Chapter Twenty-Eight
FBI headquarters bustled with controlled chaos. The crackling flow of nervous energy in the room never ceased to invigorate Special Agent Carla Raven. Ignoring the din, the statuesque brunette twisted left then dodged to one side of the constricted walkway between desks. Narrowly avoiding a collision with a fellow agent, she winced in pain as the hot coffee she carried sloshed over the rim of the Styrofoam cup. Running down the back of her hand, the fiery liquid left a burning trail before dripping to the floor.
Making a hasty apology for the near-miss, she shut the door to her tiny office, trying to block out the background noise of the world outside. She pushed two days worth of empty coffee cups and pizza boxes off her desk into a small trash can. Sitting in her chair, she yawned.
Sixteen hours yesterday, and I’m no closer to Ryan than I was two days ago.
Carefully sipping the fresh brew, she drove the cobwebs from her thoughts and stretched her intellect, grasping for a new focus on the case.
After spending hours running down possible leads, the frustrated FBI agent did an extensive check of Ryan’s credit card activity and telephone records. Finding nothing suspicious, she began an hour by hour reconstruction of the scientist’s last day.
She went to work…had a meeting with her boss, now deceased, and then…poof!...she falls off the face of the earth.
I’ve searched her house, her office, her bank statements, checking accounts…nothing! I even put out an APB on her brother.
She bristled with each new wave of frustration that churned in her acidic stomach.
No plane tickets or anything else that would lead us to believe she was planning on being away for any reason.
Maybe her brother was telling the truth. Maybe she was abducted…or…she wanted us to think she was abducted.
Opening the file on her one…her only…remaining lead, she stared for a long moment at the picture attached to the folder. Aaron Casey looked back at her from the image, dressed in the uniform of a naval officer. She let her eyes linger on the handsome features, the piercing blue eyes, then moved on to the broad shoulders covered in gold leaf.
She read through the summary. She knew dammed well he was hiding something from her, but what information he had and why he was keeping it to himself escaped her. Casey didn’t strike her as the kind to lie to the FBI, but she trusted her gut and it said he had. She was sure of it.
How does a squeaky-clean guy like this get mixed up with someone who might be a traitor, or a terrorist, or both.
She considered the question for a long moment before arriving at an answer.
Simple. He lets his little head do all the thinking, that’s how. He must be more involved with Ryan than he admitted. That’s the only reason he would lie for her.
Carla considered what Casey said about the night he found Ryan. He told her Ryan was attacked and he thought it was a mugging. She scoffed aloud at the weak pretense.
Bullshit! Muggings happen outside, in parks and on subways. No one gets mugged inside an office building. He’s smarter than that.
She thought back on their brief meeting at the crime scene. He hadn’t told her much, and what he did tell her didn’t fit the facts.
If Ryan stole the project and ran, why tell anyone about it? If she didn’t do anything wrong, why run? And…how did she drag Casey into it?
She wondered if Ryan might be the victim of a fall-out between criminals. She also briefly revisited the possibility that Casey was in on the theft with her.
It doesn’t make sense. None of it does.
Taking another glance at the photo, she willed the man looking back at her to break his silence.
If you met Ryan the way you said, why lie to me about it?
She let her eyes draw along the uniform’s crisp angles. She thought he projected a certain image. What do they call it…‘squared away’?
She continued to scan the photo and did a double-take when she reached the gold insignia pinned to his left lapel.
Those aren’t aviator’s wings. That looks like a…?
Her heart skipped a beat and she dropped the file as if it burned her hands. Rifling the center desk drawer, she found a magnifying glass. She stared in genuine awe as the small circle filled with the clear image of a gold eagle, in its talons the flintlock and the spear. Behind the majestic bird she saw the anchor and its fouled line. Her heart raced as the daunting realization set in.
Son-of-a… It is a Trident!
She thought about the insignia and her body tingled with electricity as the truth ran through her.
Jesus Christ! He’s not just ex-Navy, he’s a SEAL!
Reclaiming the folder, she skipped the rest of his FBI file and found his service record. The pages were dotted with black bars. She smirked as she absorbed the words. So much for the new age of information sharing.
While the file lacked any specific places or dates, what details remained unrolled Aaron’s exploits like a fine carpet. Carla whistled softly as she formed mental pictures to go along with her expanding comprehension.
Wow! Recon and rescue missions into enemy territory, Navy Cross, received two commendations for actions ‘above and beyond’. I knew there was something different about this guy.
Her mental picture of her target began to coalesce as she thought again about the way he handled her interrogation. The more she thought it out, the truth became embarrassingly evident.
I have to admit, I’m impressed. I didn’t intimidate him in the least. He wasn’t afraid of me. He wanted to get away from me, sure. But why?
Knowing guilty suspects typically react to questioning in one of two ways, silence or defiance, she realized Casey displayed neither.
He was more…impatient.
Replaying the meeting in her mind, she remembered his confidence, the projection of authority, and suddenly she knew exactly why he lied to her.
I don’t buy Ryan as the innocent victim, but obviously Casey does. He’s on another rescue mission…and he’s dammed-well going to tell me all about it.
Aaron’s apartment building enveloped Carla in an eerie, cold silence as she stepped off the elevator. Knowing Ryan trusted Casey once; Carla thought maybe she would again. After leaving three unreturned voice messages, she’d decided to make a personal visit.
Standing in the hall outside his apartment, she reached into her jacket and retrieved her Sig-Sauer 40 caliber automatic. With a small metallic click she dropped the magazine out of the handle and saw the hollow points resting in a neat row. She pushed the clip back into place, feeling it lock. She racked the slide, chambering a cartridge. She slid the weapon back into her shoulder holster. Better safe than sorry.
She raised her hand to knock and the door opened to her touch. Surprised, she checked the frame.
No sign of forced entry.
Instincts in overdrive, she pulled the weapon, leveled it, and stepped into the entryway, her back to the wall.
She called out, her confident order filling the air. “Federal agent! Anyone inside, show yourselves…Now!”
She called out a second time, repeating her demand. “Federal agent! Anyone inside, make yourselves known and put your hands where I can see them!”
Senses tingling, she took a few cautious steps forward then stopped, listening carefully. Hearing nothing, she worked her way around an overstuffed chair and moved to the center of the room, her steps cushioned by a throw rug of tan and brown.
She called out for a third time. “Mr. Casey, its Agent Raven. I need to speak with you. Are you here?”
Still getting no reply to her voice commands, she continued her search. Holding the weapon in front of her, she carefully opened the first door in the hall and swept the room with the barrel. She noticed it was a small room, the single bed neatly made. She noticed the sparse décor and bare hardwood floor.
This must be a guest room.
She moved to the next door in the hall and nudged it open with the Sig’s barre
l, finding the bathroom. She checked the shower then moved on to the last door.
Weapon first, she entered and confirmed the two rooms making up the master suite were also unoccupied. She holstered the gun and took a second look around. A large Colonial four-poster bed dominated the silent master bedroom, resting against the wall next to a window. The bed was neatly made, covered with a thick white comforter and a hand-full of decorative throw pillows. Her gaze continued around the room and found the nightstand, clock on top, next to the bed.
On the last wall she took in a matching hi-boy dresser standing in the corner. On top rested a TV/ DVD combo and a dozen disks. She smiled inwardly at the predictability of the selections. She recognized two Steven Segal movies, a Bruce Willis trilogy, and an open copy of the Bill Murray military spoof ‘Stripes’.
She chuckled softly in the empty room.
Boys will be boys.
The last title in the stack caught her eye, jolting her preconceived notions of the man she tracked. Picking it up, she turned the case over, reading a back-cover synopsis of the John Wayne/Maureen O’Hara classic ‘The Quiet Man’.
Okay, so he’s brave, strong and sensitive, but where the hell is he?
She rolled her eyes. Don’t tell me he’s disappeared now too!
"Chain Reaction" Power Failure Book I Page 37
