by Ed James
Carter glanced at the envelope, then back out of the window at the ferry swimming through the water like a turtle. Slow and steady. Always on time, no matter what the weather. And it endured all sorts of storms.
Wasn’t that Holliday’s law firm?
He picked up the envelope and tore it open. A hefty document, at least fifty pages. The cover letter was from Holliday’s attorney:
As per my client’s wishes, this document was to be delivered in the event of his interment.
Note that my firm can provide no further information at this time.
Carter turned the page. A photocopy of a handwritten letter on legal paper, signed “Chris”.
Agent Carter,
You probably know by now that I’ve done what I planned to do. Maybe you came to my funeral. Maybe not. Either way, I did what I had to do.
See, my life is over.
Hard as that is to write, the much harder part was accepting the truth. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, and the law of unintended consequences is a bitch. If I’d known that approving that operation would lead us where we are, there’s no way I’d have done that. I’d have spoken up, stopped it there and then.
But I didn’t. I’ve paid for my mistakes with my career and my marriage. I gather Megan’s speaking to a divorce attorney, so that’s just a formality. My son is dead. My daughter is still missing. And I know I’m to blame. I accept it all. But I don’t want her to suffer, and I don’t want Megan to either.
But enough about me.
Please find Avery for me.
PLEASE.
I’ve done all I can, but nobody will believe me. So I’m sending this to you so you can take it on trust and find my daughter.
I know the FBI are powerful, but sometimes you need something else. I paid my attorney’s PI to dig into Olson. Like I told you, he has Avery. He’s working with Layla al-Yasin.
Bob Smith was behind Layla and Mason’s operation. That name should mean something to you. He fed them information about Operation Opal Lance and the perpetrators, the shadowy men who did that to their kids. To Faraj and to Jacob. Harry Youngblood and Frank Vance.
Layla and Mason weren’t hard to find. Their anger fueled them, made them search out the weirdest military conspiracy websites. Made them post about how their sons died during Opal Lance. Then Bob Smith got in touch with them on the site’s private message system. Layla replied. He gave her a number, told her to contact him on Signal. And they did.
And the PI found proof that Bob Smith is none other than Richard Olson.
Carter sifted through the rest of the document, detailed transactional reports, financial and telecommunications. Details he knew by heart. That’s as far as his team had got in unpicking the trail. They’d subpoenaed the server, and whoever Bob Smith was, they used a military-grade VPN, killed their trail.
But Holliday’s PI had the last message on the website: “Sen Holliday is behind it all.”
A betting man would stick a few bucks on Richard Olson, but a federal agent needed hard proof. Carter read on.
My death is going to bring her back. I know it. She’s punishing me for what I did. If I’m right, and I know I am, she’ll bring Avery back to Megan.
Watch out for me.
I hope I’m not wrong.
Carter set the document down. A madman’s dying confession, stapled to pages and pages of data, information that led Holliday down this logical path, making him take that leap into the unknown. No hard evidence.
But it backed up what they knew—Bob Smith had messaged both Layla and Mason, together and apart. Fed them information, led them toward Holliday. Led them to abducting his children and where they were now, with Holliday killing himself because he believed.
Many men had done the same, for a cause or otherwise. He was convinced his death would liberate his daughter.
What were they overlooking?
He turned the page and saw one last line:
The PI is going to be tailing Olson for me. One last throw of the dice. If he finds something, he’ll get in touch with you.
Thanks,
Chris
Carter woke up his computer and took three tries to unlock the thing. Into his emails and there, right there was a message from Raeburn Logan, subject: “Holliday photos”. He clicked it.
He might be smart online, but offline? Sloppy.
The email was inlaid with timestamped photos. First Olson leaving GrayBox in his limo, then arriving at a private airfield, where a woman and child got into his car. Carter double-clicked and opened the image to get a better look.
Could be anyone, but that could also be Layla and Avery.
Meaning Holliday was right, meaning Layla had come back with Avery. Would she give the child back to her grieving mother? Would she flee again?
The next shot was the car outside the prison, then waiting outside the funeral.
Carter let out a deep breath. She was there? In the same room as him?
That’s the last I’ve got. Time ran out, sorry.
Tx,
Rae
Carter got up and left his office, racing over to Elisha’s desk. “Where’s Layla’s laptop?”
Elisha looked up with a yawn. “All those messages are gone, Max. Remotely deleted, remember?”
Carter perched on the edge of her desk, the partition just giving him a view of Tyler’s half ear as he listened in. “But we’ve still got it running, haven’t we?”
“Tyler has it.” Elisha stood up and leaned over to the partition board filled with Garfield and Dilbert cartoons. “You got—”
“Still here.” Tyler held up the laptop, the power cable dangling, the power box clunking off his desktop. “Still unlocked. I don’t dare let it sleep.” He checked the screen and frowned. “Wait. There are new messages.” He looked up at them. “She said, ‘Landed’.”
Carter jogged around to Tyler’s desk. Holliday’s gambit was paying off. On the screen, there was a reply from Bob Smith:
On my way.
But they had her cell—it had been at Holliday’s feet.
Carter hit the trackpad, double-clicking on Layla’s contact information. A cell number with an LA area code. Carter pulled his coat on. “Tyler, trace that!”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Layla
The car parks outside the house, the For Sale sign glowing in the streetlights, already on despite the day still having an hour to go.
I try to imagine what it was like that day, when Mason abducted those children from right there on the front stoop. When he knocked Megan out and left her with a note she ignored. My idea to leave her, so if any cops stopped Mason, he had less explaining to do. But in truth, it made it much easier for me. I was just looking after a kid, not a mother as well.
But Mason was right. No regrets.
Holliday, that prick, shouldn’t have messed with our families. Shouldn’t have taken my son. Shouldn’t have killed my husband.
Lights on inside, but most of the guests have left.
“Luisa?”
I look around at the back seat and smile at Avery. “Hey, baby girl. You okay?”
She’s yawning. “Where are we?”
I smile at Avery. “It’s time to go home.”
“To Mommy and Daddy?”
“To Mommy.” I bite my lip, cracking the lipstick. “Now, remember what we say? This is our little secret.”
“Okay, Luisa.”
“Attagirl.”
It doesn’t matter if she tells them, I just need to keep her quiet for a few hours.
I get out onto the street and open the back door. She’s gotten good at unbuckling the seatbelt. Almost too good. I help her out, and take her hand.
The street’s quiet, so I lead her across the road and up the path, her little hand warm in mine. I crouch down to kiss her on the top of her head. “I’ve got to go now, princess. Okay?”
“Okay.” Tears roll down her rosy cheeks. “I want to see you again, Luisa.”
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“I know, baby girl, but this is our little secret. I’ll try and see you again, but I can’t promise anything, okay?”
“Okay.” She huffs, stamping with a foot. Still crying and it breaks my heart.
“Now, remember. You stay here, okay?” I wait for her to nod then knock on the door. “Goodbye, Avery.” I walk back to the road and get in the car. “Wait.” I look back at the house.
The door opens and Megan appears, frowning. She sees Avery on the doorstep and screams with relief and joy.
“Go.”
Richard Olson drives off, slow enough so we won’t be heard, fast enough to put some distance between us and the house. “You okay?”
“The debt’s now paid in full. A son and a husband dead. I have no business with her or her daughter.” I wipe a tear away. “I don’t want anyone else to go through what I did. Unless they’ve done something really bad.”
“You know, I could really use someone like you.” Olson reaches into the door and picks up a packet. “That’s another fake ID and a new passport. Lana Diaz can go wherever she wants.”
I open the envelope and take out the documents. Wads of cash in there too, thousands and thousands of dollars, the same in euros. “I didn’t do this for money.”
“No, but you deserve to be compensated for your loss. In time, you’ll find that Holliday killing himself isn’t going to be enough. And you really helped me, rooting out all that corruption in my company. Every day is a living hell right now, but I’m doing the right thing.”
He thinks money solves every problem, doesn’t he? I’ll let him have this one.
“So. Where to, Lana?”
I don’t know where. Some leads, some people to chase down. Or I can do what Mason said and get on with my life. What’s left of it.
“Take me to the airport.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Carter
Carter hit the floor, siren blaring, pushing past a slow Greyhound bus, leading the convoy of black Suburbans filled with agents. “Where is it heading now?”
Elisha was in the passenger seat, talking quietly to Tyler, then she looked back at him. “It’s stopped at Bear Creek private airstrip.”
“That’s where he collected her from, right?” Carter tightened his grip on the wheel and weaved around the traffic. “She’s going to get away!”
“Tyler, get that airstrip shut down ASAP.”
“On it.”
Then the dashboard screamed out, Carter’s cell ringing. Unknown caller. He swerved around a car and answered. “Hello?”
“Are you related to a William Carter?” A woman’s voice, young and with a Latina accent. Wherever she was, it was busy, sirens whooping around her.
“I’m his son. Max. What happened?”
“My name is Jocelyn. I’m an EMT. You’re listed as his next of kin.”
“Where’s Bill? What’s happened?”
“He’s been in a car accident.”
The last thing Carter needed. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll survive, but—”
“I can’t deal with this right now.” He hit the red button and killed the call.
Bill in a car accident. And Carter, the heartless bastard, couldn’t be there for him. It wasn’t even a choice.
In the passenger seat, Elisha held her cell tighter, her face screwed up as she focused on her call. “Oh my god.”
Carter chanced another look at Elisha. “What?”
Her mouth was hanging open. “Avery’s been returned.”
Carter thought it through as he plowed down the road, weaving along the path of the creek.
Holliday’s risky gamble was paying off—news of his death had triggered events. His PI had caught them on camera, connected the dots. Would it be enough to pin this on Olson? That smug face, laughing at them. Thinking he was above them all, pushing pieces around a chessboard.
If anyone was responsible for this—over and above Holliday—it was Olson. And he needed to pay.
Time for Carter to extend Holliday’s gamble.
“I’ve got an idea.” He reached over to the central display and punched in the number, then hit dial.
It rang once before she answered. Didn’t speak, though. Didn’t acknowledge them. Just the sound of her breathing.
“Layla, thank you for returning Avery.”
A pause, then a harsh sigh. “How do you know that was me?”
“I know who you are, Layla.” Carter turned right—he could see the airstrip now, the narrow runway lit up, a plane taxiing over. “I know what drives you, Layla. You’re not a bad person. Avery’s back with her mother. I want to help you find your son.”
Another pause, one she wasn’t going to fill.
“Layla, I’ve got approval to offer you immunity from prosecution if you help me prove Richard Olson is Bob Smith.”
Elisha glared at him.
But Layla was gone. His gamble failed.
Carter pulled off the freeway into the airstrip’s parking lot. A small, low building, just one way in and out. A stretch limo sat on the curb, the exhaust chucking out fumes into the twilight. Carter boxed it in, another two Suburbans joining the pattern. He got out, cracking his pistol as he stepped over to the limo.
The back door opened and Richard Olson stepped out, hands up, a smug grin on his face. “This is an illegal stop and search.”
“Where is she?”
Olson swung around just as a deafening roar erupted. A Learjet lurched up into the blue sky, powering away from them. “There she goes.”
Carter looked over at Elisha. Tyler hadn’t been fast enough. He grabbed hold of Olson by the throat. “Where is she going?”
“Flight plan is for Panama.” Olson held his gaze. “But plans change, right?”
Meaning somewhere with no extradition treaty to the USA.
Olson shook Carter off, and his grin widened. “Good luck in getting her back.”
“Was all this worth Holliday’s life? Brandon’s life? All for your company?”
“You’d never understand.”
Carter’s cell rumbled in his pocket. A text, unknown number:
My insurance policy is in my Dropbox account. File name BS.docx, find it and it’ll give you all you need on Bob Smith. Layla
Olson opened the limo door and tried to sit down.
Carter grabbed his arm and pulled him away, pushing that smug face against the hood. “You’re going away for a long time.”
“Right.” Olson laughed. “I’ll have your badge by midnight.”
Holding him there, Carter got out his cell and called Tyler. “Peterson, can you search Layla’s laptop for a file called BS.docx? Should be in her Dropbox account.”
“Just a— Got it.” Tyler laughed. “Oh, this is good.”
“What is it?”
“It starts with messages between LayLadyLay and Bob Smith, plus with someone called BabyDaddy100. There’s a link too.” Tyler paused. “It’s a cell phone video. It’s dark. Holy shit. It’s Holliday in a basketball court? And there’s Richard Olson by this big light.”
Bingo.
“Thanks, Tyler.” Carter ended the call and leaned in to whisper in Olson’s ear: “I know you’re Bob Smith.”
“Do you? Confident you’ll prove it?”
“Extremely.” Carter pushed him away toward Elisha. “Read him his rights.”
She led him away to another Suburban. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court.” She ducked his head and pushed him into the back seat.
Leaving Carter standing at a private airport, an adult remembering his own trauma as an eight-year-old.
Holliday and Olson were just like Bill Carter, the same stupid arrogance, the same desire to stop at nothing to meet their selfish goals.
And the old goat was in the hospital somewhere. Desperate.
Maybe Elisha was right. Maybe Carter should speak to him, bury the hatchet.
Chapter Seventy
&
nbsp; Carter
Carter charged through the hospital, clutching his cell to his ear, listening to it ringing.
Answered, finally. Emma, out of breath, locker room laughter, the hiss of a shower. “Max?”
“Em.” Carter pushed through another door, into a long corridor in the ER. “Where are you?”
“I’m at racquetball. What’s up? Are you okay?”
“It’s Bill… Look, can you get Kirsty from daycare?”
“Sure. Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. He was in an accident.”
“My god. Are you okay?”
He gave her a pained laugh, all he could manage. Despite everything Bill had put him through, he was still flesh and blood. “Let’s just see about that. Love you, bye.” He killed the call and pushed through one last door into the ward.
The nurse’s station was overstaffed, three of them hovering around. All he got from a hulking brute of a guy was a nod.
“Here to see Bill Carter. Might be under William.”
“Got it. And you are?”
“Max Carter, his… His son.”
The nurse clicked his fingers. “Dr. Frear? Here’s the Carter son.”
A slim red-haired woman in green scrubs sashayed over, clutching a tablet computer like it held the secrets to the galaxy. “You’re his son?”
“For my sins. What happened?”
“Come with me.” She led him through to a private ward, tugging a curtain back behind them. “Mr. Carter appears to have gotten drunk then crashed his car into a wall.”
“Right.” Carter struggled to breathe. Couldn’t even think. “Was anyone else involved?”
“I don’t believe so. His blood alcohol level is three times the legal limit.”
A low amount for him.
