Two of the mercenaries writhed on the ground, while the others didn't move at all. A TSA agent clutched his knee, screaming, while another nursed a forearm bent at ninety degrees, his breaths short and sharp, face pale. Others surrounded them, wide-eyed and twitchy, weapons raised, fingers on triggers.
A redhead glared at him over the barrel of her rifle. "Lay on the ground and put your hands on your head."
"I'm with the Depart—"
"I SAID LAY THE FUCK DOWN!"
With deliberate motions, Matt let go of Sakura. They both lay flat on their stomachs. Wincing at the tearing sensation, he dragged his hands up and folded them over his head. Sakura lay with her head facing away from him.
Sharp pain jolted through his injured shoulder as rough hands twisted his arms behind his back and cuffed them. He waited for the redheaded security officer to read him his rights before speaking. "Ma'am, we're with the Special Threats Bureau. As I've said multiple times, my ID is in my wallet. These fugitives we just apprehended are armed and extremely dangerous."
She pulled his wallet out of his pocket, scanned over his ID, and pinned him with her eyes. "We'll have to verify this."
Sakura turned her head to them. Her mask of resolve had slammed into place, but the evidence of her outburst still lay damp on her cheeks. "We need that laptop. No time to lose."
Matt nodded. "Call the Federal Building in Nashville—"
"—you're hell and gone from Nashville—"
"—and ask for Janet LaLonde. We have jurisdiction here."
She looked down at them and shook her head. "Not sure what part of 'remain silent' you didn't get, but this is the airport, so TSA jurisdiction supersedes whatever the hell you said you're from." She turned to another officer. "Get all six of them to holding, separate cells, and tag everything. This is a crime scene now, so treat it like one."
"Ma'am, paramedics are en route. This man's dead."
Matt couldn't see who they were talking about, but the whispers muttered their approval.
"Then call the coroner. But search him first. The TSD is on his way. And bring me that laptop. I want to know what all this is about."
"Yes, ma'am."
Chapter 13
The chains linking his wrists to the table allowed Matt just enough freedom to put his head in his hands and try not to pull out his hair. The single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling clashed with the modernized airport so hard that Matt couldn't help but think it intentional. It complemented the metal table, folding chair, and two-way mirror perfectly. He didn't know how long they'd been detained, but long enough for his shoulder to have healed.
And every minute took his son farther away.
Transportation Safety Director Harry Cooper asked him the same question for the millionth time in three hours. "Why did you come to the airport?"
Matt spoke without looking up. He'd seen enough bushy mustache and square-rimmed glasses to last a lifetime. "I have answered this question. Those men—"
"—say you were hired to kill them, Mister Rowley, and that they were running for their lives."
"We work for the Department of Homeland Security—"
"—yet committed assault on four men in my airport, killing two, without the slightest provocation, without the slightest attempt to arrest them. Being a government employee doesn't give you—"
"For the millionth time, my jurisdiction supersedes yours."
"Whose blood is on your shirt, Mr. Rowley?"
Patience exhausted, he looked up. "There's been more than enough time to verify our identities and credentials, which means you're either incompetent or stalling."
Cooper stuck his finger in Matt's face. "This is my airport, you uppity shit, and I can hold you here as long as I deem necessary."
"I'm done." Matt jerked his arms, snapping the steel chain that bound his wrists.
Cooper backpedaled toward the door, eyes wide, his chair tumbling across the floor. Matt beat him to the exit, jamming it closed with his foot. Cooper gaped like a fish, then looked in alarm at the mirror.
Matt grabbed his chin and turned his head. "So let me be clear how this is going to work. You're going to let me and my partner out within the next five minutes, or I'm going to take you into custody for aiding and abetting a terrorist organization. If you somehow doubt my ability to follow through on this promise, I suggest you review the training procedures your men went through to deal with augmented threats. I'll bet they're out of practice and don't have nearly enough ordnance."
"There are no Augs—"
Matt let go of Cooper's chin and telegraphed his punch enough to give the officious little prick time to duck. Chunks of cinder block exploded into the air as he jerked his fist back. He held up his hand, unharmed but for bloody, broken skin, and flexed his fingers. "You sure about that?"
Fingers itching as new skin crept over the wounds, he stepped out of the way. As the door opened he called out one last warning.
"Five minutes. Then you're under arrest."
Cooper scampered out and returned three minutes later with Matt's sidearm, phone, and wallet in hand. "Mister Rowley, let me apologize personally for the delay."
Matt snatched the key to the handcuffs out of his hand and shouldered past him into the hall, where two security officers stood with hands on their sidearms. He unshackled his wrists and tossed the broken cuffs on the floor at Cooper's feet, followed by the key.
"Where's Sakura?" Matt heard Cooper's excuses before he said them and stalked down the hall to the next door. Sakura sat inside at a table, a massive bruise covering the right half of her face. Matt opened the door over Cooper's protests. "We're leaving."
She stood and held out her wrists. "These men beat me."
Matt unlocked her manacles and ran a gentle hand over the bruise. "And they'll pay for it."
She winced as she stood, and limped to the door, favoring both legs. He stepped into the hallway, locked eyes with Cooper and put his phone to his ear.
Janet answered after the first ring. "About time, Rowley. You're at the airport?"
"I need all security feeds from LaGuardia International Airport, including the holding cells. Now would be good, before they have a chance to delete them." Cooper turned to leave. Matt grabbed his shirt and pulled him close, fingers tangling in the director's red tie as he gave Janet further instructions. "I'd like a call to internal affairs or whatever the TSA calls it to review the tapes. Agent Sakura appears to have sustained some injuries while in custody, under the direction of LaGuardia TSD Cooper. In a few minutes we should have something else for you."
"On it."
He hung up, and leaned in to within an inch of Cooper's face. "You're going to want a lawyer. Meantime, where's that laptop?"
"Let go of—"
Matt twisted, cutting off Cooper's breath, and turned to the closest security officer. Cooper beat at his wrist and clawed at his hand while Matt spoke. "I'm relieving TSD Cooper of his command on authority of Homeland Security Director Lawson. Call his office right now and verify with today's authorization one-one-two-six-three-nine-five-one." He turned to the other officer. "If you want to keep your job, get me that laptop. Now."
He let go, and Cooper dropped to the floor.
"And put this piece of shit in chains."
* * *
Minutes later he found himself in Cooper's office, standing by the door while Sakura worked with Janet to pull information out of the mercenary's computer.
"So what prompted the attack?"
Sakura typed a moment before looking up. The massive dark splotch spread from her temple to her fat upper lip, and bright red bled across her eye. "Money transfer. Fifteen thousand dollars from Banca Privada d'Andorra. I wouldn't get the account code and password before he'd finished, so I prevented him from finishing."
"Okay. You all right?"
"Yes."
"You sure?"
She typed something, then clicked the mouse. "No. But I will act as if I am all right up until
the point I cannot. At that time I will recuse myself of duty and stand down."
Instead of a reply he checked the window to the hall, where Cooper sat manacled to a folding chair, hands folded in his lap, head down.
"You want to press charges?"
"I hurt their colleagues because I lost control. It won't happen again. And no, I don't want to press charges, I want to apologize to the men I hurt. Now be quiet."
Matt left to see to the prisoners, but both had been sedated and transported to the hospital. Three hours later, they transferred Cooper's case to TSA oversight and flew home, while Janet brought the full might of the NSA to bear on the money transfer.
* * *
Monica pushed her way through the aisles of Walmart, a forty-minute drive out of the way, but the closest place to get diapers since the grocery burned. The .357, too big for a concealed holster, felt strange on her hip, but stranger still that it had company. It seemed every third person carried pistols in plain view while pushing their carts and giving strangers naked appraisals.
The government had assured all the towns and counties around White Spruce that the terrorist threat had been eliminated, that the criminals were in custody, that the streets were safe. In typical Tennessee fashion, they'd take a while to accept such a pronouncement.
And in the meantime, they'd arm themselves.
Monica wouldn't allow for the possibility that they wouldn't need diapers. Doubt skittered across her brain, water on a hot skillet, there but unable to settle, to penetrate. She'd made the drive to Walmart because of course they'd need diapers.
Her phone rang. She dug in her purse and pulled it out, just in time to miss the call.
Matt.
She called back and spoke before he could answer.
"Did you find him?"
"No, baby, but we will. We're getting closer. You busy?"
"Just shopping. You home soon?"
"Just landed. Can I send you a couple pictures?"
"Sure." She hefted two packs of diapers onto the cart, atop a couple of shirts and jeans for Matt and three new blouses, then headed for the grocery section.
"I think we have a lead, thought maybe it's the girl who drugged you. She's got an affiliate named Karthik"—he spelled it for her—"which sounds a lot like your 'car thick'. It's a real common name in India, not so much in the USA. Here, I'll send them."
Her phone blipped, and she looked at the pictures.
The girl's hairstyle varied from shot to shot, and Monica couldn't pick out the eyes, but she looked like the right person. High cheekbones, prominent chin. She gasped at the fifth picture, the girl—no older than thirteen or fourteen—standing with a large group of teens in front of some strange metal contraption the size of a washing machine. The machine and every kid wore the same color green, it and their T-shirts emblazoned with Division by Zero.
Panic seized her, but she let it flow through and out of her, channeling the nugget that remained into pure rage. "Who is she?"
"Is that her?"
"Yes. I'm positive."
"We've got a match," he said to someone else. "Thanks, baby. See you when I get home."
"But when—" The phone clicked dead. "Dammit, babe."
* * *
Matt met her at the door. They made gentle love and talked about things that didn't matter and slept, and in the morning he left again to find their baby, and the fifteen-year-old who'd had her raped and tried to have her killed.
She'd tried not to shudder at her husband's touch and prayed he hadn't noticed. A long shower helped but couldn't kill the filth that crept through her body. For the millionth time in a week, shudders wracked her for want of a fix. She dropped to the floor of the tub and wept under the hot streaming water.
* * *
Janet handed out dossiers to Matt, Blossom, and Shane Keene, the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the FBI's Boston headquarters, a grizzled man who but for his clean shave, looked like he'd be more at home on a Harley than in a suit in a meeting room, complete with dark glasses propped on thinning gray hair. Janet's four inch heels clacked on the tile floor, and as she passed, Agent Keene’s eyes crawled up her short dress in the most brazen and least appropriate manner possible.
She whirled around—an impressive feat in those shoes—and looked Keene right in the eyes. "All right, kids, here's what we've got. The Andorra account is held in trust by Liaguno, Morton, and Wood for a Libby Kamen, fifteen years old going on Lindsay Lohan thirty." The projector flashed a picture, a pretty young woman with dark brown hair and eyes almost gold in the sunlight of an autumn day. "Miss Kamen is the sole heir of her parents, Angela and Winston Kamen."
"Wait," Matt said. "Winston Kamen of Kamen Industries?"
Janet clicked the remote to advance the slide. A middle-aged couple leaned against an immaculate plum-purple Bentley Continental convertible with tan leather interior and Massachusetts plates parked in front of a meticulous tulip garden. The ocean dominated the background, a lighthouse off to the right.
Keene let out a whistle, long and slow. "Nice car. What's that, a quarter-million-dollars?"
"More or less," Janet said. "They own the garden and the lighthouse, too, which cost a bit more. Kamen's parents both inherited eight-figure sums from their respective parents as teenagers, met at Yale twenty years ago, and got married shortly thereafter." She flashed through slides of yachts, jets, skyscrapers, and banks. "In a few short years they'd spun their fortunes into businesses worth tens of billions of dollars and have donated vast amounts to charities all over the world, not to mention politicians in dozens of countries . . . ."
She flipped to the next slide, a funeral at a massive synagogue packed to standing-room only with people in expensive black suits and dresses. Matt recognized several celebrities, businesspeople, and politicians, including the Vice President of the United States.
". . . and both died on the same night last year."
Wary of the direction of the conversation, Matt let Keene take the lead.
"Foul play?"
Janet shrugged. "They stopped breathing on the same night, but two things point to murder being unlikely. One, forensics couldn't find a cause of death for either of them, though the missus had consumed a good amount of alcohol. Two, Angela was at a party in Barcelona surrounded by dozens of her closest and richest friends, and Winston was asleep in a well-guarded penthouse in Los Angeles. She dropped on the spot, unresponsive to CPR, and his assistant found him the next morning."
Keene couldn't know that Angela and Winston Kamen had died not only on the same night but at the same exact moment that Gerstner had stepped off the machine. They hadn't been able to determine the couples' true age at time of death but had narrowed it down to somewhere around eighty. On the day of their deaths, neither had looked a day over forty, yet the funeral had been closed-casket, ostensibly at their request.
"I think I remember this." Keene waggled his finger at the image. "Didn't a bunch of conspiracy sites pick this up, turn it into some Bilderberger-Rockefeller-Illuminati thing?"
"Yeah," Janet said. "Late night radio went nuts with it. Bunch of prominent folks died within a day or two—all unrelated, of course—and the tinfoil hat crowd positively exploded over all the possibilities."
Keene's enthusiastic nod jostled his sunglasses from his forehead. He folded them closed and set them on the table next to his pen. "And the Jade market dying at the same time, all the Augs failing. Some kind of mystery poison or cure or whatever, and no one knows why." Keene avoided looking at Matt so hard that he might as well have been staring.
"I know why," Janet said. When Keene widened his eyes she winked and shot him with both hands. "I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you."
He smirked. "Right. So about her parents?"
She leaned forward and pinned down the folder in front of him with her index finger. Face full of cleavage, Keene kept his eyes trained on hers as she spoke. "It's all in Libby's dossier, including a comprehensive psychological ev
aluation by your office. She lives wherever she wants, but her legal address makes her squarely your purview."
She stood back to her full height and turned around with a wink to Matt. As Keene blinked, Matt tried not to smirk too much. Janet knew how to play men and had never been shy about doing so.
"So for the past few years, Libby Kamen's been tooling around with this guy." The slide showed a large, dark-skinned man in a Toronto Blue Jays jersey and huge sunglasses. "A Canadian of Indian descent, Karthik 'Big K' Kana-something-really-long, you'll have to read it, twenty-two years old, is a real 'playah' on the MMA scene." She flipped through several pictures of the pair at bouts, street fights, celebrity events, and drag races. The last picture showed Big K and Libby standing with former MMA superstar and ICAP agent Murdock Yardley at a promotions table. Yardley had his arm around a busty young blonde holding a martini glass the size of a salad bowl. She boasted a highlighter-yellow bra, short shorts, platform heels, and nothing else. Matt pegged her at mid-teens.
The last time Matt had seen Yardley, he'd been lying on the floor of a hospital, spine severed, his back a mass of raw meat from a point-blank grenade Sakura had strapped there, but still alive and regenerating. Matt wondered what had become of him after his Augs failed, what convalescent home he'd ended up in. There's no way a post-Aug bonk of his size could move under his own power. He made a mental note to look Yardley up and ask him about the girls and Big K.
"Sweetman."
They all turned to Blossom.
"Girl with the drink. Onnoleigh Sweetman, the girl who attacked my Kazuko in the hospital."
"Yes, it is." Janet flipped through several more photos of the four of them. "It seems that Sweetman and Kamen met at one of Big K's unregulated fights and hit it off. Kamen was barely eleven and accompanied by several bodyguards, Sweetman almost fourteen with a twenty-six-year-old date. The three of them became fast friends—only friends as far as I've been able to suss out—attending dozens if not hundreds of bouts over the past several years."
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