“After the mess with Helen Franklin, I’ve become even more vigilant to cross-check all requests, but even still, too many of our agents have left us—not to mention Jill and Tony.”
A hush fell over the already mostly silent room at the mention of the agents Franklin had killed over a year earlier. “So, before we continue, if anyone would like to exit now, please do so. I have two private party security positions and one with Secret Service waiting for anyone who is no longer comfortable or confident in our ability to send you into reasonable scenarios.”
Every eye in the room stared at Mark. No one moved. “All right, then. I’ll be splitting the salaries of the agents we’ve lost between the rest of you for the next three months—even if I manage to replace them. You may count on the salary adjustment to last at least through the end of July. I’ll reevaluate then.”
His jaw twitched, despite himself. Keith shoved his hands in his pockets to keep his fingers from tapping out Morse code or at least the beat to “Eye of the Tiger.”
A few people nodded. Doyle scribbled something on a paper and passed it to Mark. Tension thickened until it became difficult to breathe. Was that—did Mark swallow hard? Keith couldn’t be sure. A glance at his phone showed fifteen minutes shot. Fifteen minutes that they could have used to find Erika before Flynne did something dangerously stupid.
“Doyle has pointed out that with continued attacks on us, we need to accept that we—and by we, I mean you all—may become targets. If you’d rather not leave now, please just let me know before you take your next assignment. Your contracts are valid, and I will prosecute anyone who abandons a client during an assignment.”
Tension relaxed a little when Claire leaned back, propped her feet up on the table, and crossed her arms and ankles in one fluid movement. “Like any of us would do something so selfish and stupid. You pick good people.” She tossed a sassy wink at Mark and said, “And that’s not just because you picked me.”
Claire… really?
But it seemed to buoy Mark again. “Okay, then.” Mark lifted a stack of files from the floor in front of the table. “Take one and pass them…” He set half in front of Doyle and the other half in front of Claire. “I need to know who we’re accepting, if anyone. I have my thoughts, but I want your input right now.”
A low murmur began as people discussed the contents of the first file. Keith flipped through and made an instant decision. Nope. Excessive. This guy heard about the Agency and wants to brag about using it. That done, he concentrated on not jostling his heel or tapping his knee.
Mark sent out the next dossier… and the next. Unanimous opinion came in to accept the last two. Only Doyle agreed to the first. Keith made a mental note of that. Of anyone, Doyle should know better.
Still, the man might have his reasons. Keith raised his hand. “If the first comes in after we find Erika and Flynne, and if Doyle wants someone with him, I’ll work that one. I don’t think he should go in alone or with anyone who doesn’t choose to.”
Mark nodded, and with that nod, Keith felt confident his warning had been received. Now, can we find Erika before I lose what semblance of self-control I have left?
“Okay, before Keith comes unglued, we need to get on the main reason we’re here. First—assignments.” He turned and gave an apologetic glance to the left side of the table. “Sorry, Tyler. You’re in the office until we get Flynne back. I need someone who knows the business.”
“I was going to request it. I want to try to find her from there—cameras and such.”
“Great.” Mark scanned the room. “Raina and Sol—be ready for the Langat case.” Doyle’s displeasure radiated through the room. “Sorry, Doyle. You’re too politically minded for this one.”
“I understood it, but that doesn’t kill the desire.”
“Understood. Okay. Doyle and Sam will handle the Schmatloch case.”
Appeasing? Really? I didn’t think you could stoop to that. You’re more nervous than you want to admit. Great.
“Okay, so this is what we know about the Flynne situation.”
Every person in the room sat up and leaned forward. Keith relaxed just a little. Taking it seriously meant they’d have Erika home today—likely within hours. And then I give Flynne a piece of my mind.
“Tyler, can you tell us what we know?”
Tyler pulled out his phone and began talking without looking up. “The timeline I’ve created shows Flynne approaching Mark with a surveillance concern at approximately nine o’clock. She’d been working since five this morning, so it is not unreasonable that she left for lunch fifteen minutes later. Before leaving, she packed ten thousand dollars—”
A gasp went up from Sam. “Flynne stole ten thousand dollars from The Agency?”
Keith couldn’t let that pass, even as ticked as he was. “I imagine she considers it expenses for her protection. She’ll likely return anything she doesn’t use.”
Several other murmurs started, and Mark stepped in. “Let Tyler finish before we become sidetracked with things that aren’t important.”
“Right. So, she also left with two tranq guns and enough CO2 and cartridges to hold out for quite a while. Additionally, she took three phones and logged everything in our hardcopy log. That she filed in Keith’s agent file, which I think was a challenge to him. I think she wants to be found, because she knows she’s in over her head.”
“Then why not just ask—?”
Mark stepped in again. “Okay, just hang in there. Tyler’s almost done.”
“Right. Well, at ten-fifteen, Keith got a call to come in. We know that by eleven-thirty, they were long gone. Two tranq darts were found in Erika’s living room. Additionally, clothing and food were found missing, and Erika’s phone was left on her counter.”
“Hashtag,” Keith growled.
Tyler gulped down water from a bottle Keith hadn’t even seen him bring in. “Right. The last thing on the phone was a tweet sent at ten forty-seven. It said, ‘pound sign, hashtag rogue.’”
This time, Sam commented. “Wait… she used the hashtag and then wrote hashtag rogue?”
“Yes. Mark called this meeting immediately, and while we waited for everyone to arrive, I went to Flynne’s duplex. There, I found her car in the carport. I think clothes are missing from her house, but I can’t be sure. I don’t pay much attention to what she wears. It also feels like some food is gone, but not much—lightweight stuff like chips, microwave popcorn, salad bags, and stuff. All the heavy fruit, canned food, frozen food, and such are still there. She obviously just went shopping.”
Murmurs filled the room as they realized Tyler had finished. Keith scanned every face and stopped at Doyle. He toyed with a pen and his pad of paper. A moment later, he elbowed Tyler. “Think she’s going hiking? Did she have trainers or hiking boots that are missing?”
“Her not-broken-in running shoes are gone, from what I can tell. Why?”
“Because,” Keith interjected. “Lightweight food and shoes with traction hint at hiking.”
Doyle nodded.
“Flynne hates nature.”
“That’s”—both men began in unison. At Doyle’s nod, Keith finished for both of them. “What she’d want you to say.”
“How could she go hiking without a car to get there? Is she really going to get Erika to walk to… what? A tour bus? A friend’s house with a camper?”
Without hesitation, Keith pulled out his phone and punched Ralph’s picture with force enough to put an eye out if it had actually been the man. “Ralph, check the treeler for me. Be careful, though. Don’t let Rory or Andre go out there right now.”
The entire room stared at him now. Keith shrugged. “A tornado flung a travel trailer up in a huge oak. It’s been secured there as a tree house. Flynne knows about it, and it’s near where we live. Flynne would try to divert our attention, so…”
“Good thinking.”
Keith nodded at Doyle and turned back to Mark. “I want permission—although, I’m go
ing to do it anyway, just so you know—to go check out this surveillance guy Flynne was worried about. Perhaps if we let her know we’ve cleared him, she’ll return.”
Mark nodded. “Go. I’ll update you once we’re done here.”
With that, Keith bolted from the room. I’ll find you, Flynne, and then you’d better be glad you’re not a Christian. If you were, I’d be tempted to give you a one-way ticket to those pearly gates.
Five
Large, over-stuffed, clunky furniture filled the Detweiler’s family room. Flynne recognized and could name every piece in there. Pottery Barn, circa 2000. She’d drooled over the catalogs until her mother had banned them from the house.
And now it’s all outdated. Everyone wants the equivalent of a skinny jean couch now.
Still, Mona Detweiler could rhapsodize about the superiority of her new West Elm living room, but the old couch was twice as comfy as the new one. If Erika’s snore meant anything, even she agreed. Of course, the denim blue canvas wore better than the thin, dove gray linen that had replaced it.
Flynne grabbed the upholstery brush and worked some more cleaner into the arm where Erika had missed the bowl. Easier to scrub, too.
As Flynne rose and cracked her back once more, a car rolled down the street—at less than five miles per hour. The driver craned her neck to peer at the houses on the opposite side of the street. Five doors down, it pulled in front of a blue and bleached brick house and parked.
Flynne dumped the bowl, rinsed, washed, and rinsed again, dried, and put it away. A second glance out the door showed the woman sitting there still. It’s not Karen, Raina, or Sam. Ergo, it’s either innocent or worse than one of them. But which is it? A second look prompted a second thought. At least if I have to borrow the Detweiler’s car, she won’t know it until it’s too late. It’s almost dark, so maybe keep the lights off…?
A glance at the giant train clock in the corner told her sundown would be soon. I need to plan… but how? Why? Where can we go? And no one knows I’m house sitting, so… Staying put would be ideal—if Erika continued to cooperate with the whole not screaming bit, and if Tyler hadn’t ever heard her mention going to the Detweiler’s house.
The car still sat in place when Flynne looked out again. A scan of the street showed about half the residents home—but not the ones in the blue and brick house. I need a plan. In case we have to go fast, I need a plan.
Taking the Detweiler’s car was a given. She’d already been given permission to use it. Okay, so they hadn’t meant for days and days, but with them in Bavaria through May, they wouldn’t know until Erika was home safe and the whole thing settled. I should start with a note. Yeah. A note. In case something happens to me.
An inexplicable sense of urgency prompted her to scour the house for note paper until she gave up and grabbed a sheet of printer paper. With it folded in half, she grabbed a pen and tried to figure out how to explain that she’d taken their car and would try not to ruin it without making promises she didn’t know she could keep.
In the end, she wrote a blunt, no-excuses note that would definitely get her fired.
Mona,
I had an emergency that I can’t explain. I used your house for a little while, took five of your Ambien tablets, and borrowed your car. I did clean up after myself, and I’ll be back with your car as soon as I can. I’ll also pay you back for everything.
If anything happens to me, I hope this counts as a legal document, because I’m willing my bank account and my car to you as compensation for the loss of yours.
Thanks for giving me fun money these last few months. You’ve been totally eptastic.
Flynne
It sounded like a suicide note—except for the paying back part, anyway. Still, it made her feel better. And it was a plan. Anything gets weird, and we’re outta here.
The car still sat out front, waiting. If the head bopping meant anything, at least the driver was listening to something fun. Assassins don’t listen to fun music, right? They’re more death metal, aren’t they?
Soft stirring sounds from the couch sent Flynne into proactive mode. We’re eating. Then, I’ll clean up…. From what to pack first to how to get Erika into the car, Flynne decided everything but the most important thing. How to get Erika to cooperate. That would take some serious skills.
She pulled a salad bag from the fridge, rinsed off the lettuce, and dug in the freezer. Chicken nuggets might not be as good as grilled, but they’d both need protein.
She’d just popped a dozen into the microwave when Erika’s moan reached her. “Flynne?”
“You okay?”
“Get dizzy when I sit up. I think you overdid the tranqs.”
Heat flooded her as she peered around the corner and saw Erika sitting with her head in her hands. Flynne raced to grab a glass of water. The way Erika grabbed it and held on with a death grip unsettled her enough to prompt a confession. “It might be the half an Ambien you had after you fell asleep.”
“You…” Erika growled the word into about six syllables. “You gave me more drugs?”
“Drink? I think you need to flush your body. And you wouldn’t stop ranting, so I thought maybe it would just put you to sleep while I figured out…”
The rest of the words faded as the car she’d been watching started up and did a U-turn. Five seconds later, right in front of the Detweiler’s house, it paused. Flynne jumped back behind the curtains and pointed to Erika. “Get down.”
Erika flopped over, spilling water all over herself, the floor, the couch, and the coffee table. “Ugh! What?”
Seconds passed until the lights grew bright enough to make it obvious that a car was coming from the other direction. “I can’t see without showing myself, but I think someone is coming this way. Hang on….”
A moment later, the first car made yet another U-turn and pulled up to the blue and brick house again. The woman flew from the car and met a guy at the end of the drive. “I think we’re clear,” Flynne continued her commentary as a kiss to rival all movie kisses commenced. “Either they haven’t seen each other for a while, or this is the beginning of a makeup-slash-make-out session.”
“Meanwhile, I’m drenched.”
The microwave beeped—probably for the tenth time. Flynne hadn’t even heard it. She grabbed one of the tranq guns from her backpack and went to cut the duct tape shackles she’d contrived for Erika’s ankles. “I’ll cut your wrists when we get to the bathroom. Go.”
“Do you know how creepy that sounds?” Erika groaned as she stood. “Don’t forget dry clothes. I’m not standing naked in a weird bathroom while you try to do fifty things at once.”
Despite her words, Flynne scooped up Erika’s duffel bag and carried it to the bathroom. There, she ripped the duct tape with her teeth.”
“I hope I got vomit on that.”
Flynne huffed. “Stop mocking me. I’m trying to help you.”
“Then get me to someone who could actually protect me if I really was in danger. This…” she wriggled her wrists at Flynne. “This doesn’t inspire confidence.”
The stress of the day combined with Erika’s total lack of appreciation for the exertions expended on her behalf and a dash of low blood sugar “hangriness.” The result was the tranq gun pointed at Erika’s gut. “Get changed.”
“You know it’ll take ten to twenty minutes for that to make a difference.”
“Probably eight to fifteen,” Flynne countered. “It’s probably not all out of your system.”
Erika shrugged. “It’s still not fast enough.”
The sneer that used to make Flynne’s cousins quake in their Keds didn’t faze Erika in the slightest—not until Flynne added, “No, but you won’t like the feeling of a tranq dart or two in your stomach.”
A flicker of something—was it surprise?—appeared in her eyes. The way Erika began stripping right there in front of her hinted she’d made her point. With that threat in her hip pocket, Flynne turned to go. “I’ll be in the kit
chen. Don’t try anything funny. Mona is totes big on cast iron, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“Wrong person.”
She turned back. “Huh?”
“Flynn gets the frying pan over the head—not the other way around.”
The words made no sense. “You’re just trying to confuse me.”
As Erika jerked a dry T-shirt over her head, she muttered, “In Tangled. Rapunzel uses the frying pan to protect herself from Flynn Ryder.” At Flynne’s blink, she added. “I’m the prisoner here, so that makes me Rapunzel. I get the frying pan. You get the goose egg.”
“Shut up and change your pants.” She stormed down the hall and would have felt rather proud of herself if Erika’s laughter hadn’t followed. This is soooo way harder than I thought.
Flynne knew about his penthouse at the Harbinger Building, so to ensure he actually slept, Mark went across town, almost into Westbury, to the Wexfield house. Property records showed it belonging to Ivy Trent—a name he’d stolen from an old Gene Kelly movie. Ivy Trent, however, was actually a DBA he used for a few private holdings he didn’t want traced to himself.
Privacy is under-appreciated in today’s world.
The moment he disarmed the interior alarm, the outdoor cameras were armed, and fifteen seconds later, a green light began flashing—the surveillance crew was on it. Blissful sleep awaited.
First, the gym. Two slow laps in the pool. Four moderate. Rest. Ten fast. Rest. Four moderate. Rest. Two slow. Mark clung to the side, panting. When his arms were willing to support him, he hoisted himself up and stepped into the corner shower. Hot water… shampoo and rinse. Warm water, soap up and rinse. Cold water—stand until he couldn’t take another drop.
With a thick terry robe around him and a towel to dry his hair, he made his way into the kitchen and peered into the fridge. Nothing looked tasty—nothing that wouldn’t take an hour to fix. “Protein shake it is.”
An hour after he arrived home, Mark climbed beneath the covers and snapped off the light. With a tap, the white noise machine came on at his usual low setting. Five minutes later, he bumped it up a few notches. Nothing worked.
Hashtag Rogue Page 4
