AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19)

by John W. Mefford

  My eyes widened as I looked at Brad, who quickly said, “It’s not her blood. She helped one of the wounded.”

  I released a breath and went back to my phone. “Alex, tell me what’s going on.”

  7

  Alex

  I put a finger in my ear, trying to drown out the whooping sounds from the police cars around me. The command center, housed on the first floor of an office building near the campus of Boston College, was controlled chaos. I was standing in an interior hallway. I’d yet to speak with Randy—he was too damn busy to meet with the lowly likes of me. Of course, he did have time to take center stage at a press conference. I’d watched from the side as the dipshit stroked his beaver-like mustache while reading his prepared statement. He also took a few questions, but his demeanor came across as almost uncaring—as though this were a minor hit-and-run and the bad guys would be caught in short order. No problem… all because Randy was in charge.

  His ego entirely outweighed his capability. Why didn’t anyone above my pay grade see it?

  His approach to managing the task force, starting with the press conference, wasn’t just bizarre—it showed incompetence. Yes, keeping calm was essential. Letting the public know that we had the resources to find the people behind this attack was also important. But people also needed to believe that their law-enforcement leaders had compassion for the dead and wounded, for the community in general, who were experiencing the anxiety inherent in this horrific attack—a second one in just a few years, no less. It was a leadership role that very few could pull off. Randy certainly wasn’t the right guy for the job.

  “Ozzie, can you hear me?” I yelled.

  “I may be partially deaf, but I can hear you loud and clear. You don’t have to yell. Brad and Erin just walked in.”

  “Don’t be alarmed by the blood.”

  There was a pause. “Yeah, uh, she just walked in. It’s, uh…hold on.”

  The door to the war room opened and, from my position in the hallway, I could see Randy in a huddle with four other men, likely discussing evidence, the types of bombs that were used, assembling video footage, talking to witnesses. For all I knew, they’d already developed a shortlist of suspects and were preparing to make arrests. I wanted in on that huddle.

  Just before the door shut, Randy looked up, and we locked eyes. It was brief, but typical Randy—he had this cheesy smile, as if he were relishing his position of power.

  I wheeled around and leaned against the wall as a group of officers rushed in, one of whom had a bloodied bandage wrapped around his forearm. It was like a war zone, where even the wounded were brave enough to keep up the fight until the bad guys were behind bars.

  What about the woman who was behind bars—Maya?

  “Sorry, Alex. Ezzy had just walked into the living room from taking a nap, and she kind of flipped out when she saw Erin.”

  “Ezzy was taking another nap?”

  “Yeah, just said she needed some more rest.”

  Ezzy, a native of Guatemala, was my nanny, but she’d grown to be more of a cross between a wise, old friend and the mother I never really had. She was family. She’d discovered a heart issue a couple of years back—a leaky valve, as she put it. I thought her medication had stabilized things. She was a lot of things, but “good patient” wasn’t one of them. We needed to get her back to see the doctor. Not today, of course, but soon.

  “Luke doing okay?”

  “He’s fine. Came downstairs for a second a while ago, asked a couple of questions about why everyone on Snapchat was freaking out. I tried explaining, but he held up a hand and cut me off.” Ozzie chuckled. “Apparently, he’d just been called out in his gaming community, and he had urgent business to take care of. He’s back in his room.”

  “Figures. Wonder if we’ll ever get that kid weaned off that shit.”

  “Alex…I don’t know what to say. I’m just stunned by all of this. I must have missed something.”

  “It’s not your fault, Ozzie. A few weeks ago, you were working spousal-cheating cases as a PI down in Austin, and then we pulled you into this crap. I know Jerry meant well. But you did manage to uncover a terrorist plan.”

  “Maybe. I guess.”

  “What do you mean, ‘you guess’?”

  “I thought when I found that message board and eventually identified Maya as a person of interest, that we’d done something great…that we’d helped save lives, even though no one in the public would ever know. I thought I knew what your life has been like, why you’d joined the FBI. And then this morning…it’s like someone played a cruel trick on us. Hell, on me.”

  I tapped a finger to my chin but didn’t say anything. My mind had gone off in other directions.

  “Hey, Alex. Are you okay?”

  I sighed. “Sorry. Just thinking about everything, mostly about Nick right now.”

  “Nick? What happened?”

  I explained how he’d been injured and was still in surgery, his life hanging in the balance.

  “Oh, God. Alex. I’m so sorry. Did anyone call Antonio?”

  “Stan did, yeah,” I said, my thoughts momentarily flashing back to a clip of Nick trudging through mud on a cold winter day during an investigation a couple of years ago. I remember thinking how funny he looked, pulling his legs upward with each step, his expensive dress shoes caked in mud, all while cussing like a crazy man. Later, though, he’d laughed it off. Such a good sport. We’d shared a lot of those times together.

  “And Stan wasn’t injured?”

  “Said he was thirty seconds behind Nick.” A quick idea came to mind: what if they’d agreed to run together the whole time, instead of being so damn competitive? Nick would have avoided injury, and he’d be standing next to me right now, ready to go hunt down the people who’d pulled off this horrific act.

  If Nick heard your idea, Alex, he’d laugh in your face. You’re complaining about someone else being overly competitive? Sheesh.

  Nick. I swallowed back a lump in my throat.

  “Ozzie, get to a room with no one in it,” I said.

  “Why? Forget that. Hold on.”

  I began counting to ten to keep my mind from wandering off into more Nick memories. I had to count to ten twice before Ozzie came back on the line.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Brad all of a sudden took off. I guess to join you. Then Ezzy ushered the kids outside to play kickball, and I got caught up in the middle of it all.”

  “Brad isn’t joining me. Neither is Gretchen.”

  “Uh, okay. Something is off. What am I missing, Alex?”

  “Jerry had to make a deal. Randy asked for Brad, our best intelligence analyst, and Gretchen, our best staff operations specialist, in return for allowing me to be attached to the investigation.”

  “Attached? What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

  “Who knows right now—I’ll try to get as much information as I can from Randy. As much as he’ll allow me to get. But I seriously doubt if he’ll take my input. You know that old saying that children should be seen and not heard?”

  “I think my Dad said that a few times, but my brother and I just laughed it off. Why?”

  “That’s what he thinks about women, and I might be at the top of that list.”

  “That sucks. Not sure why they put such a dick in charge of this thing.”

  “Don’t even get me started.”

  He chuckled. “Thanks for updating me on Nick. When will we know how he’s doing?”

  “Stan’s at the hospital. Antonio will be there soon.”

  “Gotcha. Let me know if you hear something, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, and…you know, if Randy gets to be a pain in the ass, you can call me up to vent. Or even to just bounce ideas off me. I’d like to help.”

  Someone across the hall came out and slammed the door so hard the hallway windows rattled. He was wearing a brown suit and had an entourage with him. The governor? Instinct kicked in, and I stood straight,
as if I were at attention. The man and his group went into the room where Randy and his team were set up.

  “Look, Ozzie, that’s actually why I’m calling.” I huffed out breath, trying to figure out the best way to approach this topic. I decided to just jump right in. “I know you’re extra cautious about Mackenzie; you don’t want her to worry and all that. I get it. You want to be safe, be there for her, especially after everything you guys have been through.” I paused.

  “Okayyyy. What’s the problem, Alex?”

  “Right. So…I don’t want to put you in danger, either. But I think I probably will need someone to, as you said, bounce things off of.”

  “I’m flattered, Alex. I can fling theoretical bullshit against the wall as good as anyone. What do you want to run by me?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Wasn’t expecting that lead-off question. But I’m doing good.”

  “Good, or just okay?”

  “No triathlons for a while, but I’m getting stronger every day, doing my in-home rehab. Even started doing a few pushups—don’t tell the doctor.”

  “With your broken arm?”

  A moment of silence. “Don’t call the medical cops on me. I have to do something. I can’t just sit around and stare at the leaves turning green.”

  “Good. Take an Uber to the new FBI office in Chelsea. I’ll meet you there.”

  “But the task force is headquartered near the race site, right?”

  “I’ll try to get what I can from Randy—like I said earlier, I’m expecting to be rebuffed. But Jerry has given me carte blanche.”

  “To do what?”

  “Whatever it takes. Get ready to work, buddy.”

  8

  Six weeks ago

  The woman closed the outside door to the kitchen and set her box on the table. After tossing her raincoat over the side of a chair, she cupped her hands and blew warm air into them.

  Then she heard it. The banging against metal. The monkey-like squeals. The usual routine. She should have been used to it by now. At least with Number Two. He was the most excitable, the one who probably should have been locked up in a cage long ago.

  “Society knows nothing of its ills,” she said aloud as she reached for the box. “But no need for anyone to sound a healthcare alarm. I’ve got it all under control.”

  Control, indeed. She put a hand to her chest and let loose a long chuckle. Then she got to work. While unloading the box, she whistled an old Beatles tune. She was halfway through “Here Comes the Sun” when she realized the reflexive nature of her behavior. She’d spent many of her teenage years working the docks. Her boss had been an avid Beatles fan and insisted on blaring the songs across the outdoor speakers as she toiled away during the summer heat. She’d heard every Beatles hit, even the solo stuff from McCartney, Lennon, and Harrison, hundreds of times. She’d memorized every lyric, every note.

  Not because she loved the Beatles. She didn’t, really. It was more of a Pavlovian response. Back on those docks, her boss would be on constant patrol, making sure everyone was working at optimal efficiency. If he even sensed someone was sluffing off—which he considered a lack of appreciation for the “honor” of working there while soaking up the infusion of culture—he would become unhinged. He threw crates, swatted at the workers, took away earned wages. So, oddly enough, the woman unwittingly associated the act of whistling a Beatles tune with the feeling of safety. In other words, if she was whistling, she was working. And if she was working, she was safe. A reflexive move to ensure survival.

  She could still hear the shrieks of Number Two, but that didn’t alter her course. While whistling the cheerful song, she unpacked the cans and packages of food. Next came two books, each more than eight hundred pages long; these would help her pass the time during her stay at the facility. Finally, she pulled out three plastic-bound packets—what she called “dossiers.” Each of the three dossiers contained the exact same information, except for the last page. That page was personalized to each of her subjects. The dossiers were succinctly written and factual…well, at least the facts from her perspective. And that was really the only perspective that mattered anymore. She put those on the counter and then tapped her finger on top of the dossier for Number Two. “Perhaps you are ready, at least in a small sample size.”

  She made a batch of steamed rice and then grabbed the pail from outside. After pulling three bowls from a cabinet and adding in the rice, she poured the contents from the pail over each of the three bowls. With Number Two’s dossier in one hand and a bowl in the other, she walked through two wings of the facility. The moment she entered the grand room, Number Two literally went ape shit.

  She had a good idea why, but she gave no response verbally or through body language. Unfazed by the racket, she walked over to the cage that housed the subject inside of the fireplace. The boy, covered in soot, didn’t stop rattling the cage or hooting and hollering. The noise sounded like he was in pain, as if a hot branding iron were being pressed against his back.

  Another thought for another day. Then again, those types of techniques—whether it be waterboarding or other extreme measures of torture—were often overused by those with less patience. The CIA, the Mossad, small terrorist groups, even the typical demented killer too often demanded immediate results and were willing to forgo any long-term loyalty in the process.

  Stupidity, she’d come to learn, was completely unbiased. It afflicted those with wealth and power just as much as those without schooling or common sense.

  She sat in front of the fireplace and held the bowl of rice about a foot beyond Number Two’s reach. The dossier was on the floor next to her.

  The boy slowed, eased back on his tantrum, and gazed at the bowl. Once calm, his wide eyes didn’t blink.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  The boy knew the main content, but he wanted affirmation. Nice start to the conversation.

  “It’s steamed rice, and it’s still warm,” the woman said.

  “What else is in it?” he asked, twitching his nose.

  “Eggs. They’re uncooked and very old.”

  Number Two’s eyes shifted from the woman to the bowl and then back to the woman. “Have I told you that you’re the kindest person I’ve ever known?”

  The woman smiled on the inside. “Not today, you haven’t.”

  “Well, you are. You’re the kindest person ever. And I really mean that.” He paused, glancing at the bowl for a quick second. Then his eyes came back to her. “You know I’m speaking the truth, right?”

  “I believe you,” she said. Number Two’s tongue was so coarse, his lips so cracked that she could literally hear him licking his lips.

  She tingled inside.

  “Are you going to let me live another day?”

  “I’ve been leaning that way, yes.”

  Number Two nodded at the bowl. “And will you allow me to eat that bowl of food?”

  “It has rotten eggs soaked into it.”

  “So that means ‘yes’?”

  The woman paused, set the bowl down, and then picked up the dossier and began to read the first page. She made sure the look on her face showed keen interest. A minute passed, and then she turned the page and continued reading.

  “What are you reading?” Number Two asked.

  “Something that is very important to me, to my life. It has had a great impact on who I’ve become and what values I hold very near and dear to my heart.”

  “Can I read it? I’d love to better understand what’s important to you.”

  The woman looked off toward a corner of the room and held the pose for a few seconds. Then she returned her gaze to the boy. “Do you want to read the dossier or have the food first?”

  Number Two scratched his face, his eyes cast downward, as if he were contemplating the most important decision in his life. The woman waited patiently, resisting the temptation to move or blow warm air into her hands.

  Finally, the boy lifted his head
. “I truly appreciate your kindness…for allowing me to live another day, to have food. And yet, I’m so interested in learning more about your life. Even from what little I know, it seems quite fascinating.”

  Fascinating. The woman was nearly astounded at the lengths Number Two would go to win her over.

  “But I really do enjoy your cooking. Could I have the meal first and then follow that up with some reading?”

  “Yes.” The woman slid the bowl closer but pulled it back just before the boy’s fingers touched it. “On one condition.”

  “Yes, Pluto. Anything.”

  The woman picked up the dossier and ripped the first page from the binder. She slipped the paper through the iron bars. “You must memorize this page by tomorrow.”

  Number Two smiled. “That won’t be a problem. I’ll enjoy every minute of it. Thank you.”

  The woman slid the bowl closer. The boy grabbed it and used his fingers to scoop up the food and scarf it down. He ate the entire contents and was licking the bowl in no time, just like a dog.

  The boy set the bowl outside the cage—one of the house rules—and then wiped his mouth on his bare arm. He picked up the paper, tilted it toward the soft glow of light coming from the other side of the room, and began to read.

  Lifting to a standing position, she stared at Number Two as his eyes scoured the page. This was going better than she had imagined. But there was something else she hadn’t expected—this sudden feeling of exuberance at her experiment, watching it all play out.

  It was time to celebrate. After tending to the other two subjects, she’d go pour herself a nice glass of merlot and read her book.

  9

  Present day—Alex

  I closed my eyes and focused on the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. Anything to take my mind off the five-second phone call with Stan.