Chase smirked; she couldn’t help herself.
When she looked at Stitts, she saw that he was staring through the one-way glass at the lawyer who was busy preparing documents at the metal table inside.
"It doesn't make sense," Stitts said. “Long-range sniper attacks—accurate, no wasted bullets, no collateral damage. And then we have this clown, who couldn’t even get his gun out of the camera. "
"I'm with you on that," Chase said in agreement.
"But it can't be a coincidence.
Chase tilted her head to one side. It certainly seemed like one, either that or a horribly botched plan. She was about to say as much when a door on the other side of the room opened and a man was led in in chains.
Stitts had referred to him as a young Arab boy, but his face was so bruised and swollen it was difficult to confirm.
It looked like he’d spent six months in solitary confinement at Gitmo, not fifteen minutes in a warehouse.
"I want a lawyer," the man said, his lower lip, split and bloody, trembling.
"Sit down, Mohammed,” the man at the table said.
Mohammed hesitated, but the soldiers who had brought him into the room assisted him rather roughly into the chair.
"I think you know how this goes," lawyer-man said. "I ask you some questions here, in this room, with people watching from behind the glass. You answer my questions, and then you get processed. If you don’t answer my questions, we move to another location. A location where nobody is watching."
Mohammed was on for the verge of tears now.
"I want a lawyer," he repeated.
The man in the collar shirts sighed and started to absently spread photographs across on the table.
"I’m the only lawyer you need, Mohammed. Let’s start this off easy: is your name Mohammed Al-Saed?"
When he didn’t immediately answer, one of the soldiers gripped his shoulder tightly.
"Yes, that's me; that’s my name. Look, there's been a misunderstanding, I've—"
Lawyer-man waved a hand, effectively silencing him.
"And this is your wife? Naour Al-Saed?"
Another nod.
The interrogator moved a photograph of a young girl front and center.
"And this is your daughter? Sefa Al-Saed?"
Mohammed's eyes went wide.
"Yes, that’s her. Please, let me explain."
Another hand wave.
"And you live…"
These mundane questions droned on for an infuriatingly long time, and Chase, still covered in Congressman Vincente’s blood, struggled to focus.
Dr. Matteo had told her that her life had been boiled down to three components: her drug use, her sexuality, and her work.
After intensive treatment, she had somehow, against all odds, managed to overcome the former two—at least for the foreseeable future.
But the latter…
"I can't just sit here and watch this shit," she grumbled under her breath. She hadn’t meant to speak out loud and blushed when both Stitts and Pratt looked over at her.
She wished that she was back with Peter Horrowitz in the command center. At least then she would be doing something. At least then, she would have some semblance of control.
And that brought her full-circle.
Dr. Matteo had told her that most of her problems stemmed from a lack of control. She’d never been given the tools to help her deal with her tragedies.
And, as a result, they kept popping up, time and time again.
"Just watch and wait, I've seen this guy work before," Pratt said. "He's a fucking master."
Chase chewed the inside of her lip.
"He may be a master, but I've got certain skills that he doesn't," she said. Chase moved so quickly to the door that even the soldier guarding it, who had been transfixed by the scene on the other side of the glass, failed to react in time.
"Chase," Stitts hollered after her. “Chase!”
But Chase was already in the room with the terrorist by the time any of them mobilized.
Chapter 37
"She's… different," Peter Horrowitz said as he typed away at his computer.
Floyd pulled his face away from his own monitor.
"E-e-e-e-excuse me?"
Peter spun in his chair.
"The Agent you drive for. Chase. I just said she's different, that’s all. Didn't mean to offend."
Floyd thought back to the time when they’d first met, when he'd driven her around Alaska, blabbering about trains. He knew that she was special back then, and nothing she’d done since—nothing—had changed his mind about that.
"She is d-d-different," he confirmed with a nod. He was about to turn back to his computer when Peter looked as if he had something more to say. "Wh-wh-wh-what is it?”
"I dunno… I mean, she was just so certain about the gunshots not coming from the building that I pointed out. I mean, so far nobody we’ve spoken to in the area has heard or seen anything, and my agents pulled back to support the President before Vincente was shot, but still. You should have seen it… she was absolutely certain of that fact. Shit, if I didn’t know any better, I'd think that maybe she was somehow involved."
"She isn't," Floyd said quickly. And yet, he remembered the way she’d learned things about the two victims in Alaska, things that no one else—not the local law enforcement, not the coroner’s office—picked up on. She was different. But she wasn't bad.
She didn't do this.
"Oh, I know. It's just weird. Here, check this out," Peter said, pointing at his computer screen. Floyd wheeled over and stared at a black-and-white image. "This is where the two bodies were shot, and the algorithm predicts that the sniper fired from this building."
Floyd shrugged. He knew next to nothing about bullet trajectories and shootings.
He knew about trains. And he knew a little bit about drones, too. But not bullets.
"Sorry, I don't know how to help you," he said, turning back to his computer.
"Is she single, by the way?"
"Excuse me?"
"Agent Adams. Do you now if she’s single?"
Floyd swallowed hard and he glared at Peter.
"I don't know," he said sharply.
"I was just wondering," Peter muttered under his breath.
Brow furrowed, Floyd tried to focus at the task at hand but found it difficult.
Is she single? Why would you ask that? How is that professional?
He thought back to when they’d found her, bloodied, bruised and half-naked lying at the bottom of a rock quarry.
A shudder ran through him and he forced himself to devote all his attention to his work.
He’d managed to come up with a short of list of drone clubs that operated out of Washington. One in particular, Fly Right, appeared to be the largest. An added bonus was that they met at an abandoned air field not far from the mobile command center.
Floyd clicked the Contact Us link and was immediately redirected to an email form.
He wrote a quick email inquiring about regulations pertaining to drones in the city.
Floyd signed his name at the end and was about to click send when he paused.
And then, with a smile on his face, he added ‘FBI assistant' beneath his name.
Floyd debated deleting the words but then thought better of it. Chase had called him that, twice, if he recalled correctly.
Yeah, Agent Adams most definitely is different, he thought with a smile as he clicked the Send button.
As the smile grew, he reached out and hit send.
Chapter 38
Lawyer-man whipped around when Chase entered the room, but before he could get a word out, Chase instructed him to remain quiet.
"You, too, Mo," she said to the man seated across the table. “Just be quiet.”
The two guards behind the prisoner looked at her curiously, but she moved with such authority that they didn't immediately attempt to stop her. She knew though that they would, in time, especially bec
ause she suspected that Pratt was already entering the room behind her.
But that was okay. She didn’t need much time.
"You ever shot of rifle before, Mohammed?" she asked. She stared at the man intently, looking for any sign of deception: hands twitching, pupils dilating, blood flooding into the ears or nose. Anything from her poker days that would indicate a tell.
"No," he said.
Chase believed him.
"Then why the fuck did you have a gun at the President’s press conference?"
"You can't be in here," lawyer-man said. Chase put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
"Some guy gave me a camera… he gave me fifty bucks and a camera and told me to record the damn thing. The camera wasn't working so I try to fix it. Shit, I didn’t know there was a gun in there.”
Once again, Chase believed him.
"This man who paid you, what did he look like?”
Mohammed shrugged.
"I dunno… a white dude with slicked hair. He looked like a regular guy, not sketchy at all. I was having a smoke and he came up to me. I didn’t even—”
"Agent Adams, can I speak to you outside for a moment," she heard Pratt say from behind her. The man started to approach, but Chase moved to the other side of the table, taking off one of her blood-stained gloves as she did.
And then, just she felt Pratt reach for her, Chase extended her hand and touched Mohammed Al-Saed’s fingers before he could pull away.
Chapter 39
"Can you believe this fucking guy?" Peter said, his eyes drifting up to the TV screen.
William Woodley, the talking head, was back, this time rambling on about Congressman Vincente's murder. Only, this didn't last long; it quickly digressed into a one-sided discussion about Bill S-89.
"We don’t need Bill S-89. In fact, that’s the opposite of what this country needs right now. What we need is a tough love. What we need is stagflation. What we need is a market correction in which inflation shoots through the roof, while unemployment continues to rise. It’s coming people, and while it’s gonna be hard, we’re going to come out on the other side a better nation and people. We’ll be more self-sustained than China, more productive than India, and more technologically advanced than South Korea. We don’t need more government intervention, we need less. What America needs is minimal government intervention. Only under these conditions can business thrive. Businesses make money, businesses drive the economy. The government spends money and restricts the economy. Don’t believe me? Then let me ask you this: if the government is so good at running businesses, why have they racked up trillions of dollars worth of debt?"
Floyd was watching the TV now too, and while he didn't really understand everything that the talking head was saying, he was familiar with the rhetoric. It was as unoriginal as the show’s format.
"Not two hours after the assassinations, this asshole is trying to spin it for political gain. Oh, sure, William Woodley wants an economic downturn, because his coffers are probably filled to the brim with gold bullion. And when everything goes the shit? He’ll buy up all sorts of commercial real estate only to flip it a decade later for ten times the amount he spent. You know, it’s kinda like rich people saying that money has no meaning to them, that it’s just a thing. Well, I’ll tell you who it ain’t just a thing for: the guy on the corner begging for nickels, or the single mother who is cashing in food stamps just to make sure her kids have something to eat," Peter said.
Floyd wasn’t sure if the man was talking to him, or himself, but it didn’t matter. He really had nothing to add.
"Minimum wage?” William Woodley continued. “All that does is stifle productivity. What's worse, it makes young people unemployable. Think about it: you have somebody with limited skills, straight out of school, and they want to get a job. Because they don't have much experience and they’re still learning a craft, their value to a company is limited. Now, if the minimum wage is higher than the value they can provide, no business can higher them. And we’ve seen what happens in places like Greece when there are simply no jobs for young people. It decimates the work force, both present, and future."
Floyd was interested in continuing to watch, but an email notification popped op on his screen. When he saw that it was from [email protected], he opened it immediately.
Floyd,
Thank you so for reaching out with your questions about drones and regulations. Currently, we are working hard trying t get the government to approve more safe fly zones in Washington. As it stands, almost all of Washington DC is currently a no-fly zone. We understand the government's concerns but believe that a happy medium between us droners and citizen safety can be reached. If you would like to discuss this further or see how you can get involved, please email me back or better yet, come on out to the airfield and meet up in person.
Thank you again for your interest,
Brian.
Floyd leaned back in his chair a wide smile on his face. Then he grabbed his phone and dialed Agent Adam’s number.
Chapter 40
"Hey, how'd you like to make fifty bucks?"
At first, Mohammed didn't even realize that the man was speaking to him. It took a tap on his shoulder to get his attention.
"Fifty bucks—all you have do is videotape the presidential address."
Mohammed squinted at the man. He was maybe in his late thirties or early forties, Caucasian, with hair slicked to his scalp. There was nothing that immediately sounded alarm bells, and yet Mohammed was cautious.
"What? What are you talking about?"
The man pointed the camera in his hands.
"Look, I got some shit to do, but my boss wants me to videotape the damn thing. I'll give you fifty bucks—all you have to do is stand there an tape it. Ten minutes, maybe less.”
Mohammed squinted again, trying to ascertain whether or not this was some sort of ploy, a prank, or a scam. When he saw no endgame in sight, he shrugged.
"Show me the money,” he demanded.
The man didn't hesitate. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. Then he held it out to Mohammed.
But Mohammed didn't take it.
"I'll record it on my cell phone, send you the footage afterwards," he offered, still skeptical. “Shit, my phone probably takes better video than that old thing.”
The man shook his head.
"Nah, you gotta use this camera. It's got a live feed or some shit. You want it or not? If not, I’ll find someone else out here who could use fifty bucks for ten minutes of work.”
The thing was, Mohammed was a man who could use fifty bucks.
He chewed the inside of his lip and then reached out and snatched the fifty before the man could pull it back.
Then he took the camera.
"Alright, all you gotta do is push this button here, whenever the President starts talking. You shoot some decent footage, and not your foot or some chicks ass, and I'll give you another fifty bucks when it’s over.”
Another fifty?
Mohammed settled the camera on his shoulder. It was much heavier than he’d expected.
“Alright, meet me back here when it’s over,” the man said, before he drifted away from the crowd.
Chapter 41
A hand wrapped around Chase's waist and pulled her away from Mohammed, breaking their contact.
At first, she thought it was SO Pratt and she started to struggle.
"Calm down, Chase," Stitts whispered in her ear, as together they moved out of the interrogation room.
"He didn't do it," she said softly.
Nobody in the room, the number of which had ballooned to a dozen or more since she’d left, seemed to hear her.
They were still too busy trying to act like they were the ones in charge to care about anything else.
Pratt came up to her first.
"Agent Adams, you need to get out here," Pratt said, his face turning a shade of pink. “You sabotaged everything—”
�
��Take it easy,” Stitts said. “We’re leaving.”
He guided his partner toward the exit.
"He didn't do it," Chase said a little louder this time.
Dirty Money (A Chase Adams FBI Thriller Book 5) Page 11
