by Ed James
“Huh.” Olson picked up the VR headset and slammed it off the desk with a loud thud. A crack ran down the plastic case.
“Breaking things isn’t going to help.”
Olson shot him a glare. “Okay, so what if I did?” He ran a finger along the visor’s edge. “That slimeball Delgado was there too. Pair of punks, asking for help from me. But they were snooping, weren’t they?”
“The man who took Avery and Brandon Holliday also abducted Congressman Delgado—that ‘punk’ as you put it. Left him handcuffed to a tree, stuffed his necktie in his mouth.”
“Well I’d wish the honorable representative a speedy recovery, but after hanging me out to dry this morning, he doesn’t deserve any sympathy.”
“This abductor was there, you know? Must’ve been watching you.”
“You need to try a lot harder to frighten me.”
“Must’ve been an interesting phone call to get you to meet on the weekend.”
“There are no weekends in this job, son. You see how busy the parking lot is? We’re running four separate overseas engagements just now, three hot places, one freezing cold.” Olson laughed. “Okay, so I met them. They talked about some cockamamie exercise they thought GrayBox was involved in. Some school in Seattle. Looked very much like Delgado was using Holliday to get at me.”
“And you put them on to Harry Youngblood, right?”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“The reason I sent them to Harry is because that’s his wheelhouse, not mine.” Olson rocked forward on his chair and rested his arms on his desk. “I’ve been involved in too much strategic decision-making, like this piece of garbage.” He picked up the visor and tossed it in the trash. “This morning, at the congressional hearing, Delgado asked me some questions about this horseshit operation. All we did was loan some operatives to support the US troops helping secure our citizens in the event of an attack.”
“Tang Elementary, right?”
“Why do you have to ask, if you already know all the answers?”
Carter caught Elisha’s eyes narrowing. She looked his way but broke off eye contact as soon as she made it. He parked it for later and focused on Olson. “What was Delgado so interested in?”
“Always trying to make himself look better than he is.” Olson let out a sigh. “But it got me thinking, you know? When I got back here after the hearing, I started digging. I found some documents that… Well, they showed that Harry was up to something, but not quite detailing what it was.” He picked up the VR rifle from the desk and inspected it like he was out in the field and it was a real gun. “Every morning, I have press clippings delivered, anything that mentions my company. Usually it’s fluff. Community outreach, investor analyst speculation, but sometimes my press guy delves the depths of the internet, looking for anything salacious.”
“He ever find anything?”
“Every single day. It’s almost always nothing. But sometimes there’s a bit of meat in amongst all the noise.” Olson reached into another drawer and got out a printed page, covered in scribbles. “He found this on some conspiracy page, some horseshit written by a real libertarian goon who’s read a bit too much Ayn Rand.” He chuckled. “People say that describes me, but I believe in society and opportunity for the common man to better himself.” He passed the page to Carter. “Have a look.”
At the top, there was a short digest of the article, followed by the original text. The sort of website other parts of the FBI waste a lot of time investigating and finding nothing, either in the damning gossip they post or the people posting it.
This article focused on an alleged cover-up at Tang Elementary, mentioned GrayBox by name. Said a child was taken and never heard of again.
“This nibbled away at me, you know?” Olson reached for the page again. “Ate away at the fiber of my being. People say I’m a sociopath, but I swear… This then spread like wildfire to places like 4chan and Reddit. Anywhere people talk about military stuff, they were talking about how GrayBox—my company—abducted a child from a school in Seattle.”
“Is it true?”
“I didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it—not GrayBox, not my company. No way. But no smoke without fire, you know?” Olson pulled out another document, many pages thicker. “Turns out Harry Youngblood ran a little side-exercise, off the books. Hadn’t run it past me. Left us wide open, let that punk Delgado haul my company through the mud. I dug deeper and I found some payments, all made to offshore tax havens. I’ll never get at them, doubt even you could. But I found a document relating to the payments.” He stuffed the VR rifle in the trash too, the plastic cracking. “Harry refused to explain it, so I fired his ass.”
“You’re not worried about him talking?”
“It’s a moot point now.” Olson shook his head, slowly, lips pursed. “Harry had NDAs coming out of his ass. His grandkids couldn’t even speak about anything he told them from his time here.” He walked over to the window, taking his time, then leaned back against the glass, arms folded. “I’ll tell you this because I want to help find Holliday’s kid. Offshore money means one of two things. First, the money is Russian, Israeli, or Saudi. I handle all those myself, personally. Harry doesn’t have any dealings.”
“What’s the other explanation?”
“That’ll be business from a certain government organization.”
Carter glanced at Elisha. This wasn’t going how he expected it. “You mean the CIA?”
“I didn’t confirm that, okay?” Olson leaned back against the glass again, like he wanted it to suck him out. “There’s a guy works for Harry, name of Franklin Vance. Brings in a lot of work from that quarter. All paid from accounts in the Caymans, Bermuda, British Virgin Islands, you name it. Tax havens. Places where you can’t trace the flow, can’t discover the identity of the accounts. Whatever Holliday and Delgado were looking for, whatever Harry was running off-books, the trail would lead straight to Frank Vance’s door.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Mason
Vance opens his apartment door but stops on the threshold. “You don’t need to point that gun at me. I know you’re armed.”
“Cut the shit.” I press the gun against his spine. “We’re here for the evidence. If it’s good enough, I’ll let you go.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Just show me it.”
Vance steps into the apartment. It’s a small space, minimal like a white-collar worker’s Tokyo pad. Hardly any personal effects, just a base model TV and a small Bluetooth speaker. Vance strikes me as the kind of guy who’d have a packed bag in the trunk of his car, ready to disappear at the first sign of the heat.
“You guys sure do like to live alone.”
“Best way, believe me.” Vance sits at his coffee table and opens a sleeping laptop, a ruggedized model like you’d see in service. All padding and hard edges, several inches thicker than the latest slimline Apple or Microsoft models.
Holliday stands by the window, looking shell-shocked. At least he’s stopped going on about me letting Avery go. Him whining would be too much to take just now.
I sit next to Vance and press the gun into his side. “Just take it nice and slow, okay?”
“Think I don’t hear you?” Vance enters his password and logs in to a custom desktop, some bespoke GrayBox Linux build. “This is my work machine. The video footage automatically backs up to here in real time.” He switches to a directory structure and navigates through the files. “Here’s the operational report.” He clicks on a few, and a printer fires off, hidden in a piece of furniture. Pages and pages of documents spew out, lightning quick. Within seconds, they’re spilling onto the floor. Guy has some high-end laser printer rigged up so he can get everything he needs and fast.
I stick the gun deeper into his side. “You brought us here to show us what happened.”
“We were told to take a kid and pass him on, that was it.”
My mouth’s gone dry again. “Let’s start with what the ki
d’s name was, okay?”
“I don’t know.”
I push the gun into a rib, reminding him of what I can do with it. “Come on, Frank. You can do better than that. It was Jacob, wasn’t it?”
“No. It was something Muslim.” He points across at the heap of papers. “It’s on the prints, I swear.” He rubs a hand across the mustache. “Just let me get the papers and I’ll show you.”
I take another look around the place. Nowhere to hide anything, let alone a gun. The kitchen’s in the other direction, and no sign of any sharp knives or heavy pans. “Go.”
Vance walks over and picks up the prints. He hands me the first document. “This was required to action the wire transfer between my Caymans account and GrayBox.”
“How much did you take?”
“A good chunk. It’s still in the Caymans, waiting for a rainy day.” Vance hands me the rest of the pages. Must be hundreds of them. “The rest is the mission log.”
As I scan through, my shoulders deflate. The abduction of Faraj al-Yasin, in black Times New Roman. Signed and counter-signed by Harry Youngblood, like these guys are realtors selling a house.
I feel numb.
Vance rubs his mustache. “The hassle I had to go to for some little kid.”
I punch Vance in the balls, hard, my follow-through aiming for the next state. He goes down and I follow up with a kick to the gut. He lies on the carpet, whimpering.
I crouch down and put the gun underneath his left eyeball. “Where is he?”
“Don’t know.” Vance takes a halting breath. “We took him, drugged him, and passed him to some guy in a van. Don’t know what happened after that. I swear.”
I fold the pages and stuff them inside Delgado’s jacket pocket, the other side from the blood. “Does Olson know about this?”
“He doesn’t know anything.” Vance gets to his feet and laughs, despite all the pain. “Guy’s so out of touch with what’s going on at his company. The reason he fired Harry is because he realized how much control he’d lost.”
“He didn’t fire you, though?”
“I’m not technically employed.” Vance reaches over to the printer and passes me another set of documents. “He had this.”
I snatch it out of his hands. “You just gave me the mission report.”
“This is the official one. The one GrayBox gave to the army. No mention of the abduction, just supporting the military. This is what Olson knows. He doesn’t know the truth. Happy to take the dough, but he doesn’t ask questions of me or Harry.”
“You mentioned a camera.”
“Right.” Vance picks up his laptop and enters an address into a web browser and clicks.
The screen fills with footage of soldiers running down a corridor, point of view like in a video game, but too low down, like a child was recording it. I can barely watch as they burst into a changing room and grab Faraj. The sound distorts and I can barely make anything out over the shouting. Arms reach out and someone sticks a bag over Faraj’s head. His sports coach looks on.
And then Jacob bursts into the shot, fists clenched, punching at the soldiers, shouting to let his friend go. Vance’s arms reach out and pick up Jacob. He’s breathing hard, too hard, too fast. Then he stops and his face turns purple.
It happened so quickly. Way too quickly.
He’s on the floor and Vance is giving him CPR, punching his heart and trying to get him to breathe, the camera shaking as he gives mouth-to-mouth.
All I hear is, “He’s gone, Frank.”
Jacob’s dead face fills the screen.
My son.
My beautiful, brave son. Dying while he tried to save his friend. His only friend.
I can only stare at the screen.
One of the soldiers takes the coach aside. The guy is freaking out. Jacob lies on the floor, dead.
Then the camera-wearer jogs back out into the school corridor, catching up on the other operative carrying the sleeping Faraj away.
“Where did you take him?”
“Like I told you, some dude in a van. That’s all I know. All I want to know.”
I stand up tall and pace away from him, over to the window. I’ve got my answers, what happened to my boy. The brutal, disgusting end to his short, short life.
But is it what I wanted? Is it enough?
I point the gun back at Vance. “You killed him.”
“I didn’t.”
“Looked that way to me.”
Vance rubs his fingers through his mustache. He doesn’t believe what happened either. “That fat kid was freaking out because we took the Muslim. Started hyperventilating. I grabbed him, tried to calm him down. I tried bringing him back to life, but I… couldn’t. He just… stopped breathing.” The words sound hollow and empty compared to the video. “I tried to save him. You’ve got to believe me. The kid had a weak heart. Just died in my arms. He would’ve died at some point. Could’ve been soccer practice. Could’ve been running for the school bus.”
“He died because you took his friend!”
Holliday is standing behind Vance, leaning on the sofa back, watching the screen, frowning at me. “Was that your son?”
I don’t answer him.
“If that’s your son, well I’m sorry.” Vance shakes his head, no sign of the stutter. He’s back in control now, or at least thinks he is. “But this isn’t on me.”
“He died in your arms, you murdering piece of shit.” I point the revolver at him, cock the hammer, ready to fire, to enact Jacob’s revenge on this bastard. I take a deep halting breath. “One last chance. Where is Faraj?”
“I don’t know and that’s the truth, you cocksucker. It was out of our hands the moment we passed him over.”
“The CIA have him?”
“That’s who Harry said we were working for. Don’t know what happened after that. I swear. Youngblood must know.”
So Bob Smith was right, then. But only partially so. “Frank, he said you brought in the mission.”
“That sleazeball.” Vance clenches his fists. Looks ready to lash out. “The next time I see him I’ll—”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“He’s dead?” Vance smooths down his mustache. Getting really annoying now. Maybe I should shave it off before I kill him.
These pricks, all chasing the dime, then the next one and the one after that. All just a game. But these are people’s lives, the lives of their loved ones. Kidnapping and killing and—
Shit, I am the same as them.
No.
I’m never the same as them. I’m stopping these bastards doing this, I’m taking revenge on them for what they’ve done.
I move over, keeping the revolver trained on Vance. “On your knees.”
He looks at me, then pleads with Holliday, like he can save him. “Come on—”
I pistol-whip the back of his head and push him forward with my boot.
He tumbles onto the coffee table, his hands hauling the table over the perfect parquet floor as he goes down. He lands on his hands and knees, at least.
I put the revolver against his head. Franklin Vance, my son’s killer. Does he deserve this? After what he did?
Of course he does.
So I shoot him through the head.
And again.
Chapter Forty-Three
Holliday
Holliday stumbled back and collapsed into an armchair, the only one in the room.
Frank Vance’s dead eyes stared at him, stared through him. Two bullet holes in his forehead. The corpse slumped forward and collapsed onto the couch.
Holliday gripped the arms, trying to hold himself upright, stop himself following Vance down.
I brought Mason here, and I could only watch as he shot him. This is my fault.
Mason stood there, eyes closed, still holding the gun in the position it settled in. No more edgy twitching. He looked almost at peace, his justice served.
Did Vance deserve to die for killing Mason’s son?<
br />
Maybe, but was it for Mason to decide? Whatever Vance deserved, he deserved a court deciding it. Mason didn’t seem the sort to agree with the rule of law.
Holliday pushed up to standing. Took him a couple of attempts. Felt like he could fall over at any moment. “Can you let Avery go now?”
Mason glanced at him, frowned, then went over to Vance’s dead body. He reached under his chin and held it for a few seconds before nodding. Didn’t seem like an answer to Holliday’s question, more that Vance was dead. He pointed the gun at Holliday. Then fell back in the armchair.
Mason walked over, raising the gun and resting it against Holliday’s forehead. But he just stared at Holliday, sucking air in through his nostrils, eyes narrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. A grunt, then he lowered the gun and walked off, fumbling in his pocket for something. He put his smartphone to his ear, making brief eye contact with Holliday before looking away. “It’s me.” He walked over to the window. “I’ve got answers. I know what happened to Jacob.” He paused, like he was listening. “The CIA took Faraj.”
Holliday tried to stand again, but his legs wouldn’t let him.
Mason glanced back at Holliday. “No, keep Avery where she is. I’ll think about what to do next.” He ended the call and rested against the windowsill, typing on his cell, jaw clenched. Seemed like a long message.
Mason has two conspirators. Someone has Avery, but there’s someone else pulling his strings. His wife? Someone else?
Can I use Mason as leverage? Swap him for Avery?
Or do I grab his cell phone, take it to the feds, and get them to track the calls?
Holliday looked around the apartment, searching for anything he could use to distract Mason, anything to use as a weapon if it came down to it.
Mason put the gun against Holliday’s forehead. The barrel was still warm from shooting Vance. He just held it there.
Holliday tried to replay all the times Mason had used the gun he stole from the guard at the Federal Building. He shot Youngblood, accidentally or on purpose, right in front of that fed. Then he shot the glass to escape. Once in the air when they left Youngblood’s home, to distract that FBI agent. Then he shot Vance, twice.