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Facing Justice

By Diane and David Munson

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The recruiter’s warning from thirteen years ago roared through Eva Montanna’s mind like a flash flood: “Few jobs have mundane moments punctuated by times of terror.” This was one of those jobs. This one of those times. Alert to every sound, Eva did not move and barely breathed. In the decrepit hallway, she turned her thin body to diminish her silhouette, and pressed the white “POLICE” letters on her jacket’s back against the wall.
A faint sound creaked in the distance. She strained to hear. Not footsteps. More like a loose board flopping in the wind. Outside, a storm gathered strength. Eva breathed, but not too deeply. Criminals were hiding in the building. Somewhere. Not knowing where was maddening.
“Come out!” she yelled.
The words ravaged her throat already sore from yelling. Sore from swallowing fear that frayed every nerve, especially after what happened to Jillie. Jillie! Sudden thoughts of her sister’s death rained down on her. Eva gripped her nine millimeter Glock, feeling something stronger than fear. Bile rose past the curve in her long throat, a mixture of a bad lunch and raw anger. Hers was not a vicious anger. It continued to hurt, like a soft bone that would not heal.
No answer to her call. Experience told her no one would. Eva’s search of the store-room had turned up only piles of empty crates. She was about to enter another room, when the whistling wind blew her blond hair into her eyes, distracting her. Eva could not see! She swiped the hair from her eyes, shoved it behind her ears, and into the top of her jacket.
A week ago, Eva chafed under her boss’ lecture -- telling her that she and the rest of the Financial Investigations Group, or FIG, must bring to justice the terrorists who acted as if the whole world were their private Wild West. It was their job, Lou Phillips said. Fresh from a cushy job as liaison to Congress, what did Lou know about what drove her? Or about terrorists? Wasn’t FIG her idea in the first place after she stumbled on the financial records of the Grilled Onion restaurants?
Steady as a stalking cat, her weight shifting from one foot to the other, Eva moved toward the door. Large ammo clips drove down black jeans that hung on her hips. With each step, she closed in on her sworn enemy, the ones who cheered the plane that crashed into the Pentagon, killing Jillie. Al Qaeda, the mastermind behind September 11, had metastasized into other terrorist organizations. ARC was now the primary cancer, sprouting its dangerous cells around the world.
Jillie’s intense blue eyes danced before her. Eva shut her own for an instant. She still struggled with the pain of knowing that terrorists had murdered her identical twin. They might as well have chopped off Eva’s legs or cut out her heart. Inseparable since children, the two sisters shared more than the same features. What one did, the other tried to do. A part of Eva was empty. There was no solace, no forgiveness. Eva rarely prayed. Only when Scott got restless over her apathy did she go to church with him and the kids.
Eva paused at the door. If she practiced shooting more, she’d be better prepared today. Instead, the Glock felt foreign, like when she shoved her feet into Scott’s slippers. Until her transfer to FIG nine months ago, Eva lived behind a desk combing through financial records. Trying to catch white collar criminals, she shot her gun at practice four times a year. Now, she and nine agents and police officers were hot on the money trail of terrorists operating in the United States and around the globe.
In the dark hallway, shards of light fought with cobwebs to pierce through the window. It was more than a duty. It was her destiny. Eva vowed to avenge Jillie’s death.
Eva gripped the gun so tightly it felt like part of her right hand and, taking a deep breath, stepped inside. She was ready to shoot, and would shoot, to save a life. Still, a powerful vise squeezed her chest.
A scruffy guy with a sawed off shotgun turned toward her!
Eva fired two quick blasts. He fell backward. There was no time to think about what she had done. Others might be skulking in the shadows. She spun left. Blood pounded in her ears. Her eyes swept the room. There was no threat.
Her Glock pointed in front of her, three rounds left, Eva crouched on legs strong from running with Scott and crept to one of two rooms she still had to check. Eva burst through the doorway. Her eyes checked the room. It was empty. She sucked in a short breath, then pounced to the other side of the hallway. The door to the final room was closed. She kicked the wood, near the handle. It flew open. Eva stood face to face with an armed man.
This is it! Her brain told her to squeeze the trigger. But, before she fired the fatal blast, she saw it, on his belt. A gold badge! Eva’s heart thudded. She had nearly shot a Federal agent!
A sharp whistle pierced the air. The range master’s voice crackled over a loudspeaker, “Cease firing. Secure your weapon.”
Eva complied with his order, and answered the range master’s question, “Is the line safe?” by yelling loudly, “My weapon is safe.”
He must have heard because he announced to the other agents over a speaker, “You may move about.”
Alone in the practice room, Eva stared at the cardboard federal agent she nearly shot. Its unchanged expression mocked her, and a chill flooded her body. Her specialty was not marksmanship, it was nabbing criminals who hid money. Her shooting was improved, but she had never shot a live criminal. Could she? Was her courage a few minutes ago simply a bravado on the shooting range that would freeze under live fire?

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