by James Hunt
Grant looked up the kids from his old cases every once in a while. A few months ago, he looked up a girl who was taken when she was fourteen. She went willingly, though that was because the forty-eight-year-old man that abducted her was a psychology professor at the University of Washington. She’d attended one of his seminars—that was where the relationship started. Grant had found one of the ticket stubs buried in her locker that she kept at school.
One background check on the professor told Grant everything he needed to know about the scumbag. He’d already had a few run-ins on campus with some girls that were enrolled in his class, though nothing substantial was ever proven.
After everything was said and done and Grant recovered the young girl, she screamed and hollered about how they were in love and no one understood that they were meant to be with one another.
The girl turned eighteen a few months ago, so Grant found her on Facebook. From the social media posts, he knew that she still hadn’t dealt with the psychological repercussions of what she went through. Which made sense, because the free resources that the state provided only did so much.
Unless a family was incredibly wealthy, it was unlikely that the kid would get the attention or the type of help that they deserved and needed. It boiled down to money. Just as it did right now.
Sam discarded the plastic bag at the nearest trash can and pocketed the USB drive. She ran her thumb over the drive inside her coat pocket the entire walk back to the marshals’ office.
While she hadn’t necessarily lied to Grant about having a contact in the IT department to help her out, she may have fudged the line on exactly how solid their relationship was. But she had a plan.
All surveillance requests had to be approved through Multz before they were sent down to the techies to either tap wires, scan emails, or try to set some other digital mousetrap for escaped convicts.
Usually, after Multz approved an order for a marshal, most marshals threw away the signed request forms, seeing as how there were copies filed with the tech team. But to see those files, you needed to be granted access by someone in that department.
But being a stickler for details and redundancies—or at least she used to be—Sam kept copies of her own requests at her desk.
All she had to do was get a fresh form, fill it out, and then use one of the old forms to trace Multz’s signature. With all of the commotion in the department, she knew that she would be able to slide it through in time to get the drive back to Grant.
The aftermath of her stunt, however, would definitely come up in the investigation that Multz had warned her about. But she couldn’t let Grant do this alone. He’d done so much already.
Once back at the marshal building, Sam skirted the line of reporters that had formed a blockade, and entered through one of the more private side entrances. Normally, the side entrances had minimum security, but with all of the attention that they’d received over the past couple of days, even this place was locked down tight.
Sam flashed her badge and put the thumb drive along with her wallet and service pistol into a small dish that fed into the scanner. She prayed that the x-ray wouldn’t cause any trouble, and breathed a sigh of relief when it passed without alarm.
Tech was on the third floor, and Sam made a pit stop at her desk for the forms in her drawer. She scribbled across it hastily, knowing that the details didn’t matter, and put it as a rush for the Joza case.
Sam kept an eye on the crowds around her desk as she plucked one of the signed copies of the form from her drawer. She placed the unsigned document over the signed one, doing her best to line it up perfectly, and then started the quick trace of her boss’s signature.
The end result was a little skewed, but the two-inch squiggle was hardly ever legible, and Sam was confident it would pass. She grabbed the drive and then ascended to the third floor.
With the coordination efforts between the FBI and the marshals, the tech room was practically bursting at the seams with bodies and computers. And Sam saw enough fiber wire in that one room to stretch from the earth to the sun.
A few heads turned when Sam entered, a reminder of her gender anomaly. She found one of their guys and set the form on his desk, which he ignored.
“I need a ghost drive installed on this,” Sam said, holding the USB in front of her. “It’s for the Joza case.”
Jim Flanagan wore a white polo shirt, his name tag perfectly centered on his pocket, and wore small-framed rectangular glasses. “Everything that’s sent up here is for the Joza case.”
“Well, this one is urgent.”
“They’re all marked urgent.” He had light-brown stubble on his tan skin, and his fingers worked the keyboard deftly.
Sam stepped around the desk, getting a look at the code that filled his screen, and he immediately stopped his work and lowered the screen of his laptop so she couldn’t see. “You know I don’t even understand what the hell that is, right?”
“It’s protocol,” Jim answered. “Just like it’s protocol for me to go through that stack of requests first. I’ll get to yours as soon as a I can.”
Sam bent to a knee and inched intimately closer to Jim. He was one of the few IT guys that kept himself showered, and for that she was thankful, because the thick cloud of biowaste clung to the air.
“It’s important, Jim. I need to get this down to Multz and Hickem before the hour is up. You know I don’t skirt the rules, but I think we both understand what we’re dealing with. So are you going to help me or not?”
Jim Flanagan removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, and then without a word, he reached for the form that Sam had laid on his desk.
“Thank you, Jim.”
“Just find the bastard, will you?” he asked, holding out his hand for the thumb drive. “The knowledge that there are people out there like him in the world makes me sick to my stomach.”
“Yeah.” Sam stood, watching Jim plug the drive into the USB port on his laptop. “Me too.”
“There you are!” Hickem screeched to a halt as he passed the tech room’s entrance. He palmed the door to slow himself down but only poked his head inside. “C’mon. I need to update you and Multz. Let’s go.”
Sam looked back at Jim on her exit. “How long do you think it’ll take?”
“Depends on the file size, and what I’m seeing here looks pretty big,” Jim said, scrolling down his screen. “Give me thirty minutes.”
“I owe you one, Jim.” Sam disappeared from the room and jogged down the hall to get caught up with Hickem, who was already at the staircase, heading down to Multz’s office.
There was giddiness to his steps, and Sam wasn’t sure it was a good thing. But she held off the worry until she knew the facts. But if they’d found Grant, her mission was over before it even had a chance to begin.
“Shut the door,” Hickem said, unable to hide the smile on his face as Sam walked into the office.
“What’s this about, Hickem?” Multz asked.
“He’s stateside.” Hickem paced back and forth, bursting with energy that made it impossible for him to stand still.
“Who?” Sam asked, slightly confused.
“Joza! The CIA tracked him on a flight out of Russia. They lost him during a layover in Paris, but they believe he’s here.”
“You think Links reached out to him?” Multz asked.
“I think it’s Links’s only play,” Hickem answered. “Which means that they’ll most likely be together. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.”
“Do we have any leads on their location?” Sam asked, her heart starting to race.
“We think they’re northeast of the city, close to the Canadian border in case they need a quick escape.” Hickem finally ended his anxious walk and ran his hand through his hair, the exhaustion from the excitement finally catching up to him. “God, this is huge.”
“We’ll start backtracking flights, see where he might have gone,” Multz said. “Sam, I want you to grab a
team from the bull pen and start figuring out a timeline. Hickem, can you fill her in on what the CIA told you?”
“Why don’t we each take a team,” Sam suggested, not wanting to get bogged down with a new project. “We can cover twice the ground.”
“I don’t care how the hell you two do it. I want some concrete analysis on where that bastard is heading and how long it’s going to take him to get there.” Multz sat down and waved the pair out of the office.
Hickem kept his eyes glued to his phone on the walk back to the bull pen, checking for updates from the CIA. “There were thirty flights that went from Paris to the United States since Joza landed in France. So far, it looks like our best bets are landing sites in New York, Boston, or Chicago.”
“I’ll take New York,” Sam said.
“Leaving me two, huh? Nice.”
“You and I both know the majority of the planes that are going to land from Paris will hit New York. You might have two cities, but I’ll have more ground to cover.”
“Somebody’s hungry.” Hickem looked up from his phone, smiling as they entered the bull pen.
“I just want to get this done.”
Sam stood off to the side as Hickem gave the update on the case. Like Hickem, everyone shared the same sense of awe and urgency now that they had both men within their grasp. Everyone wanted to be the hero. Everyone wanted to catch them. Sam just wanted to get that USB back to Grant.
The teams broke off, Sam taking the cluster of desk jockeys nearest to her, and he started having them scour the net. Her eyes found the clock every thirty seconds, the time crawling forward.
Process of elimination worked in their favor, and twenty-five minutes into the search, one of Hickem’s people got a hit.
“Eastern European male, sixties, spotted with a large group of individuals coming out of Boston.”
Hickem circled around to the kid quickly. “Do we have vehicle descriptions for what they might have used to leave?”
“Unclear, still searching.”
Hickem clapped heartily, trying to rally his team to the finish line. “Let’s go, people! We’re close! I can smell it!”
Sam eyed the clock one last time and then turned to the team. “Everyone restart your search from their new point of origin. I’ll be back.” Sam made it to the opposite end of the floor before Hickem stopped her.
“Where are you going?”
“Tech,” Sam answered quickly. “Running an inquiry for Multz.” She escaped the bull pen before anyone else decided to flag her down, checking the time on the way.
It had already been thirty minutes, and she prayed that Jim had been able to get everything together. By the time she reached the tech room, Sam’s heart was pounding, and sweat had broken out beneath her shirt. The blazer she wore trapped in the heat, but it at least covered up the sweat blotches under her arms.
Jim spotted her the moment she entered the room, and without a word, he lifted his hand, the USB drive gripped between his fingers. “Remember, you owe me.”
“More than you know.” Sam grabbed the drive, still breathless.
“Good luck.”
With the drive in her pocket, Sam hurried back down the stairs. All she needed to do now was convince Hickem about what happened.
If Hickem was any good at his job, and she knew he was, the man would have a hefty dose of skepticism with the news that Grant had contacted her. She just had to make him believe that she was still on his side.
Hickem was hovering closely over the people on his team, turning his head from screen to screen like a hawk on a branch in search of prey.
“Hey!” Sam yelled twenty feet before she was even near him, phone clutched in her hand, holding it up to him. “I just got a call from Grant.”
“What?” Hickem stared at the phone, which she pocketed. “How long?”
“Not long enough to track,” Sam answered, watching the others in the room slowly pull their eyes away from their screen. This was what she wanted. A lot of people. Group thinking was a hell of a thing. “He gave me a location. Wants to meet.”
Hickem paused before he answered, studying her. “Why?”
“He said he thinks he found a way to Links,” Sam answered. “But he wants to meet in ten minutes, so we need to scramble.” Sam spun around, addressing the bull pen. “Anyone who isn’t designated as emergency support, I want you to report to your team leads and prepare for field assignment.” She quickly clapped her hands. “Come on, people, let’s go!”
The room erupted into a flurry of movement. But when Sam turned back to Hickem, he was motionless. Bodies hurried past him, the rushing waters of action unable to move the boulder set in their path, and were forced to break around him as he stared Sam down.
“He called you just now.” There was no question in Hickem’s voice, only accusation.
“Yeah, when I went up to check on my request.” Sam furrowed her brow, doing her best to play the part despite the hammering in her chest, and then she cracked a smile. “C’mon, Hickem, you really think—”
“I don’t think you know a damn thing about what I think.” Hickem stepped forward, his big body made even more ominous by the slow movement. “Of all the people Grant contacts here, he decides to call you. Why do you think that is?”
“Because he trusts me.” Sam knew that in situations of interrogation, it was best to tell the truth when you could. The lies came in the details, but if you laid the foundation of the lie on a bed of truth, then it was easier for the people you were trying to convince to swallow it. “You said it yourself. He and I had a connection.”
“And what does that connection mean to you? Does it mean more to you than being a marshal? Does it mean more to you than stopping a traitor that was willing to sell out the family that was under your protection to a man that wanted to kill them? Does it mean more to you than your freedom?” Hickem leaned forward. “Is he worth all of that?”
It took every fiber of control in Sam’s mind not to shake, not to break or show any sign of a tell. She forced her tongue into motion to form the word that she didn’t want to say but knew she had to. And the lie tasted bitter.
“No,” Sam said.
Hickem maintained his closeness, still studying her, and then nodded. “All right, Cohen.” He finally turned, walking away, and as he left, Sam felt isolated in a room of at least one hundred people.
So far, the area had remained clear. No cops. No real traffic. No problems. He didn’t think Sam would do something like that to put Mocks in danger, but people did strange things when they were put in a corner.
Two cruisers passed the alleyway entrance where Grant waited, heading toward the drop site. He backtracked in the opposite direction, taking advantage of his location’s multiple exits.
The sleepy northern side of Seattle was suddenly awake with car engines, sirens, and the thump of chopper blades. Grant glanced toward the sky as he hurried toward the drop-off point.
With his hoodie up and his shades on, Grant moved quickly and inconspicuously along the sidewalks, even passing a few cop cars heading for whatever bogus location that Sam had fed Hickem and the others. But he didn’t test his luck. All it would take was one pair of eyes to spot him and undo everything.
The address that Grant had given Sam was close to an intersection. It was busy, which was good. The more people for the police to watch made it easier for Grant to slip in and out.
The building itself was an abandoned bagel shop. He wasn’t sure when it closed down, but the faded For Lease sign hanging in the window was brittle from the sun.
Grant found a spot on a bench on the opposite corner of the intersection, where he had a clear view of the shop. He slouched, pretending to be asleep.
The light at the intersection changed a dozen times, and Grant finally spotted Sam walking down the street from the source of the cop cars and choppers.
Sam turned the corner, and Grant resisted the urge to move, and he watched her slow at the front of the bagel
shop, checking the address. But as she lingered there on the sidewalk, Grant knew something was wrong.
Instead of leaving the package on the front step as they discussed, she walked through the small alley between the bagel shop and the tax collector business next door.
Grant waited on the bench, hoping that she would come back out, but after five minutes, she was still gone. She had wanted him to see her, and she wanted him to follow.
Mindful of the fact that she might have been tailed, Grant skirted around the intersection, using the crosswalks to go all the way around instead of straight across the square.
Car horns and the chatter of pedestrians grew noisier as Grant stood across the street from the bagel shop. He looked down the alley where Sam had disappeared, but he still couldn’t see her.
Everything had been thrown together so hastily that Grant never even considered creating a backup plan. He just knew that it needed to be finished quickly.
Finally, Grant crossed the street and jogged into the alleyway, splashing into the puddles that had yet to evaporate. He inched along the side of the bagel shop, craning his neck around to the back side, where he found the package laid out just as they discussed.
Grant made it three steps toward it, when Hickem flung the back door to the bagel shop open and stepped out, gun aimed at Grant’s chest.
“Don’t move.”
Grant raised his arms in the air. “So she told you?”
“She didn’t tell me,” Hickem answered. “I thought that she might be up to something when she wandered off.” He gestured to the wall. “Put your hands flush against it, slowly.”
Grant pivoted, being mindful of his speed as Hickem had requested, and then Hickem pressed the pistol to Grant’s back as he patted him down.
Hickem grabbed hold of Grant’s arms and put them behind his back, snapping the handcuffs over his wrists. “You know, I understand what you’re trying to do, Grant. Really. But I can’t have you risk our national security for one person.”
