by Ben Muse
“Yes sir.”
“I have to take you in. This may or may not be a parole violation. That will be determined at a later date.”
“Just doing your job, Officer Sparrow, I understand.” He placed handcuffs on me and placed me in the back of his cruiser.
“What happened to your Mustang? Looks like someone hit it with buckshot.”
“Some people were not as happy as I was about my parole,” I lied.
Ten days since my release from Ashmore and I was already headed back to jail.
Chapter 32
“Hampton, you’re out,” bellowed an overweight guard, as he waddled up to the cell door and pawed a large ring of keys attached to his belt loop. I stood up slowly from my seated position against the back wall of the small, smelly holding cell, stretched, and silently thanked Agent Schmidt for my release. To get to the door, I had to maneuver around not one, but two puddles of vomit that had been stewing for about three hours.
It was three a.m., and the cell had steadily filled with all manner of male debris beginning around nine p.m. Fully half of the thirty men in the cell were sleeping off a night of alcohol-induced regret, while the other half eyed each other warily, sleeping with one eye open. It was going on twelve hours since I had been deposited in this dank, wretched place. Dinner was a skinny apple, baloney sandwich, and greasy bits of potato chips. I maintained my role as the Candyman and gave it away to a nervous, redheaded man who kept muttering, “oh my God, oh my God.” Oh my God.
A sleep-deprived sergeant processed me out and handed me my phone, keys, and wallet. He pointed to a door and said I was free to go. The Mustang was parked in a well-lit back parking lot, and I could see the familiar silhouette of a man leaning against it as I inhaled the cool, early morning air.
“Detective Reigart, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Mr. Hampton, it seems you have friends in high places. Mind telling me what’s going on?”
“I’m just as shocked at my release as you are. I didn’t realize that you work for Brunswick County, sir.”
“I got a call from a friend. A little professional courtesy between departments. What happened to your car? Looks like it’s been in a war zone.”
“As you told me last we spoke, some people wouldn’t be happy with my release. Looks like you were right. Might want to check with Danny Sullivan. I bought him a pitcher of beer Monday night at Shooters, and he dumped it on my head.”
“Why didn’t you report what happened to your car?”
“Detective, I’m just hoping this all dies down soon.”
“Why were you speeding today? Surely you knew what would happen if you got pulled over,” he said.
“Just worried about a loved one. My father is dying.” The two sentences were true, but had nothing to do with one another in this regard. I was just trying to get him off my back.
“Can I escort you home, Mr. Hampton? Make sure you’re safe?”
That wasn’t a bad idea, but I wasn’t going home first.
“Thank you sir, but I’ll be fine, and I’ll keep it under the speed limit.
“All right then, you take care.”
“Detective, why are you here at three something in the morning?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me, Chase,” he said.
“You must know something I don’t,” I said unconvincingly.
“I know that parolees who may or may not have violated parole are never released this quickly. It takes some serious pull for this to happen. Goodnight, Mr. Hampton.”
I watched him walk to his unmarked sedan parked just outside the gate, get in, and head back to wherever detectives go in the middle of the night.
It was a quarter to four in the morning when I knocked on Jenna’s door. She answered in her bathrobe, but I knew this encounter would not involve seductive cooking or shower geometry.
“Is Bailey okay?” I asked.
She nodded. “Christian stopped by posing as a Jehovah’s Witness. He tried to give her some literature, and she slammed the door in his face. Walk me through everything that happened.”
I rehashed the events after my arrest, and then I did something brave and ballsy; I made a demand. My first of two.
“We need to bring Bailey into this, for her safety. These people aren’t playing around, Jenna. We’ve seen what they’re capable of.”
“That’s a non-starter, Chase. Besides, Schmidt would never go for it. She’s an unknown entity.”
“She’s my sister and someone, ostensibly involved with Durov, is threatening her.”
“I’m sorry. Not gonna happen,” she said. I held my arms out in front at chest level and held my wrists together.
“What are you doing?” she said, annoyed.
“I’m done; put me back in.”
Please don’t, I’m bluffing.
“What do you mean, ‘I’m done’?”
“You know damn well what I mean. Put me back in prison. Either Bailey is clued in on the danger she’s in, or you put me back in. Simple as that, Jenna.”
“You can’t be serious?” she said incredulously.
“Try me. Goodnight, Agent Brighton; you know where to find me.” I opened the door to leave.
“Chase, wait,” she said. “Can we do this tomorrow? We . . . you, need to get some rest. It’ll be better if we call Schmidt in the morning, because right now, he’s just gonna be pissed about being woken up again. Especially after the hoops he went through to get you released.”
“Okay, you’re right Jenna, and I’m sorry to act this way, but I can’t have my sister out there as a sitting duck while I play spy.”
“I understand, and I’d probably be doing the same thing if I were in your shoes,” she admitted. She yawned and I yawned, and we tabled the issue for a few hours. Jenna retreated to her bedroom without an invitation to join or a goodnight, Chase. Back to the doghouse, cleverly disguised as an uncomfortable couch.
***
Detective Jay Reigart drove back to the Foggy Harbor Police Department and grabbed a stale cup of lukewarm coffee from the department’s break room. Walking into his cramped office, he rubbed his forehead and tired eyes. Foggy Harbor had always been a quiet, touristy town where people got along, and everyone knew everyone. Violent crime had always been extremely low, and killings of any kind were almost unheard of, with only four people killed at the hands of someone else in the past ten years. He’d solved three of the cases quite easily, including the death of Cam Tanner.
It was the fourth one that had him stumped. The murder of Kenny Jackson. So far, all evidence pointed to a drug deal gone bad, and that was the official word, but interviews of friends and family painted the picture of a hard-working kid who’d steered clear of the drug scene. Word on the street from his few informants was that no one had ever heard of him. Evidence from the crime scene was scarce, as there were no fingerprints, DNA or shell casings to process. Two bullets had been removed during the autopsy, and ballistics had determined the weapon was a common Smith and Wesson M&P 9, but this particular ballistic fingerprint didn’t have any matches in the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network.
Combine that with the word from his detective friend at the sheriff’s office about FBI involvement in the release of Chase Hampton, whose father just so happened to own the company Kenny Jackson worked at before his death, and his gut told him something big was going down. The lack of evidence was evidence in itself. It appeared more and more likely that a professional hit had taken Kenny down. Why Kenny Jackson, and to what end, were the two questions that kept him up at this god-awful early hour.
Chapter 33
In an attempt to make peace with Jenna, I woke early and gathered breakfast items from the refrigerator. Twenty minutes later, I had a mug of hot coffee, bacon and scrambled eggs on a plate along with a toasted bagel, butter, and strawberry jam. If this didn’t work, then clearly she had a heart of stone. With the tray balanced on one hand, I knocked lightly on her door and called
her name. Moments later, I heard a subdued, “Just a minute.”
She opened the door looking sleepy and her hair was disheveled. She looked fantastic.
“Care for the $3.99 breakfast special, Sleeping Beauty?”
“You made me breakfast?” she said in a surprised, sleep-deprived voice. “Thank you. No one’s ever made breakfast for me. Well, other than my mom.” I detected a hint of sadness as I handed over the tray and coffee.
“Take your time. Go back to bed afterward, if you like. I’ll come back later today, and we’ll see what Schmidt has to say.”
“Grab a fork and join me. I can’t eat all this by myself.” I did, and we sat at the kitchen counter and ate in silence. The scraping of silverware on ceramic plates was the only sound in the apartment.
“So, after a few hours to think about it, are you prepared to go back to prison if you don’t cooperate?” she asked, addressing the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.
“I don’t want to, but if that’s what it takes to keep Bailey safe, then yes. But I won’t go back quietly. You need to tell him that.”
“You realize you may never see your father again, right?” she said, attempting to change my mind by tugging at my heartstrings.
“Jenna, make the call. Whatever happens happens.”
“Might as well get this over with,” she mumbled. She grabbed her cell phone from her bedroom and called Schmidt. He answered, and she explained my demand. She was in mid-explanation when my phone started ringing. It was Bailey, so I retreated to the bathroom to take the call.
“Chase,” she said after I answered. “Do you think you can stay at the house tonight?” She sounded anxious.
“Why, what’s going on?”
“Something strange happened last night. A white box van that said Wilmington Utilities on the side was parked outside on the street near the house for most of the night, but I didn’t see anyone inside. Then, around four a.m., a couple of thumps against the house woke me. I looked out and the van had left, only to be replaced by a black van. And to top it off, a Jehovah’s Witness came by earlier trying to give me some literature.”
Alarm bells were going off in my head.
“Did you call the cops?”
“No, I have a shotgun under the bed, and my pistol’s in the nightstand. Plus the security system is top notch, but it would be nice to have a male presence in the house.”
“Okay, I’ll be home soon. See you in a bit, and we’ll talk about Friday’s misunderstanding, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, and I clicked off and made a beeline for the living room. The look on my face must have alarmed Jenna, because she told Schmidt to hold on, and said to me, “What’s wrong?”
“Who was watching my sister’s house in the Wilmington Utilities box van last night?”
“No one. That asset was turned in after you left Anna’s house.”
“Anyone watching her house in a black van?”
“After Christian stopped by and determined she was safe, we removed all surveillance. Why?”
I repeated to Jenna what Bailey told me, and she relayed the information to Schmidt. She listened for a moment and held her phone out to me.
“Agent Schmidt,” I said, ready for battle.
“What makes you think you can dictate terms to the FBI, Hampton?”
“When someone from my family is in danger, Agent Schmidt. As I told you the other night, you never mentioned the possibility of bodily harm to me, much less anyone else in my family. I think I’ve held up my end of the bargain, even if you haven’t been dealing with me in good faith. And me helping you ends today if Bailey isn’t made aware of the danger.”
“That wasn’t what we agreed to, Chase.”
“Agent Schmidt, is that the argument you’re going with? You would do the same thing if you were in my shoes and your family was threatened.”
He relented somewhat. “I don’t like this idea one bit. I’ll have to run it by my bosses.”
It was time for my second demand.
“I’m not done. I want written confirmation that I will not be sent back to prison, unless I commit another felony. As I said, I’ve more than kept up my end of the bargain, and I don’t trust you to keep up your end.”
I expected a fight but instead he said, “Son, your love of family is admirable, but your stubbornness is pissing me off. I’ll be in touch.”
I looked at Jenna after I clicked off and said, “Why would the box van be at Bailey’s if you weren’t watching her home?”
“I don’t know; I’ll call the team and see what I can find out.”
Seeing Jenna confused did not give me a warm, tingly feeling. Come to think of it, the only warm, tingly feelings I’d had since my release involved Anna.
Chapter 34
Monday, March 26, 2012
Ultimately, Schmidt decided against calling my bluff, and he agreed to read Bailey in on the situation on a limited basis, as well as provide after-hours protection if she wanted it. It was the best deal I could hope for given their limited resources. Sergei Durov wasn’t the only problem America was dealing with, according to Jenna.
It was late afternoon when I knocked on Bailey’s door and told her that we needed to have a one-on-one at the cabana later that evening. It was isolated and private, perfect for what needed to go down. She agreed, but I could tell she was leery, given my secrecy, especially when I asked her to hold her questions until later.
I’d spent the majority of Sunday with her, which meant that I had to beg off on my plans with Anna. I hated this because Anna tended to lose her clothing over the course of our visits, and I liked that very much. I promised her we would get together before our weekend trip up the coast with Sergei and his merry band of America haters. That seemed to placate her, as much as someone like Anna Petrov can be.
By design, Jenna and I arrived at the cabana early, and Micayla and Ash tailed Bailey from the office to the estate to see if she was being followed. I stood on the patio and watched Bailey remove her pumps and make her way down the wooden steps to the beach we’d grown up on. Jenna sat hidden inside.
“So, what’s up? Why the secret meeting?” she said as she stepped on the patio.
I turned to Jenna and said, “Bailey, you remember Jenna from Shooters, right?”
Clearly confused, Bailey looked back and forth at both of us. She nodded her head in the affirmative. “Yessss.”
“Come in and sit down. We need to talk.” Jenna and I decided earlier that I would be the one who explained everything to Bailey, and that Jenna would only speak if something needed clarification.
“I’ll get right to it. Your life is in danger as a result of what I’ve been up to. My release from prison is not what you think it is.”
“What do you mean?” Bailey said.
“Jenna is with a federal law enforcement agency, and I’m working with her on an investigation that has resulted in two attempts on our lives. Saturday, on my way back from Anna’s house, I received a call that threatened your life if I didn’t cease with my activities.”
She digested the news, and then said, “Oh my God, Chase? Who is threatening us?”
“We believe it’s Sergei Durov.”
Stunned, she said, “Why would Mr. Durov be trying to harm you . . . us? He’s been a friend of the family for years. We’re building him a two-hundred-million-dollar yacht, for heaven’s sake.”
“According to Jenna, his hatred for the US goes all the way back to the Cold War, when we essentially bankrupted the Soviet Union. The FBI believe he is planning an attack on our country and is either using our father or working with him to further his agenda.”
“What kind of attack?” Bailey said. She sounded skeptical.
Jenna spoke up. “We believe he has access to all manner of WMDs—deadly toxins, dirty bombs, suitcase nukes.”
“Sergei Durov is in the business of making money, not killing people,” Bailey countered. “You said there were two attempts on your li
ves?”
“The first was a shotgun blast that missed me and took out my windshield. The second incident occurred in the production building at Aquatic, early Friday morning. Do you remember hearing anything strange regarding Dock Two on Friday?”
“I heard nothing. Why, what happened?”
“Jenna and I were on the floor of Dock Two when the exterior door opened. We were given a two-minute warning to evacuate, but the code that had just opened the interior door to let us in, wouldn’t let us back out.”
“What in the world were you doing down there, and how did you get out?”
“I was giving Jenna a tour of the facilities. When the alarm came, we were barely able to make our way onto the yacht. Then, as we were getting ready to swim off the boat after the dock had filled, the pumps came on and started pumping the water out. Someone wanted us dead first and stranded second. We think it’s someone on the inside. Any idea who could have been controlling the doors?”
“We have at least sixty people trained on door operations. Our insurance company is quite insistent that everyone knows the proper procedures for opening and closing doors, as well as pump operations.”
“Can you check the records to see who might’ve done this? I assume they would have to enter some kind of a special identification code.”
“I’ll have our IT department check the master server, but whoever did this was probably savvy enough to erase the entire command sequence and exit the system clean. What else can I do to help?”
Jenna said, “Ms. Masters, I wanted to let you know that Chase refused to continue working with us unless you were brought in and offered protection. I only ask that you please not share any of this information with anyone, including your father.”
“Do you really think our father could be involved in this?” Bailey asked. “He has months to live, and I know he’d never be involved in something so nefarious.”
“We don’t know who to trust; we aren’t even sure you can be trusted,” Jenna said. “But here we are.”
