A cry for help, p.2
A CRY FOR HELP, page 2
I paused, orienting myself. The heavy door swung shut behind me, muffling the alarm and screams. For a moment, the relative quiet was jarring—just the distant wail of sirens and the hum of the building's mechanical systems. The corridor stretched in both directions, intersecting with others to form a hidden maze behind the mall's gleaming façade.
I needed to go east. From memory, I recalled the mall's layout from the public safety briefing I'd attended two years ago as part of an anti-terrorism task force. The irony wasn't lost on me—using knowledge gained as law enforcement to evade that same system.
I turned right, moving at a controlled jog. Running would attract attention; walking would waste precious seconds. My footsteps echoed despite my efforts to step lightly. I passed storage rooms with padlocked doors, a break room with empty vending machines, and a wall of electrical panels labeled with store names and numbers.
A door opened ahead of me. I pressed myself against the wall, hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there anymore—I'd left it on the mall floor as planned.
A janitor backed into the hallway, pulling a yellow mop bucket. He turned and froze, the mop clattering to the ground as his eyes locked on me. Middle-aged, Hispanic, his name badge reading "Miguel." Recognition flashed across his face—my photo had been on every news station for the last couple of days.
His mouth opened to shout. I closed the distance between us in three quick steps, pressing my finger to my lips in a universal gesture for silence. His eyes widened further, darting between my face and the corridor behind me.
"Please," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I didn't do what they're saying."
He hesitated, and I saw the calculation behind his eyes—the risk assessment. I could see him wondering if I would hurt him, if I was armed, if helping me would cost him his job, or worse.
"Five minutes," I said. "Just give me five minutes before you tell anyone you saw me."
The distant door I'd entered through burst open, voices echoing down the corridor. The janitor's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to me. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and pointed toward a narrow hallway branching to the left.
"That way," he whispered in a heavy accent. "Through kitchen storage."
I touched his shoulder briefly in thanks and slipped away, guilt mingling with gratitude. I'd just made him complicit in aiding a fugitive. Another innocent person potentially damaged by this nightmare that had become my life.
The narrow hallway led to a large storage area filled with pallets of supplies for the food court restaurants. I navigated between towers of napkins, plastic cutlery, and industrial-sized food containers. Beyond them, a heavy metal door with a push bar promised escape.
I paused, my hand on the bar, calculating. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds since the first shot. Police response would be in full force now. The parking lot would be swarming with officers, who would be establishing a perimeter. SWAT would arrive within minutes if they weren't already on scene. Helicopters would follow shortly after.
My options were shrinking by the second.
I'd spent my career tracking killers who tried to stay one step ahead of law enforcement. Now I was living their experience, understanding their desperation in ways I never could have imagined.
Through my mind ran calculations of escape routes, police response times, and the stark reality that I had no choice but to keep moving.
The wail of police sirens grew louder, their Doppler effect indicating multiple units converging from different directions. I pressed my ear against the metal door, listening for movement outside—nothing distinct—just the general commotion of an evacuation.
With a deep breath, I pushed the emergency exit bar.
An alarm immediately shrieked—a local door alarm separate from the mall's main system. I stepped out into blinding afternoon sunlight, momentarily disoriented by the transition from the dimly lit corridor.
To my left, the flashing lights of police cruisers created a blue-and-red strobe effect against the buildings. To my right, the service road curved behind a dumpster enclosure before disappearing around the corner. No officers visible in that direction—yet.
I made my choice and ran, the distant thunder of helicopter rotors beginning to build overhead. The hunt was on, and I was both predator and prey.
Chapter 3
ONE WEEK EARLIER
Chapter 4
The Paradise Bay Motel was anything but paradise. Its faded blue sign flickered in the gathering dusk, half the neon letters dead, the remaining ones casting a sickly glow across the crumbling stucco facade. I leaned my head against the passenger window of our stolen sedan, fatigue pressing down on me like a physical weight. Three days on the run had left me hollow-eyed and desperate, my body aching from too many hours crammed in car seats and makeshift hiding places. Matt's hand found mine in the darkness, his fingers giving a gentle squeeze—a silent reminder that I wasn't alone in this nightmare. At least not yet.
"You ready?" he asked, his voice low and rough with exhaustion.
I nodded, though every fiber of my being wanted to stay hidden in the anonymous safety of the car. "Let's get this over with."
The motel office smelled of stale cigarettes and lemon-scented cleaner that failed to mask decades of human transience. A bell above the door announced our arrival with a cheerful ding that felt obscene against our grim purpose. Behind the counter, an elderly man looked up from a dog-eared paperback, his eyes narrowing as they landed on my face.
My pulse quickened. I'd pulled my hair back under a baseball cap and traded my usual clothes for a shapeless sweatshirt, but my face had been plastered across every news channel in Florida for days. Recognition was a luxury I could no longer afford.
The old man's gaze lingered, making my skin crawl with the uncomfortable sensation of being cataloged, memorized. His eyes—surprisingly sharp in his weathered face—moved from my hair to my eyes, down to my mouth, then back up again.
"Need a room," Matt said, stepping slightly in front of me, his bulk creating a partial shield between me and the owner's probing stare.
The man's attention shifted reluctantly to Matt. "How many nights?"
"Just one," Matt replied, placing several worn bills on the counter. Cash only—one of our new rules for survival. No credit cards, no paper trails, nothing that could be traced or tracked.
The owner's gnarled fingers sorted through the bills with practiced efficiency.
I held my breath, watching the man's face for any hint of suspicion. After what felt like an eternity, he reached beneath the counter and produced a key attached to a plastic diamond-shaped fob with the number 17 faded almost to illegibility.
His fingers closed around the key for a moment too long before extending it toward Matt. "Last one at the end," he said, his voice like sandpaper on wood. "Check out's at eleven. No exceptions."
Matt nodded his thanks, reaching for the key.
"You folks in town for business or pleasure?" the owner asked, his eyes sliding back to my face with uncomfortable intensity.
"Just passing through," Matt replied, his tone casual but firm, signaling an end to the conversation.
The owner nodded slowly, his hawk-like gaze following us as we turned away. "Enjoy your stay," he called after us, the words carrying an undercurrent that raised the hair on the back of my neck.
We walked down the open-air hallway, our footsteps echoing against peeling paint and concrete. The air smelled of mildew and ocean salt, the nearby bay asserting its presence.
"He recognized you," Matt murmured, his voice barely audible above the distant sound of traffic from the highway.
I kept my eyes forward, counting room numbers. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"We'll be gone by morning either way."
Room 17 greeted us with a blast of stale air when Matt pushed open the door. I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the dimness. A double bed dominated the space, its faded floral spread sagging in the middle like a hammock. Wood-paneled walls gave the room a claustrophobic feel, and the carpet beneath our feet was worn thin along a path from the door to the bathroom.
Matt locked the door behind us, using both the standard lock and the flimsy chain. Without a word, he began his security sweep—a routine we'd established over the past three days. He moved methodically through the small space, checking the phone for taps, examining air vents for cameras, and unscrewing lamp bases to look for bugs. I watched him probe behind the framed landscape print on the wall—a generic watercolor of a sunset that had probably hung there since the Reagan administration.
While Matt worked, I drew the curtains tight against the darkening evening and switched on the ancient television set, keeping the volume low. The screen flickered to life with local news, and my stomach dropped as my own face stared back at me from behind the broadcaster's shoulder. My official FBI headshot—professional, composed, a lifetime away from the desperate woman I'd become.
"The manhunt continues for former FBI profiler Eva Rae Thomas, now considered armed and extremely dangerous," the anchor intoned gravely. "Thomas is wanted in connection with the homicide of 55-year-old Richard Collins earlier this week. Police warn the public not to approach Thomas if spotted, but to contact authorities immediately."
My fingers dug into the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking beneath my white-knuckled grip. Seeing myself and hearing myself getting portrayed like this was unbearable. But it was my reality right now.
Matt finished his sweep and sat beside me on the bed, the ancient mattress sagging under our combined weight. "No bugs. No cameras. We're clean."
I nodded, but the temporary security offered little comfort. The walls of this trap were closing in around us.
"We can't keep running," I said, my voice hollow in the shabby room. "They'll find us eventually."
Matt's hand covered mine, warm and solid. "Then we stop running and start fighting back."
I turned to him and studied the determination in his blue eyes. After twenty years in the FBI, I'd learned to read faces like most people read street signs. Matt wasn't offering blind optimism or false hope. He had a plan.
Through the thin walls, I could hear a television playing in the next room, the muffled voices of guests in the parking lot, and the distant hum of traffic on the highway. The mundane soundtrack of normal lives continued while mine imploded spectacularly.
"How?" I asked.
Outside, car headlights swept across our curtained window, momentarily illuminating the room with harsh light before plunging us back into shadow. In that brief flash, I caught sight of our reflections in the bathroom mirror—two exhausted, hunted people, backed into a corner with nowhere left to run.
But still fighting.
Chapter 5
"I've been thinking about reaching out to Juan Ramirez," Matt said, his weight shifting on the creaking mattress. I turned from the television, my body tensing involuntarily at the name I knew so well. Juan Ramirez—former crime scene technician with Tampa PD, now working as a private investigator, specializing in helping people disappear. A brilliant mind with questionable ethics and an extensive network of contacts that spanned both sides of the law. The last person I wanted involved in our situation—and possibly the only person who could help us.
"No." The word came out sharper than I'd intended. "We can't trust anyone right now, especially not someone with connections to local law enforcement."
Matt's expression remained steady. "We need resources, Eva. Someone who understands forensics well enough to spot the inconsistencies in the evidence against you."
I pushed myself off the bed and began pacing the small room, five steps in one direction before being forced to turn. The worn carpet beneath my feet had been walked thin by countless others before me—fugitives, lovers, travelers, all passing through, leaving nothing behind but indentations in a mattress and cigarette burns on the nightstand.
"Juan isn't law enforcement anymore," Matt continued. "He left the department three years ago after that evidence contamination scandal. Remember? The one where they tried to pin the whole thing on him despite systemic problems in the lab."
I did remember. Juan had been the scapegoat in a mess that went all the way up to the commissioner's office. He'd fought back, threatened to expose everything he knew, and eventually walked away with his reputation damaged but his freedom intact. It had been ugly, political, and deeply unfair.
"That's exactly my point," I said, stopping to face Matt. "He has every reason to hate the system. But he also has every reason to curry favor with it now if it helps his PI business. We'd be placing our lives in his hands."
Through the paper-thin walls came the sound of a couple arguing in the next room—a woman's voice rising in frustration, a man's lower tones trying to placate her. On the other side, a television blared a game show, the host's manufactured enthusiasm a jarring counterpoint to our desperate planning. Each sound made me flinch, my nerves raw with the constant vigilance of prey.
"He owes me," Matt said simply, his voice dropping lower. "From before."
I paused my pacing.
"What kind of debt?" I asked.
Outside, a car door slammed in the parking lot. I moved instinctively to the window, pulling back the edge of the curtain just enough to peer out. An elderly couple shuffled toward the motel office, nothing suspicious about them except perhaps their willingness to stay in such a dismal establishment.
“The kind we need right now.”
I let the curtain fall back into place but remained standing by the window, my back pressed against the wall. "So, you trust him because you helped him once?"
"I trust him because he risked his career to expose a lie. That’s what I helped him with. I don’t want to go into details, but he did it when there was nothing in it for him." Matt's eyes held mine. "He could have walked away and not fought back. Most people would have. He didn't."
Another door slammed somewhere down the hall. Footsteps passed our room, heavy and purposeful. I found myself holding my breath until they faded away. Part of me knew my hypervigilance bordered on paranoia, but I'd learned that paranoia was often just good sense wearing an unflattering name.
"We can't trust anyone right now," I repeated, but with less conviction.
"We can't do this alone," Matt countered softly. "You know that, Eva Rae. Whoever framed you has resources, access, and a plan that's been in motion for longer than we've been aware of it. We need someone who can move in circles we can't access anymore."
He was right. The precision of the frame against me suggested someone with intimate knowledge of forensic procedure and evidence collection. Someone who understood how to construct a case that would withstand scrutiny. Someone who knew me well enough to anticipate my movements and reactions.
Someone who might leave traces that only an expert like Juan Ramirez could detect.
Matt's phone buzzed with an incoming text. He glanced at the screen, then turned it so I could see.
Tomorrow. 9 a.m. Old fishing pier at Henderson Beach. Come alone.
“So, you did more than just think about reaching out to him,” I say. “You knew I’d cave.”
"He'll help us," Matt said, tucking the phone away.
I rubbed my temples, feeling the dull throb of a tension headache building behind my eyes.
"Fine. But we change locations immediately afterward, regardless of how the meeting goes." I dropped my hand and met his gaze directly. "And I'm coming with you. If he's setting us up, we face it together."
Matt didn't argue, just nodded once in acknowledgment. The room's single overhead bulb cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw. Three days on the run had aged us both, stripped away pretense and comfort, leaving only the bare essentials of who we were.
"We should try to get some sleep," he said, though we both knew rest would be elusive. "Tomorrow could change everything."
Or end everything, I thought, but didn't say.
Through the wall, the arguing couple had gone quiet. The game show had ended, replaced by the dramatic score of a crime procedural. The irony wasn't lost on me—fictional detectives solving crimes in neat forty-minute packages while real-life law enforcement hunted an innocent woman across Tampa Bay.
The single bulb flickered overhead, threatening to plunge us into darkness at any moment—a fitting metaphor for our circumstances—as we clung to a faltering light while shadows gathered around us.
"We're down to our last few hundred dollars," I said, mentally calculating our dwindling resources. "Three more prepaid phones. One change of clothes each." I met Matt's eyes. "If Juan can't or won't help us, what's plan B?"
Matt's expression was solemn in the harsh light. "There is no plan B, Eva. Not yet."
The truth hung between us, heavy and undeniable. We were running out of time, money, and options. Tomorrow's meeting with Juan might be our last chance.
Chapter 6
I waited until Matt stepped into the shower before retrieving the burner phone from the bottom of my duffel bag. My fingers trembled slightly as I unwrapped it from the T-shirt I'd used to cushion it—one of only three phones we had left, each to be used once and then discarded. Three calls, three chances to hear my family's voices before we'd need to find another untraceable way to communicate.
Three days felt like a lifetime when you were running for your life, but it must have seemed even longer for the people waiting for news, for any sign that you were still alive.
I dialed my mother's number, the familiar sequence burned into my muscle memory despite the unfamiliar phone in my hand. Each ring felt like an eternity, my heart accelerating with each second of silence. What if they'd been questioned? What if their phones were being monitored? What if—
