She was so pretty.
“I’m ready.” She didn’t look like she’d overheard the conversation.
Colby stepped over to her and ran a hand over her hair as if she were a fragile piece of china. “My sweet child. Would you like something to eat before we go?”
Mackenzie shook her head. “No. Mr. Parker fed me earlier. I’m fine.”
“We’ll head back to the airport, then,” Oliver said. “I’ll cancel the hotel room.”
Miranda wanted to beg them to stay. But with Santana still on the loose that wasn’t a good idea. Oliver was right. The sooner they could get Mackenzie out of town, the better.
Mackenzie stepped toward her. “I guess I’ll see you back in Atlanta, Mother.”
“Yeah. Sure.” She didn’t know how long they’d have.
“We can go running in Chastain Park again.”
“That would be great.”
“Goodbye, Mother.”
Suddenly Miranda’s eyes filled with tears. She put her arms around her daughter and hugged her with all her might. All she could think of was holding her as a tiny baby.
“Take care of yourself,” she told her.
“I will.”
“And be careful who you talk to online.”
“Don’t worry. I’m never talking to anyone I don’t know ever again.” She kissed her cheek and turned to her parents.
They said goodbye and then they were out the door, leaving the room feeling empty and void.
Miranda sank into a chair and put her head in her hands. “What am I going to do, Parker?”
Parker laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’ll talk to Oliver again when we get back to Atlanta. I’ll enlist Antonio’s help. We’ll get him to change his mind.”
Maybe that would happen. It was something to do. At least, it would take Parker’s mind off going after Santana.
Her head was still swimming when there was another knock on the door.
She jumped up to answer it. Had Colby changed her mind? Were they bringing Mackenzie back?
She opened the door and found Becker holding his cell phone with a look of shock on his face.
“What is it?”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I thought you should see this.” He held up his phone.
The app they had used to track Mackenzie’s prepaid phone was running on the screen.
And the red dot was blinking.
“Where is that?” Parker said, looking over Miranda’s shoulder.
“I’m not sure. For some reason I can’t pinpoint it.”
Holding her breath, Miranda watched the light flash for a good thirty seconds. Then it stopped and went to black.
She tensed. “What happened?”
Becker cocked his head and glared at the screen. “I don’t know.”
“Santana’s playing games again.” Parker’s voice was a low rumble.
Of course, he was. “We need to tell Sloan.”
Parker nodded. “I’ll call him.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Half an hour later, they were back in the war room in the FBI brownstone with all hands on deck.
In shirtsleeves, Hernandez and Rasmussen paced in front of the maps and white boards while the technicians worked frantically.
“We’ve got to get a reading on that phone,” said Carlson from behind the big flat screen in his corner of the table. “If I can tap into the infrastructure—”
Becker peered over his shoulder at the screen and scowled. “I tried that.”
“You didn’t go deep enough.”
“What if we do this?” Archer’s fingers flew over her keyboard.
Whatever it was, it didn’t work.
“Have you got anything else you can try?” Hernandez growled.
“No, sir.” Archer blew her bangs out of her face as she shook her head. “I can’t get a reading from the cell towers around the Sector Building or Golden Epoch.”
“That’s because he’s not there,” Becker moaned.
But where was he? Still in Boston? Or on his way to the moon?
Two hours went by with no results. Donovan Santana was as slippery as a cod fish.
Miranda’s head was pounding. The anxiety was getting to her and she felt as exhausted as if she hadn’t slept since last night, despite the long afternoon nap.
The technicians were getting nowhere and there was nothing she could do to help.
She got up and went to the kitchen for coffee.
There she found Parker, Wesson, and Sloan, all wearing grim expressions.
She went to the counter and grabbed a cup and the coffee pot. “Are we even sure Santana’s still in Boston? He could have had one of his toady’s pull that stunt with the cell phone signal.”
Nodding Wesson set her cup down on the counter. “Like Gregor did on the subway.”
“Right. He could be on his way to Kiev for all we know.” Miranda blew on her coffee, then gulped down a mouthful.
“There’s not much in Kiev for him to go back to,” Parker said.
“He has to be here in Boston,” Sloan said darkly.
Miranda turned to the agent. “How do you know that?”
He eyed her a moment and nodded toward Parker. “Because he’s after you two. And your team. He knows you’re all still here.” His gaze went to Wesson and turned to an entirely different kind of expression.
Ignoring the chemistry between the pair, Miranda decided Sloan was right. Santana was pissed not only because they’d put a big dent in his operations, but because they’d gotten Mackenzie away from him.
The signal from the prepaid was a trap. But why turn it off? Was he toying with them? Relishing the hold he had on them? Probably.
She scowled at the bland-tasting coffee in her cup. “Even if we can find him, our hands could be tied. He’s got connections with the police.”
“Not all the police,” Sloan said.
That was true. He’d only need a few key players on the force in his pocket. The ones who gave the orders.
“Well, let’s hope not all of them,” Parker said.
But as Miranda slurped down more coffee, she thought their prospects of catching the man were pretty bleak. Santana was a criminal mastermind. Maybe they wouldn’t find him at all. Maybe wouldn’t bring him in.
Maybe this was one case they’d never close.
She was about to suggest they call it a night when shouting came from the war room.
She set down her cup and ran with the others down the hall.
“What is it?” she said, hurrying over to Becker’s screen.
He pointed to the blinking red dot. “It’s back.”
She peered at the screen and the map under the dot.
She couldn’t make heads or tails of it. “Where is that?”
Carlson indicated the thick line in the center of the screen. “Interstate 93. It’s moving. Heading north.”
Miranda drew in a breath. “So he’s in a vehicle. Is he going back to his office?”
“He could be going to the airport,” Archer said.
“The airport?” Wesson’s tone was full of dismay.
Miranda could just see them chasing Santana through the airport, getting no help from the authorities, and catching up to him just as he boarded a plane and waved goodbye to them.
Hernandez leaned over for a look at the screen. “Or he could be heading toward the harbor.”
“Maybe,” Carlson agreed.
Miranda put a hand to her head. The harbor. Was Santana trying to escape by boat?
A chill went through her. The last time she was on a boat, she’d ended up in the Atlantic fighting for her life. If Parker hadn’t been there, she would have died.
They watched the flashing light for a moment. It slowed, as if getting into heavy traffic, then sped up again.
“He’s definitely in a vehicle,” Parker said.
Sloan nodded. “You’re right. I say let’s go get him.”
“I’m with
you.” Hernandez pointed across the table. “Archer, Carlson, you two stay here and man the electronics. Everyone else, let’s go get ready to bring in a killer.”
Miranda turned to Becker. “You want to stay here with them?”
“And miss out on bringing down that scumbag? Are you kidding?”
His undying valor made her smile. “Okay then. Let’s go.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
After loading up with weapons, ammo, and bullet proof vests in a supply room in the back of the brownstone, the group headed out.
They decided on three cars, with the Parker Agency team in the Lexus, Hernandez and Rasmussen in the light gray Elantra, and Wesson, Sloan, and O’Cleary in the agent’s maroon Chrysler.
Behind the wheel of the Lexus, Parker zigzagged through the well-lit one-way streets of the neighborhood following Sloan, who was following Hernandez.
Miranda kept her focus on the Chrysler’s taillights as they traversed the nest of three-story red brick structures with concrete steps and bay windows so similar to the FBI brownstone.
Soon the residences gave way to more red brick structures that made up shops and churches. They passed a school, then a factory with a large parking lot, and finally made a hard turn onto a frontage road.
After zooming under a bridge, they took the entrance ramp to Interstate 93.
As Parker merged into the light night traffic, the flashing dot on Becker’s phone seemed to be about a mile ahead.
Then it went out again.
Her heart nearly stopped.
“What the Sam Hill is going on?” Becker cried from the backseat.
Miranda had never seen him so upset, and she didn’t blame him.
Hernandez’s voice came over the speaker. “He’s got to be in the turnpike. Makes sense that we lost the signal there.”
Two minutes later, the Lexus plunged into the turnpike tunnel, as well.
Yeah. This had to be the reason. It was a long and twisty underground hole lined with dirty subway tiles and endless rows of fluorescent lights overhead.
Still watching the Chrysler’s taillights, Miranda dug into her knee with her nails.
“We’ll find him,” Parker said, sensing her tension.
But what then? she wondered.
That feeling was starting up again. The sensation of insects crawling up her spine, around her shoulders, along her neck. She could feel her blood pressure rising in her temples. She felt achy all over.
Shaking off the sensation, she forced her mind back to the mission.
They were going to get Santana. They were going to put him away. And then everything would be all right.
Maybe Colby and Oliver would stay in Atlanta after that.
“It’s back,” Becker said.
Miranda turned to peer at the screen. Sure enough, the red dot was flashing again. A little less than a mile ahead.
They came out of the turnpike and followed the Chrysler to a service road.
“He just turned onto Seaport,” said Hernandez.
“Roger,” Becker said, studying his screen.
They drove through construction then took the same turn the red dot had. They went down a few yards, and the buildings on the left side of the street opened up to a waterway. A row of lights streaked through the night, outlining a pier.
“Looks like you were right,” Hernandez said. “He’s heading for the harbor. That’s the inner harbor on the South Boston peninsula,” he explained for the out-of-towners. “Site of most of Boston’s port facilities, including companies that process millions of pounds of fish every year.”
Santana had to be getting on a boat.
Miranda tensed and tried to peer out the window. A large building blocked her view. “Can you see anything, Holloway?”
“Looks like a main bus terminal.”
The building ended and water appeared again. Another pier sparkled in the distance.
“He’s turning.”
Miranda grabbed Becker’s phone. The dot had slowed again and was on the next street, which lead onto the pier.
Her stomach tensed. The insects were biting now.
They caught the next light and had to wait while the red dot moved ahead. It seemed like an eternity before it changed. But finally they moved again.
They turned left.
Their little caravan passed a gatehouse where the gate wasn’t down, and paused at a stop sign.
“He’s in the next block.” Becker pointed over the seat and through Miranda’s passenger window.
She squinted in the direction. “There’s water over there.”
“He’s behind these buildings.”
“Is he getting on a boat?”
“I don’t know. The light’s not moving.”
Once again, Miranda studied Becker’s screen.
There were several piers running east-west and jutting out into the bay. A road divided the center of the pier they were on, but the flashing red dot wasn’t on that road. It was stopped on a lane that ran alongside the water.
Sloan’s voice came over the speaker. “Let’s go straight and head around the back. Maybe we can catch him off guard.”
“A good idea,” Parker said.
Miranda wasn’t sure any of this was a good idea, but the vehicles rolled forward anyway.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Slowly the three vehicles continued on between the two long rows of brick buildings.
Both facilities were made of steel and concrete with a terra cotta trim. Every so often, a tall arched entranceway appeared. They seemed to house a myriad of interconnected store fronts and seafood markets and fish processing companies. The street was wide and had plenty of parking on both sides for customers. Everything was closed and quiet now.
Miranda glanced at the clock. It was after one in the morning.
The buildings seemed to stretch out forever, nearly a quarter mile, but the red dot on Becker’s screen was still blinking.
At last, they reached the end of the pier and found a large brick conference center with another welcoming arched entrance. Or it would have been in the daylight.
They turned right and found a small parking lot on the pier’s corner.
The Elantra made the next turn, rolled down a little way, and stopped at a Do Not Enter sign.
In the Chrysler, Sloan pulled up behind Hernandez, and Parker steered the Lexus into the back street, positioning it for a decent view.
Night lights along the building gave them something to see by.
It was the back of the three-story brick building, and ran the entire length of the pier. The pavement between the structure and the water was wide enough for two lanes of vehicles and a row of diagonal parking spots. Serving as a work area for the fish processors and markets, it was cluttered with palettes and boxes and long rows of industrial containers.
A few forklifts sat idle along the edge of the pier, where a low wooden rail not a foot high kept vehicles from driving into the chilly water below. Patches of snow ran alongside the rail.
No boats were docked there right now. They must all be out night fishing.
So much for her theory about Santana escaping by sea.
About three-quarters of the way down the lane, floodlights glowed.
“Is that where our tracker is?” Miranda whispered.
Becker held out the phone again. “Looks like it to me.”
Under the lights she could make out a large box truck in the distance.
There was activity around it. Looked like the truck’s rear door was open for a delivery pick up. Big muscled men were loading large containers onto it.
The truck had come in this way, ignoring the Do Not Enter sign.
Miranda felt her heart beat kick up. “Is that drugs they’re loading onto that truck?”
“It would be nice to catch them in the act,” Sloan said through the speaker.
“Except we can’t do a search and seizure,” Hernandez countered. “A good lawyer would get him off in an
hour.”
Sloan let out a frustrated cough. “He’s guilty of kidnapping. We have two eye-witnesses to that fact.”
Rasmussen concurred. “That’s enough to bring him in for questioning and hold him for a while.”
He was the Legal guy, after all.
Parker broke up the bickering. “Whatever you bring him in for, we can’t let him get away. There are only two ways off this road. The truck is pointing away from us, so this is the way they came in. They’ll be leaving via the other end. Sloan, Hernandez, why don’t you take your two vehicles and go around to the front to block the truck if it tries to escape. Our team will approach from the rear.”
“A good plan, Mr. Parker,” Sloan admitted. “But let me see if I can get Santana to surrender before you let him know you’re here.”
“Very well. Do you think you can accomplish that?”
“If he thinks his connections will protect him, he may go quietly.”
That would be a miracle. “It’s worth a try,” Miranda said.
“Let’s give it a shot,” Sloan said.
Parker backed the Lexus into one of the spots in the rear lot, while Sloan, then Hernandez did the same. They turned and headed back the way they came, Sloan’s Chrysler now in the lead.
Parker pulled out of the space and rolled slowly forward, passing the Do Not Enter sign, and dodging the debris of palettes and plastic containers.
Miranda’s whole body tensed. “How far are we going?”
“Not too far.”
In the back, Holloway leaned forward. “Do you really think Sloan’s plan will work?”
Parker kept his gaze ahead. “Hard to tell.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Becker said, sounding nervous.
“Put that away.” Holloway took his phone out of his hand. “We know they’re here. You’ll need your gun now.”
The ex-marine was getting testy.
Miranda turned around. “What do you suggest, Holloway?”
He leaned forward. “Our role is back up. If Santana’s men come this way, we’ll have to fire, but not before.”
“You mean if they don’t know we’re here, we’ll have the element of surprise.”
Predator Page 25
