by Juno Rushdan
“She may not talk if you’re around.”
“If I’m around, I guarantee she’ll talk. The hothead won’t be able to help herself. Samantha Dickson would never miss a chance to take a proverbial swing at me. In fact, get us in a room together without her seeing you. If she has Emma or is responsible in any way, she’ll rub it in my face because she knows it’d burn deeper than the acid they threw on my car.”
Setting down her fork, Madeline looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “That might actually work.”
“I’m full of good ideas.” He hadn’t made it to CEO for no reason, and then he remembered his resignation and a vicious sting followed.
She quirked her brow. “We only do this on one condition.”
Anything she wanted, he’d do so as not to be excluded and stay at the tip of the spear with the investigation. “Name it.”
“You wear a wire.”
* * *
THE FBI VAN sat down the road from the warehouse that Dickson was holed up in, hidden behind another deserted building off Pier 30. Madeline parked the government SUV beside it. She and Jackson got out and walked to the van in tense silence, the same way they had driven around all morning.
Madeline had gone to the office earlier with Jackson and discussed the plan with Nick and Dash. Her ability to remain objective where Jackson was concerned was questionable at best. Luckily, her teammates had both agreed the idea was worth a shot.
Opening the van door, she gestured for Jackson to enter. They climbed in.
Nick and Dash were seated in front of the surveillance equipment ready to go.
“Get him set up.” Dash handed her a kit containing the wire and slipped on headphones.
“Where’s the pen?” Madeline asked. “The one with the listening device hidden inside. I thought we were using that.”
“My fault,” Nick said. “I grabbed the van, thinking there was one inside. The regular wire will work fine. It’s not as if he’s about to walk into a mobster’s den where he’s going to get a pat down.” He stared at her, his brows drawing together. “Is there a problem I’m missing?”
Yes. “Nope. No problem.” She opened the kit. “Jackson, can you lift your shirt for me?”
He took off his leather jacket and raised the hem of his cashmere pullover, exposing the broad expanse of his bare chest, the contours so defined in the bright light of day, or rather the glow of the equipment, that his sun-kissed skin gleamed as if polished.
Her heart flipped over at the sight. Biting the inside of her lip, she pulled out the first electrode, peeled off the plastic backing and stuck it to his torso. His muscles tensed, his gaze shooting to hers while a deep stab sank into her chest.
They had sworn this wouldn’t be awkward, but it was because the attraction was there, simmering beneath the surface, burning in the shared glances, smoldering when they touched. It was torture.
Hurrying with the second electrode, she pressed it to his skin, struggling not to linger. She turned on the listening device and handed it to him. “Clip it on the inside of your waistband.” Once he did, she said, “Try it out.”
“Testing, one, two, three. Testing,” Jackson said low.
Dash gave a thumbs-up.
“You’re good to go,” she said. “If you run into trouble of any sort, or need us to come in, give us a sign.”
Jackson put on his jacket. “What kind?”
“Say you need a cigarette. Wish you had a smoke. Something along those lines.”
“Since I don’t smoke, there won’t be any confusion, is that it?” he asked.
Madeline nodded. “Exactly.”
“Okay,” he said.
The tone of his voice, the look in his eye, made her wonder. Was this another mistake? Samantha Dickson was their last solid suspect, and Jackson was desperate for progress with the case. He would push for answers, take things right to the edge. Maybe even over the line. Provided he saw the line to begin with.
“This isn’t a challenge—you don’t need to prove you can handle it on your own,” she said. “You will let us know if you need help, won’t you?”
Those blue eyes shimmered with steely resolve. “Of course.”
Why didn’t she believe him?
Jackson put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a look that screamed, I’ve got this. “We’ll know if they have Emma.” He climbed out of the van and headed for the warehouse.
“You didn’t sound too sure about this a second ago,” Nick said. “Can he handle this?”
“We’re sending him in to push buttons and get them talking. I have no doubt he’ll achieve the objective.” And that’s what concerned her.
* * *
JACKSON STRODE THROUGH the front door of the warehouse, determined not to leave until he knew for certain whether the Red Right Hand were behind Emma’s kidnapping.
Their suspects were evaporating one by one, and he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. The waiting. The worrying. Twisting in the wind, not knowing who had taken his daughter or why. Someone wanted to punish him, and they were doing a good job.
A door opened on his far left. A group of five, maybe six twentysomethings, was gathered inside, sitting on mattresses, talking. One man with a scraggly beard Jackson recognized as a member of the Red Right Hand walked out and spotted him. “What are you doing in here?” The guy strolled up to him and took a closer look, his eyes narrowing. “Hey, I know you.”
“I’m Jackson Rhodes and I’m here to see Samantha Dickson.”
The guy snickered. “It’s your funeral.” He passed some old pallets and started up a steel staircase. “This way.”
The abandoned warehouse was ten thousand square feet of decrepit space spread over two floors. The main level looked as though it had once been used for storage. Dust and mold filled the air. Sunlight streamed in through broken windows. Why anyone with choices for better options would want to stay there was lost on him.
Once they reached the catwalk, the guy said, “Hang here.” He knocked on the door of a former office, waited a second, then entered.
Before he closed it behind him, Jackson glimpsed the brown-haired Samantha canoodling with the red-haired Kane on a mattress in the center of the room.
When the door opened again, Samantha Dickson and Kane Tidwell strode out.
Samantha sported her perpetual wind-tousled look, face flushed, eyes narrowing, gearing up for a fight. “Well, if it isn’t the Butcher of the American Dream in the flesh.” She put her fists on her hips.
Kane stood beside her with his arms crossed over a wide, thick chest. He had a fleshy face and very small eyes. “You’ve got a pair of spuds on you. I’ll give you that.”
“Why do you stay here, living like squatters?” Jackson asked.
Samantha gave him a hateful smile. “As opposed to living in the biggest house, driving the most expensive car, burning electricity, wasting water, squandering resources and abusing Mother Earth until the future of the next generation is blacker than the oil extracted from her dying body?”
“It’s not surprising that someone like you doesn’t understand,” Kane said. “Someone who doesn’t care about his carbon footprint, global warming, fairness and equality, supporting Americans by keeping jobs in America or basic decency like giving a little bit of those profits to charitable institutions.”
“I sent those jobs overseas and temporarily stopped charitable donations to save ETC. A lot more people would’ve lost their jobs if not for my actions.”
“As if that absolves you,” Kane said. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“He’s someone who still hasn’t learned his lesson,” she said. Anger suited her. Samantha’s face glowed as she stalked closer.
“You think the Red Right Hand is capable of teaching it to me?” Jackson asked.
Samantha’s smile sp
read. “No job. No fancy project. No kid. But I think you still have plenty left to lose. And once you hurt enough, your eyes will open. We’re the perfect group to give you an awakening.”
“Get the others,” Kane said to his pal. “Trash his car. Make sure he has to walk home.”
Mr. Scraggly Beard hustled past them across the catwalk and hurried down the steps.
“That’s if we let him leave,” Samantha said.
“You want to make me disappear like you did with my daughter?” Jackson asked, his temperature rising.
Confusion clouded Samantha’s eyes.
But Kane didn’t so much as blink.
The rest of their gang ran outside carrying pipes and pieces of wood.
They were in for a surprise.
“Our mission in life,” Kane said, “is to make sure that people like you get exactly what you deserve. Balance the scales of justice.”
“You call snatching my child justice?” Jackson demanded. “I call it reprehensible. Evil.”
Kane stepped closer, putting them within arm’s reach. “You don’t deserve to have a child.” He poked Jackson’s chest. “Raising a mini you to help destroy the world and pick its bones clean.”
“You shouldn’t have put your hands on me,” Jackson said, making it clear to those listening in the van that what happened next wasn’t his fault.
He snatched the man’s wrist and twisted his arm hard. Pressing his free hand into Kane’s back, Jackson pushed the man’s torso until it was parallel to the ground while wrenching his captured arm up. The pressure on the twerked shoulder was enough to elicit a shriek from Kane.
The others ran back into the warehouse at the same time. “There’s no car out front.” They gasped and made a beeline for the stairs.
“Get off him!” Samantha said. “Let him go.” She pounded her fists on Jackson’s back.
“Where’s my daughter?” Jackson shoved down harder on Kane, making him scream in pain. “Let her go and I let him go.”
“We don’t have your stupid kid!” Samantha said. “We’re not like you. We don’t take advantage of the innocent.”
“What do you say?” Jackson asked Kane. “Huh? Did you have anything to do with her kidnapping?”
Scraggly Beard and the others stormed down the catwalk toward them, holding up their pipes and hunks of wood.
“No!” Kane said.
“Sure?” Jackson pressed down.
“I swear!” Kane said. “We don’t kidnap children. Not even the spawn of monsters.”
Jackson believed them. He would’ve let Kane go, would’ve yelled for a cigarette, but it was too late, and everything unraveled too fast.
Scraggly Beard swung the pipe. So Jackson swung Kane, lowering the seized wrist and forcing Kane’s body up to take the blow.
Metal connected with bone. Blood sprayed through the air from Kane’s mouth.
Horror widened Scraggly Beard’s eyes at his mistake. Samantha gave a spine-chilling scream.
The others stormed forward, brandishing their weapons.
Since letting go would be to his own detriment, Jackson held on to Kane, making sure he took more hits than Jackson received.
“FBI!” Nick said, racing in through the door.
“Stop!” Madeline’s voice came next. “Put your hands in the air!”
Once again, too late.
A pipe slammed into Jackson’s ribs and pain exploded through his side. The force of the blow knocked him back against the railing. Momentum carried him over the side of the catwalk. And still he held on to Kane, taking the man with him.
Chapter Thirteen
Two ambulances and four squad cars were on the scene. The entire Red Right Hand was already wanted for crimes committed last night: vandalism, for spray-painting graffiti on the AlbrechTech building, and destruction of property, for smashing the windows of Chuck’s car. Now a couple of them would also face assault charges.
Kane Tidwell was loaded in an ambulance.
“Please let me go to the hospital with him,” Samantha begged as she was handcuffed and put into the back of a police cruiser.
Madeline stepped into the back of the other ambulance, where Jackson lay on a gurney. She was grateful he was conscious and had the strength to argue with the EMT.
“I’m fine,” Jackson said. “Kane broke my fall. Going to the hospital isn’t necessary.”
“Definitely a couple of broken ribs and a possible concussion,” the EMT said.
Sheer panic had flooded her when Jackson fell from the catwalk. It had happened in slow motion. She hadn’t been able to breathe, move; it had been as if her heart had stopped.
The funny thing was, when he opened his eyes and spoke, she had one overwhelming thought. Thank God I didn’t lose him.
She’d had to remind herself that he wasn’t hers. Once this case was over, they’d go their separate ways.
Still, Madeline found herself taking his hand before she realized she’d broken her rule and was touching him, and by then she didn’t want to let go of him. “You’re going to the hospital.”
“I need to be out there, looking for Emma. I have to find her.” His face filled with so much despair that Madeline’s heart broke. “If the Red Right Hand didn’t take her, then who did?”
Since she had no answer to give him, she frowned down at their joined hands. The need to find out who was behind this and save Emma was like a fire burning in her gut, spurring her on. Not to give up. Never.
She’d exhaust every possibility, chase down each lead. But she’d never stop trying.
Her phone rang. She pulled her hand from his and answered. “Yeah, Striker.”
“It’s Liam. I was going to update the file, but thought it was better to tell you.”
“One sec.” She glanced at the EMT. “Could you give us a minute, before you take him to the hospital?” After the woman nodded and hopped out, Madeline waved Dash and Nick over and put the call on speaker. “Go ahead, Liam. I have the others here along with Jackson.”
“Some of the newspapers go back three years,” Liam said.
“Three?” Madeline asked. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I was only able to find two articles that were related to ETC and one also mentioned Jackson.”
“What were they about?” Dash asked.
“One was about the video game department and the other was an obituary for a former ETC employee. The article talked about Jackson cutting the division and a big sale of the games.”
“Did you have a bunch of angry engineers and designers?” Nick asked.
Jackson shook his head. “The one department at ETC that shouldn’t have a grievance with me was Games. I made all of them rich. Except for one guy. Lou Jenkins. He received the smallest severance package, but it was still generous. I heard he rebounded and is thriving at a new company. This has to be a coincidence.”
“Maybe,” Madeline said. “But you do this job long enough and you stop believing in coincidences. You weren’t really involved with the day to day of the video games department, were you?” she asked, thinking there might have been things going on in the office that he hadn’t been aware of.
“I wasn’t in the trenches with my people,” Jackson said, “but I tried to keep my finger on the pulse of things. I have, had, an open-door policy.”
“Who was the head of the video games department?” Madeline asked.
“Dennis Garcia,” Jackson said. “A good guy. Retired now. I’ve had him to the house for dinner once or twice.”
“What about the obit, Liam?” Madeline asked. “Who was it for?”
“Theon Lasiter, but it doesn’t say what department he worked in.”
Jackson sat up and winced. “You’re right. It’s not coincidence. Theon worked for me, in Games. But I don’t understand how it could be r
elated to Emma’s kidnapping.”
“How did Theon Lasiter die?” Dash asked.
Jackson shrugged. “I didn’t even know he was dead. He walked away from ETC with the biggest check of all.”
“There’s a correlation with the games department,” Madeline said. “We just have to find it. I should sit down with Garcia and talk with him. See what we’re missing.”
“I’ll track down Lou Jenkins,” Nick said.
Dash tilted his head, like he was thinking. “I’ll go back to the office and see what I can find on Lasiter’s death. Liam, keep plugging away at the articles.”
“Where does Garcia live?” Madeline asked Jackson, wondering how long the drive would be.
“I can get you the address from HR.” He reached into his pocket to take out his phone and groaned in pain. “I believe his house is in Olympic Manor.”
Probably a thirty-minute drive, depending on traffic. “I’ll pay him a visit. Talk to him in person,” Madeline said. “No stone left unturned. And you are going to the hospital.”
Madeline’s estimation had been correct. After Jackson got her the address, it took her twenty-eight minutes before she parked in front of the Tudor-style house in Olympic Manor and made her way up the front steps. She knocked and waited.
The door opened. A man stood slightly taller than her on the other side of the threshold. With a round face and kind eyes, he smiled. “Hello.”
She held up her badge. “I’m Special Agent Madeline Striker. Are you Dennis Garcia, the former chief of the gaming department at Emerald Technology Corp?”
“Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions that might help us with the kidnapping of Emma Rhodes, the six-year-old daughter of Jackson Rhodes.”
He rocked back. “I heard about that, but I don’t understand how I can be of any help.”
“Do you mind if I come in?” Madeline asked.
“Certainly.” He opened the door wide, letting her in. “Would you care for something to drink?”
“A glass of water, please,” she said, her throat parched.
