by James, Ed
Zangiev stares at Layla, then over at Carter. He looks like he knows it’s over.
“Edwards showed me the photo. The soccer jersey. Why did you have them?”
Zangiev grins. “Do you know what the Bartlett Foundation do?”
“Why bring them up?”
“Just answer me.”
“I know what they do.” Carter dabs at his head again. “They’ve helped people like Tyler Peterson. One of my agents. He served his country, but an IED exploded next to him. Gave him severe PTSD. Medical discharge, then he came back home to his family out in Aberdeen. Only, they couldn’t afford any treatment over and above what the army gave him. He was a mess, but the Bartlett Foundation stepped in to treat him, and now he’s one of my finest officers.”
“I should applaud them, then.” Zangiev scowls. “That’s one of their many services. They run an adoption service for babies from war-torn areas. For example, orphans from Syria.” He licks his lips, still staring at Layla. “Recently, Edwards got wind of one, a little boy whose father had been killed in Syria during a bombing raid.”
It’s like there’s wind blowing in her ears.
He’s still grinning at Layla. “This boy was called Faraj.”
She hates herself for showing any emotion, but she can’t stop it. She pushes the gun against Zangiev’s skull, ready to fire.
“STOP!” Carter’s staring at her. “Don’t.”
He’s right. As much as she wants to do it, this worm doesn’t deserve any more satisfaction. She pulls the gun back. “What proof do you have?”
“You might say my government is corrupt, and that’d be true. But yours isn’t much better. The CIA paid for this operation, ran a cover-up over this whole thing. Landon Bartlett took their money, but he wouldn’t let my men anywhere near it. I had them everywhere else, but not there. They took in Faraj and told him that his mother and father are both dead. Resettled him with new parents.”
Layla’s gun drops to her side. “Where is he?”
Zangiev laughs. “Like I will tell you that.”
“An operation like this, they’ll cover everything up real quick. An hour from now, it’ll be like it never happened. This is my only chance to find my son. Right now. Please.”
Carter stands there like a statue, then locks his glare right onto her. “I can’t help you. You kidnapped two children, assaulted countless people helping Kaitlyn Presswood, killed a man, and now you’ve got him.”
Ky. My leverage here. “If you help me find my son, I’ll give you him back. And you can take me into custody.”
He seems to know what to do. A way forward. “Come here.” He helps Zangiev up to standing, like he’s going to take him into custody. But he pushes Zangiev face first against the wall, and hauls his right arm right up his back. “Give me his gun.”
Layla thinks it all through, trying to weigh it all up.
“Please. It has to be his.”
She reaches into her pocket and passes it over.
Carter wraps Zangiev’s hand around the pistol. “This piece is Russian, right? I suspect it’s untraceable, otherwise you wouldn’t carry it.” He forced Zangiev to point the gun at his own head. “Who’s to believe you didn’t kill yourself? The gunshot residue on my clothes will be because I tried to stop you so I could bring you to justice.” He pushes the gun against his temple, making him squeal. “You’re going to tell me right now where Faraj is.”
* * *
16:12
“You’re a federal fugitive.” Carter is behind the wheel of his car, powering through downtown Tacoma. “After this, I’m bringing you in. Okay?”
Layla points the pistol at him. Her pistol, not that Russian piece. And holds Ky close. “You’re helping a federal fugitive.”
“At gunpoint. And you’re threatening his life. Don’t think you can wriggle out of this, Layla. I’m helping your son, not you.”
“Thank you.”
Carter looks around at her, then back at the road. “Tell me about Lewandowski.”
“What?”
“You abducted him, right outside a congressman’s home.”
Layla stays quiet.
“You’ll get the death penalty for his murder.”
“He’s not dead. I abducted him, sure. Someone told me he’d killed my son and I believed them. I took him out to the woods, to a cabin I know by a lake. It’s not used from fall to spring, so I held him there, asked him questions. He broke free, but I turned the tables.”
“You honestly expect me to believe that?”
“I think you’re a man who knows when he’s being lied to.” I try to avoid looking at Ky. Somebody else’s child. Another woman out there going through the same hell I did. “I could tell you where the cabin is. He’s still there. Tied up. I’ve set up a couple of messaging services to alert the authorities tomorrow.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Lewandowski told me Faraj was alive.” A shiver runs up her spine. “Before that, I just wanted to kill him. I wanted to find him and anyone else with blood on their hands. But it was Lewandowski and Vance. That’s all. One is dead, the other’s fate is in your hands.”
“Marcus Edwards. Did you do that to him?”
“That was Zangiev. Ask Chase Bartlett about it.”
“Chase? You know him?”
“We were friends. We met at a grief group, we—” Her voice is like a croak. “Chase and I share a grief. Something he doesn’t talk much about anymore, but which pushed him down a dark path. His son died in a car crash. His ex-wife miscarried in the crash. His life fell to pieces. After what happened to Faraj, we went to the same counseling group.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
“Would I do this job if I didn’t have an over-developed sense of empathy? Every kid that goes missing, it’s like a spear through my heart.”
“You’ve been hunting for me for over a year.”
“You took two kids. I can’t forgive that. I don’t get how you managed to stay at large so long, though.”
“I was a private investigator. Worked in IT space, hacked into people’s bank accounts, that kind of thing. I know everything there is to know about identity theft and social engineering.”
Carter hangs a left then pulls over at the side of the road.
The Helping Hand surrogacy agency is bright in the late-afternoon gloom. Pedestrians walking past, some commuters, a mom with a stroller and two kids. Cars driving past.
Carter scans the street, then his mirrors, then over both shoulders, then back to the street. “Looks clear. They’ll be tracking this car, so you won’t have long.”
“You know the place?”
“I was here earlier.”
“I still have both guns on me. You’re leading in there. Any deviation, anything that looks like signaling and I will shoot you. Possibly to kill.”
He holds her with a steely look. “You’re not a killer, Layla.”
“We get out at the same time.”
“Sure.” Carter gets out onto the street.
Layla carries Ky out onto the street then follows Carter over the crosswalk and inside the office. The place is sterile like a microchip factory, all icy whites and pale blues. Two desks at the back, some wooden benches up front. You’d think you were in an Apple store.
A woman comes out and smiles at the baby, then at Layla. Then it turns to a frown when she sees him. “What’s the matter?”
Carter reaches into his pocket for his badge and points at one of the computers. “I need you to get a name and address off your system. Faraj al-Yasin.”
The woman takes a seat in front of it. “Not without a warrant.”
“This is a desperate matter. We’ve found his mother.”
“I see.”
* * *
18:20
Layla hadn’t been to Ballard in years. A Seattle suburb, fifteen miles from downtown. “You live here?”
“Five blocks that way.” Carter knocks
on the door and steps back, holding Ky tight, rocking him in his arms. “After this, you give yourself up. Okay?”
“We’re going in there, taking my son, and we’re disappearing. Me and him. You’ll never find us.”
The door opens and a chubby woman peers out, round cheeks, dirty-brown hair in pigtails she’s about twenty-five years too old for. “Hello?”
“FBI, ma’am.” Carter flashes his badge. “Need to ask you a few questions about your son?”
She rubs her hands on her apron, but doesn’t give any ground. “What’s this about?”
“My colleague here and I need to ask a few questions.”
Her look at Layla is frosty, to say the least.
Layla returns it with a warm smile. “It’s a sensitive matter pertaining to his… previous situation.”
“I see.” She opens the door wide and lets us into her home. Like something out of the last century, all beige fabrics and bright colors. The kitchen smells of baking, cookies or brownies. Maybe both. “My husband’s out at work; you mind if I call him?”
“Go on.” Another warm smile.
She goes to pick up a wall-mounted landline.
And Layla sees him.
Out in the yard, Faraj is playing with a dog, tossing a frisbee in the air for it and yipping when it catches it. He looks super happy.
Her mouth hangs open. Before she knows what she’s doing, the door’s open and she’s running across the yard and wrapping her son up in an almighty hug.
He starts to resist, but then stops. He stares up at her, his frown turning into a wide grin. “Mommy?”
“It’s me, Faraj.” Her legs turn to jelly and she sinks to her knees, wrapping her arms tight around her boy. “It’s Mommy.”
“They told me you were dead!” His cheeks are flooded with tears. “You and Poppa!”
“I’m alive, Faraj. I’m alive. And so are you.”
Carter stands in the doorway, talking to the mom. Layla looks over and knows it’s over. She’s fought so long and hard for this.
Now that she’s found the truth, she needs a different fight.
Sixty-Eight
CARTER
20:20
Carter got in his office and slumped in the chair, sore from the admin headache. Through his window, the downtown skyline blinked and twinkled. There was a time he could see most of Capitol Hill, but now it was all blocked out by skyscrapers, just leaving tall shafts of twinkling lights. Homes, bars, restaurants. People’s lives.
The door opened and Lori peered in. “You okay, Max?”
“Struggling to process it all.”
“Yeah, me too.” Lori sat in front of his desk, holding Ky in her arms. “You caught Layla?”
“She’s under lock and key.” Carter decided to soften it. Give her the truth, as much as he could get away with. “That surrogacy agency, it’s part of the Bartlett Foundation. Nguyen’s got a team in there. There’s a whole heap of shady stuff going down there. Zangiev is involved, so I’m thinking money laundering, but that might only just be a part of it.”
Lori stared at him for a long time. “Jesus.”
“I know.”
“Well, we visited that cabin. Miles out in the middle of nowhere. Owned by my ex-husband’s business partner.”
“Jess Lownds?”
“Right. Lewandowski was there. Trussed up like a turkey. Sedated with some stuff we’ll never identify.”
“But alive?”
“Alive.”
Carter let out a deep breath. “Layla got her answers.”
Lori stared at Ky in her lap. “She just gave herself up?”
“Even with the leverage she had. That kid, the gun. She told me she had visions of Faraj still being tortured or abused. But he’s living this nice middle-class life. Starts school in a couple weeks, same one Kirsty’s going to next year. Layla’s going to shift her fight to the courts.”
“You want to sit in on my interview with Zangiev?”
“Nope. I’ll step away from that.” Carter felt his scalp, touched the two-inch lump Zangiev had gifted him. “How’s Chase?”
“Not good. He’s been injected with heroin, so he’s strung out.”
“Heroin? Jesus.”
“Yeah.” Lori got up and stretched out. “Time you went home.”
“I won’t be long now.” Carter looked back out of the window. “Did you manage to speak to your guy in England?”
“I sent him a text.” She got out her cell. “He called me just a half hour ago. He’s the same level as your guy King. All he knows is King’s heading up a large-scale operation. This gangland hitman died and there’s been a lot of heat and noise coming out of that.”
“How the hell is Bill involved with a gangland hitman?”
Lori stood up and hugged Ky tight. “Guess you’ll have to wait till Monday to find out.”
Three Days Later
Saturday, October 17, 2020
Sixty-Nine
CARTER
09:04
Carter stood in the observation room, the giant flat-screen showing Chase Bartlett in 4K Ultra-HD resolution, like some fancy cable sports broadcast.
The door opened and Elisha stepped through, carrying a baby in her arms. “Max.”
He took Ky from her. “Thanks.”
She winked at him. “Layla’s still not speaking, but then you figured that, right?”
“Right.”
“What’s the plan here?”
“There’s no plan.” Carter carried Ky into the interrogation room.
Chase did a double take. He looked like he’d aged a decade in three days.
Carter stayed by the door, holding the baby. “How you doing?”
“Pretty bad. They injected me with smack. I thought I’d kicked it, but it’s all I can think of. Getting another hit.”
“Did you have any idea Ky might be your son when you helped her abduct him?”
“I didn’t help her take him.”
Carter watched every micro-gesture for the truth, but Chase was good. Too good, even. “Sounds like a lie to me.”
“Listen to me. I used to lie to everyone. My wife, my brother, myself. Everyone. But those days are over now. A few years back, I lost myself. Took me a long time to recover, and I still slipped from time to time. But I’m trying to be honest with everyone. Believe me when I say I didn’t help her.”
“When you found out she’d taken him, you sent Layla al-Yasin to help.”
Chase shrugged.
“She says you’re the baby’s father.”
“I…”
Carter gave a flash of his eyebrows. “You arranged for your sperm to be swapped with your brother’s.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“What happened to this new honesty of yours?”
Chase nodded slowly. “Fine. It’s true.”
“Just tell me why. Why would you even think of doing that?”
“You try drinking a pint of vodka on any empty stomach every morning because you need to numb yourself from the pain of losing two children and a marriage. I went through some dark times, days when the bottles would call my name, when a grocery delivery tinkled like the bottle bank at the recycling center. Days when I needed a drink just to function.” He laughed. “Then I stopped functioning. I’d lost a son. Todd. Lost my unborn child, a girl. My whole world collapsed and I couldn’t share my grief with Jennifer because we were both going through it, just… separately. So I stuck my feelings in a box, and drank myself to sleep every night, numbing myself with booze. Then my brother told me to go to this grief counseling. It’s where I met Layla. But she stopped going, so I did too. And I drank every time I thought about the past. Then I just drank. And Jennifer left me. I barely noticed. And I started taking drugs. You name it—coke, ketamine, X, heroin, meth, PCP. I’ve been there, seen if it stops me thinking about things.”
“You sobered up, though.”
“Right. One day, this delivery guy said something about how my
groceries all come in quart and pint bottles. Held out his pendant, five hundred days sober. Took me to that first meeting, just over a year ago. Admitting I had a problem opened me up to solving it. I went back to grief counseling, but Layla wasn’t there anymore. But that was the path back. Sobriety was tough at first. Ten days clean, then a lost weekend waking up in a dumpster off Pioneer Square with two grand’s worth of coke in my pocket and wearing a woman’s shoes. Then I managed twenty before I fell off the wagon, and I woke up in my bed with a splitting headache. But by then, I was back at work, taking control of my life, one step at a time. I started turning our lame product into something I could sell. Then after a full month clean, I felt brave enough to go through the three years of paperwork that was sitting on the floor in my den. Requests for alimony checks to Jen. That’s when I found out she was living with Landon.”
“That must’ve been tough.”
“Right. Made me slip, though. I went over to Landon’s; I was off my face on two bottles of scotch and five grams of coke, trying to get Jen to sign some stupid form to cancel her alimony checks. Trying to get a reaction from her, just to screw with her. And she told me where to go, but I was so pissed.”
“What did you do?”
“Our foundation opened this surrogacy agency. New thing, Landon’s brainchild. I barely remember signing off on it, must’ve been hammered at the meeting. You can guess why he wanted it set up. But I knew the doctor. Kim Harwick. She used to score coke off me, so I blackmailed her, got her to tell me what was happening. She told me Landon was infertile; their IVF had failed, so they were trying surrogacy with this young woman. They were going to concentrate his sample, see if that worked. She swapped out my sperm for his. Perfect revenge for douchebag Chase, for drunk Chase… I’m not that guy anymore, but I can’t bring myself to feel guilty about it.”