by Andrea Kane
“Hi, Emma. Hi, Yoda,” Hutch responded, having long since accustomed himself to Ryan’s omniscient creation.
“Good evening,” Yoda responded. “The temperature in the brownstone is seventy-two degrees.”
Hutch chuckled. Yoda always informed him of the indoor temperature, ever since the first time Hutch had commented that it was a cold night and he was keeping his coat on.
“Not to worry, Yoda. I’m not wearing a jacket.”
“A wise idea,” Yoda responded. “Emma often turns up the thermostat against my better judgement. I specifically keep it at the correct level.”
Emma made an irritated sound. “I sit near the door, Yoda. I’m the one who gets blasted with drafts.” She glanced up as Casey reached the bottom step. “Thank goodness. Maybe you can tell Yoda to stop pestering me.”
“I don’t pester, Emma. I state facts.”
Casey grinned. “Can’t argue with that one. But, Yoda, it’s fine. I can attest to the fact that Agent Hutchinson is warm enough.” She shot Hutch a teasing grin.
“On that note, I’m going home.” Emma went back to her desk and gathered her things. “You two have fun.”
“We’re working,” Casey responded with a frown. Emma was too young and too new at FI to overstep her bounds.
Emma heard the note of disapproval in her boss’s voice and immediately dropped the subject. “Then good luck with your work. Night.” She headed out the door.
Casey turned to Hutch. “Hey.” She smiled at him—that soft, intimate smile that no one else ever saw.
“Hey back.” The look in his eyes said he’d rather take her to bed than to work, but he was resigned to the fact that he’d have to wait. “Where do you want to work?”
“Let’s go up to my apartment. I have everything spread out in the kitchen, along with my humming laptop.”
“Lead the way.”
Fifteen minutes later, Hutch was studying Claire’s drawings, his forehead creased in concentration.
“I haven’t worked the organized crime squads,” he said. “But a couple of my buddies have. These are definitely Russian gang symbols.”
“I looked up the meanings,” Casey replied, pointing at her computer monitor. “The birds flying over the horizon are a symbol of freedom. The sailing ship on the shooter’s right forearm means he’s a roamer. And the bull is a sign of cruelty and rage.”
“Not just cruelty and rage. The bull’s the symbol of a hitman, the guy who does all the dirty work.” Hutch angled his head toward Casey. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what this case is about? Confidentiality or not, it sounds too dangerous. You’re talking about major criminal enterprise here.”
Casey sighed. “I wish I could. This case is snowballing into something much bigger than I ever anticipated. But all I can share with you is a theoretical overview. And not just because of FI’s confidentiality agreement, since I’m fairly sure our clients are desperate enough to have me expand the role of our discreet FBI agent to help solve this thing.”
“Then let me guess. You’re going to be weaving in and out of what’s legal to get this case solved.” Hutch rubbed the back of his neck, scowling as he did. “That’s what worries me here, Case. And that’s not my ethical integrity talking. It’s my fear for your safety. If you’re dealing with the Russian mob, you’re in way over your heads. Marc is the only one of your team members who’s remotely trained to handle this.”
Casey couldn’t deny what Hutch was saying. She played the situation out in her mind and came to a decision.
“I’m going to take two steps toward containing this. First, I’m going to get our clients’ permission to more fully open up to you. I won’t tell you any of the details of our investigation that would compromise you or force you to cross a line. Second, I will tell you now that this whole Russian crime angle just came into the picture today. If it turns out to be a key factor in the puzzle, I’ll have Patrick arrange for security detail for each of us. I won’t put my team in danger.”
“Not just your team. You.”
Casey smiled, reaching out to entwine her fingers with Hutch’s. “I’m part of the team. So, yes, me, too. Don’t worry. You and I are finally creating an ‘us.’ It’s the wrong time to put my life in jeopardy.”
That last part didn’t please Hutch at all. “There’s never a right time to put your life in jeopardy.”
“I’ll remind you of that when it’s your ass on the line, Agent Hutchinson.”
Hutch didn’t contradict Casey, but the look in his eyes was pure guard dog. “Touché. Then I guess we’ll have to keep each other in line.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Patrick was at his home watching TV with Adele when his phone rang.
He glanced at the number and then answered the call ASAP. “Something happening, John?”
John Nickels was one of the best and most trusted security guards Patrick hired to assist him. He had a solid bunch of guys he contacted on an ongoing basis. They consisted of retired FBI agents and police officers, all experts in their field, all selected by Patrick, all of whom reported directly to him.
Tonight, John was the security detail watching Shannon, and Joseph Buzak, another of Patrick’s A-plus guys, was watching Lisa and Miles.
“Shannon’s at the Upper Montclair Starbucks,” John said without preamble. “There’s additional activity in the area. Not the usual sedan that follows her around. A new van that smacks of more than just surveillance. I don’t know what they’ve got in there, but I’m getting a bad feeling.”
Patrick’s spine straightened. “Then move in and have a cup of coffee with her. Keep her calm, keep her safe. I’m on my way.”
Chicago, Illinois
Ryan had parked on a side street where he could monitor Otter’s progress. Marc was perched beside him in the back of the van, watching as Ryan’s program superimposed the cell phone tower signal strength data on a Google map of the downtown Chicago business district. The program drew three intersecting circles on the map.
“You might be a genius, but I know what that is,” Marc said. “A Venn diagram. I learned it in grade school. You were still in diapers.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Except I’m doing this with formulas and algorithms, not chalk and erasers.” He continued to watch and concentrate.
A few minutes later, he punched the air in mock salute, yelling, “Yes!” at the same time.
That didn’t particularly impress Marc—not yet. He’d seen and heard this ritual many times from Ryan. Sometimes it was a major breakthrough, and other times it was just ego celebration.
“So, what does your primal chest-thumping mean this time?”
“It means I’ve tracked Jim’s key contact to within half a block, and, judging by the buildings I can see in Google Earth, it’s down to one building. Number one twenty-five South Wacker, near West Adams St. Let me see what Google has on the building.”
Ryan entered some information. A few minutes later, he asked, “Hey, Marc, you speak Russian. What does all this stuff mean?”
Marc leaned forward, read through the stuff, and started chuckling.
“What’s so funny?” Ryan demanded.
“Seems like this building has a Russian software company as a major tenant. They hire hot, young female software engineers straight from Russia and have them sell software projects to male engineers. It’s a simple but effective sales model. The building has other tenants, mostly Russian companies. The coffee bar in the lobby is standing room only in the morning. I guess girl watching is a universal sport.”
A corner of Ryan’s mouth lifted. “A nice perk for us. Early-morning field trip tomorrow?”
Starbucks
Upper Montclair, New Jersey
Shannon was sipping her vanilla latte and nibbling on her brownie, trying to relax on her first solo excursion outside the apartment. She’d begged for this little bit of space, wholeheartedly agreeing to have one of Patrick’s men watching her every move as she w
alked the bustling suburban streets of Upper Montclair. Being holed up in Lisa’s small apartment, besieged by her worsened panic—now that Julie wasn’t Julie and Upper Montclair wasn’t the safe haven she’d run to—was worse than being holed up in her house in Chicago. Lisa’s apartment was small, claustrophobic, and more than Shannon could bear. She was suffocating, and the isolation was only making things worse. She needed to breathe.
The walk had helped. So had being a part of humanity again.
Setting down her drink, she took a bite of her brownie and glanced around. People watching was always cool and usually distracting. That helped, too. It also made her a little homesick. Quickly, she sent another reassuring text to her mom, promising her that everything was fine, including her health.
She started when a tall, broad-shouldered man in his midfifties with thick graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a black sports jacket and slacks, sat down across from her, a cup of hot coffee in his hand. She knew who he was. John Nickels. Patrick Lynch had introduced him when he’d started being her security guard. But the two of them had never talked beyond that first meeting, and he always kept his distance.
“Mr. Nickels?” she asked in confusion.
“Hi, Shannon.” John gave her a paternal smile. “I need you to act like I’m your father or your uncle—someone close and caring, definitely not a predator who’s trying to pick up a sixteen-year-old girl.”
Bewildered or not, Shannon giggled.
“Good girl,” he said. “Now I want you to keep drinking your latte and munching on that delicious-looking brownie while you listen to what I’m saying, without looking scared. Remember that I’m here to protect you, and that keeping you safe is my number one priority. Nothing is going to happen to you while you’re under my protection.”
“Okay.” Shannon paled a bit, but she stayed put and took another fierce bite of brownie. “Is someone watching us?”
John frowned, torn between candor and making sure Shannon didn’t lose control, blow his cover, and endanger her life.
“I think so, yes,” he replied carefully. “But you know you’re going to be all right with me.”
A tiny nod was her response.
It was reassuring enough to make him continue—not that there was any other choice. John had to get Shannon out of here and safely back to Lisa’s apartment.
“There’s a van parked in the municipal lot behind us that looks suspicious to me,” he said. “It showed up shortly after you did. It hasn’t moved in an hour, and the only sign of activity I’ve seen, other than the fact that the car is still idling, is the burly thug who’s feeding the meter. He alone sets off warning bells in my head. I could be wrong, but my instincts say otherwise. Just to be on the safe side, you’re going to leave here with me and go directly back to the apartment. I’ll walk you inside and check out the place. Then I’ll stand outside the door, just in case. Mr. Lynch will be arriving shortly thereafter, and he’ll keep an eye on the building and make sure the van isn’t hanging around. If it is, he’ll take care of it. Does all that make sense?”
“Yes,” Shannon managed, trying hard not to break down. “Do you think they’re here to kill me?”
“I think they’re here because they’re scared. You talked to the Chicago Police. They want to know what was said and how much the cops know. So they’re on high alert.”
John’s gaze darted quickly around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. But the loud chatter and the even louder music ensured that they weren’t. “I’m not trying to alarm you,” he said. “I just want you to realize how serious this might be, and stay close beside me when we walk to my car. Again, act as if I’m your dad or your uncle. Chat about how much you’re enjoying spending time with Julie. Tell me how cool her gym is, and how Miles is helping you with your homework. We’ll be in the car in three minutes, and on our way.”
Shannon couldn’t eat another bite. She pushed aside her brownie and picked up her latte with a trembling hand. “What if they follow us?”
“Then we’ll know that I’m right. But they won’t get near you—not with me accompanying you. I don’t think they’ll even make an attempt.” John shot her a lighthearted smile. “I’m a pretty scary-looking guy when I want to be.”
And I’m armed, he thought silently. They’ll see that, if need be.
Shannon took a last gulp of latte—as if that alone would give her the guts she needed to pull this off—and set down the empty cup.
“Should we go now?” she asked. “Or is it better if we stay awhile?”
John glanced briefly toward the rear of the coffee shop, mentally gauging the path they’d take once they walked around back. He then looked back at Shannon. “Slowly, wrap up the rest of your brownie,” he instructed. “We’ll toss our cups and head out front, walking at a brisk pace around back. My car is a dark blue sedan, parked four rows back. The van is gray, and it’s two rows and several parking spaces closer to Starbucks. When I headed into the building, it was idling. Let’s see if it still is, and what they do when they see me escorting you out. Just take my lead. Walk with me to my car, talking the way I said, and get in. Don’t even glance their way. Lock your door manually. I’ll take care of the rest.”
With shaking hands, Shannon wrapped her brownie up in four napkins. She could have asked for another pastry bag, but her legs felt like water, and just getting from here to Mr. Nickels’ car would take all her reserves. She’d have to rev herself up, force herself to be upbeat and chatty.
Right now, that felt impossible.
“Come on.” John’s big smile helped, as he rose and took the brownie from her. “I’ll carry this. I promise not to take a bite.”
A small smile curved her lips. “I trust you.”
“Good. Remember that.” He took her arm in a paternal fashion, guided her toward the door, and pushed it open. “So how’s that world history assignment going?” he asked as they began the endless walk around back of the building. “Comparing today’s family unit with the dynamics of the post-World War II family sounds pretty overwhelming to me.”
Shannon looked up at him in surprise. “You have kids,” she murmured in surprise.
“Besides you?” John replied quietly, reminding her of their play-acting roles. “Two in high school and one in college. I’m not just great at my job. I’m a super dad, too.” He squeezed her arm. “Now get back in character. Answer what I asked you.”
Shannon blinked as she processed the fact that Mr. Nickels was a real person. He had a life. He even had kids. Somehow that made this a little easier.
“Shannon?” he prompted her in a normal tone. “Please don’t tell me that your silence means you haven’t touched the assignment.”
“I’m halfway through it,” Shannon improvised. “I’ve been doing a lot of online research so I can really impress my tutor, Ms. Cosner. Julie’s friend, Miles, is helping me. He’s a computer genius.”
All that was true, which made this charade much easier. “Ms. Cosner wasn’t very happy with my decision to take a few weeks off from school. But she understood how messed up I was after my accident and the surgery.”
Gently, John touched Shannon’s shoulder. “How’s the pain today?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes it hurts a lot. Sometimes it’s okay. I’ll get back on track with my physical therapy again soon, I promise.”
“Good.” John nodded in approval. “In the meantime, your mother made your next cardiologist appointment.” Deep concern laced his tone. “Have you been taking your meds and eating healthfully? A brownie for breakfast doesn’t exactly thrill me.”
“I always take my meds,” Shannon answered truthfully. “And the brownie was a one-time thing. Julie keeps on top of me about that. I eat the same good-for-me foods I did when I was training, plus I go through the exercise routine Dr. Schyler prescribed every day.” She swallowed. “He made it perfectly clear that it’s the only way I’m going to lead a normal life.”
“I’m s
o sorry, honey.” John’s pained response wasn’t staged. It was real. “But we’ll tackle this as a family, and we’ll win.”
He sounded so much like her own father that tears filled Shannon’s eyes. At this point, pretending was easy. “Thanks, Dad,” she managed. “I know we will.”
“We’re almost there,” Mr. Nickels muttered, his words yanking Shannon back to reality. “And I don’t see anyone watching us on foot. So my guess is they’re both still in the van.” He guided her around the bend and toward the parking lot. “You’re doing great.
“I want to hear about Julie’s gym while we drive,” he said aloud. “From what you told us on the phone, it sounds pretty amazing.”
“It is.” The parking lot was busy, with lots of Starbucks patrons jumping in and out of their cars, arriving and departing. But Shannon spotted the gray van in her peripheral vision. It was still idling. She had to force herself not to peer inside to see if she recognized the thugs Mr. Nickels had described.
“The car’s over here,” John said, pointing. “We can call Mom on our way home. She’d love that.”
“Sure.” It was all Shannon could manage. Playing house was over. Now she was face-to-face with her worst fears. Other than idling, the van was totally devoid of activity. What were its occupants doing? What were they planning on doing?
Abruptly, the reality of it hit. They didn’t want to watch her. They wanted to take her.
She froze. “They’re here to kidnap me,” she said in a voice filled with paralyzed terror. “It’s the only way they’re going to get their answers.”
John said nothing. He just gripped Shannon’s arm tightly and nearly dragged her the few remaining steps to the car.
Thirty seconds later, she was in the passenger seat, door locked, and Mr. Nickels was sliding into the driver’s seat. He immediately pressed the lock button, and they were sealed inside.
“Kidnapping is a possibility.” He didn’t insult Shannon by waving away her fears. He just responded in a straightforward but soothing tone. “We don’t know for sure. On the other hand, they could just be low-level lookout, rather than strong-armers, which means they might have no clue what they’re going to do next. Remember, not every criminal is a brain surgeon. In fact, few of them are.”
