by Hunt, James
“Nice of you to join us,” Mocks said, her hands resting on her stomach. “What’s got you all flustered?”
Hickem’s cheeks were red, and his breathing was irregular. “Director Multz, you might want to shut the door. There’s something I need to share with you.”
Multz returned to his seat, and a general sense of confusion appeared on everyone’s faces. But they all leaned forward, intrigued by Hickem’s sudden sense of urgency.
“What I say here doesn’t leave this room,” Hickem said, finally catching his breath. “I did some digging into the mole.” Hickem looked toward the door, running his tongue over his lips before returning his gaze to the table.
“Hickem, what the hell is going on?” Sam asked.
Hickem knuckled the end of the conference room table, his weight causing the wood to groan. “One of the guys from my old unit reached out to me. Told me that Agent Kover was taken to a black site.”
“Director Links told me Kover was taken to DC,” Multz said. “There aren’t supposed to be any black sites in the capital.”
“I know,” Hickem replied. “My contact told me that Director Links spoke with Kover at the site alone.”
“Alone?” Sam asked, arching her eyebrows. “Was his conversation recorded?”
“The FBI doesn’t run any recording devices at the black sites,” Hickem answered. “They’re used for the most extreme cases of holding and interrogation.” He dropped his arms at his sides and collapsed into a chair. “But when I spoke to my contact about it today, he told me that Kover had been black-bagged.”
Grant narrowed his eyes, having a good idea of what that meant, but unsure if he completely understood. “So that’s… what?” He paused, waiting for Hickem to fill in the blanks. “Kover’s dead?”
Hickem rapped his knuckles on the table a few times. “The term is used to cover a wide variety of outcomes. But death is one possibility.”
“Jesus Christ.” Sam pressed the top of her hair flat with her palm. “So what does that mean? You’re telling me that the director of the FBI instructed one of your team members to kidnap a family under the protection of the federal government?”
“That’s a big leap, Hickem,” Multz replied.
“I know, and I wouldn’t have brought it to you unless I found this.” Hickem handed one of the folders he brought with him to Multz, who took it wearily.
“One of the positions that Links held prior to his promotion to director was head of recruitment for the FBI,” Hickem said, Multz slowly scanning through the pages. “And when I checked Kover’s history I discovered that he was part of the last training class under Links’s tenure with recruitment. I thought it was odd, so I looked up Kover’s official assessment and found that the field officer did not recommend him for active duty. But Links overrode the assessment and gave Kover a pass.”
Multz shut the folder and passed it to Sam. “This could mean a lot of things.”
“Director Multz, the fact that Links didn’t disclose this information leads me to believe that he’s involved,” Hickem said. “He has a level of clearance that would have given him access to the family’s whereabouts, and because the FBI keeps tabs on any people of interest, he would have information on Joza.”
“So Director Links is using the family to get the access codes to the money?” Sam asked. “Even if he was able to get it, he would have the entirety of the federal government hunting him down.”
But while Sam worked through those theories, Grant kept his eyes on Hickem, studying the crafty deputy director. “Sam’s right. This establishes a connection but not a motive. What’s in it for him?”
“I don’t know.” Hickem shrugged. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone with more tenacity at his position than Links. I mean, the guy has done more for the bureau at his post than any of his predecessors. He’s built himself a reputation the likes of Hoover.” He shook his head. “None of it makes any sense.”
“We found something else,” Multz said, and then he gestured to Mocks, who filled Hickem in on the LLC company and the locations.
Grant studied Hickem’s reaction, and while he had a rocky past with Hickem, everything about the man’s body language told him that he was telling the truth. Hickem was hearing all of this for the first time.
When Mocks was finished, Hickem sat down, the wind knocked out of his sails. “I don’t know who else might be working for Links, so I think it’s best if we keep this information limited to a select group until we have a plan of action.”
“Agreed,” Multz said. “So let’s narrow down which location we believe the family has been taken to, and then go from there, all right?”
Multz rapped his knuckles on the table, signaling the end of the meeting. “I want something on my desk within the next hour.”
* * *
Mocks stood off to the side, watching the office drones scurry about on the third floor where Sam and Grant’s desks were located. They were a few desks apart, but while she munched on a Pop-Tart, she noticed that Sam kept stealing glances at Grant. “It’s like watching two kids at a middle school dance.” She smirked and then waddled over, choosing to insert herself into the situation to see if she could speed things along.
“Enjoying the view?”
Sam looked to her left, finding Mocks smiling at her, one hand holding a Pop-Tart and the other placed on top of her stomach. Sam’s neck flushed red, and she shook her head, trying to play dumb. “Hey, no, just trying to nail down a location.” She expanded the satellite imagery of one of the addresses, finding it in the middle of a suburb.
Mocks bit into the pastry, smiling. “Uh-huh.” She stole a nearby chair and pulled it next to Sam’s desk. She took a few more bites, remaining silent as she gave Sam the once-over. “You and I haven’t really had a chance to talk. Where are you from?”
“Dallas, Texas.” Sam crossed her arms and spoke the words with a sigh.
Mocks smiled. “Doesn’t sound like you miss it.”
“I don’t.”
“Bad memories?”
“You could say that.”
Mocks nodded and gave her stomach another rub. “It’s funny how people think that moving to a new place is like starting over. Like, everything that happened to you would suddenly be forgotten with a new landscape.” She looked down at her long sleeves and thought of the scars that were still imprinted on her skin. “You can’t just forget it.” When she looked up, Sam had turned her gaze on her.
“You and Grant go back a long way,” Sam replied.
“We do.”
“Do you think he left the city to try and forget what happened to him?” Sam asked. “After that last case you two worked on?”
Mocks laughed.
“What?” Sam asked.
Mocks struggled to wipe the smile from her face. “Nothing. It’s just—” She wiped the crumbs from her stomach and then set the half-eaten Pop-Tart on Sam’s desk. “Grant experienced a loss in his life that doesn’t compare to anything that I’ve ever known. He lost his wife and his unborn child in the same night. It was a weight that was heavy, but it was also one that he carried around for a long time and was still able to do his job, and to take care of those that he loved.” She felt the tears welling up, no doubt being stirred into a frenzy from all of the pregnancy hormones, and she wiped the corners of her eyes before they had a chance to fall. “Grant didn’t leave because he thought things would change. He left because he wanted things to stay the same.”
“What do you mean?”
Mocks sighed, a sad smile on her face. “He’s forgiven himself for what happened to his wife. And he’s forgiven himself for what happened to the women who died on the case. But he hasn’t found something to replace it. He’s stuck on a loop, and I’m afraid that if he doesn’t get out of it soon, then he’s never going to escape it.” She turned to her. “He likes you.”
The flush of red that appeared on Sam’s cheeks told Mocks all she needed to know about the woman’s feelings
toward her old partner. “Even if that’s true, it’s hardly an appropriate time to talk about anything like that.”
“I’ve always thought that times like these were the perfect moments to talk about…” Mocks paused and then smiled. “Stuff like that.”
Sam laughed. “I’ve never been a good girlfriend. I work too much, don’t pay enough attention to other people’s needs because I pour so much of it into the job, blah blah blah.” She crossed her arms and shrugged. “I probably wouldn’t even be good for him.”
“You would,” Mocks said, triggering another flush of red on Sam’s cheeks. “But you’re going to have to make the first move. That man is like a sloth when it comes to asking a woman on a date. It’s like watching paint dry.”
Sam laughed, offering a bright smile that she quickly covered with her hand. Mocks liked that she had a good laugh, but what was more, she knew that Grant would like it too. Rick had once described a woman’s laugh as a mating call. It attracted the right man, and a good one always tried to have it repeated as many times as possible.
“Hey,” Grant said, walking over with a map in his hand. “I think I know where they’re hiding Charles Copella.” He unfolded the map on Sam’s desk, oblivious to the wink Mocks gave Sam, and circled the three locations associated with the LLC utilities hook-up. “The first location I checked was off highway 522, which is the road that Anna was taken down before we stopped the mercenary’s car.”
“You think that location was meant for Anna?” Sam asked.
“We found Mary alone, so it follows their trend of wanting to keep the family isolated.” Grant circled a small town in Wyoming. “The second location is an abandoned factory that was shut down a few years ago. They used to manufacture jet engines. And the third location”—he circled another town—“is a house in a suburb in Kimball, Nebraska.”
Sam picked up the corners of the map, examining the two locations. “The suburb seems too public.” She looked up at Grant. “I’m thinking the factory.”
Grant nodded. “Me too.”
Mocks clapped her hands together and then pushed herself up and out of her chair. “Well, I think my work here is done. I’ll send the bill to your place, Grant. My going rate for consulting is one thousand an hour. I take check, cash, money order, or”—she lifted the pastry—“Pop-Tarts.”
Grant smirked. “You need a ride back?”
“No, I’ve got Lane waiting in the lobby.” Mocks smacked her lips, devouring the last few bites, and then waddled over to Grant and yanked at his arm, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You be careful, all right?”
“I will.”
Mocks then turned to Sam and took the marshal’s hand. “And you remember what I said.”
“Thanks, Susan,” Sam said.
Mocks waddled away, forcing people out of her path, and then turned around, her voice loud enough to break through the busy chatter of the office. “Oh, and if you find a stack of Playboys at his place, don’t judge him for it.”
“I only have them because you signed me up for a subscription,” Grant said.
“Well I figured you needed something to do out in the middle of nowhere.” Mocks laughed and then waved goodbye, spinning back around and disappearing from the floor.
Sam turned to Grant, chuckling. “Did she really do that?”
“It took me four months to get them to stop sending them to me.”
Sam clutched her stomach as she laughed, and a few seconds after Mocks disappeared, Hickem appeared in her stead, phone glued to his ear. “All right, thanks for letting me know.” He hung up and pocketed the device as he stopped at Sam’s desk. “Links is gone.”
“What do you mean he’s gone?” Grant asked.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, and his secretary told me he left the office an hour ago. No one has seen him, which means we need to move now before they try and move Copella. What did you guys find?”
“Abandoned factory, central Wyoming.” Grant planted his finger on the location circled on the map. “That’s going to be our best bet.”
Hickem looked to Sam to confirm.
“It makes the most sense,” Sam replied.
“If Links is on to us, then it won’t matter showing our hand. I’ll get with Multz to request authorities to lock down the remaining locations while we head to the factory. I’ve got a chopper on stand-by, so gear up. It’s time to roll.”
11
Grant adjusted the Kevlar vest that he was loaned that had U.S. Marshals printed over the chest. It was bulky, constricting. But if the rumbling in his gut was right, then he’d need it.
The five-person tactical team that rode in the chopper consisted of Grant, Hickem, Sam, and two of Hickem’s agents, which he assured could be trusted.
The radio headset crackled in Grant’s ear, and Hickem’s voice bellowed through the airwaves. “I just received confirmation from Multz that the money still hasn’t been moved, which bodes well for finding Copella alive, presuming the bastards haven’t moved him yet.”
“Anything on Links?” Sam asked, strapped into the seat next to Grant.
“Not yet, but we’ve got eyes out there searching for him. He won’t get far.”
But Grant wasn’t too sure about that. The man had been able to manipulate his way to one of the highest positions in federal government, and been appointed by people who were supposed to be skilled in sniffing out lies.
“Local and state authorities have already been notified and are converging on the other two locations,” Hickem said. “They’re instructed to hold the area until we know what we’ve found after our raid. The chopper is going to put us a mile out from the factory. There’s no way that we’ll be able to cover that number of exits and windows, so we go in quick and hard.”
Grant shifted in his seat, and he adjusted his grip on the M-16 that lay across his lap as the pilot landed. Hands unbuckled the straps, and Hickem was the first man out the door as the chopper touched down, the team spilling out of the helicopter’s side, ducking low to avoid the blades.
Wind blasted Grant’s back as the pilot returned to the skies. He took a knee beside Sam, rifle up, scanning the area until Hickem gave the all clear to move forward.
The row of businesses that appeared on either side of the road were plagued with closed signs. Chained locks covered doors and fences. What was once a valley of bustling manufacturing companies had transformed into rusted relics.
“Coms check,” Hickem said.
A series of copy’s transmitted over the radio, and then Hickem pointed ahead, and the team pressed forward on the route toward the factory.
The movement and flow of a tactical push returned to Grant with surprising ease. All those hours he spent training with SWAT flooded back to him quickly. His muscle memory had always served him well. It was the memories of his mind that gave him trouble.
Chatter between Hickem and his agents ranged from nervous laughter to weapons checks, but when they arrived outside the factory, stopping behind an old dumpster for cover, everyone clammed up, the anxious energy turning wild and volatile.
Hickem huddled the team close. “The closest entrance to us is the south side. If the setup here is anything like what we found recovering the mother, then we shouldn’t have any surprises.”
“That is if they haven’t been told we’re coming,” Sam said.
“They might know we’re coming, but they don’t know when, and they don’t know how many we have.” Hickem reached around to the back of his belt and removed a gas cannister. “We pop the door, drop the smoke, and proceed under cover. We are cleared to shoot to kill.” He paused, clipping the cannister back to his belt. “Everyone here knows the drill. Clear the space, watch your six, and don’t get shot. Masks on.”
Grant reached for the gas mask, the bands tightening across the top of his skull, trapping the heat against his face. His breaths echoed inside the mask and fogged the plastic eyepiece. Once everyone was geared up, Hickem led the charge to
ward the door.
Rusted siding covered the outside of the factory, and the cracked and worn concrete had become a graveyard littered with hulking tractors, bulldozers, and dump trucks.
Grant’s vision tunneled into the pinpoint accuracy at the end of his rifle. Everything else faded, save for the fact that Sam was to his left. But he knew she could handle herself. He just needed to keep reminding himself of that as they approached the door.
“Eyes up, boys,” Hickem said, whispering through the radio. “Building is twenty yards up on our left. High windows. Watch for snipers and any guards on duty.”
They all answered with “Copy,” and Hickem guided them through clusters of old shipping containers which helped provide cover on their approach, the hot afternoon sun baking their backsides.
Boots hit the pavement silently, the only noise given up by the team the light sway and groan of their tactical gear, sprinting from one rusted metal corpse to another until they reached the last patch of open concrete before the entrance.
Grant broke out in a sweat, and the metal of the rifle grew slick against his palms as he tilted his head up to the ten-story structure. It was a lot bigger than the house on the Wyoming border, but Grant hoped that didn’t mean it had more of Joza’s contract killers inside.
Hickem shouldered his rifle and ran his hands up against the cracks in the door, the rest of the unit with their guns up and scanning the area. He tapped his forehead with his fist and then reached for the gas can behind his belt as one of the FBI agents approached the door and applied a small explosive over the lock.
Hickem stepped back, taking point on the entrance’s right-hand side, rifle up and aimed at the putty over the lock, the rest of the team lined up on the left, the tension building in the form of twitching shoulders and shifting boots.
Every fiber in Grant’s body was coiled, ready to explode through the door, and that calming silence washed over him the way it always did before a raid. The frayed ball of nerves in his stomach dissolved, and his senses heightened.
