What time was it? Eban glanced at the time on the hotel clock and tried to wrap his brain around what the numbers seven one five actually meant. He thought it was probably morning but wasn’t one hundred percent certain.
“What did he say?” Eban sounded like he’d swallowed razorblades.
They’d all been working non-stop trying to figure out who these terrorists were, where they were. Bodies had been transported to a makeshift morgue at the outskirts of a military base on Java. Portable laboratories were being used to run DNA from each skeleton’s molar. No one had taken responsibility.
“She says the foreign minister left immediately after Quentin’s keynote, because he had an important meeting to attend the next day in Manila. A meeting that had been scheduled for weeks.”
She? Eban wondered if Reid was sleeping with her because seven fifteen…AM, apparently…was a hell of an early time to have already finished a meeting.
“So you’re telling me the minister didn’t receive a last-minute tip off telling him the bad guys were on their way to kill everyone in their path and to clear out. Bummer.” That would have been too easy, and Eban could have beat the shit out of the guy to find out exactly who had warned him and who the hell had massacred all those people.
And that was why Eban wasn’t the Legal Attaché. Armstrong was a hell of a lot more diplomatic than this Montana homeboy.
“It raises an interesting point,” Armstrong agreed. “Did the terrorists know that the minister had departed, which left the conference with zero security, or was it chance they arrived at exactly that moment?”
Eban didn’t believe in that degree of chance. “My money is on the terrorists knowing exactly what was going on inside that building. Maybe someone contacted them as soon as the coast was clear, or they had a solid read on the schedule. I have an FBI consultant called Alex Parker looking at cell tower information. Let me check my email. See if he came up with anything.”
“You know he was a spook, right?”
“What? Who? Parker?” Eban hadn’t known, but rumors flew around the Bureau the same way gossip spread in high school. “I don’t care if he was a cold-blooded assassin as long as he delivers what he said he’d deliver.” Eban opened his laptop and watched his email load. His eyes ran down the list of messages until it hit the first one from Parker.
It was a spreadsheet.
“He sent me all the cell phone numbers that pinged off that tower and matched them with the owners’ details. Shit.” He knuckled the sleep out of his eyes. “There are a lot of numbers here.”
Armstrong was silent on the other end of the line.
Most of these people were dead.
Parker had highlighted Quentin’s and Haley Cramer’s cell numbers. They’d both made calls after midnight—Cramer to Alex Parker and Quentin to SIOC. Interestingly, no one else inside the hotel had called anyone.
Eban quickly scanned the rest of the message. “Parker says it looks like someone probably used a signal jammer inside the hotel so no one could call for help.”
“That’s a pretty sophisticated setup for a bunch of bumfuck bandits,” Armstrong muttered.
Damn straight it was. “What are the Indonesians doing to track these people down?” Eban didn’t have a lot of confidence in the local authorities.
“They’ve made a bunch of arrests, but who knows if they’re scooping up the right people.”
“Not good enough.” Eban’s skin itched with impatience. He was so angry and frustrated. He knew that wasn’t how people got results, but he couldn’t negotiate with anyone unless someone made contact, and no one was going to make contact if Quentin Savage and Haley Cramer were dead.
He kept pushing the thought out of his head, because he didn’t want to believe it, but what if it was true and he was being an intransigent fool?
“The government here is constantly trying to crack down on violent extremists that adversely affect tourism and destabilize the region. But there are some hardliners in parliament who welcome the disruption, as they want the country to adopt a stricter form of Sharia law.”
Eban wondered if the assistant was Armstrong’s main source of information.
“Interestingly, one of the hardliners is the interior minister who made searing statements after the attack, criticizing the foreign minister for helping organize the conference on Indonesian soil. He’s is not particularly friendly to the West.” Armstrong grunted. “But the Prime Minister has mobilized large swathes of the Army to beat the bushes.” Armstrong paused. “I can’t help wondering if it wasn’t ex-military who carried it out. They were certainly well-armed, and it was a well-planned operation,” Armstrong spoke quietly, as if worried someone might overhear. “They don’t even need to be Indonesian military.”
They just needed to know how to kill effectively and disappear into the dense vegetation of Southeast Asia.
“Hurek?”
“Maybe. People here don’t want to talk about him.”
Darmawan Hurek was a former major in the Indonesian army and a suspect in the Alexander kidnapping case. They had zero proof the guy was even alive, let alone running kidnap or terrorist missions. Just the word of a murderer who was executed before the FBI could question him.
Still, it was a potential lead to follow when nothing else was popping.
Eban’s stomach growled, and he realized he was starving. He hadn’t eaten much except a rice bowl they’d handed out to personnel yesterday afternoon at the ruins of the hotel. No one had felt much like eating.
“You heard any updates on Darby O’Roarke?” Eban asked. No group had admitted to taking Darby yet. If she had been kidnapped for ransom, the kidnappers usually waited a week or so before contacting the family. Try to gauge what she was worth from the media frenzy her disappearance provoked. It was part of the reason the FBI tried to keep kidnappings out of the headlines. Tried to deal with them quietly without fanfare. Fanfare raised the price, and the families were already being screwed for every penny they had.
“If someone else took the O’Roarke girl, they might not want to draw any attention to themselves when the whole country is riled up against terrorists,” Armstrong suggested.
That was true. Which might be bad news for Darby. Easy enough to slice a throat and leave someone dead in the middle of the jungle where she’d never be found.
Another email message pinged in from Alex Parker.
“According to Parker,” Eban told the legat, “thirty-eight of the two hundred and four cell phones that were pinging off the hotel’s tower during the conference are still active today.”
“So thirty-eight people managed to avoid being slaughtered by the terrorists?” asked Armstrong.
“A lot of them are staff who weren’t on duty that night, or guests who’d already left the hotel. Parker is compiling a list of names and last known locations for those cell phones so we can arrange to have the users questioned.”
“Maybe one of them will have seen or heard something or, better yet, be one of the asshole terrorists who failed to turn off his cell during the raid and the ride home.”
“That would be great,” Eban agreed. He checked another email, one from a forensic scientist in Java. He pumped his fist in excitement. “Yes. The blood on the beach belonged to Quentin Savage. They compared it to a profile of one of his brothers they had on file as an active duty soldier.”
Eban paced the room, trying to see how the events could have played out from the evidence left behind. The information in the phone calls back to D.C. The two terrorists with their necks broken. The eyewitness accounts of the fire. The cell phones on the beach…
“You can’t actually believe he’s alive?” Armstrong’s tone held disbelief.
“We didn’t find their bodies on the beach, and what are the chances Savage and Cramer both accidentally lost their phones? The Glock too—no way would Quentin leave behind that weapon unless he was forced to.” The blood confirmed that for Eban. Someone had used the pistol to hit
Quentin. “If they’re dead, why take their bodies?” Ballistics had shipped the pistol back to Quantico along with about a thousand bullet jackets and used ammo. “Somehow they got out of the hotel before the roof caved in, but the bad guys found them and took them hostage.”
“Why? Why take them when they killed everyone else?”
“I don’t know,” Eban admitted. More bodies had been found in the woods but not Quentin or this Cramer woman.
“Why haven’t we heard any online chatter from the bad guys bragging they have an FBI agent?”
“I don’t know that either,” Eban snapped. “Maybe they wanted to double-check their safeguards, make sure they didn’t screw up on the raid before they risked bringing the wrath of the US down on their heads? If he’s alive, we’ll hear something soon.”
“I’ll pay the damn ransom myself if you’re right,” Armstrong muttered.
“Me, too,” Eban agreed. “If they call with a monetary demand, we need to change tactics for this one. No haggling. We need proof of life, and then we agree to pay whatever they want and get information for a drop.”
“You don’t really think they’ll ransom him, do you?”
Eban raked a hand over his scalp. “Probably not.” He firmed his voice. He was a professional and needed to detach from the fact they were talking about a friend. “A lot depends on their motivation. Money? Cementing their reputation as badasses? Having leverage over the US? If it’s the former or the latter, they should keep him alive, especially if we tell them we’ll pay big bucks to get him back.”
“And if it’s anything else he’s as good as dead,” Armstrong finished for him.
“Unless we find him first,” Eban said firmly. Assuming Quentin is alive. Big assumption, but one Eban was hoping for regardless. Another email hit his inbox with a ding. “Hold on.” It was from Charlotte Blood, who was now holding the fort back in Quantico.
The FBI had received a ransom demand ten minutes ago, along with photographs which suggested Savage and Cramer had survived the terrorist attack.
“We just received a ransom demand.” Eban raised his face to the ceiling. He’d known it. He’d damned well known it. After inhaling a calming breath, he read the rest of the email.
The bad news was, the terrorists wanted twenty million US dollars’ worth of bitcoin each for Quentin Savage and Haley Cramer, and they wanted it by eight PM that day. If the FBI failed to deliver the money, they were going to start chopping them up and mailing them back to Quantico one piece at a time.
Chapter Eighteen
Trudging up the path behind Quentin, Haley found herself admiring the shape of his backside and muscular thighs outlined by the black pants he wore. It shocked her a little, that after everything she’d recently experienced, she could still feel lust. But she’d decided a long time ago that she wouldn’t let the monsters steal her sexuality. Her brain shied away from some of the things that had been stolen.
She believed in sex between consenting adults—good, healthy, mutually pleasurable sex. Sex for sex’s sake. Sex for that kick of excitement. Sex for the fleeting ecstasy of orgasm as addictive as any other high known to man, or woman. From the way her eyes gobbled him up and her pulse quickened, her body had just remembered that Quentin was damned good at it too.
The power of basic pleasures should never be underrated. And her freedom to choose a partner—male, female, or someone in between—was something she’d guarded fiercely all these years.
She looked around as some sort of sea bird squawked high in the sky. The view was spectacular—almost as nice as her place in the Caribbean which, thankfully, lacked a volcano.
She felt refreshed. They’d washed in the sea, the astringent seawater good for the cuts and grazes they’d accumulated. They’d washed again in the freshwater of the stream. Then they’d eaten some MREs, and drunk about a gallon of water each. Thankfully, the terrorists hadn’t found Darby’s main cache of supplies, which she’d placed in coolers in a small wooded glade.
They’d passed her tent, but Darby had avoided going inside. Haley knew why. It was no longer a refuge. She’d felt the same way about her bedroom as a teen, although for a time, she’d had to sleep there anyway, until she’d finally worked up the courage to run away.
She bent down to adjust the wet socks that rubbed on the heel of her stolen boots. Irritating but relatively minor. She’d dry them out later. She still wore Quentin’s gym clothes and these damn boots. Darby’s clothes were too small for her, the girl was petite and fine-boned. They’d all slathered on sunscreen Darby had packed in her supplies so at least their skin wouldn’t roast in the midday sun.
Who knew how long it would take to build their signal, but Haley was almost looking forward to it. Freedom was a heady feeling, and she wasn’t afraid of hard work.
Darby walked twenty paces ahead of them, seemingly indomitable, striding up the hill wearing hiking boots, a clean pair of khaki shorts and a green canvas shirt with a floppy hat stuffed on top of her curls. She was beautiful and so much tougher than Haley would have been had their situations been reversed.
Determination had the girl’s shoulders pulled back, her jaw tilted to the angle of a survivor. Bruises of all different colors covered her exposed skin, suggesting the bastards had beaten her at regular intervals during her captivity. The idea of this defenseless young woman being abused sickened Haley and made her own experience at the hands of her father’s younger brother pale into insignificance.
Her feet stopped moving, and she found herself swallowing repeatedly, suddenly fighting emotion. That experience had shaped her whole life, but Darby hadn’t even known if she would live or die—or how long she’d have to endure the nightmare…
Pathetic. Haley was completely pathetic. She’d spent years running from her past. Years bitterly using it as an excuse never to get close to a man, because she wouldn’t allow anyone to control her that way again.
She clawed for her self-control. God, she couldn’t lose it again.
Quentin turned back, as if somehow sensing her distress. Darby carried on hiking up the hill away from them, out of earshot.
He came back and put a hand on her shoulder. The contact felt good—warm and familiar, but brand-new and exciting all at the same time. “You okay?”
Of course, is what she’d normally say with some sort of forced sexy laugh.
Aside from her family, Haley hadn’t told anyone except her therapist about being raped. Not even Alex or Dermot. Certainly not any of her former lovers. She hadn’t wanted to expose that fault line. It was her secret, her pain. But Quentin already knew, because she’d blurted it out when she’d thought they were going to die.
Her throat hurt from trying to keep the shame buried deep inside. “I was thinking about my experience with sexual assault and how it pales compared to what Darby has endured,” she admitted, not knowing how to explain all the emotions whirling inside her.
He shocked her by hauling her against his chest and squeezing her so hard her ribs hurt.
God, it felt good.
He rested his chin on the top of her head, an action that pierced her heart. “Trauma is trauma, Haley, no matter the degree.” He leaned back and held her gaze. “I am sorry you went through that.”
“It was a long time ago. I’m over it, really, and I don’t want to even think about my past experiences when Darby’s are so fresh.”
Those dark, sober eyes of his held hers, and she couldn’t look away.
“One day, if you need to talk about it, I’m here for you. I’m a very good listener.” He smiled, and her knees wobbled for one feeble moment. “But Darby might welcome you talking about what happened to you—knowing that she isn’t alone even if both experiences are unique. Don’t ask her for specifics about what happened to her, but perhaps tell her what happened to you—if you can bear to talk about it. I can make myself scarce.”
Words choked in her throat. The problem was, she didn’t know how to talk about it. It was too diffic
ult. Too humiliating.
Whatever he saw in her expression had his gaze turning somber. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, Haley. Whatever you choose to do is perfectly fine.”
And with that, he took her hand and kissed it the way he had several times since they’d been taken captive, and her heart gave another little quiver.
“Come on. Let’s catch up before she decides to come back and herd us along.”
Haley laughed, and they started up the path together still holding hands. She hated that she loved it. Loved the comfort and reassurance of his touch. She hated that she wanted more of it. A lot more. That was not who she was under normal circumstances.
When they were rescued, if they were rescued, she could pursue her usual independence and equilibrium. She and Quentin might even enjoy a short celebratory fling and then go back to being who they really were. The idea made her fingers clench anxiously around his hand.
They crested the ridge, careful to keep low on the horizon in case someone somewhere had eyes on the skyline. They’d be tiny, but no one wanted to risk it.
Something had brought the terrorists here when they’d grabbed Darby the first time.
Haley was sweating after another ten minutes of hiking steadily uphill over ever steeper ground then up barren volcanic rock.
Darby didn’t slow. She was like a dynamo of energy. You’d never guess she’d been assaulted unless you looked at the marks or caught the trauma in her gaze.
Victims did that.
They blocked it out and carried on as normal, and then people said they never noticed a change in their behavior. Found it hard to believe the truth when it finally emerged.
Survival mechanisms didn’t always make sense unless you’d been through that kind of ordeal yourself.
Quentin kept hold of Haley’s hand, helping her along when the air grew thinner, and her body started to shake with fatigue. Darby eyed the connection between her and Quentin with an assessing glance. Haley suspected that the idea of any relationship, even friendship, might be hard for her for a while.
Colder Than Sin (Cold Justice - Crossfire: FBI Romantic Suspense Book 2) Page 16