by Tripp Ellis
Agent Sam Ferguson sighed and handed the phone back to me without looking.
I took it from him, ended the call, and slipped the phone into my pocket.
Emergency responders rushed toward the aircraft.
The passengers were deplaned, and EMTs and paramedics evaluated them for injuries.
Jason was dead before he hit the ground.
Victoria was taken into custody. She sobbed and wailed, her face contorted with loss. She was stuffed into the back of a patrol car and taken to the station for processing.
Brenda was called to the scene to examine the remains of the victim and the hijacker. Their bodies were loaded into bags and transferred to the medical examiner's van.
Red and blue lights flickered, and first responders hustled about. The entire airport was shut down for several hours.
It wasn't exactly the resolution I had hoped for, and it left me with many unanswered questions.
We filled out after-action reports at the station and finally got around to interviewing Victoria. She had been placed into an interrogation room and had spent a few hours there by the time we got to her.
Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. She trembled with nerves, and the color had drained from her face. The pale green glow of the overhead fluorescent lights didn't do much to improve her sickly pallor.
JD and I took a seat across the table from her.
“Did Jason say anything to you about Eva's murder?"
She shook her head.
"Right now, you're looking at serious charges—aiding and abetting a fugitive, kidnapping, conspiracy, and a host of other goodies."
Her terrified eyes rounded even further. "I didn't do anything."
"You attempted to hijack a plane and flee the country with your boyfriend, a known fugitive. I would say that's doing something."
"I didn't know he was going to do that. All he told me was that I needed to meet him at the airport, and we needed to get out of town. I asked him why, and he wouldn't say."
"So, he told you to drop everything and run away with him? And you didn't bother to press further?"
"He told me he would explain everything later."
"Surely, you must have suspected something was off?”
“He assured me he didn't kill Eva, and I believed him. He said he was getting framed, and we needed to get out of the country. He said that if I wanted to be with him, I had to come now. I made a decision. But I didn't know that he was going to hijack a plane.”
“And you didn't do anything to stop him."
"What could I have done?" she asked, exasperated.
The room was silent for a moment.
"If Jason didn't kill Eva, who did?"
“I don’t know.”
"Nolan?"
“I don’t know. Maybe. Jason never talked about Nolan or his job. All the employees sign strict confidentiality agreements."
"But surely you two talked a little? You trusted each other, right?"
"We didn't talk about Nolan or Eva. The only thing he said to me was that Eva was having an affair with Liam, and that was after it was common knowledge."
“If you know anything, you need to come clean,” I said.
“I don’t know anything.”
I almost felt bad for her. Her life had been ruined over one bad decision to stand by her man. It's unfortunate she chose the wrong man.
"Where did Jason get the fake passports?"
"I don't know."
"He had one for both of you."
"Jason was paranoid. He kept a bug-out bag with supplies, weapons, cash—whatever he thought we’d need in case of an emergency."
"He kept it in a storage facility under an assumed name, right?"
She nodded. “He told me it was in case the world went to hell in a handbasket and we had to get out quickly. I never thought he'd use it in a scenario like this."
“The aircraft was chartered under an assumed name. And the Feds found $100,000 in cash in a duffel bag."
"Like I said, he kept emergency funds on hand." She paused. “Look, if anybody killed Eva, it was Nolan. If Jason had any involvement, it was at Nolan's request. That, I can assure you."
42
We didn't have anything tying Nolan to the crime. All we had was an eyewitness who saw Jason loading a similar trunk onto his boat. Nolan was smart enough not to talk to us at this point. We needed something solid to tie him to the murder, and right now, we didn't have it.
A sick feeling rumbled in my stomach that the billionaire would probably get away with it if he had any involvement.
By the time we left the station, JD and I were more than ready to unwind. We swung by the dealership to get the headlights swapped out. It was a pretty simple fix, but cost a fortune. The service advisor wasn’t shocked by anything anymore. He just laughed and shook his head, more than happy to take JD’s money. “I love what you’ve done with it.”
“I’m thinking of keeping it that way,” JD said.
Driving around in a car full of bullet holes certainly created intrigue. We got more stares and attention than ever.
The service department got us in and out, and we headed up to Oyster Avenue and caught happy hour at Wetsuit. We ordered a sampler platter and snacked on appetizers while sipping tasty whiskey.
The attempted hijacking was all over the news, and Paris Delaney's beautiful face graced the flatscreen display behind the bar. She'd been blowing up my phone, looking for a comment. I wasn't going to touch this with a 10-foot pole. There was already an uproar on social media, blaming law enforcement for the death of the hostage and saying the shooting of the hijacker was unnecessary. It certainly could have been handled better, and the events were unfortunate.
My phone buzzed with a call from Sophia Breslin. "Looks like you had a rough day."
"I've had better."
"Sorry you lost a hostage."
"I didn't lose a hostage. The Feds lost a hostage. That didn't happen on my watch.”
"Well, I've got a little something that might cheer you up. I found Elias Fink. He's on Margarita Island just outside of Porlamar. He's got a little villa on the beach."
"And how do you know this?"
"My source."
"Your source had outdated information before.”
"This is updated information. I'll send you pics as of this morning."
Several images buzzed through to my phone—telephoto shots of the infamous terrorist strolling the beach with a particularly attractive young Venezuelan woman.
"Send those to your people," Sophia said. "Verify them."
"I will."
"Then we’ll go down and kill him."
"I don't think there's going to be any we involved."
"Oh, no. You’re not cutting me out of the deal. I want in on the action."
"Isabella will never allow that."
"Unacceptable. I've done nothing but try to earn back your trust and provide you with good intel. I'm going down there with or without you. I prefer backup, but I'll do it myself if I have to. And, as I mentioned, we wipe the slate clean once the job’s done. No warrants. My record’s clear.”
“That’s a big ask.”
“Isabella can finagle it. She has power and connections.”
“We’ll see.”
“You wouldn’t have the intel if it weren’t for me. When Elias Fink is dead, the 3-letter agencies will be thanking me. Or, at least, they should be. You know I’m right. Run it by her. See what she says.”
I hesitated for a moment. "I'll be in touch."
"I know you will." She ended the call.
I sent the images to Isabella. She called me back 20 minutes later. "The photos don't look manipulated. I’ll send an operative I have in the country to do a little recon, see if we can confirm the sighting. I'll also start scanning the cellular networks in the area and see if we can get a voice match. But Elias isn’t stupid enough to use a cell phone for anything other than texts." She paused. "What does your gut tell
you?"
"I think the only way to confirm is to get eyes on the target. How reliable is your operative?"
"Reliable, but recon only. I can't send him to do the job. He doesn't have the training or the resources. That’s where you come in.”
“I’m ready when you are. By the way, Sophia wants in on the mission, and she wants a clear reputation afterward. I know what you’re gonna say… hell no.”
She paused for a moment. “The chatter is increasing. Something is up. Fink is definitely planning another attack.”
“Do you have a suspected target?”
“No. But this is big. I’m hearing rumors of nuclear material.”
“A dirty bomb?”
"That's what I'm hearing," she said.
"I thought those were considered unlikely due to logistical factors.”
"There is the initial hurdle of acquiring nuclear material, but there are a shocking amount of resources available worldwide,” Isabella said. “Everything from abandoned Soviet thermal generators to corrupt employees at nuclear labs and universities.”
"Then you have to worry about transporting the material and not irradiating yourself in the process."
"True,” Isabella said. “But it doesn't mean a few zealots won't try. And if detonated with conventional material, the radioactive damage should be limited, but those in the immediate vicinity of the blast will suffer long-term health problems. The biggest issue is the fear and panic it will create within the American public. And my guess is that's all Fink is really after. He thrives on disruption and chaos."
"Any idea when this is going to go down?"
"No, but I'm working on it."
"What do I tell Sophia?"
"You tell her exactly what she wants to hear."
I lifted a surprised eyebrow.
"Take her with you. She provided good intel so far, albeit a little out of date at times. I think she wants him dead as bad as we do. You are not safe as long as Fink is still in existence. But once the job is done, kill her."
I hesitated.
"You haven’t developed a soft spot for her, have you?"
"No."
“Then get rid of her. We'll kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. She's dangerous and a threat. You know that."
I was silent.
"You don't have a problem with that, do you?"
43
We indulged in a few more happy hour specials, then headed to the practice studio.
Crash showed up late and drunk. He reeked of whiskey.
"You forget we had practice?" Styxx snarked when Crash finally entered.
"I'm here, aren't I?" Crash slurred. He stumbled to his bass rig, shouldered his ax, and switched on his amplifier. "I'm ready to rock 'n' roll!" He lifted both hands into the air, making a rock 'n' roll sign and howling.
JD and I exchanged a concerned glance.
"I thought you were going to go easy on the whiskey," I said.
Crash’s face crinkled. "I just had a few drinks to loosen up.”
His eyes were bloodshot. He had more than a few drinks.
I know, those that live in glass houses shouldn't cast stones. JD and I weren't stone-cold sober either. But we weren’t falling down drunk. Not yet.
Crash fumbled through practice, flubbing notes and playing sloppy. It was excusable once in a while, but if this was going to be a regular occurrence, it was unacceptable. More than that, I was concerned for his well-being.
The usual crowd that flooded the studio during practice felt the tension. It was clear Wild Fury wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
I pulled Crash aside after practice. "Listen, what did we talk about the other day?"
"Why are you hassling me, man?"
"Because I don't want to see the band fall apart."
"It's not going to fall apart,” he said, trying to minimize the situation.
"It is if you keep acting this way."
"What way?"
I just shook my head in frustration. "I know you’re going through a tough time right now. But don't let it pull you down so far that you can't get back up."
"Chill out. I'm just blowing off a little steam. That's all."
"Well, don't blow it off before practice or before shows. Got it?"
Crash frowned. "What are you gonna do? Fire me? Good luck finding a replacement."
It was an unusual attitude from Crash. He was an easy-going, humble guy. This wasn’t typical. I’d never heard him talk that way before.
Crash walked away from me, done listening to anything I had to say.
I exchanged a glance with the rest of the guys as Crash pushed out of the rehearsal space and into the hallway.
"I think it's time we consider a backup plan," Styxx said. He raised his hands innocently. "That's all I'm saying.”
"There is no Wild Fury without the four of us," Dizzy said. "There is no backup plan. We did the whole stand-in bass player thing once, and it was cool and all, but it wasn’t the same.”
“He’ll snap out of it,” JD said. “He just needs a minute. God knows we’ve all been upside down over a girl before.”
JD was no stranger to heartache. With six ex-wives, he’d been through his fair share of it. He moped around for weeks after Sloan dumped him, and she was only a prospective number seven.
I found Crash outside, blazing a joint with the usual miscreants that hung out by the entrance.
“How did you get up here?” I asked him.
“I drove.”
“Come on, we’ll give you a ride home.”
“I don’t need a ride home.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“We’ll make sure he gets home okay,” one of the miscreants said.
He didn’t look like the epitome of responsibility.
“Give me your keys,” I said to Crash.
His face twisted.
“Hand them over.” My tone was non-negotiable.
He frowned, then dug a reluctant hand into his pocket and fished them out. They jingled as he slapped them into my palm. The keys had inadvertently latched onto a small white glassine paper baggie in Crash’s pocket, and it tumbled to the ground.
My eyes narrowed. I knew exactly what it was.
I reached down and scooped it up, my jaw tight, my eyes on fire. The glossy, translucent paper was stamped with the logo of a rocket ship and the phrase Blast Off. It contained an off-white powder. “What the hell is this?”
44
Crash shrugged. "I don't know."
My face tensed. I dangled the baggie of heroin in front of his face. "It fell out of your pocket."
"No it didn't."
"I saw it."
"It's not mine."
"Then you won’t mind when I do this," I said. I tore open the bag and emptied it. The white powder drifted away with the breeze.
Crash’s eyes rounded.
"Where did you get it from?"
"I told you, that wasn't mine."
I looked at the miscreants, my angry eyes blazing into them. "If any one of you sold this to him, it's your ass."
“Don’t look at me, man,” a miscreant said. “We just say no to drugs."
"Empty your pockets. Everybody. Now!"
They all exchanged uneasy glances."
“I’m not playing around with you. Turn them out," I growled.
The rock ’n’ rollers reluctantly complied, pulling out the pockets of their skinny jeans.
The impromptu search turned up a couple of joints, cigarettes, loose change, lots of lint, and a few pills here and there, but no heroin.
"See, we’re clean," another miscreant said.
I wasn’t going to hassle them about the marijuana. The DA had stopped prosecuting personal use amounts.
I turned my attention back to Crash. "Where did it come from?"
Crash sighed and finally admitted, “It was Faye’s. She left it at the apartment."
I shook my head. "I searched
the apartment the other night."
"Well, maybe you didn't look hard enough."
My jaw flexed, and I stared him down. “You don’t even know what's in this stuff,” I cautioned.
He shrugged again.
“You don't know what it's cut with. It could be heroin mixed with fentanyl. There could have been enough in that baggie to kill you and everybody else here. Is that what you want? Are you looking for a way out?"
"No, man." He paused for a moment, and his eyes filled. “I’m just tired of hurting."
A tear rolled down his cheek.
It broke my heart to see Crash like this. I pulled him away from the miscreants and calmly asked, "How long have you been using the stuff?"
He shrugged. "I'm not really using, man. I just dabbled here and there. And I only smoke it. I never put anything in my veins."
I deflated and exhaled a long breath. "It's okay. We all make mistakes. We all make bad choices."
"I'm sorry. I know I let you down."
"You’ll let me down if you keep doing it. I think it's time we talk about getting you into a program."
His face crinkled. "I don't need a program. I swear. I'm not an addict. I'm not an alcoholic."
I looked at him with skeptical eyes.
"Like you said. I just made some bad choices. That's all. I'm not going to make any more bad choices."
I kept staring at him.
"I swear. I’m never touching that stuff again. No more drinking before practice. But you can't tell me I can't drink after. No way."
"Hop in the car. We'll take you home."
He shifted, then finally nodded. "What about my ride? It could get stolen in the lot overnight."
I looked over at his car. Let's just say it wasn't the belle of the ball. "Trust me. No one's gonna take your car. Jump in with JD, and I'll drive it back to your apartment."
He nodded, and I patted him on the back as he walked with JD toward the Porsche.
I ambled across the lot to his beat-up white four-door and climbed into the driver's seat. The door creaked as I pulled it shut. I twisted the ignition, put it into gear, and followed JD back to Crash’s apartment.
