The Search

by Alex Howell

  “Thanks, Jack. It means everything to me.” Mason told him earnestly.

  “I know it does.” Jack answered.

  13

  For the duration of his car ride back, he never did receive a phone call from the computerized voice.

  He tried his best not to think that this meant that he had finished the mission and they had hurt Clara. Or worse.

  Unlike in his SEAL days, when he could keep it calm… things just weren’t so simple anymore.

  The love Mason had for his daughter, he realized as he went through Manhattan, was very different from the love that he had ever had from anyone else. Though he loved his parents, he had not chosen them; he had simply had the luck of the draw to be born to his mom and dad, and had his parents been terrible, it also would have been something like the luck of the draw.

  Bree, even, was different. He had chosen her, which made his love strong for her.

  But he had not just chosen Clara. He had chosen to bring her into this world, this wonderful place that Mason sometimes cursed and sometimes felt gratitude to be alive in. He had chosen to allow Clara to experience the highs of life, the very lows of it—which, right now, seemed to be extraordinarily low—and everything in between.

  Because of that, any thought, word, or mention of his daughter pushed him to an emotional level that he had simply not even known existed before she had come into this world. It was, after all, the very reason he had gotten out of the SEALs in the first place, so he could spend more time with her. She was his life mission now, the dying wish of his wife.

  If that wasn’t enough to make a man emotional, then he was a goddamn sociopath who didn’t deserve to live.

  He allowed himself to feel emotional about Clara. When at stoplights, he looked down at photos of her in his phone, swearing that he was going to free her no matter what it took. If it took the ultimate sacrifice, there was little question about whether or not he would take it.

  Once you see Tessa, though, you gotta focus. You’re not going to do her any favors by being a whiny little pansy. Get it together, find your daughter, and rescue her. And then you can cry as much as you want.

  When Mason pulled up to the bar, he quickly realized a good reason why Tessa had picked this location.

  It was an old-school Irish bar, the kind that had been on location for perhaps 30, 40 years and hadn’t had much renovation since it was founded. As a result, it was unlikely to have many security cameras, live footage, or even updated machines like virtual credit card readers or phone payment systems.

  In short, for avoiding eyes that observed through digital actions, it was the perfect place.

  But it was not the perfect place for hiding from actual eyes, and Mason never once assumed that such a thing was done until he had his daughter back in his arms, safe and sound.

  Remember. You keep it together when you walk in here. You do what it takes to keep your cover alive. You do what it takes to get your daughter.

  For Clara.

  As he approached the bar, he prepared himself to do something even more embarrassing than writing teenage emojis to his former SEAL colleague. He prepared himself to do something that would bring a little bit of shame to himself, most especially in relation to Bree, but something that his wife would approve of for the sake of getting their daughter back.

  He approached Tessa with arms wide and a big grin on his face. Already, he was feeling out of character, but, then again, this whole experience felt like one giant out-of-character moment.

  “Tessa,” he said with a smile. “It’s been too long.”

  “You’re telling me,” she said with a seductive grin.

  She leaned in to hug him. He moved his head back so she could face her eyes.

  And then he kissed her.

  It felt… wrong. It felt like he was cheating on Bree, even all these years after her passing, and that didn’t even account for having kissed a coworker. It felt like he was pissing all over the grave of his wife and the marriage vows he’d made with her. It felt like he had broken some sacred bond, and that perhaps it wasn’t worth this action. A life was valuable, but a bond…

  Get it together, now!

  The kiss was brief, as if it was two old lovers reunited for one night, and, immediately, Tessa grabbed his jacket and pulled him close. She kept on the seductive look on her face as she leaned into his ear.

  “We’re being watched, aren’t we,” she said with a whisper.

  “I would assume so, yeah,” Mason said, smiling back at her, the exact opposite of how he actually felt. “I’m sorry.”

  “I expected it,” she said, running her hand down his back. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” Mason said.

  The longer it went on, the more accepting he was of it. Comfort was never a word that could be used to describe this situation, and it never would, but Mason was adept at being comfortable with being uncomfortable.

  “Well, you ready for a bombshell of bombshells?” she said.

  I suppose I’m about to test that theory about being comfortable with being uncomfortable.

  “Might as well,” Mason said, putting his arms further around her, feeling more uneasy with each passing moment.

  Tessa leaned up into his ear, started nibbling, and kissing his neck. Mason tried his best to lean into it, but he was not relishing this at all. There was only so much acting he could do while wondering how much Bree was rolling over in her grave.

  And, then, with a breathy whisper, she dropped the news that made Mason stop in his tracks, realize just how serious everything was, and feel very, very afraid.

  “I don’t have an exact location of the call’s origination, but I can give you a city,” she said. “Washington D.C.”

  14

  Of all of the places that Tessa could have said… of all the potential locations… of everything and anywhere…

  Two thoughts ran through Mason’s head, both of them equally appalling to him. One, this meant this was an act of domestic terrorism. One of the worst things Mason could ever imagine.

  And two, that almost certainly meant Clara was there as well, not an hour-long flight away to New York City but less than an hour’s drive.

  I should have known. Damnit! I should have known they couldn’t have flown her somewhere that quickly. Goddamnit!

  “The hell?” Mason said, breaking character and forcing himself back, stunned at this admission to the point of erupting.

  “I know, crazy, right?” Tessa said, still in character as she gave a wide laugh. “Come on! Let’s get some privacy!”

  You have any idea what this means—

  She took his hand as it dawned on him she was still playing a character and led him to the back corner of the bar, private even by the location’s standards. Mason’s mind was now running too much to contemplate what next steps to take. Instead, he was far too focused on the implications of this revelation.

  He was considering what potential the terrorists had if they were based in Washington D.C. If they were there… if they had this much control as to know that Harnad Abdi would be in customs… if they had the ability to manipulate Mason so easily… if they could know everything that Mason was doing…

  Then what else were they capable of?

  This was not the act of some rogue extremists in the Middle East who happened to have paid off someone in the USA; at least, it didn’t seem that way. Such a threat might have resulted in a fatal bombing somewhere, but it wouldn’t have reached the levels and overwhelming terror this now presented.

  Instead, Mason realized, they posed a much greater, much more significant risk.

  It didn’t feel like hyperbole to say that the existence of the United States was at risk. For them to be based in D.C. and already have everything that they did? How could they not be a serious risk?

  And, for that matter, what were they even trying to do? They hadn’t gone public yet, which somehow made the threat even more terrify
ing. Someone who went public just wanted attention or some quick cash. Someone who kept something like this quiet wanted something much bigger, something much more easily obtainable than mere cash or fame. Bigger, as in… control of some kind. Control over a country. Or a person.

  But Mason didn’t yet have a way to change this problem. He had enough difficulty trying to pass Tessa off as a casual fling that he needed to take an afternoon break on. Trying to leave Manhattan, make his way to the nation’s capital, and then alert every member of the executive branch seemed like a complete impossibility. Instead, once more, he felt resigned to doing what he had become depressingly good at—waiting.

  “Are we good back here?” Tessa asked when they got the far booth.

  “I…” Mason began. “You know, this whole thing is awkward for me. Just do what you need to do to keep appearances up.”

  Tessa bit her lip.

  “You OK, sweetie?”

  It did not sound staged the way she said it.

  “No, but that doesn’t really matter much right now,” Mason said. “We’re what we are. Let’s get things taken care of.”

  “Understood,” Tessa said. “Here’s the deal. The system they’re using to hide their phone calls? It’s top of the line. I thought that I could break through after two minutes of you talking to this program or person, but, truth be told, I’m probably going to need five.”

  “Five?” Mason said, groaning, thinking of his call history and his propensity to rarely speak at all on the phone. “I barely spoke to Bree for five minutes on the phone.”

  “Spoke?”

  She doesn’t know.

  Mason fumbled over his words for a couple of seconds before taking a deep breath. Revisiting this conversation was always painful, and there were enough problems on hand now that Mason didn’t need to spend any more time dwelling on it.

  “Dead. Breast cancer.”

  “Oh my God, Mason—”

  “Don’t worry about it, it’s been a few years. And, in any case, she’s not relevant to this right now.”

  Even though she’s the mother of my daughter. The spirit within Clara. Clara still lives, Bree does not.

  Ergo, we focus on Clara. I’ll take you on a funeral tour later.

  “What we need is a plan to keep this guy on the line,” Mason said. “I need a strategy. Five minutes… how does anyone talk for five minutes?”

  “What do you mean?” Tessa said, as if she couldn’t understand how someone could talk for less than five minutes.

  “You make a call, you figure out what needs to get done, and then you go from there?” Mason said, more or less reflecting the tone that Tessa had given him.

  Tessa stared at him, more than a little dumbfounded. Mason wished that he could provide computer masking software for his voice so that Tessa could speak and sound like him on the other end of the line.

  “Haven’t you… didn’t you go into sales?”

  “Yeah, I got really good at getting to the point,” Mason said. “So let’s get clear, though. We’re just going to wait for them to call? We can’t call back?”

  He already knew the likely answer to that question, but he held out hope that perhaps he’d missed something that would allow him to reach out to the caller. It would allow him to play a little more offense.

  “The phone number is changing every time, so I can’t pinpoint it to a specific callback number. But—”

  “Would ya care for a drink, lads?”

  Mason sat up with a jolt, remembering that they had actually come to a bar. He stared at a waiter who looked equally taken off-guard by Mason’s jolt, and then tried his best to calm himself down. Gotta keep up the mirage, though. He could be a spy too.

  “Err, we’ll each have a Guinness, please.”

  “Ya got it,” the bartender said with an authentic accent, disappearing.

  Mason made a “no drinking” motion, to which Tessa quickly nodded. He then reached out and put his hand over hers, feeling sick for having done so.

  “Darling,” she said.

  “Tessa,” he said, hoping the hints of “this is not real” came across loud and clear.

  “In any case,” Tessa said back, removing her hand slowly—but a bit slower than expected. “We can’t call them back. Only they can call us. So yes, we sort of do have to wait.”

  So much for something good happening today.

  “And what if they don’t call back?”

  Tessa had no answer for that. Even her smile faded at the question. Mason shook his head, trying not to let the doubts and fears creep in.

  “Well isn’t that just dandy rainbows,” Mason said. Whatever needs to get done for the mission, you do it.

  You want to see Clara again. You do it.

  You don’t worry about what can’t get controlled.

  “Five minutes?”

  As if on cue, the phone rang again. Mason gulped, looked at Tessa, and she nodded back.

  “Five minutes. Go.”

  Mason nodded in affirmation, hit accept, and held the phone to his ear.

  “What now?” he said, trying to maintain the illusion of him still being an annoyed and angry father.

  “Haha, Mr. Walker, why do you sound so rushed?” the voice said. “Is it because you are trying to get with the lovely lady across the table from you?”

  “Sound so rushed?” Is he mocking my plan? Does he already have ears in here?

  No matter. Need to play it cool.

  “Call it my afternoon smoke break,” Mason said. “I decided some activities were healthier than smoking. Better for the energy level, you know.”

  “We seemed to have picked the wrong woman,” the voice said with a cackle. “If we had known that you would have spent the time when your daughter was hostage trying to get an afternoon session in, perhaps we would have kidnapped—”

  “Enough of the games,” Mason growled, being able to play the part for only so long. “I don’t know what your end goal is, but let me make one thing clear to you. You hurt anyone that I care about—the women in my life, my daughter, my friends, hell, even my boss—and I will find you and the organization you work for. And I will kill you.”

  The voice on the other end laughed. And then a thought occurred to Mason—this was how he could make the call last longer than five minutes. By taunting, tormenting, and mocking the voice on the other end. Even if it was all empty threats and amusing, it would not be so amusing to the enemy when it was revealed that’s what led to their demise.

  “You think this is funny?” Mason said, his voice nearly that of a murderer’s—he certainly had murderous intent. “I spent many years training to capture and kill people that didn’t want to be found. They all thought they were safe, until my team and I showed up. And guess what? I’d say go and ask them, except they are all dead. And the same will be the case for you if you do anything to hurt my loved ones. If you so much as press their skin too hard, I will put a bullet in your skull. Do you hear me? I said, do you hear me, damnit!”

  Mason turned just then to see the bartender placing the two beers in front of them, his eyes wide with shock. Mason gave a thumbs up and a fake grin, to which the bartender gave one back, but now Mason had another concern—the last thing he needed was for a so-called vigilante of a bartender to call the cops and have them slow him down. That didn’t even consider the possibility that the bartender was also in cahoots with the terrorists.

  “Oh, Mr. Walker, your threats are well received and heard,” the voice said. “However, for as much bluster and bravado as you have, you do recognize that we have your daughter, right? And we’d hate for anything to happen to her.”

  As if tormenting Mason, he heard Clara’s scream in the background. Suddenly, the sternness in his voice seemed a lot weaker and a lot more difficult to find than moments ago.

  “What did you do?” he demanded.

  “What did we do?” the voice repeated back, as if dumbfounded at Mason’s question. “We didn’t do anything.
We showed her what we might do if you don’t help, but we didn’t do anything—”

  “You pathetic weasel,” Mason said. “Put her on the line. I want to know what happened. You think you can just get away with this?”

  “Yes,” the voice deadpanned, causing Mason to slam his fist on the table. “You don’t get both requests, Mr. Walker. Choose one. Either speak to your daughter, or we let you know what happened. But you don’t get both.”

  Mason tried going silent, under the guise of stalling for time. But it was less than three seconds later, hardly a time of any consequence, that the man said, “Now, Mr. Walker,” forcing him to continue.

  “Put my daughter on,” Mason finally said. “Let me speak to her.”

  “Very well.”

  A few seconds later, Mason heard Clara’s gasping “Dad?” She sounded like she’d just gotten punched in the ribs, the way her breath came out weak.

  “Clara, baby,” he said, and just as he had her on, something clicked. Tessa wasn’t the only one of resource. “I’m glad you’re OK. But I need you to answer something for me and I need you to do it as quickly as you can. Don’t say anything else except the answer to my question. I want you to describe anything you remember about the appearance of the attacker. What did he look like?”

  “Black clothes, blue eyes, white skin around the eyes, deep—”

  Blue eyes? White skin?

  A loud smack filled the air as Mason realized whoever was holding her captive had slapped her across the face. Mason nearly broke the phone in his hand from sheer anger. Only Tessa’s calming influence, her hand on his arm, kept him from going mad and flipping over multiple tables in the bar.

  “That… that was a mistake,” the voice said a few seconds later. “Admittedly, a clever move on your part, Mr. Walker. It appears true that you have not forgotten everything from your time with us. But, now, we must retaliate in kind.”

  A pause came as Mason braced himself for the worst.

  “Clara will be punished.”

  15

  “Don’t hurt her,” Mason said, his voice veering quickly from threatening and dominating to begging. “Don’t you dare hurt her. Please. She’s just a high school senior looking forward to prom. She doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”