Damaged Goods

Chapter Twenty-One

The find sickened me. Terry wouldn't have left willingly without his phone. I saw no sign of a fight. Not unless they had a knock-down drag out and straightened up afterward—highly doubtful.

But the phone could have been kicked under the bed. Possibly by someone holding a gun on Terry. And if this had anything to do with my inquiries into the Georgian (or Svanetian) letter, then it could be my fault that Terry was . . . Kidnapped? Being tortured? Dead?

I tried to shut down this new train of thought, which was sheer supposition anyway. Maybe the hackers coming after him were angry enough to take him hostage. But without any struggle from Terry? Nah.

The police. I should file a missing persons report. Tell them everything I'd had done to try to reach Terry. I would leave out the part about breaking into his apartment. They could search it for themselves if they wanted to.

It was the least I could do if Blaine's case related to Terry's disappearance. And, at this point, the least I could do was the best I could do.

*****

After exhausting every possible hiding place for clues, I left Terry's apartment. My spidey-sense tingled. The internal poison ivy flared. That too-familiar feeling of bad vibes from my time being deployed overseas. As I walked to my car, I felt a presence behind me. The presence walked quietly as a cat, but his footsteps whispered against the pavement in a way that told me he was large and heavy. I say "he", because I caught a glimpse of his shadow. It could've been Sasquatch's.

"Excuse me," a voice rumbled at my back. I stopped and turned. A man approached me. He was like a gorilla, with possibly a bit less hair.

The lights went out for a moment. Then, I realized the man was on the ground, out cold. I felt slightly dizzy, but remained upright. My arms ached a bit. They felt like I'd been lifting weights.

A blackout. I hadn't had one in ages. But then I hadn't felt this threatened in a long time.

Itchiness swept through me. Bugs crawled up my spine. I scanned the surrounding buildings. Saw a glimmer on the roof. I dove for the pavement, trying to keep my chin from scraping concrete, but not quite succeeding.

Zzzip. Crack. The sounds verified my fears. The bullet grazed the nearby shrubbery, thudding into the ground. Too close.

I pushed myself up with caution, looking toward where light had reflected off the sniper's scope. Nothing there. I touched my chin. Blood stained my hand. Facial wounds always seem worse than they are, blood-wise, but I needed to staunch the flow before I dripped all over one of my few decent shirts.

The Gorilla Man stirred, his eyes still shut. Time to leave. I forced myself to stand and made a wobbly-legged run for the car.