“Sister-in-law. My brother James’ wife.”
Miranda thought of the other photo of the guy in camouflage she’d found on June May’s mirror. She recalled the chin shape and saw the resemblance now. “Red headed guy in the Army?”
Sloan glared at her.
“We found pictures in her apartment.”
Squeezing his eyes with chagrin Sloan nodded. “James was with the Third Brigade Combat Team. He was killed in Afghanistan three years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Parker said.
“I am, too. Clarissa deserved a lot better.”
Miranda raised a brow. “Clarissa?”
Sloan let out a slow breath, as if he knew he was defeated in this information exchange game. “Her real name was Clarissa Williams. She became Clarissa Roberts when she married my brother.”
“And so Simon Sloan is really Simon Roberts?”
Sloan came out of his stupor for another glare at her. He didn’t reply but the answer was obvious.
“How did she get involved in all this?”
Sloan rubbed a hand over his eyes. “After James died, Clarissa felt lost. We both did. She didn’t have any family. Was an only child. Her parents were gone. She told me her life was empty, meaningless. She wanted to do something that had purpose. She begged me for a job. An important job. She’d been a teacher. A good one. So I gave her this assignment. I thought it would be safe.”
He closed the drawer and leaned against the metal, his face to the floor. He looked as if he was forcing down a sob. “I wish to God I had told her no. If I had just said no and walked away.”
“It was a horrible way to die,” Parker said gently.
Sloan’s gaze didn’t leave the floor. “The decapitation wasn’t the half of it. The ME found CH90 in her system.”
Parker’s face went taut. “The experimental drug the government is testing?”
Miranda glared at him. How did Parker know that?
Sloan nodded. “It causes convulsions, internal hemorrhaging, hallucinations. Upon injection the muscle cells begin to disintegrate almost immediately. The ME said she had enough in her to simulate a medieval torture chamber. She suffered incredible agony. Probably for hours.”
Without leaving a mark on her. Miranda wrapped her arms around herself tight.
“I’m sure she told them everything she knew, but she didn’t know much. And when they were through with her they left her on the tracks in Kennesaw. They tossed her phone in the woods to signal us.” He let out a sad, bitter laugh. “O’Cleary nearly got bit by a copperhead trying to find it.”
The phone that had signaled Evelyn Parker.
Sloan went silent and stared at the wall of drawers. Miranda felt for him. He’d lost his brother and had just lost his sister-in-law. But they still had an eight-year-old boy to find.
“Who are ‘they’?” she said.
Sloan raised his head and scowled at her. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not? You’ve told us about Clarissa. You’ve told us your real name.”
Sloan’s shoulders slumped. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the few minutes they’d been standing here in the morgue. “Well then, you leave me no choice.”
“What? You have to kill us?”
Sloan gave her a sour look. “I have to swear you in. Follow me.”
And with that he turned and went out a narrow door at the far end of the room.
Miranda shot Parker a wary glance. He returned a nod. He was right.
Again they had no choice but to follow.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The place was a freaking maze.
After Sloan had led them down another long zig-zagging passageway, Miranda was sure she could never find her way out of it. Then again, Sloan might never let them go.
Finally he reached an old-fashioned office door with a frosted glass window. He unlocked it with a regular key and ushered them inside.
It was a midsize office, a shoebox compared to the black amphitheater where they’d first found Sloan. Encased in pale green cinderblock walls, it held only a dark laminated desk, hard plastic guest chairs, and a short lateral filing cabinet that had seen better days.
Except for the frosted one in the door, Miranda had yet to see a window in this place.
The computer on the desk was new, though, and Sloan didn’t waste any time using it. He plopped his bony butt onto a creaking office chair and began tapping on the keyboard. After a minute or so, two drivers license sized cards popped out of a slim silver printer on the filing cabinet.
Sloan rose from the desk and faced them.
The ceremony was simple. Raise your hand, repeat the pledge to uphold the constitution, agree to abide by the Bureau’s rules and orders, etcetera, etcetera.
When he was done Sloan snatched the cards off the printer and slapped them in their hands.
“Welcome aboard,” he said in a cynical tone.
Studying his card Parker raised a brow. “Would you care to tell us what we’ve just joined?”
Sloan let out a sigh as if this was all too much trouble. “We call ourselves The Custodians. We’re a clandestine unit of the FBI under the direction of Homeland Security.”
Just as Evelyn had told them.
“We’ve been in operation about five years now. I can’t tell you all we do, but our main mission is to monitor and prevent criminal activity.”
Miranda frowned. “Can you be a little more specific?”
Sloan strolled around his desk and sat down with a creak. He gestured to the guest chairs and Miranda and Parker sat as well.
“We call the main organization we’re targeting Group 141.”
“Descriptive,” Parker said.
“Secretive. As they are. This group is involved in a variety of illegal enterprises. From the intelligence we’ve been able to gather we think it’s run by the Ukrainian syndicate.”
A chill slithered down Miranda’s spine. “A foreign mob?”
Sloan nodded.
Miranda thought of the data Becker had found on Anatoly Tamarkin from Chernigov—in the Ukraine. The dude with long stringy black hair and leathery skin. The dude with the size thirteen shoe. The dude who’d served only ten days in Rikers for armed robbery. Was it this Group 141 who had gotten him out?
“Three years ago we learned of a specialized base of operations here in the Atlanta area we believe is connected with Group 141.”
Parker sat back in his chair and gave Sloan a hard look. “Specialized operations? You mean a kidnapping ring, don’t you?”
Sloan nodded. “Young children were disappearing at an average of one every other month. All boys.”
“Like Dylan Ward Hughes.”
“Similar to him.”
“In certain cases we were able to gather enough intel to figure out which child was being targeted. We came up with a plan to snatch the child away ourselves and hide him before the group could get to him. Hence, the name The Custodians.”
For taking custody of the kids. Miranda leaned on the arm of her chair. “What do they do? Kidnap high profile victims for high ticket ransoms?”
Sloan shook his head. “The other boys were from low to middle income families. Single mothers, grandmothers raising the child alone.”
She frowned. “These creeps couldn’t get much ransom from them.”
“No. They weren’t after ransom.”
“What then?” But the sick feeling in her gut was already telling her the answer.
“The sex trade. Human trafficking. White slavery. Whichever you prefer to call it,” Sloan’s face was expressionless but his voice shook a little. “They take the boys and sell them to the highest bidder.”
“For sex?”
“For whatever the bidder wants to do with them.”
Good Lord.
“Most of their clients seem to be in China, some in Cambodia, the Middle East. Because of the pattern of children who have gone missing, we assume there’s a team in the area. A
snatcher and a groomer.”
“Someone who nabs the kids.”
“Right.”
“And groomer?”
Parker supplied the definition. “Someone who trains young boys to be sex slaves.”
Sloan nodded grimly. “He brainwashes them, coerces them, teaches them to be obedient.”
Miranda squeezed the arm of her chair, trying to hold back the anger churning inside her. “Like a pet.”
“Something like that. We assume the Group pays this man hefty fees for his services every time he delivers a boy. Apparently he’s very good at it.”
Miranda’s stomach was churning with rage. Parker’s jaw was tighter than she’d ever seen it.
“We’ve got to stop this guy,” she muttered through gritted teeth.
“That’s what we’ve been trying to do. Our strategy of hiding the kids we think are being targeted has worked in a few cases. In other cases, another target was taken.”
It didn’t sound very successful to her. Especially not in this case.
“Do you have any information on who this groomer is?” Parker asked.
“Not really. We do have something on the man he seems to be working with. A heavy, we think. The snatcher. Someone who does the dirty work of the actual kidnapping.” Sloan took a breath. “In another drawer in that room I showed you lies another one of our people. Special Agent Norman Endicott.”
Miranda gripped the arm of her chair tighter. “What happened to him?”
“He died tailing a suspicious looking man he found lurking near Dogwood Academy. Big, strong man. Caught Endicott by surprise and cracked his skull open on the sidewalk with his bare hands. Cleaned it up and disappeared without a trace.”
Two agents killed? This operation was starting to sound like a blood bath. And Dogwood Academy?
“Dylan’s school.”
Sloan nodded. “The intelligence Endicott gathered led us to suspect the Ward Hughes boy would be the next target. Before the man killed him, Agent Endicott was able to snap some photos of him.”
Sloan leaned forward and tapped on his keyboard. After a moment, he scowled at the screen with a dark expression, then turned it around for her and Parker to see.
It was a grainy photo of a guy standing along a brick fence near a tree. He was dressed in black chinos and a long sleeved black knit shirt.
Sloan pressed some keys and the guy’s face came into view. This photo was clearer.
His head was bare and shaved, as if he didn’t want you to identify his hair color. A dagger like tribal tattoo twisted up his neck and over half his head. His skin was tan and leathery, and the mean look in his dark eyes made Miranda’s blood run cold.
She turned to Parker. “This could be the same guy.”
Sloan shot up in his chair. “What guy?”
“The one from the data you were asking about earlier,” Parker told him calmly.
“You were able to identify him?”
“We found papers on a guy from the Ukraine named Anatoly Tamarkin. The DNA also matched a Tom Jones who was incarcerated in Rikers for a short time.”
“DNA? You didn’t get that from a shoeprint.”
“We got it from June May’s—Clarissa’s—broken fingernail.”
Sloan turned a little pale and nodded. “Your man took it in Kennesaw.”
“We have a good team,” Miranda said smugly.
She continued to feel smug while Parker told the g-man the details on Tamarkin’s papers and time in prison.
“We’re looking for something more recent but haven’t discovered anything yet. Except your photo,” Parker gestured toward Sloan’s computer. “It seems to be the same man.”
“Tamarkin. They probably gave him a different name. Other than Tom Jones.” Sloan stared at him. “You also have Clarissa’s wedding ring.”
“Yes.”
“I’d like that back.”
“We’ll get it to you.”
Miranda hoped that meant Sloan would let them go soon. They were getting nowhere here and if what Sloan was telling them was true, time was running out.
She sat forward. “We’ve got some information, but we still have no idea who this creep is or where Dylan Ward Hughes is being held, or who this groomer is.”
Sloan sat back and rocked in his creaky chair. “We have a theory.”
“What theory?”
“The theory that a political rival of the senator might have underworld connections.”
“With the Ukrainians?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And that’s why they targeted the senator’s son instead a poorer victim?”
“That’s the theory.”
It sounded plausible. But so did a hundred other ideas.
“And so I have a little assignment for the two of you.”
Miranda glanced at Parker. He didn’t like that idea any more than she did.
“What kind of an assignment?” he asked.
“There’s a fundraiser at the governor’s mansion tonight.”
“I’m aware of that event.”
“You’ll be attending that event.”
“To test out your theory?” Miranda said.
“Exactly. To find out if anyone there seems to have a chip on his or her shoulder. If anyone seems to have a grudge against the senator. If anyone has an agenda. I hear you’re good at eavesdropping.”
Parker tapped the tips of his fingers together. “I’m not sure we’ll find anything useful, Sloan.”
“All you have to do is try.”
Sloan reached into a drawer and pulled out a small black cell phone. He slid it across the desk to Parker. “This is a secure line. All numbers and texts are triple encrypted. If I need to contact you, I’ll call.”
Parker raised a brow. “And if we need to call you?”
“My number’s in there, but don’t worry. I’ll be in touch. You’re under my command now.”
Parker gave the man a dark smirk. “I’m under no one’s command, Agent Sloan. But we’ll do our best to find out what we can.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Since Sloan had what he wanted he let them go. If you could call it that.
O’Cleary reappeared and led them back to the big garage where the same van was waiting. Again he asked them to get into the back and put on the blindfolds.
“Sorry. It’s protocol,” he explained.
With an irritated huff Miranda took Parker’s hand and climbed into the back.
After what seemed like a two hour ride, O’Cleary dropped them off at the lot in the park where Parker’s Mazda was still waiting.
The plush leather of the passenger seat had never felt so good.
As Parker started the car, she pushed back her hair and leaned against the headrest. “Where the heck was that place?”
Parker used the camera to back out of the spot. “It seemed to be west of here.”
“We heard a train. Could have been Dobbins Air Force base. You know. Military?”
“My guess is the Tilford rail yard. It’s near Dobbins.”
That didn’t tell them much. And did it really matter? “Sloan seems young.”
“He’s inexperienced. He’s made some costly mistakes.”
Good point. And poor Clarissa had to pay for some of them. The vision of the headless body lying on the tracks in the early morning mist came back to her. And the story of what Sloan said they’d done to her.
“What in the world have we gotten ourselves into, Parker?” she whispered.
“I don’t know, but if we can find Perry’s son this way, we have to go along with it.”
She turned to look at him.
The lines in his handsome face were hard, taut with fixed determination and outrage at terrible crimes against innocent children they’d just heard about.
“We’ll find this so-called groomer,” he said with a dark tone that sent a chill down her spine.
He would, she knew. And if he di
dn’t, she would.
And God help the man when they did. “Yeah,” she whispered.
“If we’re going to attend that fundraiser, we’ll need to get home and dress.”
The sun was almost setting.
Just what she wanted to do right now. Hobnob with Atlanta’s upper crust. But as Parker turned onto Peachtree and headed back to the penthouse, despite her misgivings about Sloan, deep down she had to admit she agreed him. The senator could very well have a rival seeking revenge. Politics made you enemies as well as friends.
They had to get Dylan Ward Hughes back and stop the sick bastards who were stealing kids. Even if it meant going to a party.
Whatever it took.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
At the narrow desk in the corner he stroked the HO scale diesel engine in his arms. Such a deep blue color it was, with lovely yellow ends and lettering. It was finely detailed and so like the ones that ran along the tracks at the bottom of the hill outside his house.
He loved it almost as much as the G Scale steam engine.
He cocked his head at the video running on the computer screen.
“We always do all we can to keep the criminal element off the streets.”
Miranda Steele. Footage from her interview after the incident in Jasper County.
She wasn’t a beauty queen, certainly, but there was something alluring about her. She’d been shaken by what she’d been through, he could see, but she had an inner strength. And her body was in good shape, too.
Hmm. Good thing he kept in shape as well.
Wade Parker’s face came into view. “That will be all for today,” he told the reporters.
The camera focused on the woman again. He stopped the film and grimaced at it, irritated he’d had to waste so many hours learning about these detectives.
But he’d gathered a good deal of information in the time he’d spent. The address of the Parker Agency had been easy to find. A little harder was their current home address in a penthouse in town. Harder still was the information about Miranda Steele’s daughter, Mackenzie Chatham. Interesting history there.
This pair was something to be reckoned with. He didn’t dare underestimate them. And if these two were involved with his nemesis from the FBI, he might have to alter his plans. He could do it. Take the train ride earlier than expected. Finish the grooming on the west coast, closer to the final drop point. No one would find him there.
The Boy Page 15