by James Hunt
“If you don’t bring her back,” Rick said, his voice trembling from the adrenaline of either fear or anger. He stepped within inches of Grant’s face. “I swear on Mocks’s life and the life of my unborn child that I will kill you.”
“I know.” Grant sidestepped him and walked out the door, heading toward the meeting with Hickem, Multz, and Sam. But he knew that he’d never give Rick the chance to kill him. Because if he couldn’t bring Mocks back alive, he didn’t plan on surviving the return trip.
Sam stood outside Multz’s office. The door was open, with Hickem and Multz waiting for her inside. She looked left and right, searching the hallway for Grant, hoping he’d show.
It had taken every ounce of control not to follow Grant or stop him. But she knew it wasn’t her place.
“Cohen,” Multz said, yelling from his desk. “We’re burning daylight.”
Sam lingered a second longer and then retreated into Multz’s office and closed the door behind her. She sat next to Hickem, who tapped his foot impatiently.
“Don’t take it too personally, Marshal,” Hickem said, typing on his phone. “Once Grant gets something in his mind, he never lets it go.” He finally looked up from his screen. “He’ll see it through till the end.”
“He’s committed,” Sam retorted. “Most consider that a noble attribute.”
“Yeah, well, those people usually don’t live in the real world.” Hickem pocketed his phone and undid the button on his jacket. “Not everyone gets to run off to some small town after they’ve made a mistake to hide out for the rest of their—”
The door swung inward, and Grant stepped inside and closed it before Hickem could even turn around. He remained off to the side, arms crossed, and silent.
“Nice of you to join us,” Multz said.
“I was just singing your praises,” Hickem said.
Multz’s desk phone rang, and he hit the speaker phone. “Senator Thorn, thank you for your time.”
“What in the Sam Hill is going on out there?” Thorn’s southern accent was accentuated by his angry tone. “I’m getting calls from people who never call me, and I’ve got constituents worried sick that we’re selling national secrets!”
“Sir, Director Hickem here. I just want to say—”
“Already giving yourself a promotion, eh?” Thorn asked. “You’re acting director, Hickem. The title isn’t permanent. In fact, I’ve got half a mind to feed you to the reporters hounding my office!”
Hickem cleared his throat, thrown by the accusation, fidgeting and uncomfortable. “Sir, I can assure you that I have been nothing but—”
“Can it, Hickem,” Thorn said. “Now, where in the hell are we with finding Links?”
“We don’t have many leads on that, Senator,” Multz answered. “But we believe he is still stateside, and his name just moved into the number-one spot on the most wanted list.”
“No shit.” Thorn scoffed. “Does he have the money?”
“He has the access codes to the accounts, but as of right now he hasn’t moved it. He knows we’re watching, so we think he’s looking for a way to move it without it being traced.” Multz drummed his fingers and then nodded to Sam.
“Senator, Marshal Cohen here. We think that Links might use the money now as a bartering chip for Joza to keep him safe, but we’re unsure of where he might be smuggled out of the country.”
“Well, get sure,” Thorn said. “I want this bastard on a plate to hand to the American people for dinner tonight! So I want to make this abundantly clear that this is your one and only priority.”
“We understand, sir,” Multz said.
“I don’t think you do,” Thorn replied. “Because right now the head of one of our country’s most powerful intelligence institutions is currently the most wanted person on the list of the very agency that he had been selected to run!” A heavy pound thudded through the speaker. “I want updates every twenty minutes!”
Thorn hung up before anyone could respond, and the moment the call ended, Hickem raised his middle finger. “Prick.”
“Where are we at with video footage tracking Links’s movement?” Multz asked.
“We’ve got the CIA sifting through every camera from New York to Seattle, but it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack,” Hickem answered. “Links knows the tricks to find him, so he’ll stay off the grid. And if he’s still getting financed by Joza, he’ll have plenty of resources at his disposal.”
“Let’s start hunting down known Joza associates stateside,” Multz answered. “Sam, you and Grant start at the top of the list and work your way down.”
“Got it.” Sam looked at Grant out of the corner of her eye and still found him with his head down and arms crossed. Disengaged.
“Clock’s ticking,” Multz said. “Let’s get to it.”
Grant was out of the office first, and Sam jogged to catch up, weaving through the busy hall. “Grant, wait!” He didn’t stop till she grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. “What happened with Rick?”
“We both want the same thing,” Grant answered.
Sam waited for more, but he wouldn’t budge. “And that’s it?”
“That’s it,” Grant answered.
Sam nodded. “Okay then.” She bit the inside of her cheek and chewed it nervously. She’d been thinking about the conversation she had with Mocks, about telling the people you cared about what they meant to you. And while she wanted to tell Grant those words now, it somehow felt wrong. “Listen, I’m sorry—”
“We should get to work.”
Grant walked away, leaving Sam alone in the hallway. She knew he was hurting, and she knew there was only one way to make all of this right. They needed to find Mocks. And they needed to find her alive.
3
Every finger wore a ring. Gold bands crusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds were wrapped around thick fingers that held a Regius special-edition Double Corona cigar. At over one hundred grand per box, they were one of the most expensive cigars in the world, and like the rings, Anton Joza flaunted them as a peacock flocked its feathers.
The butler stepped into the room with two crystal glasses on a silver platter with a brown liquor that Joza had imported from France. He set one crystal glass down at Joza’s desk and then handed the second to the guest, who accepted it graciously.
Anton, his weathered face clean shaven, though scarred from his early years on the street, raised his glass, his blue eyes reflecting the flames in the fireplace as he smiled. “To our mutual partnership.”
“Salud.”
Both men drank, and Joza groaned in ecstasy as he set his glass down and leaned back in his plush leather seat. “Ten thousand dollars an ounce.” He reached for the cigar smoldering on the ashtray and pinched it between his teeth. “Worth every penny.”
The associate smiled, nodding vigorously in agreement. The man was middle aged, German, and looking for financing for a political campaign in his region. Joza had financed several local political officials across Europe. It helped keep his ear to the ground and discover lucrative information before it hit the wires.
“I can’t thank you enough, Anton,” the German said. “I can promise you that I will put your money to great work.”
Joza puffed the cigar, regarding the young German with his blue eyes as cold as ice. He exhaled, the grey cloud of smoke blurring the smile stretched across his face. His teeth were an unnatural white against his tanned skin. He pointed at the German. “You want power. I can smell it like the shit you left in my bathroom.” He laughed, slapping his palm on the desk, his rings hitting the wood with a harsh crack as the German nervously laughed along.
“I think I can do my country some real good—”
“Cut the bullshit.” Joza snuffed out the cigar in the crystal glass, the playful nature gone. “I’m not one of the simpletons who wants to hear your campaign speech, so don’t try and speak to me like one. Understand?”
The German nodded. “Of course.”
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“You win, and the only people that you’re helping are me and you.” Joza flicked off a piece of ash that had landed on his black dress pants. “And if you don’t win”—he lifted his gaze to the German, whose complexion had turned as white as porcelain—“well, I’d hate to spoil the evening we’ve had.” He snapped his fingers, and the butler returned. “Domingo will show you out.”
The German stood quickly, bowing as he left. “Thank you, Mr. Joza.”
“Your thanks mean as much to me as your shit.” Joza reached for a fresh cigar out of the velvet-lined oak box on his desk. “I need you to win the election, so give me that instead.”
The door shut, leaving Joza alone in his office. He lit the cigar, savoring the slow burn of the tobacco as he inhaled. He rested his head back and relaxed, closing his eyes. He rubbed his forehead, trying to rid himself of the headache that had been plaguing him all morning.
It was rare he went a day without some sort of physical ailment. His doctor had told him that it was a product of advanced age and the life he’d chosen. But he had no regrets.
Joza swiveled in his chair, admiring the masterful works of art that adorned his walls. Some were bought, others were given as gifts, but every single one of them represented more than just the portrait inside the frame. They represented his status.
He had grown up on the streets of Prague, knowing only fear and violence. He had seven siblings, and only he and his younger brother survived to adulthood. The rest were claimed by hunger, sickness, or a knife to the throat.
Nightmares from those early days on the street still plagued his sleep on restless nights. But whenever he awoke in that cold sweat in his silk sheets, he would simply take a stroll through his mansion and admire the castle that served as the epicenter of his empire.
And like all empires throughout history that had staved off defeat and conquered the known world, his was threatening to crumble. The money that was embezzled by the Americans earlier in the year had cut his wealth by more than half.
Joza gnawed on the cigar at the thought. Half. He stood and gravitated toward the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantel, the end of the cigar glowing with the same amber flames as the logs below. He built his fortune with his own two hands. No help. No handouts. Just sheer fucking will.
“Mr. Joza?” Domingo stepped inside, his practiced docility on full display as he kept his head bowed. “You have a call, sir.”
Joza tossed the fresh cigar into the flames and reached for the cell phone presented to him on another silver platter. It was different from the one used to present the drinks. A platter was never used twice on the same day.
“What?”
“I hope the weather in Russia isn’t too cold?” Links asked.
“It’s always cold in Russia, you twat.” Joza snarled, pacing around the office like a tiger on the prowl. “Where is my money?”
“I have gained the access codes as we discussed,” Links answered.
Joza arched an eyebrow, the weathered skin on his forehead crinkling into a dozen folds. “So why the hell don’t I have it?”
Links cleared his throat. “There were complications.”
Joza grabbed the remote off his desk and then turned on his television. A news broadcast had his name and picture on the ticker at the bottom of the screen. “I’ve been watching your complications all morning on the news. You’ve been the top story on every network from Moscow to Washington!” Joza threw the remote at the television, shattering the crystals in the screen. “You were only good to me as the director of the FBI! Not a fugitive on their most wanted list.” The anger rising in his chest triggered a pinching feeling in his left shoulder. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. “Give me a good reason to not have my men kill you right now.”
“Because only I can access the money.” Links maintained that even-keeled and arrogant American tone that Joza hated. Americans could always bullshit better than anyone. They wore it like a badge of honor.
“I wanted the money, but I needed your influence.” Joza ran his hand over his bald head, the metal of his rings scratching red marks along his scalp. “You no longer have that influence, so you are no longer useful to me.”
“I have another proposition.”
Joza paused, noting that familiar tone of desperation. People were always begging him for help, for mercy, for money, all of it slipping off him like water on the skin of a seal. It didn’t matter the request or the person, Joza only sought to help those that could benefit him. And with Links at the breaking point, he still might be of use.
“I can still trade you information in exchange for safe passage out of the United States,” Links said.
“What information?” Joza asked.
“I know the facility where they’re keeping your son.”
Had the pair been speaking face-to-face, Links would have seen the quick flash of eagerness that Joza quickly hid.
“It will take more resources to get him out now, but once you have the money, you’ll have plenty of spare change lying around,” Links said. “Keeping me alive is in your son’s best interest as much as it is yours.”
Joza tightened his grip on the phone, that rage boiling again. “You dare threaten me? You dare to use my own son as blackmail!”
“Of course not,” Links answered, his tone cool and calm. “I’m simply explaining the details of my plan.”
Joza paced the room, knowing it was a deal he had to take, and knowing that if the little American prick was lying, he’d be dead before the week’s end. “You call me back when you have the money. Then we’ll talk.”
“I need you to come stateside,” Links said. “As a gesture of good faith.”
“When you have the money.” Joza growled and then hung up, tossing the phone across the room, where it nearly landed in the fire. He walked toward it, the flames beckoning him closer, as they did on those cold nights in the streets when he was a child in search of warmth. Fire was life in those days, and without it, you would freeze or starve to death.
There was a reason it was called the dead of winter, and Joza had seen people collapse on their feet in search of shelter to weather the cold. After a childhood of so much death, it was hard for him to imagine a life of doing anything else. But one thing was certain, and that was that Anton Joza was never going to be left out in the cold again.
Grant had stepped outside after the meeting with Multz, Hickem, and Sam. He knew that there were hundreds of eyes scanning computer screens as analysts searched for any video or digital footprint that Links might have left behind, but as Hickem said, the bastard knew every trick in the book, and it wasn’t as though the man didn’t know how to sneak around.
If Grant wanted to get Mocks out alive, he’d have to get leverage on Links. He had an idea of what to do, but he hadn’t yet determined how to do it.
So until Links contacted him, there was little Grant could do save for kick rocks in the parking lot, which had grown more crowded with reporters. Every channel on television was talking about Links’s treason.
Grant wasn’t sure how the story was able to get out so quickly. A part of him believed it was the Senate Intelligence Committee themselves, thinking they could jump ahead of the problem by controlling the narrative.
Grant turned the front corner of the building and retreated toward a small concrete path that was lined with cigarette butts and discarded, broken Styrofoam cups. But among the litter in the grass, an odd shade of green caught Grant’s eye.
He bent down and pulled out a BIC lighter from the long blades of grass. The plastic had a hole in it, draining it of lighter fluid and leaving it useless.
Mocks had one like it when they were partners, and he couldn’t count the number of times she flicked that damn thing in meetings, in the car, or at their desks. It had been a nervous tic she’d developed from her days as an addict. She told him that it helped keep her focused during a case. Grant never objected. Every detective had their own superstitions abou
t how to work a case—flicking a lighter was probably one of the healthier ones he’d seen.
But she had weaned herself off the habit since discovering she was pregnant. He thought it was something she felt she had to do in order to prepare herself to become a mother. Or maybe she lost interest. Maybe—
Grant’s phone buzzed, and he quickly reached into his pocket, answering without even looking at the number on the screen. “About time.”
“Someone’s antsy,” Links answered.
Grant retreated further toward the back of the marshal building and away from the loud chatter of the crowd out front. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Ah, so you’ve already guessed my little game,” Links said. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll cut right to the chase. Are you still at the marshal building?”
“Yes,” Grant answered.
“Good. I need you to use a computer that’s connected to the federal network. I’ll provide you a username and password to grant you access. I need you to download a file and then deliver it to 54 Conway Street.”
Grant retrieved the notebook from his pocket and flipped to an empty page, quickly scribbling the address down.
“Once I have confirmation that the package has been delivered, then I’ll tell you where you can retrieve your partner.”
“I need assurances,” Grant said. “I need to know that she’s still alive. That the baby is still alive.”
“Fine,” Links said, and then after a few moments of scuffling, there was heavy breathing on the other end of the phone.
“Mocks?” Grant asked.
“Grant! Whatever he’s telling you, don’t—” Mocks screamed, and her voice faded as it sounded as if she was being dragged away.
“Mocks? Mocks!” Grant struggled to keep his voice down and then turned around to make sure that he was still alone.
“Happy?” Links asked. “Your compliance is integral to the health of that young mother. I’d hate her husband to go through what you did, Grant. But at least you’d be able to help console him—that is, if he doesn’t kill you first.”
