by James Hunt
Grant opened his door then stepped out and passed the rows of vehicles parked along the street, blocking driveways, and clogging the run-down neighborhood. Sleepy and intrigued neighbors poked their heads out their front doors or peeled back the curtains. Grant surmised that they didn’t get a lot of cops in this part of town, and when they did, it usually meant trouble.
Sam was back outside and in the front yard by the time Grant finally made it to the house. Hickem was there, the pair talking, though Hickem was doing most of the jawing.
“Found some clothes and plastic bags in the back.” Hickem gestured to the stolen vehicle that was still parked in the driveway. “Looks like they switched vehicles. I’ve already got teams combing the nearby woods, and we’ll have local PD knock on doors to see what they find.”
The heavy whoosh of chopper blades vibrated above them, and Grant squinted up at it and received an eyeful of spotlight as the air support passed overhead. While Grant blinked away the black spots from the helicopter, Hickem clapped him on the shoulder.
“Don’t make your new partner look bad,” he said then laughed as he walked off to another cluster of men that he barked an order to, and they scurried off toward the back of the house.
“So,” Sam said, hands on her hips, and her voice still shaky from the adrenaline burst of the raid. “What do you think?”
Grant regarded the house. The front had chipped siding, the roof was sagging, and the yard was nothing but dirt. The rest of the houses in the neighborhood were in similar condition. Like a lot of neighborhoods toward the north of Seattle, this one was poor, violent, and forgotten.
“We should pull the records on the house,” Grant said. “He picked this place ahead of time. We might get lucky on a hit with any records in regard to rentals or purchases. Though it’s a long shot.” He gestured to the neighbors. “These people aren’t going to talk to any of us, even if they did see something. They’ve already got a sour taste in their mouths for authority.”
“That’s assuming a lot, don’t you think?” Sam asked.
Grant shook his head. “Whatever community responsibility they feel is toward the people inside their homes, not out of it. Come on, let’s go inside and see what we’ve got.”
Grant marched ahead, and when he passed through the front door, he reached for the nearest light switch and flicked it on. “Someone’s been paying the power bill. We should check utility usage, see if anyone was here before our guy showed up. He may have been staying here before the abduction.”
Grant reached for his notepad and pen, his hand jotting down his thoughts as he broke down the room into visual grids, ignoring the other investigators and forensic techs that were already sweeping the place for evidence.
For Grant, it was like separating the visual plane into buckets. He could go to each bucket, search through it, and then, when he was done, move on to the next. It was a slower method of investigating but more efficient than any other he’d tried, and he rarely missed anything.
Sam followed him quietly, and after Grant passed from the living room and into the kitchen, he stopped at the trash can. He gloved his left hand and reached inside, pulling out torn-up packages.
“What is it?” Sam asked, hovering over Grant’s shoulder as he squatted down.
Grant flipped the piece of thin, waxed cardboard over and over in his hand. He set it down and then reached for another, trying to piece it together. He caught flashes of a woman’s eye, and then her mouth, and finally he gathered a few pieces of the lettering that revealed the box’s significance.
“Hair dye kit,” Grant answered, reaching into the wastebasket to remove one of the tubes of coloring and the used shower cap. “There’s two of them in here.”
“One for the girl, and one for the kidnapper?” Sam asked, thinking out loud.
Grant tapped the top of the metal can with his finger. “Maybe. Bag this for forensics.”
Sam flagged down one of the techs, and Grant moved from the kitchen and into the bedroom. A single bare mattress was pressed up against the corner, and Grant immediately covered his nose due to the smell radiating from the carpet.
“Jesus, it’s like someone died in here.” Sam pulled up her blouse to cover her nose and face, trying not to gag.
“I’m sure someone has,” Grant said, noticing the dampness in the carpet. He lifted his gaze toward the ceiling and found a cluster of water stains that dotted the top like urine spots. Some used drug paraphernalia littered the corners of the room. With the utilities working, he figured the local druggies broke in here to get high.
“I think I’ve got something.”
Grant turned at the sound of Sam’s voice, following it to the bathroom, where the sink was stained with the colored dye that Grant had found in the trash in the kitchen.
Sam held a pile of torn-up pieces of paper, wet from the toilet. “Looks like he tried to flush it, but it didn’t go down.” She held up the paper in the gloved hand, the ink on the notes cloudy, but once Sam fit together the torn pieces and flattened it out on the table, Grant already knew what it was.
“It’s a ferry receipt,” he said then narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the numbers of the boat identification that had grown bloated from water. “Looks like one of the San Juan ferries.”
“Where all the whale watching happens?” Sam asked.
“What do you have?” Hickem was in the bathroom doorway, his body taking up the entire door frame. He nearly hit his head when he passed through it.
“Ferry ticket,” Sam answered. “Grant says it’s for the San Juan ferries up north.”
Hickem nudged Grant out of the way and planted his gorilla-sized hands on the counter, studying the paper for a long time, and then without a word, he reached for his phone, talking to someone as he walked into the hallway.
“You think that’s where our guy is going?” Sam asked once Hickem was gone.
“Not sure,” Grant answered then reached for the toilet handle and gave it a flush, sending the dirty water down into the pipes. He grunted.
“What?” Sam asked.
“This guy is supposed to be part of a group of the most elite mercenaries in the world, right?” He gestured to the ferry ticket. “So he rips it up and then tosses it in the toilet but forgets to flush? That doesn’t sit right.”
“He left the hair dye out too,” Sam said.
Grant looked at the ferry receipt a little longer. “If this guy is as good as the analysts say, then he knows we’ll be watching all the public transportation outlets. Even with the dyed hair, it would be a risk.” He crossed his arms, backing away from the receipt. “It’s reckless. I don’t like it.”
Grant exited the bathroom and walked toward the front door, a few flashes from the forensics cameras blinding him on his left. He reached for his phone and pulled up a map of the area.
The nearest main road outside of the neighborhood was a highway that ran east-west, and the west connected to the 405, which traveled north toward the direction of the ferries, but east was barren save for a few small towns that had sprung up around the exits for gas and lodging.
Grant followed the map farther east and found that it passed a few private airfields. If they were trying to smuggle the girl out of the country, a small charter would be a safer bet than a crowded ferry.
“All right, let’s wrap up!” Hickem turned from his huddle of FBI agents, hanging up his phone. “We’ve identified the ferry number and the time of departure. Port authority has been notified, and we have two hours to prepare for intercept. Let’s move!”
With the clap of his hands, Hickem sent everyone into motion. But Grant jogged over to him, snagging his attention away from one of his associates. “We need to send a unit east down the highway and notify local authorities at least fifty miles east.”
“Grant, you saw the ticket,” Hickem said. “He needs to get the girl out of the country. Crossing the Canadian border is the easiest way to take our authorities out of the equation.�
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“The rundown said that these guys were elite,” Grant said. “What’s elite about leaving behind evidence that tells the authorities exactly where they’re going to go?”
“The bastard was rushed, he didn’t think we’d find him, he’s cocky—take your pick.” Hickem shouldered Grant as he walked away and toward his unit’s vehicles.
When Sam stepped out of the house, Grant hurried toward her, repeating his request to Sam to send units east. “It’s the smart play. We have the resources to do it, and it won’t take up any extra time.”
Sam chewed the inside of her cheek and placed her hands on her hips. She turned around, shuffled a few steps, then faced Grant again. “Multz wants me to be on site for the intercept, and he agrees with the assessment of the kidnapper heading north.”
Grant felt his grip on the rope tying him to the case slip, and he cut the distance between them in half. “Think, Sam. All these pieces just fall into place?”
“I have my orders, Grant,” Sam answered. “A good officer follows them.”
“Then let me go,” Grant said. “I’d just be sitting on the sidelines anyway.”
“The director isn’t going to be able to spare you any resources,” Sam replied, her tone returned to something more emotionless.
“Then I’ll go with Seattle PD,” Grant replied. “But I need you to make the call to alert the other local precincts from here to Wyoming.” Grant stood his ground. “Worst-case scenario is I’m wrong and you blame me.”
Sam remained quiet, still chewing the inside of her cheek, but then nodded. “Call Mullocks and arrange a pickup. I won’t have time to wait around with you.”
“Marshal!” Hickem said, yelling from the front of his caravan. “Let’s go!”
Sam jogged toward her car as Grant started to dial Mocks. She turned back on the run, shouting above the engines as the cluster of SUVs and sedans turned around in the street. “You call me immediately if you find anything, and you are not to engage. Understand?”
Grant flashed a thumbs-up as he dialed Mocks, who picked up on the third ring. “Hey, I need a favor.”
“Ugh, now’s not a good time, Grant.”
Grant could hear the background noise of the precinct. “What’s wrong?”
“We just had a missing-persons case come in, and I’m having to take care of it myself since all of my detectives are out on the street.”
Grant furrowed his brow. “Was it a kid?”
“Yeah. Little girl. I’m about to meet with the mother now. What do you need?” Silence. “Grant?”
“Sorry,” Grant said, shaking his head. “Listen, I need an escort to help me follow a lead. You have anyone nearby that you can spare?”
“Sure, I’ll send a car over. You still at the house?”
“Yeah.” Grant paused. “Listen, give me a call back after you speak with the mom.”
“Why?”
Grant turned and looked at the house, which was still bathed in the blue and red lights from the authorities still on scene. “It’s just a hunch.”
4
The ferry docked at the port was a double decker. The rundown that Sam had received on the drive over told her the vessel could hold twelve hundred passengers and that this morning’s ferry was expected to be close to seventy percent capacity. Which would put the total passenger number between eight hundred and nine hundred people.
Sam was one of four field agents that would board the vessel, which had been broken into four sectors. Sector one: first level, portside; sector two: first level, starboard side; sector three: second level, portside; and sector four: second level, starboard side. Sam had been designated for sector two. She, Hickem, and the other three agents rode together.
“All right.” Hickem swiveled around in the front passenger seat of the crammed SUV, checking his watch. “Ferry departs in thirty minutes and boards in five.”
The SUV slowed as they neared lines of traffic waiting to board the ferry. Families, workers, none of them had any idea of the danger that they could be a part of. But they couldn’t risk alerting the crowds. They didn’t want to spook Anna’s abductor.
“Port authority knows we’re here, and I’ve instructed them to let us know when the suspect’s ticket is scanned,” Hickem said. “You keep your heads down until we have visual confirmation. Once we know he is on the boat, and we have eyes on him, I will instruct the port authority officers to close the gates. We take him quickly, we take him quietly, and I don’t want any shots fired unless threat to life is imminent. It will be crowded on that boat, and the last thing we need right now is a dead civilian.”
“Good thing our ‘special investigative liaison’ isn’t here.”
Snickers accompanied the comment, but Sam kept quiet.
“Yeah, but we’ve got our own sharpshooter with us, right?” The words accompanied a slap on Sam’s shoulder that caused her to turn around. “Heard you couldn’t hack it with the FBI so you hustled over to the Marshals. Bet it feels good to be on a winning team.”
“Lock it down, everyone,” Hickem said. “Marshal Cohen is here because she’s integral to the investigation.”
Sam turned back around in her seat, glaring through the window. She had wondered how long it would take for someone to bring up her past. And while she may have decided to join the Marshals instead of the FBI, it wasn’t because of her skills as an agent. But those clowns didn’t know the whole story. Hell, hardly anyone knew the whole story.
The vehicle braked to a stop, and Hickem turned around again. “Remember that our suspect and victim have most likely dyed their hair to blond and brown. Since the girl’s hair was brown before it’d make sense for her to be the blond one. Good hunting.”
Sam was the first out and quickly melded into the lines waiting to board. She looked up at the sky, where the muddy grey of morning had replaced the black of night.
Despite the summer season, a cool breeze was coming off the water, and Sam’s knees buckled from fatigue as she moved through the line. She caught one of the poles on the dock to steady herself and blinked away the black spots. She was approaching twenty-four hours with no sleep. And the skipped meals weren’t helping, but she knew the adrenaline would kick in soon.
But despite the evidence and the genuine consensus between her boss and Hickem, she couldn’t rid herself of what Grant had said about the trip east. What if they had got it wrong? The doubt twisted the ball of nerves nestled in her stomach, and as she passed through the checkpoint and stepped onto the ferry, her confidence waned.
Chatter filled her radio earpiece, and she adjusted it. She hadn’t worn one since drills in the academy. She didn’t like it then, and she didn’t like it now.
“I want everyone to keep their eyes peeled,” Hickem said, stationed somewhere in the command module. “Port authority knows not to engage until one of our officers is on the scene.”
The gates opened, and heads looked toward the plank that had been lowered so that people could board the ferry. The masses moved as one, funneling toward the deck, and Sam sidled into the shifting horde with the other agents on the loading dock.
Sam brushed her shoulders against a few of the bodies and shuffled aboard. She wore a baseball cap and a hoodie to help her blend into the crowd, and when she finally boarded, she found a good spot with a view for her position. She remained standing, finding a pole to hold onto, and radio chatter filled her ear as the other agents found their mark.
“Sector one in position.”
“Sector four in position.”
“Sector three in position.”
“Sector two in position.”
More and more passengers boarded as Sam scanned the crowd. Families on vacation snapped pictures, couples held hands, and mothers corralled their children in an effort to keep order. And the more crowded the boat became, the antsier she grew.
“I just received confirmation that our ticket has been scanned,” Hickem said. “Anybody have eyes?”
“No
thing.”
“Negative.”
“Haven’t seen anything.”
Sam waited on her response, noticing a fresh cluster of bodies working its way through the crowd. And when she saw a flash of blond, her heart raced. “I think I’ve got something.” Slowly, she worked her way forward, doing her best to try not to draw attention to herself.
“Who’s in position?” Hickem asked, his tone bordering annoyance.
“Sector two,” Sam answered, keeping her voice a whisper as she tried to get a look at the man and young girl working their way toward the port side of the ship. “Sector one, you might have an incoming.”
“What am I looking for? I don’t see anything.”
“Blue pullover for the suspect, holding hands with a girl in a light-purple rain coat,” Sam replied. “They’re close to the window now, facing the water.”
“Copy that,” Sector One replied. “I see ’em.”
“Do not engage until you have visual confirmation,” Hickem said.
Sam’s throat went dry, and the pistol at her waist tucked behind the bulky hoodie grew heavy. A family passed her, and Sam accidentally kneed a little boy, who started to cry.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” The mother pulled the boy out of the way, trying to soothe him as she cried into her shoulder.
“Sorry,” Sam said, her eyes coming off the target for only a split second, and when she turned back around to face him, the pair was gone. “Sector one, do you still have visual?”
“Negative, had two guys block my line of sight.”
“Shit, I lost them.”
“Dammit!” Hickem’s voice thundered over the radio. “Find them now! Exit team, I want all eyes on the boarding plank. Let’s make sure this guy doesn’t double back and try and get off.”
Sam wheeled around, her head on a pivot as she searched for the most logical path that the pair could have taken. When she looked toward the stairs, a flash of purple ascended the steps. “Sectors three and four, you have incoming.”
