it came to whitsec.
He was a success. Ryan and Sam were at their desks on a
lazy Thursday afternoon in February nineteen ninety five when they were called into their superior's
office. David Andrews bellowed out from his corner chambers, barking Ryan and Sam's
names. The only time there was so much urgency in Andrew's voice was when
there was another Whitset case on the roster. This particular one in involved a
former DC broker and hedge fund manager, Martin Walker. Martin had been a
low lying, bottom feeding white collar criminal. For years. Ryan didn't know
much about the stock market, but he did know a little bit about white
collar fraud. These guys were all the same crooks who stole other people's livelihoods
and didn't think twice about it. In fact, most of them didn't think
what they were doing was even criminal. Ryan didn't see the difference between taking
a life and ruining one, But that was the difference between himself and Martin
Walker. Ryan got to sleep at night. Martin Walker hadn't for a long
long time. Walker had made a fortune a decade ago from shorting a stock
that ended up going bust. He then started his own hedge fund and set
about royally fucking his investors over. Ryan didn't see how this was excited or
in any way news at all. Didn't these guys always do this? Ryan
interrupted his boss, impatient. So what some investor finally figured out this guy
was a crook and his hard earned money went to pay for Walkers jag and
yacht. Big deal. These guys screw investors over all the time. Sam
chimed in, Yeah, we need to protect this Walker guy because some investors
got pissed off and are threatening to kill him. I say let him kill
him. Good for them. This is a little bit bigger than that.
David Andrews addressed the two men. How big Sam asked, it involves a
US senator? David replied cautiously, which one. Sam leaned forward in his
chair. Attentive Senator Ricardo Hernandez, Republican from California, answered David shit.
Sam sat back in his Ryan was still confused. Was the senator one of
Walker's investors? Yes? And no. David sat down in his own chair,
opening a file folder and glancing at it before proceeding. He did invest
with Walker years ago until Walker lost a lot of his money doing shitty trades
and being an all around piece of shit, So the senator blackmailed him into
laundering money for him. Where we at now? Then Sam asked, crossing
his right ankle over his left knee, this guy got a family. David
ignored him and plowed on. So Walker is laundering the money. Everything is
going great, right, but it's a shit ton of money. So he's
wondering where this senator is coming from having all that cash. Curiosity gets the
best of him, and Walker figures out that the senator has major ties to
a Mexican drug cartel. No shit. This time it was Ryan's turn to
react. David continued, So, Senator Hernandez is in bed with the Tijuana
cartel who operate out of guess what Tijuana. The guy's family is from.
There are something. So the whole lot of those drug trafficking wetbacks are fucking
overjoyed when he gets elected to the Senate because Senator Spick not only has the
wherewithal and power to get their money laundered, but he can also pass laws
that favor them being able to move billions of dollars worth of drugs over the
border. Ryan was intrigued. How long has this been going on? We're
not sure, David admitted. He closed the file and rested his elbows on
his desk. Walker came to the Feds earlier this week. They're checking everything
out, but they're pretty sure that this senator is going to be implicated.
Sam interrupted, And if the Senator goes down for this, he's got his
whole gang of border rants going after Walker. This guy got a family,
that had been Ryan's next question. David Andrews looked pained. He does got
a wife and kid, little girl. Ryan's heart dropped, how old,
Boss, She's four. Ryan felt sick to his stomach. Sam, who
seemed immune to the newest piece of information, was on his feet in seconds.
When do we go get him, he asked his boss, referring to
the family. I'd like you to go tonight, David replied, also standing
up from his chair. This Walker guy has already been threatened by the cartel,
and he's worried they'll get to his family. That's why he turned himself
in. Told our guys. He's willing to testify against the Senator, but
he needs our protection. He's up against some pretty powerful people. A few
hours later, Ryan and Sam were driving to Bethesda, Maryland, where Martin
Walker and his family lived. Bethesda was a residential suburb of Washington, d
C. Home to many prominent politicians and business men in the area. As
Ryan and Sam passed countless mansion, set far back from the street and surrounded
by high wrought iron gates, Ryan tried to imagine the life here. It
was whirled away from his little one bedroom apartment, which he rented. Sam
maneuvered the blacked out government vehicle onto burning Tree Court, pulled up flush with
the curb outside the house and killed the engine. Ryan took a minute to
look around them before they ventured inside. The Martin residence was on a tree
lined side street, situated at the end of a cul de sac seventeen Burning
Tree Court was a three story brick structure. Its facade was imposing, almost
menacing. A black driveway that looked as if it had just been repaved,
curled up toward the black door and curved around in a semi circle. Sensing
that Ryan was not about to move anytime soon, Sam picked up a pack
of cigarettes from the console, fished one out, and brought it to his
lips. Without a word, he offered Ryan one. Ryan usually didn't make
a habit of smoking, but tonight he would have one to calm him down.
He had no idea why he was so jumpy or had an impending feeling
of doom come over him. Usually he was excited to do these sorts of
operations. This was the part of his job he loved the most. He
gratefully accepted a cigarette, and, pulling a lighter from his pocket, lit
Sam's then his own. They sat and smoked in silence, windows down,
letting the cold February night air inside the car Sam finished first and tossed his
cigarette butt out the window. You ready to do this, he asked Ryan.
Ryan nodded, and together they exited the car and made their way up
the driveway, stopping to knock on the door and wait to be let inside.
A full minute passed and Ryan knocked again. No answer. He didn't
hear any noises inside the house either. He backed up and tilted his head
to see if there were any lights on in the house that rose menacingly above
him. There were not. Ryan had had witnesses hide from him before.
He had gone to move them, to collect them, as Sam sometimes called
it, and the witnesses were too scared to come to the door. Some
of them tried to flee when Ryan got there. He never understood this.
It was the witnesses who had come to him for help, not the other
way around. Ryan tried to have patience with these people, but because most
of them were criminals themselves, was sometimes difficult. He looked at Sam,
who shrugged his shoulders. Sam had even less patience than Ryan, a feat
Ryan considered exceptionally difficult. Sam began pounding on the door again, and midpound
the door opened to reveal a short somewhat stocky man with graying hair and glasses.
The man looked at them, dwarfed by the entryway, wringing his hands
as he cleared his throat. Hello, the man said quietly. Behind him
was an expansive hallway with a double staircase climbing up to the second and third
stories. Black and white marble made up the flooring, and a gigantic chandelier
hung above the man's head. Even in the darkness, it glittered expensively.
Life size bronze statues flanked the entryway, and Ryan could just make out two
small steps that opened into a sunken living room. On the woodpanel walls.
On either side of the staircases hung gold framed paintings. Martin Walker. Ryan
spoke first, pushing the door open wider and looking around inside the darkened foyer.
That is I I'm Ryan Gaines and this is my partner, Sam Holloway.
Ryan motioned to Sam, May we come in please? Martin stepped aside
and nervously swept his hand in the direction of the hallway. Please come in,
Yes, thank you for coming. Ryan clapped Sam on the shoulder and
told him I'll have a look around. Sam nodded and continued talking to Martin.
Ryan could hear him saying that they were there to escort him and his
family to a safe location that would be revealed to them only when they arrived,
standard federal marshal procedure. Ryan walked through the downstairs of the house,
his hand on his gun and the holster at his side, just in case
it was needed. He had yet to pull a gun on anyone during a
pickup, but his training had taught him that this was a distinct possibility.
When going to retrieve the witnesses den kitchen, laundry room, living room,
Ryan moved stealthily through every room, looking for suspicious things or people. The
house was decorated in a modern style. Ryan could tell that the Walkers had
overspent on pretty much everything. Expensive art lined the walls, the best stainless
steel appliances were in the kitchen. And checking the garage, Ryan counted a
Mercedes Benz, a Ferrari, and an Aston. Martin Martin Walker was not
frugal that much, he could tell. Ryan walked back into the hallway where
Sam and Martin were still talking. Martin was apologizing for his wife, who
was taking her time getting ready and packing her things. Martin was trying to
explain to Sam that his wife had taken things very hard, but that she
was being brave for their daughter. Rian had heard it all before, just
a criminal's way of making himself feel better about the situation he had put his
loved ones in, Ignoring both of them. Ran headed up one side at
the double swirling staircase, taking the steps two at a time. When he
reached the landing, he could see the master bedroom in front of him.
The light was on in the room, illuminating its size. The room was
massive and sparsely furnished. A king bed unmade was along the back wall,
and an armwire was flushed against the right wall. A small bedside table was
the only other piece of furniture. Ran heard who he guessed was Martin's wife,
chattering a mile a minute, probably on the phone. He couldn't make
out the whole conversation, but she sounded very hyper and stressed. Suddenly,
the wife appeared in the doorway, wearing only a bra and panties. Fortunately,
her back was to Ryan and she was clutching a phone with one hand
while gesturing wildly with the other. Embarrassed, Ryan slinked away back down the
hallway the way he had come, so as not to make it appear as
if he were a voyeur of any kind. As he was making his way
back toward the staircase, Ryan heard a muffled sound coming from the room to
his left. The door was open, so Ryan, keeping his hand on
his gun, tiptoed closer and stood in the doorway. On a twin size
bed. In front of him sat a little girl, pigtails in her blonde
hair, clutching a ragged blanket to her chest. The girl was crying.
She looked up at him as fat tears continued to roll down her cheeks.
The girl sniffed and rubbed her nose. Who are you, the girl asked,
placing the blanket between her legs that were crossed Indian style. She wore
a black and white striped dress with a belt that had light pink bows on
it. Each pigtail held a similar pink bow, and the outfit was complete
with white tights and pink ballet flats. It was as if her mother had
dressed her up specifically for a very big day. The day just happened to
be the one when this little girl entered the Witness Protection Program and had her
identity changed for her by the US government for all time. Ryan let his
hand drop from his gun and approached the girl slowly. I'm Ryan, he
said, sitting down next to her on the bed. I've come to help
your mommy and daddy keep you safe. The girl nodded as if she understood,
seemingly wise beyond her years. Mommy and Daddy told me that we have
to go away. Yes you do, Ryan conceded, But you're going to
be just fine. Everything will be okay. I'm going to help you.
The girl it again, the pink bows in her hair moving up and down,
almost imperceptibly. Ryan didn't know if everything was actually going to be okay,
and he suddenly felt the guilt creep up into his chest. How dare
he lie to this poor little girl? Can you come downstairs with me now,
Ryan asked, as he stood up and extended his hand for the little
girl to take. How about we go get some ice cream, really,
really soon. The girl nodded again and reached out her hand as well.
Ryan looked down and saw her hand so tiny compared to his, and felt
her grip surprisingly tight for her young age. At that moment, ran knew
that he would do all he possibly could to protect this little girl, to
keep her safe. As she toddled down the stairs, slowly putting both feet
on each step before starting over again on the next one, she chattered to
Ryan about how her mother had let her wear her most favorite dress because her
favorite color was pink, and because this was a special occasion, she had
stopped crying. When she reached the landing, she stopped and stood still,
clasping her hands in front of her dutifully waiting for further instructions. Hello,
Daddy, she smiled, looking up at Martin in reverence. Martin was also
on the landing, and when he caught sight of his daughter, he stooped
down to give her an awkward hug. Hello, sweetheart, Remember what mommy
and I told you that you have to go away for a while. You're
not going to be with mommy and Daddy, but you'll see us soon.
The little girl nodded again, still gazing up toward her father. The little
girl was to be taken to a secret location, a foster home, while
Martin and his wife stayed at the Whitsec safe house. At the end of
the investigation and subsequent trial, Martin and his wife would be reunited with their
daughter if the marshals deemed it safe enough. They would then all receive their
new identities. But for now, the little girl was under Ryan's care until
he could get her to the foster home that was expecting her. Within the
hour. Ryan and the child would be picked up by another fed. Their
meeting spot had been predetermined a convenient smart in walking distance from the house.
This was to prevent any mishaps in case the car that Ryan and Sam had
arrived in had been tailed. Ryan was ready to get going. He didn't
want to miss the scheduled pickup. He needed to get the girl to safety
as soon as possible. Martin's wife came running down the stairs, still clutching
the phone, now clothed in a bathrobe. He didn't figure Sam would be
taking them to the motel anytime soon. Many of the missus wives delayed their
departures. They weren't the types of women to be hurried, nor were they
anxious to leave their extravagant lives behind in order to slum it at a motel
by the interstate. My darling, she cried, reaching the bottom of the
stairs and folding her daughter into her arms. She held her at arm's length.
You be a good girl, okay, and mommy will see you soon,
she said, her voice catching in her throat. Mommy loves you very
much. The little girl looked at the mother for a long moment, as
if rendering her to memory. Then Martin stepped up to his daughter and pulled
something from behind his back. I have a gift for you, her father
said, producing what looked to Ryan like a stuffed animal and placing it in
the girl's outstretched hands. The girl smiled. Pleased with the gift, she
turned it over and over in her hands, inspecting the stuffed ana, which
Ryan recognized as a large teddy bear wearing a tan vest and underneath a red,
short sleeved shirt. Martin turned the bear over in her hands and pulled
a white string on the bear's back. Suddenly, the bear began to talk
in a high pitched children's voice, and its eyes moved back and forth as
the bear trembled in the girl's hands. The little girl smiled and clutched the
bear to her chest. Thank you, daddy, she said. Martin grew
serious and took the girl's hand as He looked straight into her eyes. Keep
that bear with you wherever you go. Do you understand me? I will,
daddy. It is very important. It is to remember your daddy by
promise me. I promised, daddy, the girl said again, still clutching
the bear tightly. Ryan cleared his throat, signaling to everyone that it was
time to leave. Sam w opped him on the back and told him he'd
see him later tonight. Ryan nodded and took the girl's hand to lead her
toward the door. Her mother turned away and put her head in her hands.
Martin walked up to the doorway and stopped inside the threshold to watch Ryan
walk away with his little girl. Just as Ryan was about to exit,
Martin placed a hand on his shoulder. The man's grip tightened, but before
Ryan could turn around, he heard him barely audible whisper a string of numbers.
Fourteen nine, three, fifteen twelve five. What Ryan asked, trying
to turn around again, but Martin's hand remained clamped on his shoulder, forcing
him to stare straight ahead. He repeated the numbers, this time closer to
Ryan's ear. Fourteen nine, three, fifteen twelve five. Martin finally released
his grip and Ryan turned. The man before him had no expression. He
could see the light from inside the house darkening every feature. He was merely
a shadow in the doorway. Turning back, Ryan led the girl down the
long path to the driveway. She was walking carefully and excruciatingly slowly. She
turned around and put a tiny hand up in the air, waved at her
father, and called out goodbye, Daddy. Ryan looked back at Martin,
still in the doorway and waited for him to reply. After what seemed like
hours, Martin quietly responded, goodbye, Nicole.