by Alex Ander
Stockwell glimpsed her man. “Like the AD said...how are we getting this lead?”
Jacob shrugged a shoulder. “We’re going to talk to Sheriff Winston.”
Five paces later, she shot him a sideways glance. “This isn’t going to be a,” she paused, “an amicable conversation, is it?”
He faced her.
She noticed his steely eyes staring back at her.
He shook his head. “Most likely not.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 23
Tells
2:44 A.M.
ONE MILE NORTH OF
CLAYTON, GEORGIA
“And this couldn’t have waited another five or six hours? It’s the middle of the night.” Sheriff Winston, wearing navy-blue boxers and a white muscle shirt, stood in the doorway of a single-story ranch house in the country holding a rare, blued, half underlug Ruger GPF 340 revolver by his side.
Having wiped off their face paint and stripped out of their tactical gear at their vehicle near the compound, Jacob and Stockwell, still in their black tactical clothing, now stood on the sheriff’s front porch asking to speak with him about their case.
On her left, his eyes darting back and forth from the sheriff to the sheriff’s gun, Jacob crossed arms over his chest to bring his right hand closer to the Coonan under his unzipped black windbreaker. “I wish we could, but we’re short on time.”
Letting out a yawn, Winston rubbed his eyes and backed away. “All right.” He shuffled across the living room and sat in an easy chair.
Stockwell entered and made the mistake of watching him sit. She got a peek inside the baggy leg openings of the man’s boxers when he crossed his legs, ankle on knee. She quickly turned her head.
He smiled. “Sorry. My home...my dress code.”
Jacob closed the door. His body blocking the homeowner’s view, he eased the deadbolt over and made sure the doorknob was locked before facing his host. “I’ll get right into it, so we don’t keep you up too long.”
Winston laid the 357 Magnum on a table to his right. “Please do.”
“Are you aware of,” staring at the man, Jacob searched for tells of dishonesty, “a kidnapping ring operating out of Mountain Lion?”
Winston repeated the question. “A kidnapping ring?”
Jacob nodded to himself. There’s one.
Winston pursed his lips, looked up and to the right, “I,” before shaking his head, “I can’t say that I have. Why?”
There’s at least two more.
“Is that why you two are here...in Georgia, I mean?”
“What about that,” Jacob moved to a sofa on Winston’s two o’clock but stopped short of sitting, “that cult-like community northwest of Mountain Lion?”
The sheriff blinked several times in rapid succession.
Another one. “Did you know they were stockpiling illegal weapons?”
In a two-second span, Winston scratched his cheek, stroked his chin, and folded arms over his chest. “I’m not sure I like where this is going.” Following a glance at his weapon, he laid his right hand flat on the chair’s armrest, a foot away from the revolver. “Do you mind telling me what this is all about?”
Noting at least one additional tell, Jacob glimpsed the Ruger while crossing his arms and closing his fingers around the Coonan under his jacket. He tipped his head toward Stockwell on his right. “We noticed you were pretty friendly with a couple of the men who harassed us at the diner...who also happen to be members of that cult. Care to explain?”
Winston felt his body temperature rising and perspiration forming on his forehead.
“And we also know you were made aware of our vehicle being shot up at that abandoned factory. Why were we never questioned?” Jacob held a shrug. “Something like that usually draws a speedy response from local law enforcement. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The seated man’s nostrils flared.
Noting the expression, Jacob caught sight of the sheriff’s right hand; it twitched.
Stockwell saw the spasm, too, and unwound her forearms to overlap her hands near her belt buckle.
His eyes shifting from one agent to the other, Winston made his move.
Stockwell slid right while going for her gun.
Jacob had his 1911’s front sight lined up with the local lawman’s nose before Winston could get all five fingers on his gun.
Having drawn her Glock, Stockwell mimicked her partner’s stance. “Get your hand away from that weapon.”
Staring down both gun barrels, Sheriff Winston placed interlaced fingers over his belly. “Fine. What are you going to do...shoot me? You’re feds.”
Jacob sidestepped to his left, claimed the six-gun, and handed it to Stockwell.
“Besides, you have no hard evidence of anything. If you did, you’d have arrested me the moment I,” he jutted out his chin, “opened that door.” He snorted a tick later. “You’re fishing for information.”
Jacob holstered his Coonan. “You’re right on all counts, sir, except we’re not...” he stepped forward with his left foot, rotated his hips, and sunk his right fist into Winston’s stomach.
The man doubled over, wheezing.
“...fishing for anything. We’ll be extracting our information.”
*******
THIRTY MINUTES LATER...
On his back, duct taped to his all-the-way-back-and-leg-rest-extended easy chair, Winston rolled his head to the right and spat out a glob.
Stockwell glimpsed the red goo and turned away.
“You can beat me all you want to, but,” he spat again, “you won’t,” his chest swelled, “be getting anything from me.” He exhaled.
She got Jacob’s attention and jerked her head while taking a step in the same direction.
He followed her into the kitchen. “What is it?”
Cupping her right elbow and holding her forehead, she pivoted toward him. “I don’t like this, Jake.” She kept her voice down. “This isn’t you. You don’t beat people...unless they’re coming after you or someone you care about.” She looked at him. “Did you do this sort of thing when you were SWAT? I’m willing to bet you didn’t.”
Glancing down, he envisioned Chrissy Toberman’s face along with the other girls at the compound who had been kidnapped. Finally, his thoughts settled on his missing daughter before he eyed Stockwell. “A lot’s happened since I was with SWAT.”
She cocked her head and frowned. “So, I’m supposed to just accept that you’re some kind of thug now,” she flung an arm toward the living room, “going around beating up people for information?”
“First of all, I haven’t broken any bones, shattered any teeth, or done any permanent damage. And sec—”
“So what? We’re FBI. We don’t—”
He raised a hand. “Let me finish.”
She folded arms across her chest.
“Thank you. As I was saying, there’s a sixteen-year-old girl out there being held captive by a man who gets his kicks from having sex with underage girls. Now, while that girl’s not my daughter, I can tell you that if she were,” he paused, “I’d be doing a hell of a lot worse things than,” he tossed a thumb toward the bound man behind him, “roughing him up.”
Stockwell opened her mouth to speak.
“And knowing,” he pointed a finger at her, “you the way I do, I know you’d be doing anything and everything in your power to help someone in need.”
She came at him, “Yeah, but I—” then stopped to look beyond Jacob’s right shoulder and stare at Winston, her mind coming up with a scenario where Jacob was in trouble and needed her help. She closed her mouth and backed away before running fingers through her hair and interlocking them behind her head. “Isn’t there some other way to get what we need from him?”
“Maybe.” Jacob retrieved his phone, brought up a picture, and showed her the screen. “How are you at bluffing?”
After examining the image of two women hugging, while sm
iling for a selfie, she nodded. “I can hold my own in a poker game.”
The agents meandered into the living room.
“So,” Jacob drew up on Winston’s right, “you’re good at absorbing pain. Bravo. But how are you at watching others—loved ones—absorb it?”
The lateral man said nothing.
“You have a wife, don’t you?” Jacob waved a finger around the home’s interior. “I see plenty of pictures of the two of you.”
“Good luck with that angle. My wife died three months ago.” He glanced at the articles around the room that belonged to a woman. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to put away her stuff just yet.” He paused. “Too final for me. And we never had children. And I’m an only child...parents have long since passed.” He gawked at the ceiling. “So, since you have no leverage, go ahead...do your worst on me.”
Jacob smiled. “You should write fiction, Sheriff. That’s a tear-jerking story. But, unless your wife has figured out a way to keep her social media account going from beyond the grave,” he showed Winston the image he had shown Stockwell, “I think you’re lying, sir.”
Winston’s right eye twitched twice before he could stop it.
“She posted that lovely photo of her and her friend yesterday morning. She and,” Jacob looked at the photo again, “Pattie are having a ‘great time in Florida’ it says.” He came back to the lawman and let his smile fade. “I assure you. It’s just as easy for me to find her in real life.”
Winston expelled a slew of vulgarities before gathering spittle and puckering his lips.
Jacob backhanded the man across the face with his left hand.
The sheriff’s head went with the slap, and sputum dribbled out of his mouth and onto his right cheek and the leather chair.
“Now, I can have her here within the hour and questioning her in the same manner,” Jacob bluffed, “or you can tell me what I want to know.” He crossed forearms over his chest. “Your call.”
Winston went back to staring at the ceiling for the next thirty seconds before his gaze shifted to his interrogator. “Ten years ago, when a couple of local textile factories closed their doors, this part of Georgia fell on hard times. Unemployment skyrocketed. Some people left. Those that stayed behind found living quite difficult.”
“A sad story; however, it doesn’t tell me what I want to know...the kidnappings, the illegal arms. How do they tie in with that cult?”
“That cult, as you say, took in some of the young men who had been working at the shuttered plant near Mountain Lion. That community has also—”
“Cult,” said Jacob.
Winston gave him a hard look. “They have also been supporting this area financially, keeping it from going under.”
“So, you, and everyone else here, have been profiting from the sale of weapons, kidnapping young girls, prostituting those young girls, and—”
“There’s been no prostitution! At least none that I’m aware of. And what they do up there is their business.”
Jacob shook his head at the man. “This isn’t a debate on ethics and morality. Just tell me how I find them. The FBI has raided their home base, but a few have escaped. Where would they go?”
Winston shrugged. “How should I know?”
Jacob lunged forward and clamped his right hand around the sheriff’s throat. “Don’t give me that. You’re close with them. I saw it. How do I find them?”
Unable to fend off his attacker’s grasp, Winston squirmed, struggling to draw a breath. “I told you.” He gulped. “I don’t,” he gurgled, “know.”
Jacob squeezed. “Give me something, or I swear I’ll...”
“All I can d—”
Seeing Winston’s eyes roll back into his head, Stockwell leapt forward and broke her partner’s hold on the man’s windpipe. “You’re choking him.”
The bound man coughed while gasping for air.
Jacob stood tall. “That’s the whole point.”
“Yeah, well, dead men are terrible sources of information.” She went to the kitchen, returned with a glass of water, and helped the prone man take a few sips. “Is that better?”
He swallowed, wet his lips, and nodded. “Thank you.”
Jacob tilted his head at the exchange. Is that better? Thank you? A beat. Has this just morphed into a good cop/bad cop routine?
Stockwell set the glass on a nearby table. “Now, what were you going to say, Sheriff?”
Winston had a prolonged coughing bout before laying his head on the chair. “I can make a phone call. There are a few people I can get in touch with,” he hacked, “unless they’re the ones who didn’t escape the raid.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Jacob looked around and spotted the man’s cell phone. “I want you to find out where the cult leader is right now.”
“And what if I can’t find someone who knows...or that someone doesn’t want to tell me after everything that’s happened?”
Jacob thought for a moment. “Then just arrange a meeting. Tell him you have something important to discuss, and it can’t be done over the phone.” He lifted his hands, palms up. “Make something up. I don’t care. Just get him to meet with you.” He opened the telephone dialing app. “What’s the number?”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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Chapter 24
We Have a Signal
4:27 A.M.
3 MILES WEST OF
RABUN GAP, GEORGIA
Sitting in the passenger seat of Sheriff Winston’s four-door Chevy Impala, Jacob leaned left, snatched the keys from the ignition, and cuffed the man’s hands to the steering wheel.
The bound man winced. “Is that really necessary?” He looked down at his boxer shorts, muscle shirt, and bare feet. “I mean...”
Jacob returned to an upright position and gave the surrounding area a quick look.
“...how would I get anywhere, even if I did escape?”
With wooded terrain on either side of the Impala, its trunk facing more forest, its headlights off, the police vehicle was parked at the end of a Forest Service road. A sliver of a moon overhead did little to dispel the enveloping darkness.
Jacob eyed the driver, “Never underestimate your opponent,” before staring down the length of the dirt road. “What’s your status, Stockwell?”
*******
Behind the wheel of Jacob and Stockwell’s rented SUV, which was parked a quarter mile from the start of the Forest Service road, Stockwell looked through the windshield. “Nothing yet. All’s quiet. Not much traffic.” She checked the time and resumed her lookout duties. “Two minutes to go.”
Winston had contacted a member of the compound and set a 4:30 a.m. meeting at this location, a spot he had used for past meetings with members of the group.
In her ear, Jacob’s voice: “Let me know the moment you see anyone turning onto this road.”
“You got it.”
*******
For the next four minutes, Jacob and Winston sat in silence while the former used a night vision monocle to get a feel for what lay deeper in the woods around him.
In his ear, Stockwell’s voice: “We’re on, Jake. You have a pickup truck heading your way.”
He lowered the monocle and gaped through the windshield. “Can you see how many are in the vehicle?”
“Two in the cab...bed appears to be empty.”
“Copy that. You know what to do.” He peered through the monocle and saw what looked like an older model Dodge Ram—its headlights off—clear a stand of trees and roll to a stop a hundred feet from the Chevy Impala.
The handcuffs around his wrists rattling, Winston reached for the dashboard left of the steering wheel.
Jacob whipped his head toward the man. “What are you doing?”
“We have a signal.”
“What signal?”
“Each car flashes its headlights twice.”
Squinting at the man, Jacob read him for tells. Not picking up any, he nodded. “Then you b
etter do it.”
Winston leaned forward.
“And make damn sure it’s only two, Sheriff.”
Following a moment of hesitation, he worked a knob two times.
The truck’s headlights flashed twice in return and remained on.
Winston spied his passenger out of the corner of his eye before shutting off the Chevy’s lights.
Jacob reached for his door handle. “Now what usually happ—”
The pickup’s rear tires spun, and the vehicle lurched backward.
Jacob confronted Winston. “What did you do?”
The pre-arranged signal called for both vehicles to leave its headlights on after two flashes. If one vehicle or the other shut its lights off, then that meant something was wrong.
Jacob glimpsed the fleeing Dodge, “Cut them off, Stockwell!” before cocking his right arm and smashing his fist into Winston’s right cheek.
The sheriff’s head bounced off the side window. His chin flopped down to his chest, and his body went limp.
Piloted by Stockwell, the Chevy Suburban raced down the dirt path and skidded sideways as it came to a halt.
Cut off from escape, the Dodge stopped.
Jacob peeled out of the Impala while drawing the Coonan from under his left armpit.
Both doors on the Dodge flew open.
Two men scrambled out.
The passenger side man opened fire.
Nine-millimeter bullets connected with the police cruiser’s front grille, windshield, and light bar.
Jacob ducked, took cover near the right fender, and let loose with three rounds of 357 Magnum.
The gunman went down.
Firing blindly, the driver crossed in front of the beam from the Dodge’s headlights and bolted into the woods.
“Jake, you all right?”
He ran up to the truck, “I’m good,” and checked the fallen passenger for a pulse. “One tango down. The other’s gone into the woods.” Standing, he donned his night vision goggles and jogged after Driver while swapping out his Coonan’s partially spent magazine for a full one. “We need him alive, Stockwell. He’s the only one who can lead us to Miranda.”
