by Joe Nobody
In a flash, his finger pressed the cell phone’s screen, responding to the message. “Mahajan is a thread. DO NOT let it unravel,” he typed. Then, after careful consideration, added, “Any means.”
It was almost two minutes before his message was acknowledged. “Understood.”
As far as Griff was concerned, performing surveillance on a suspect was the absolute worst part of his job. Over the years, the marshal had learned a few tricks to make the necessary task a little more palatable, but he still dreaded stakeouts.
First and foremost, the logistics were impractical. Coffee was practically mandatory, the caffeine serving to both maintain focus and fill the bladder. If java could be managed, then consuming it inevitably required access to a restroom; after all, bodily functions could not be ceased at will.
Secondly, quick availability to snacks or food was a positive. Spending hour after hour parked outside of a suspect’s home or business tended to torture one’s mind. Comfort via junk food was often a relief.
Entertainment was also high on the marshal’s list. A good radio station could offset the monotony. Back in the old days, a favorite music CD might eliminate a few hours of tedious, stationary sitting.
In fact, Griff considered satellite radio to be one of law enforcement’s greatest advancements. That technology, combined with audio books, mobile hotspots for internet access, and laptop computers could even make the assignment productive, if not tolerable.
Having Kit along seemed to help.
Their first thought had been to simply wait on a street near Ven Mahajan’s home. Given the background information the federal prosecutor had gathered, it was a reasonable assumption that the tech guru would eventually return to his residence after leaving the office.
“He’s had two out of the ordinary visits today,” Griff noted. “Who knows, between his encounters with Sutherland and us, he might get spooked and break his routine. He could lead us to another clue without having to say another word.”
Besides sitting in their rental car on a busy San Jose street provided for a nearby restroom and sandwich shop, two important conveniences that probably would not be options in a suburban neighborhood.
The overriding factor, however, was common sense. They knew where Mahajan was at the moment, and given the urgency of the situation, it would have been sophomoric to lose sight of the man under any circumstances.
As first, Griffin thought he and Kit would tag team, making the stakeout was a bit more bearable. With two of them on the job, they could take breaks, secure a supply of steaming java and snack food, and have a conversation while they watched Cyber Ace’s parking lot.
His hope quickly evaporated, however, the prosecutor’s attention focused on her laptop computer.
“What are you working on?” he asked after the first 90 minutes of near silence from his partner.
“I have other cases, Griff. I thought I might as well be productive while we waited.”
Shrugging, he stretched for the radio knob. “Mind if I listen to some tunes?”
“Yes, I’m trying to concentrate on a complex legal brief. Music would be distracting.”
Frowning, the marshal reached for the door handle, thinking he would walk around the car a few times and restore circulation to his legs. Before he could step out of the rental, Ven Mahajan appeared.
Cyber Ace’s honcho was evidently in a hurry, rushing at a brisk pace toward his BMW. After tossing his computer bag into the backseat, he quickly started the engine and darted out into traffic.
Griffin had followed his fair share of suspects and knew right away that tailing the software nerd wasn’t going to be easy. The gearhead’s German sedan had plenty of horsepower under the hood and cornered like it was on rails.
The city streets near the software company’s office didn’t seriously challenge Griff’s driving. That quickly changed, however, as soon as Ven accelerated up an entrance ramp and zipped into the interstate traffic.
“You won’t hear me say this often,” the marshal began, “but in this case, size matters. His V-8 is a lot bigger than this rental’s four-banger. We might lose him.”
“I’ve always believed that size does matter,” Kit grinned, surprising her friend with the rare sexual innuendo. “You’re just going to have to make up for the inadequacy with skill.”
Chuckling, Griff then shrugged. “He’s most likely going home anyway. We’ll just catch up to him there.”
The marshal struggled to maintain just the right distance behind the BMW to avoid detection. Griff’s mind drifted back to the days when he learned how to tail an automobile. “You have to be like baby bear’s soup,” the instructor had lectured. “Just right. Too close, and the suspect will notice you. Too far back, and you chance losing them. There are a dozen variables you must account for, including the traffic density, average speed over ground, and roadside surroundings. Following someone through New York City’s streets is entirely different than playing hide-and-seek through rural farmland.”
The quarry held another advantage, Ven able to change lanes and weave through traffic without concern. Griff struggled to keep up as the black sedan cut in and out, passed on the right, and used any opening to advance. Mirroring those maneuvers would have drawn attention, and the two feds quickly lost ground on the BMW.
A mile later, Griff stiffened behind the wheel. “We’re not the only ones following Mahajan. There’s a blue SUV that’s mimicking his every move.
It wasn’t difficult for Kit to find the offending Chevy Suburban, the oversized vehicle less than eight car lengths behind them and trying desperately to keep up. “Is he on Mahajan or us?” she asked.
“Let’s find out,” the marshal replied, letting their rental slow down.
Sure enough, the big Chevy passed a few seconds later, Griffin noticing at least three men inside.
“Other feds?” Kit pondered. “Local cops?”
“That doesn’t look like a law enforcement vehicle to me. It didn’t have government plates, but that may not mean anything. If I had to guess though, I’d say those guys looked more like mob enforcers than local chamber of commerce ambassadors. Let’s hang at the back of this parade and see what happens.”
Just when Griffin thought he was about to lose sight of the targets, a turn signal in the distance announced that the prey was about to exit. “He’s not going home,” Kit announced, peeking up from her cell where she’d been monitoring their progress while tightly clutching the door handle.
“Probably just his honey-do list. Bet he’s stopping for a gallon of milk and to pick up the dry cleaning,” Griff replied.
The marshal quickly closed the gap, finding the congested surface streets a convenient equalizer. Six blocks later, Mahajan pulled into one of the largest liquor stores Griff had ever seen, the roomy SUV right behind him.
“My, my, my,” Storm snickered, “no milk there, my friend. Hey, I wonder if he’d mind picking me up a couple of six-packs?” Griffin snarked, reaching for his overnight bag in the backseat.
“Maybe our little social call made a bigger impression on him than we thought,” Kit offered. “We’ve driven the man to drink.”
“This could be an advantage,” Griff replied, nodding as the software exec stepped briskly into the colossal beverage mart. “I was going to accost him right after we arrived at his house, but now I think that leaving him alone with a bottle for a few hours might help loosen the man’s tongue.”
“At minimum, I will require a glass of chardonnay before the next roller coaster ride,” Kit teased, smoothing her hair and pretending to catch her breath.
“Well, I knew you were disappointed because Disney was not on our California agenda,” he retorted, never missing a beat. Then donning a baseball hat and adjusting his sunglasses, Storm turned to his passenger and asked, “How do I look?”
“Well, it’s not a very good disguise. He’ll recognize you in a heartbeat.”
“I
’m not going to get close enough for that,” the marshal replied, watching their quarry enter the store. “Besides, I want to make sure those guys over there don’t get in our way,” he continued, nodding toward the Chevy.
Before Carson could reply, a man exited the passenger door of the oversized SUV. “He looks like a serious character,” the prosecutor whispered.
Griff had to agree, opening the door to follow.
The other man following Mr. Mahajan was shorter than the marshal but far heavier. Staying well back, Griffin noted the man’s broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms. He also spotted the bulge of a pistol at the gent’s waistline.
Entering the liquor store, Griffin thought for a moment that the SUV gang’s presence might be nothing more than a strange coincidence. Instead of following Mahajan to the bourbon aisle, Mr. No Neck marched directly to the cashier.
“I just accidentally bumped a car in the parking lot,” he announced to the older gentleman manning the register. “Could you page the owner of a black BMW for me, please? I’m sure he’s in here, and I want to give him my insurance information.”
“They can do that over at the customer service desk,” the clerk responded.
Staying back, Griff pretended to be shopping a special on tequila as the thick man headed toward the service counter. Less than a minute later, a female voice sounded from the ceiling. “Would the owner of a black BMW please come to the customer service counter?” it inquired.
An annoyed-looking Ven appeared shortly, Griffin watching as he approached the black hat with the gun.
“I’m sorry,” the brawny guy responded in a soft voice. “I was backing up and hit your fender. I wanted to make sure you had my insurance information. I feel terrible… you have such a nice ride.”
Now pissed, Mahajan did what anyone would do, pivoting in a huff and stomping toward the parking lot, clearly heading to inspect the damage. Griffin followed. “Very professional,” he mumbled, exiting the liquor barn. “Get your prey outside, away from the store’s cameras. For sure these guys are not cops… the police wouldn’t have bothered to bait him outside. They would have just arrested him on the spot.”
The software executive was halfway to his car when the fake fender-bender reached for his weapon, removing it from the holster and holding it down by his side. Griffin noted an automatic pistol, chrome with elaborate grips. A little too flashy to be a sidearm issued by any law enforcement agency or department.
The roar of the SUV’s racing motor distracted the marshal next, the large, black unit now speeding toward the two men beside the fancy import. He’s being abducted, Griff realized. The Chevy was moving into the perfect strategic position to execute such a plan.
As Mr. Mahajan arrived at his still-immaculate ride, the fancy pistol came up. Upon noticing no dented fender or smashed grill, the confused owner turned and said, “I don’t see any damage….”
The software guru’s eyes opened wide as they took in the automatic. “Give me your keys,” Mr. Muscles hissed. “Now!”
Ven only hesitated for a second before reaching into his pocket. “Sure. Take it easy. You can have it,” he mumbled, keeping the pistol in his line of sight.
Handing over the keyring seemed to give the victim reprise, but it was short-lived. “Now, step over to that SUV. Hurry!” the highwayman ordered, indicating the Chevy with a flick of his barrel.
“What?” the now-confused Mahajan stuttered. Reaching for his wallet, he spouted, “Here! You can have this, too!”
The abductor wasn’t interested in the billfold. “Move! Now!” he barked, pulling back the weapon’s hammer.
On shaky legs, the software pundit turned, his body language advertising his brain’s desire to run like the wind. Before the executive could force his legs to move, the back door of the Suburban opened, exposing a man brandishing an AK-47. The message was clear. “Run, and we’ll gun you down right here in the parking lot.”
The appearance of the Russian battle rifle was the proof Griffin needed. Their prey wasn’t being arrested or detained. He was being shanghaied.
The marshal’s first instinct was to intercede, but he was completely outgunned. The parking lot bustled with customers… a lot of lead would be flying… exponentially increasing the chance that innocents might get caught in the crossfire.
Griffin was also curious. As Mahajan stepped toward the Chevy, the marshal realized that perhaps the social call he and Kit made to Cyber Ace had indeed rattled someone’s nerves. Was the geek being snatched to keep his mouth shut?
Moving to the rental car and his partner, Griff slid behind the wheel just as Mahajan disappeared into the back of the Chevy. As he slammed the door, he spotted Mr. No Neck helping himself to the sleek, black BMW. It was clear he intended to follow his friends.
Kit had been watching it all. “What the hell just happened?”
“Our man was just kidnapped,” he reported, throwing the rental into reverse. “And it was a helluva professional job.”
The prosecutor instantly understood. “We’re onto something. Somebody is scared that we’re getting close,” she postulated.
Again, the three-car parade motored up the entrance ramp and onto the freeway. This time the SUV was in the lead and driving at a more manageable clip, closely followed by the BMW. Griff stayed well back but was determined not to lose sight of what was turning out to be the first real lead they had discovered.
As they drove, he detailed the abduction to Kit. The attorney was impressed. “Should we call in backup?”
“And who might that be?” the marshal responded.
“Hell, I don’t know. Don’t you have any marshal buddies out here? Should we call in San Jose PD? The cavalry? CHIPS?”
“No way any of the marshals could get here in time,” Griffin answered, never taking his eyes away from the two vehicles to their front. “Any cop would want to stop the kidnapping. We, on the other hand, have much bigger fish to fry. We need to see where this all leads. I’m hoping we end up at our cyber criminal’s front door. With any luck, we can finally put an end to this merry chase.”
The Assistant US Attorney wasn’t convinced. “But what if they just kill him? Heck, Mahajan may already have bled out, and meanwhile we’re on our way to the countryside so they can dump the body!”
“Doesn’t matter,” Griffin replied in a cold voice. “We’ll follow these guys to the gates of hell if necessary. Eventually, the chickens always come home to roost, and then we’ll find out who is behind this.”
“And Mr. Ven Mahajan?”
Shrugging, Griffin retorted, “Collateral damage. Necessary losses.”
She didn’t like it. “Really? Have we really gotten to that point? I thought we both took an oath to serve and protect? That man is not a soldier; he’s a citizen. Isn’t it our duty to do everything we can to ensure his well-being?”
Throwing her a harsh look, the marshal’s response was unsympathetic and pragmatic. “I’m trying to protect tens of thousands of citizens, Kit. You saw the news… you’ve watched the video… the country is tearing itself apart. Neither of us has any faith left in the justice system and neither do our fellow citizens. People are dying out there in droves. Hell, we’ve even been accosted by our brother officers. We’ve never faced a challenge like this, and I am not going to let a bunch of rules get in the way of putting an end to the madness.”
After a bit, Kit’s voice dropped low. “Please tell me you’ll at least try to save him.”
“Of course, I will. I have nothing against the man. He’s not been proven guilty of anything. I’m just not going to blow the one chance we’ve had to put an end to all of this.”
She seemed satisfied with his response, not happy.
“Besides,” Griff continued, “how would we even call for backup? Dial 9-1-1 on one of our mobiles? We might as well skywrite, ‘Come and get us,’ over San Jose. That plan would only serve to put all our lives in jeopardy. I believe it is be
tter for us to stay invisible and fly solo than to call for help… for many reasons.”
The lady prosecutor refocused on tracking their progress with her cell, mainly trying to predict where the two vehicles in front of them were traveling. They were headed south, away from San Jose, and into what appeared to be nothing but hills and farmland. “Odd territory for such a sophisticated criminal enterprise,” she observed.
“I took pictures while you were inside. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a good enough picture of anyone to run facial recognition software,” she explained. Next, she ran a check on the Chevy’s license plate. “Well, well, well. The Suburban was reported stolen around lunchtime today.”
“Makes sense,” the marshal simply replied.
Twenty miles later, Griffin spied the SUV’s turn signal. “We have to be careful now. We will be exiting the interstate, and there won’t be much traffic to hide us. Keep your fingers crossed I don’t lose them, and we don’t get shot.”
He lingered behind, slowing significantly to give the black hats plenty of time to roll down the ramp. Fortunately for the marshal, the driver of the Chevy was being cautious and following the traffic laws. “He’s turning left.”
Griff crept along until both the Suburban and the BMW had made their turns, passed under the freeway overpass and were out of sight, before he accelerated down the turn off. “The good news,” he stated, scanning the unpopulated countryside, “is that there are not a lot of places for them to hide.”
At the bottom of the off ramp, Griff approached the two-lane California highway with caution. It was only after he’d verified the lead element hadn’t pulled into the sole gas station that he continued to follow.
The area was hilly, the blacktop winding through the brown, grass-covered hills. Griff occasionally caught a glimpse of the pursued, he and Kit maintaining a safe distance.
After another three miles, the Chevy turned off the road and onto a gravel lane. In the distance, Kit spotted a large building that appeared to be a metal and wooden structure of some kind used for agricultural purposes. The BMW followed. The two feds kept on driving.
