Predator

by Linsey Lanier

  O’Cleary had been working, so it seemed. And he wore a no nonsense expression to match.

  “Come in,” he said in his Irish brogue without fanfare. “We’re in the back.”

  Miranda could smell coffee as he led them over pale hardwood flooring through a light colored hall hung with store-bought landscapes and demure sconces to a large space in the back that could have been used as a living room if a family were dwelling here.

  As it was, though a pale stone-carved fireplace stood against the far wall, and a brilliant chandelier hung from the high ceiling, everything else looked like an office.

  The floor turned from hard wood to gray indoor outdoor carpet. An eight-foot conference table sat in the middle of the room with ergonomic office chairs around it. On either side of the table, a small group of people worked noisily away, all of them dressed in business casual and wearing lanyards around their necks for their badges.

  Computer equipment sat everywhere. Laptops and keyboards and mice and tablets, printers and reams of paper. There were also coffee cups, soft drinks, and water bottles, as well as open potato chip bags.

  A big map of the city spread across one wall. A white board on a stand stood near another. A large computer screen hung over the fireplace displaying charts and data points Miranda couldn’t decipher.

  “Welcome to the war room,” O’Cleary said. Then he called out, “Our company’s here.”

  The people at the desks stopped talking and looked up, then movement came from the corner and Sloan appeared. “There you are.”

  Sloan was in his usual dark FBI suit with his own lanyard and badge. His sleek black hair was trim and neatly combed, his movie star face serious, his cadet blue eyes sharp as ever.

  Miranda was surprised when he shook hands with her team.

  “Sorry to meet again under these circumstances,” he said.

  “As are we,” Parker replied firmly.

  “Let me introduce you to the team. They’ve already been briefed on the situation.”

  Sloan pointed around the table in a circle, and each one came over to greet the newcomers.

  There was Special Agent Archer, a young woman in a plain sky blue sweater and slacks. She had a nest of flaxen hair with flyaway bangs and the rest of it pulled back in a messy bun. Next was Special Agent Carlson, who was short and bearded, dark-skinned and geeky looking. In corduroy pants and a moss-colored sweater vest, he kind of reminded her of Becker. Special Agent Rasmussen was an older man with a pot belly who wore dress slacks and a button-down shirt with a bow tie.

  The head of the group was Special Agent-in-Charge Raoul Hernandez, a tall, kind-looking man with wiry dark hair and a matching mustache, who was dressed almost identically to O’Cleary, complete with the rolled up sleeves.

  “Rasmussen is Legal,” Hernandez told them. “Archer is our Cybermetrics expert, and Carlson is our resident hacker.”

  “Cool,” Becker said as they all shook hands.

  Hernandez took Miranda’s hand in both of his. “I’m so sorry for what’s happened to your daughter, Ms. Steele. We’ll do all we can to help. Find a seat, and we’ll get underway.”

  Feeling comforted by the words, Miranda nodded as the Boston team shuffled back to their places at the table. “Actually, there’s been an update since Detective Wesson spoke to Agent Sloan.”

  “Oh?”

  As O’Cleary took their coats and found them chairs, she explained how they had found the number of Mackenzie’s prepaid phone, and that it has led them to a chase through Boston Common and a disastrous trip on the subway.

  Hernandez rubbed his mustache. “And you think this man with the tattoo named Gregor works for Group 141?”

  “We know he worked for a riverboat casino that fronted a prostitution ring.”

  “That you shut down?” Sloan said.

  “Yes,” Parker said.

  Sloan turned around to pace along the white board, a hand to his head. “Another one.”

  “What do you mean, Sloan?” Hernandez wanted to know.

  Sloan spun around to face the group and made a sweeping gesture. “It seems Mr. Parker, Ms. Steele, and their team have put a dent in a number of operations we suspect belonged to Group 141. And now we have another one I wasn’t aware of.”

  “Group 141,” Carlson repeated. “The sex slavery organization you’ve been targeting.”

  Sloan pointed a finger at the technician. “It’s more than sex slavery, though that’s its primary activity. They’re also into drug dealing, extortion, money laundering, and gunrunning. Turns out Group 141 is more than an operation. It’s a freaking empire.”

  Rasmussen gave a low whistle.

  Becker looked rattled. “Is that really what we’ve been up against all this time?”

  “It’s what we’ve come to believe,” Parker told him.

  The whole room started to murmur.

  Sloan clapped his hands to bring everyone to attention. “As I’ve told you, the focus of this mission is to find Ms. Steele’s daughter, Mackenzie Chatham. Since the evidence points to the MIB, we hope to take him into custody when we locate the girl.”

  Miranda raised a brow. “The MIB?”

  “The Man in Boston. That was the intel you gave us the last time we met, wasn’t it?”

  He made it sound so cut and dry.

  “It was,” Parker replied.

  Under her bangs, Archer’s eyes were big. “And you think the MIB is running Group 141, Agent Sloan?”

  “We do.” He turned to Miranda. “Do you have anything to add, Ms. Steele?”

  That pretty much summed up her predicament.

  But she thought of the one possible lead that might get them somewhere. “When we arrived at Logan airport, we hunted down the officer in charge of monitoring their video surveillance. We were allowed to watch some of the footage, and spotted Mackenzie as she got off the plane.”

  Sloan seemed surprised at the news. “You actually saw her in the airport? On the film?”

  “Yes. She went through the exit at the gate and stopped in the aisle. It looked like she recognized someone. And then she walked off screen.

  “Toward the person she recognized?”

  “That’s what it looked like,” Miranda said.

  Sloan leaned in closer. “And you didn’t get a look at who she was with?”

  “No, we didn’t.” Parker put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, as if fending off Sloan’s implication. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t pick Mackenzie up again on any of the other cameras.”

  Miranda raised her palms. “The airport authorities refused to let us see any more footage from that point without a court order.”

  With a scoff, Rasmussen hopped up from his chair. “We can do something about that.”

  “Can you?” Miranda felt a sudden burst of hope.

  “I know people at the airport. And the municipal court. I’ll get right on it.” He grabbed his phone, a notepad, and headed out the door.

  Carlson, the hacker, came around the table. “Let’s see what you’ve done so far.”

  Becker held up his laptop case. “We set up a sex sting operation. It’s small, though.”

  Holloway put his hands in his pockets. “We’ve been taking turns manning it. No hits yet.”

  “Impressive. Let’s take a look.”

  While Carlson, Becker, and Holloway headed to a corner of the table to set up, Miranda turned to her favorite FBI agent and narrowed an eye.

  “And what about you Sloan? What kind of progress have you been making with finding the MIB, as you’re calling him?”

  He gave her a hard look, but didn’t answer.

  “Have you questioned Tamarkin again about his boss?” The last time she’d seen the big tattooed man who was Tatiana’s brother was in the interrogation room at the Metropolitan Correctional Center in New York, where he was going berserk when he saw Parker.

  Suddenly Sloan looked very uncomfortable. “My department has had other priorities.”

&
nbsp; Other priorities? “I thought that was what the Custodians were formed for.”

  “I don’t make those decisions, Ms. Steele. We wouldn’t be involved now if Red there hadn’t called me.”

  Over Parker’s shoulder, Miranda saw Wesson’s green eyes flash at the nickname.

  “But you’ve had Tamarkin in custody—”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Steele. I don’t have anything further to report on that.” Sloan put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “I need coffee. Excuse me.”

  And he rushed past her and out of the room.

  Miranda’s gaze went to Wesson, who looked stunned at Sloan’s reaction.

  Miranda gave her a nod and Wesson went after the man.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Janelle stepped into the hallway just in time to see Special Agent Simon Sloan about to disappear around a far corner.

  “A word with you, Agent?” she called out.

  As if she’d roped him like a steer, he stopped in his tracks and turned around. His expression was dark. “How can I help you, Ms. Wesson?”

  Hmph. She’d gone from “Red” to “Ms. Wesson” in sixty seconds. What was up with the man? “Can we speak somewhere in private?”

  “My office is right here.” He opened a door along the side of the hallway and gestured for her to enter.

  Wishing she knew what she was doing, Janelle strolled over and stepped inside.

  It was a tiny dark room with the curtains drawn. A stack of folding chairs leaned against a wall, boxes piled up beside them. A card table and a folding chair had been set up along the opposite side.

  “This is your office?”

  “It’s where they’re sticking me for now. I don’t plan to spend much time here. I’ll mostly be in the war room with the team.”

  Her gaze ran over his wiry muscular form under his dark store-bought suit. His blue eyes, his sleek black hair, his palpitation-inducing face. His luscious male model looks distracted her. Why did he have to be so good looking?

  “Your team,” she repeated. “Sounds like they were just assigned.”

  “They were. But they’re good.”

  She folded her arms. “They’re not part of the Custodians?”

  “They’re a local cyber crime group. A needful specialty.” His blue eyes fixed on hers for a long moment. “Anything else?”

  Straightening her shoulders, she gestured toward the door. “You didn’t answer Steele’s question in there.”

  He frowned, feigning ignorance.

  “About Tamarkin?”

  Again he gave her a long hard stare. Then he sank into the folding chair and put his head in his hands.

  She waited for him to talk.

  After a moment, he straightened and stared at a blank space on the wall. “The last time I saw Parker and Steele was at the Correctional Center in New York. We were interrogating Tamarkin. We became convinced Tamarkin was working for the MIB.”

  “Okay.” Steele hadn’t told the team much about that.

  “After the detectives left New York, I came up with an idea I presented to my boss.”

  Janelle pulled up another chair and sat down across from him. “What kind of an idea?”

  He turned his head and fixed his gaze on her. “We would let Tamarkin go.”

  Had Simon just said what she thought he did? “Let him go?”

  He nodded. “Let him go and put a tail on him. Tamarkin was supposed to have led us straight to the MIB.”

  She blinked, taking in the plan. “That’s a brilliant idea.”

  Simon smirked. “In theory. In practice it didn’t work out so well.”

  “What happened?”

  “Tamarkin made the tail. He killed the agent who was following him and disappeared. We don’t know where he is.”

  “Oh.” The deep lines of pain in Simon’s face touched her to her soul. This failure had hit him hard. Instantly she wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t know how. “If Tamarkin went to the MIB, he must be here in Boston.”

  “Probably.”

  “So there are two bald tattooed men working for this top guy in the city.”

  Janelle had seen Tamarkin back in Kennesaw when Simon had taken him into FBI custody. He was scary looking.

  Simon leaned back in the chair with an air of disgust. “No doubt there are more. Parker and Steele uncovered a list of aliases in Kiev. All of them could be linked to Group 141.”

  “And have you tracked any of them down?”

  “I asked Hernandez and his team to help with that.”

  The new people? That didn’t make sense. “No one on the Custodians has been working on it? Mr. Parker and Steele have been back from Kiev for a couple of weeks now.”

  Simon got to his feet and leaned against a stack of boxes. “We’ve been short-handed.”

  “Short-handed? I thought this was a top-priority mission.”

  “There have been cutbacks.”

  She stood, took a step toward him. “Cutbacks? I don’t understand, Simon.”

  He strolled to the other side of the small room as if he wished he could escape. Instead he stared up at the ceiling and let out a strange grunt of anguish. “There’s a shake-up going on at the Bureau.”

  His words stunned her. “What kind of shake-up?”

  This time he shook his head firmly. “I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry, Red.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

  He raised his hands. “Okay. Sorry.” He didn’t sound like he meant it.

  “I’m a professional, and I demand you treat me like one. Especially in front of my colleagues.”

  “Okay. Point taken. I apologize.”

  But her rising her temper emboldened her. Might as well get all the cards on the table. “I have another question for you.”

  He folded his arms defensively, as if he knew what was coming. “Which is?”

  “Why did you give me that secure phone if you were never going to call me?”

  He stared at her a long moment. “It was for business.”

  “Like hell it was.”

  He blinked, surprised at her reaction. Then his face softened. “It wasn’t because I didn’t want to, Janey.”

  That was better. She waited for more.

  “It’s awkward, this thing between us. I don’t know what it is. I don’t really have time for it.”

  “Do you think I do? The last thing I want is to get involved with an FBI agent.” She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

  He took a step toward her. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t regret being involved with me. Please.”

  She knew it was coming. She could feel it as he moved in closer and lifted his hands. But the shock of his arms slipping around her knocked the breath out of her. And what was left was taken when he pressed his lips against hers.

  The room started to rock. Her heart banged away in her chest like a trip-hammer. It was lightning and fireworks in Fourth of July parades. Just like before. Just like in Los Angeles. She hadn’t imagined it.

  It was real. It was back.

  She indulged herself for just a moment, relishing the taste of him, the heady smell of him.

  Then she pushed away. “We can’t do this now, Simon. Steele’s daughter’s life is at stake.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Again.”

  “It’s okay.” She moved to the door. “We need to get back in there.”

  Before she could leave, he caught her hand. “Once this is over, once we have the girl back and the MIB is in custody, I’d like to keep in touch, Janey. I’d like to see what this could lead to.”

  He was making her dizzy again. She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t think beyond this mission. She didn’t know what to tell him.

  But she heard herself say, “I’d like that, too.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Back in the war room, the two teams got to work.

  Archer and Car
lson reviewed Becker’s small-time sex sting operation and expanded it. They analyzed the messages he and Holloway had posted, made some subtle changes, and added to them. O’Cleary volunteered to pose as a fourteen-year-old cheerleader looking for attention.

  An hour in, Rasmussen managed to pull off a miracle—he got access to the airport security footage.

  It was a victory that raised Miranda’s spirits high, but it was double-edged.

  Now there were hours of video to go through.

  They split into pairs, each taking a different section of the airport, going through everything frame by frame. The hours went by. It was maddening and painstakingly slow work.

  Miranda’s eyes burned as she stared at the screen, hoping for just a glimpse of her daughter.

  She felt like she was on an emotional roller coaster she couldn’t get off. Her heart was breaking all over again. What if this didn’t work? What if they got nowhere? What if even the FBI couldn’t find Mackenzie?

  “Why don’t you take a break?” Parker said to her softly.

  “Yeah. Might as well.” She stopped the frame she was on and followed him to the kitchen.

  It was a wide, gleaming stainless steel place. Several boxes of pizzas lay on the counter. The dinner Sloan had brought in earlier. Miranda hadn’t been able to eat much of it.

  She found the coffee pot and filled a ceramic cup from a cabinet.

  It wasn’t doing her stomach lining any good, but she couldn’t muster the will to care right now.

  Parker regarded her with concern. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but we’re making progress.”

  She nodded. “I know.” At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

  “This will work, Miranda. You have to believe it.”

  “I do.”

  “Do you?”

  At that moment Sloan entered the room. “There you two are.”

  Miranda straightened. “Has anyone found anything?”

  Sloan shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Miranda watched him poured himself coffee. It was the last cup, so he opened the cupboard and pulled out a can to make more.

  “So what’s going on at the Agency, Sloan?”

  He dumped the old coffee filter into the trash and replaced it with a new one. “What do you mean?”