by V. R. Marks
She clicked on the picture and gasped. Matheson sat on a folding chair, his hands presumably cuffed behind his back, his ankle shackled with a heavy chain looped around a thick pipe. A black blindfold covered his eyes and the left corner of his lip was bloody and swollen.
It was a perfect re-enactment of the photo the kidnappers had sent to Abraham Morcos years ago.
"Carson," she called, as she clicked the mouse so the picture filled the monitor.
"The sheriff brought me up to speed –" Carson slid to a stop and gave a low whistle when he saw the picture. "Is that the guy who disappeared?"
"Phillip Matheson, hostage. Presumed alive. Let's hope the video confirms it."
The panic he'd heard in her voice when the calls had come in was gone. He had the distinct impression he was watching the aloof expertise that earned her the 'queen' moniker.
Over her shoulder he watched the twenty or so seconds of video play out. The guy's chest rose and fell in steady breaths but that was the only movement. The camera angle didn't change and there was no sound.
"What do you need?"
"Location, location, location. I'm hoping you can tell me where this is. It has to be close." She patted the space beside her on the couch. "I'm trying to unravel the message within the picture."
"You think there's a code embedded in the picture?"
"No, that would be too easy. Everything is staged just like the fiasco in Yemen, but the tight time frame means Matheson is close," she insisted.
"Did you send this up the line?"
As if on cue, a little forward arrow appeared beside the message thread. "Mr. FBI just did it."
"That's creepy."
"More than a little. It's going to be a real pain in the ass erasing my cyber footprints when this is over."
Assuming that comment didn't require any reply from him, he focused on the picture instead.
"Sheriff Cochran said the ransom note was in a foreign language."
"Russian," she answered, scrolling to the top of the email. "Just like this one. Requesting an audience with the queen in exchange for Matheson's release."
"Can I zoom in?"
"Go to town." She nudged a mouse his way.
"Tell me what you can about the Yemen rescue."
"Recovery," she corrected, pointing at the picture. "It was that, exactly that. Only the Morcos heir was the hostage rather than a U.S. citizen."
"Was the ransom the same?" He was trying to read the manufacturer's stamp on the pipe.
"Not even close." He heard the soft rasp as she tugged her pendant across the chain. "That time the kidnappers asked for an obscene amount of money and a specific cache of surface to air missiles. Everyone, Abe included, assumed the kidnappers were trying to break into the black market trade. All of the intel pointed unerringly to a small group of bold and desperate young Russians trying to impress a boss."
"Where did you find him?"
"He was in a warehouse near the docks, looking just like that. Geez, even the blow to the mouth is the same." She leaned closer, her leg rubbing against his. "Where's Sumter?"
"Everywhere." He promised himself there would be time later to address the attraction arcing like a live wire between them. "They supply most of the industrial iron work across the state."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Less than helpful." He reset the picture to normal, looking for the next area he wanted to study. "Charleston does serious container business if you think the kidnapper is trying to mimic the Yemen situation."
"I'm sure this is supposed to look just like that. Charleston is how far?"
"About three hours."
"Beware the obvious," she cautioned. "Back then we were right about the location, but not the perpetrator. This time it has to be Morcos pulling the strings, but I don't know where the hostage is." She cracked her knuckles. "I want this guy on a platter. What happens if we tell them to go look for Matheson in Charleston?"
"They won't let you tag along, if that's what you're asking."
"No. Ross made that clear." She shook her head. With a swipe and click, she brought up her email inbox again. "I'm just brainstorming here. If we tell them we think the hostage is in Charleston, Ross will go. Someone from the FBI will go – uh oh."
"What now?"
"The FBI dork just made the Charleston suggestion." She pointed to the small instant messaging window in the corner of her screen. "Creepy and annoying."
"Finish your thought."
"First Bart, on the mission that night. Now Matheson."
"He was on the mission too?"
She nodded.
"You think the perp is targeting everyone who failed to save the hostage?"
"My personal theory is the perp then is the same perp this time around. Bakr Morcos has no more concern for this hostage than he did for his nephew." She waved her hand as if erasing a board. "One issue at a time, please. Think like a bad guy. If the 'queen', assuming that's me, is your goal, then sending the people organizing her protection out of town gives you better access."
"Divide and conquer."
"It's a proven strategy."
"They have to get through me first."
"Thanks," she said absently. "Whoever did the kidnapping had to have the holding site staged and ready, just waiting for the order to grab a hostage. I think Matheson is being held closer to Haleswood than Charleston."
"But no matter who goes to Charleston, no one's calling off the security team guarding you. You're safe as long as you're in the house."
She gave a snort. "We're not dealing with people who play fair and stand down just because there's an obstacle. You're talking to a woman who ran analysis and gave operational support to a covert strike team. There are several quick and effective ways to get me out of this house if necessary."
He hoped they wouldn't have to put any evasive tactics into action. "Well, I know the area if we do get flushed out."
"Great. Do you know where this kind of place might be in your area?"
"The iron work bugs me."
"Why?"
"Because it looks like a shut off valve. The flooring and the joinings remind me of an old railroad box car." He used the mouse to zoom in again on the pipe. "It doesn't make sense. Who mounts a length of iron pipe in a box car?"
He studied the picture while she grumbled a monologue as she typed responses – and likely directions – to whoever was on the other end of the instant messaging window.
There was no evidence of natural light. Matheson's chair was positioned under a bare bulb. Box cars and containers were just that – boxes – not usually wired and outfitted unless they'd been repurposed. He did a mental run though Haleswood and the immediate area, trying to think like a kidnapper.
There was the old textile mill on the other side of Bishopville. Less chance of being seen out there, unless the kidnapper wanted witnesses. He slid a glance at Eva. With this case it felt like anything was possible. As a department, they'd been called out to deal with some drug issues and derelict behavior at the edge of the rail yard a couple years back, but he didn't remember an upright pipe in any of those out of service box cars.
"Idiots," she said, leaning back and smacking her knees. "They're sure it's a shipping container."
"It's not." It finally dawned on him. The drive in had repurposed some of the old rail cars when they lost a chunk of the building in a summer storm almost ten years ago. He reached for the phone and dialed the sheriff. "This is local."
"You're sure?"
"Pretty sure." He nodded. "It's the old drive-in theater." Her dark eyes went wide and bright with anticipation as he explained his reasoning to Sheriff Cochran.
"Let's go," she whispered.
He shook his head and ignored her frown as he listened to the rest of his orders. The sheriff confirmed that nothing had changed in regard to her protective detail outside and promised to let them know the moment they found Matheson.
While he went through the standard security checkl
ist, Eva's phone rang again. He hoped it was Ross. Hoped her boss said something to help him keep her inside the safety – relative safety – of Ruth's house.
"One last thing, sheriff." The one contingency they hadn't discussed was what he'd do, where they'd go, if they had to leave Ruth's house. Watching Eva work last night and this morning, he had to assume that despite everyone's efforts, her enemy was listening in. "My brother's coming in for a turkey hunt this weekend. His license is in my desk. Can you see he gets it?"
"Yeah, J.C. that'll be my top priority."
Carson winced at the scathing tone. He liked to think he wasn't typically such a dumbass, so the sheriff would put two and two together if Morcos forced them to run.
It wouldn't be the easiest hike. And he wouldn't want to take the chance without knowing how many men Morcos sent after her. He trusted the team on the perimeter, but all he had in the house was his 9mm service weapon.
Considering the routes and risks between Ruth's place and the plantation where he did most of his hunting, it took him a minute to hear Eva calling him back to the present situation.
"Hey. Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He gave her a smile, but knew it was weak. "Did you find something new?"
"The video is too steady to be hand held. It might be broadcasting the live feed to Morcos. Or whoever's behind this," she added without the reminder. "I might be able hack the signal."
She had a map of Haleswood and the outlying area on her monitor now. "This is the area around the drive-in right?"
He came closer. "That's it."
"Good." The screen changed. "There's a convenience store with security cameras right here."
A different area of the map popped up. "Think the kidnapper stopped for a twinkie?"
"We can only hope. Want to go ask?"
"No way. My orders are to keep you right here."
She shrugged. "It was worth a try."
"What next?"
Glancing up at him, she pulled a face. "To keep from pulling my hair out worrying over Matheson, I plan to hyper-analyze the picture and video while scanning the cyber universe for any trace of Abe or Bakr Morcos."
"All right." Most of that made sense to him. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Not planning to make a break for the drive-in?"
"You have the car keys."
"True. And you have a map."
"Also true. I should probably tell you I know how to hotwire a vehicle should the need arise."
"Duly noted," he said with a shake of his head. The woman amused him. There wasn't another word for it. "Please, don't."
"Since you asked nicely." Her eyes were on the monitor once more.
"I'm going to do a walk-through."
"Paranoid much?"
The way this was shaping up, he wasn't afraid to admit it. "Definitely. Fits the circumstances. Holler if you need me."
"Will do."
Chapter 7
Eva studied the photo and video, working through the angles, comparing present to past as the rescue team assembled. She'd tried a few things, but hadn't broken into the live feed signal yet.
Uncomfortable didn't begin to cover how she was feeling. No one enjoyed rehashing their mistakes, but if she screwed up again, Matheson would pay the ultimate price. Thinking of his family, she sent messages and warnings to Ross, trusting him to be the voice of reason in the planning. It seemed unlikely that a full team of bad guys had managed to slip unnoticed into the area, so some things would be different.
What worried her were the things that would be the same.
If this was meant to be a re-enactment, and it certainly looked like it from her perspective, how would one or two people simulate the unexpected firepower of ten gunmen?
Someone – Bakr Morcos in her opinion – wanted something. From her. To drive her crazy? Too vague. To punish her? That didn't make sense either. He should have been grateful for her mistake because it gave him what he needed – death to the heir who stood between him and control of a corporation with global influence.
"Why now, Bakr?"
Years ago, she'd been told her suspicions of Bakr's involvement in the kidnapping had been explained to Abraham and dismissed out of hand. She wondered if believing that story made her as gullible and vulnerable as Abe Morcos appeared to be when it came to his brother's motives.
According to the shrink she'd been required to see after that mission, she needed to let go, accepting what was out of her control. She'd done her job to the best of her ability… blah, blah, blah.
It sure as hell didn't feel that way.
"Why now?"
She'd pulled everything useful from the picture and video. Opening the email again, she hovered the mouse over the reply button. Would a straight-up reply fulfill the royal 'audience' he wanted?
Tempting as it was to buck the order to avoid direct contact, she stayed the urge. For now.
She went back to the obituary. Didn't matter how it was faked. Didn't matter that a recent search had turned up pictures of his wife and children mourning. Why it was faked was the real question.
The Morcos corporation dealt with contracts in the billions – both legitimately and through the supply and demand of weapons. Abraham's moral compass might not point directly north, but he had a certain integrity Bakr lacked.
Eva leaned away from the FBI system as if it might read her thoughts and intervene before she could act. How to distract the minion ghosting her so she could find a way into the Morcos systems?
Public record. She'd searched every related keyword to find news on Abe and his supposed demise. Was there a way in through the front door, so to speak?
She set to work, finding much of the territory familiar as she'd provided the background when they were planning the mission to rescue Abe's son.
Soon she had a spreadsheet of births, deaths, weddings, and milestone projects. She had lists of close friends and primary business associates. She didn't burrow down any of the shadier Internet tunnels. Yet.
Since his son died, Abe had given much of his free time and a significant portion of his personal salary to children's charities.
She skimmed through images, making note of the same faces at nearly every event. His wife, his personal assistant, and his brother, Bakr.
Interesting.
She found a news report showing Abe's grieving widow, and was started by the implication that Bakr was also mourning there in family home. The source on the article was a spokesman for the family, so she didn't quite count it as independent corroboration, but it certainly made it tougher to prove Abe wasn't dead. Changing tactics, she left that avenue and focused on the assistant.
The woman, Amelia Sala, was hot – no surprise there – and competent, or she'd never have kept up with the multiple schedules a man like Abe maintained.
Eva was into what she considered her second layer of the background onion when she discovered Amelia was related to Mrs. Morcos.
"Way to keep it in the family," she murmured. "I bet you know everything."
She did a cursory search of the companies and charities most recently associated with Morcos in the news. Going back to the pictures, she fanned out her searches, matching names and faces with the businesses they represented.
Ready to go deeper, she hesitated. She couldn't be sure how much hacking the FBI would tolerate. More to the point, she wasn't in a hurry to expose her full range of skills. Using her 'powers' for good within the Army was one thing. She was a civilian now, whether her brain worked like one or not.
While she knew Special Agent Nichols and Ross went way back, she also knew there were limits to how many infractions Ross could force Nichols to overlook, even in these circumstances.
Turning over her options, she ditched the idea of ordering a new computer. Nichols would likely intercept the shipment. Ruth used a laptop and it was most often with her at the Midnight Rooster. She could snoop through Carson's gear, but she hadn't seen any evidence he'd brought any tech beyond his smart phon
e.
Besides, she wasn't supposed to be sneaking around. They expected her to cooperate and work in conjunction with the ghost in the FBI office.
Maybe it was time for the ghost to step up. Opening the chat window, she made her request, framed in pleasant, cooperative words. She even shared a valid, primary reason for her request.
When she was sure he was sufficiently distracted, she set off on a cyber journey to find the trail of bread crumbs Abraham Morcos had left behind.
* * *
Morcos reviewed the photos once more. The holding area and the staging of the hostage earned his full approval. The men hired for this task had carried out his instructions to the letter.
He wondered if her handlers would let her answer his invitation – if they would barter one brief conversation for another man's life.
Probably not.
If the roles were reversed, he wouldn't sacrifice his queen so early in the game.
He'd been told the email went out on schedule, but she had not answered him. Did she understand his proposal or had he overestimated her ability and influence?
How disappointing if their queen turned out to be nothing but an empty-headed poster child for equality in the American Army.
He'd thought of that angle – thought of every angle of course – before he'd made the first move.
If she didn't have the information he needed, she was disposable immediately.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, growing impatient for his plans to bear fruit. He fought the urge to make the call and speed things up, to dispense with the game and simply take what was his sooner rather than later.
Closing his eyes, he envisioned the ideal outcome, knew it would not happen if he left any loose ends.
His brother, Abraham was gone and the family in mourning. Already they looked to him for comfort as they dealt with the shock and despair of loss. Soon they would turn to him for guidance and grant him control of the company he coveted. He would steer them into a time of unprecedented prosperity.
But first the queen… she was the last loose end.
