“But they were Russian as well.”
“We don't know that yet. We know their bullets were packed by Ivan the Joke. But he could’ve just supplied the weapons and hired the team from off the internet or something.”
“I suppose so,” Bora admitted. “So we know there was Russian involvement.”
“Right. The team might not have been Russian, but there was definitely a Russian involved. Did you find anything else out on Ivan the Joke?”
She shook her head. “I was just starting in on that when I got a message from Jennifer Wu.” For the next ten minutes, she filled in Dr. Stone on Reflection Models, LLC, and what she’d found out about them. “We were going to call them to book a model and see what happens.”
“If Jennifer sent that, she anticipated you’d discover they were a fraud. But that isn’t why she messaged you. There are thousands of child trafficking websites. Don’t get distracted.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
“The only thing Jennifer knows how to do, other than charm people with her elitist Ivy League credentials, is follow the money. And she excels at it.”
“She sent them to me because there’s a financial connection between this modeling company and Red Flag,” Bora said, connecting the dots.
“Bingo. And if that’s true, the child trafficking site might be connected to Harris.”
It had been a couple of hours since Bao Zhen dropped Agent Imada off at the airport, returned to LaunchPad, and slipped into her bedroom. She saw that her mother was already asleep, so she lay in the other bunk and closed her eyes. It didn’t take long for her to drift off into a deep sleep. Jasmine, too, had got to the room she was sharing with Ashley and was sound asleep.
Justin came bursting into the conference room just as Leonard and Bora were talking. “We’ve got something!”
The three of them hurried over to the office area.
“What is it?” Leo asked.
“Heat signatures from this truck,” answered Saara. “Just a minute, I’m putting it up on the middle monitor. The one on the right is overwatch on the helicopter. The first one, on the left, is Blue Team.”
Everyone watched as the middle monitor suddenly lit up with about a hundred trucks parked around the Twin Rivers YMCA and Temple Church parking lots.
“Zooming in.”
The satellite imagery was crystal clear.
“Activating thermal.”
She was hovering over a group of trucks parked on ball fields belonging to the Young Men’s Christian Association. Some of the truck cabs had people in them. A few didn’t show anyone. But there was one of the trucks, on the far west side of the fields, against a row of trees, that definitely had people in the trailer. To the left of the trees was a neighborhood street that Saara had marked, “7th Street.”
“Okay. Does the trailer match?”
Justin pulled out his little yellow note pad. “There’s no license plate, obviously. But both the trailer that fled the pigsty and this one are white van trailers made by Hyundai. I backed the footage up a little bit. This truck arrives at the right time for it to be our target.”
“Saara, call Blue Team and tell them to move into position for a hostile takeover. We can’t screw this up. My suggestion would be to put the Beamer on Park Avenue, just north of the target, and then approach the truck from 7th Street, through that thin tree line. But you make sure they know that’s just my suggestion. They have a much better perspective than I do, and however they do it doesn’t matter.” He turned to Justin. “Extraction plan?”
“EZ One is where the chopper is now. That BMW will handle driving right up to it, no problem.”
“Option two?”
“If they leave the YMCA around the same time the chopper takes off from the lot, they’ll arrive at the little Coastal Caroline Regional Airport around the same time. It’s a solid backup.”
“Okay, good. Those both sound like good plans,” he said, nodding at Saara, who had just given a thumb up as she ended the call.
“Switching to comms,” Justin said, handing out the earpieces to Saara, Leonard, and Bora.
“Oscar Mike,” Trey said.
“Copy that,” his dad answered.
Nobody was saying anything, but it was odd not having Fox along in the field. He brought a level of intimidation to the team with his giant physique and deft knife skills. It also felt strange not to have David back at LaunchPad. Normally Leonard would be processing with him in the conference room while the team was on the move. But at times, this whole mission felt strange. There was a gnawing feeling that something could explode in their faces at any moment.
“The BMW has the Blue Team label,” Saara informed everyone. Then she tapped a few keys on her keyboard, and each operator’s callsign appeared. “Hemlock, Vegas, and Lakota.”
Leo, Saara, Bora, and Justin were so focused on what was happening on the screens that they didn't hear Ashley come out of her room and head to the kitchen. It was only as the smell of coffee wafted through the air that they noticed she had woken up. Leonard motioned her over and hugged her.
“Things are a little intense here right now,” he said. “Blue Team is closing in on a possible location for Iris. Did you have a good sleep?”
She nodded. “Just getting some coffee, and then I’ll check on Fox. If you need me for anything, let me know; otherwise, I’ll probably just be hanging out with him in the medical clinic.”
Leonard noticed that although she looked tired, she appeared a lot less stressed than the day before. “Okay. When Jasmine wakes up, I’ll send her down to keep you company. Also, Bao Zhen and Lin Lin have organized food. I’m not sure if they’re still up but if not, just talk with them about what Fox needs after they’ve woken up,” he informed her.
“Thanks, Leo.”
As she left, Trey’s voice came through on comms. “Parking on 7th Street. There’s enough camouflage from the trees. We’re in position.”
It was 10:34 A.M. on the East Coast, and the sun was well into the blue sky over New Bern. The crew at LaunchPad watched as Blue Team exited their vehicle and hurried into the tree line.
Trey snuck south, towards the end of the trailer, but staying inside the tree line. He crept to the edge and then got prone, covering the rear doors. Bruce and Tank stayed in position, watching the rig closely. It was a champagne-colored 2004 Kenworth W900L with a raised roof sleeper.
The diesel engine was idling quietly, helping to regulate the temperature in the truck cab and keep electronics charged. The driver was slumped in his seat. He seemed to be looking at his phone or something, but the glare of the smoked windows made it hard to tell. Bruce couldn't see if he was the only one in the cab or not.
Agent Locke pulled a pencil out of his pocket and stuck it behind his ear. Then he took a clipboard out of his backpack that he’d gotten from Gary. Tucking his Glock 17 in the back of his waistline, he pulled his shirt over at it and then looked over at Tank and made a motion with his hand. Tank nodded. The two split up, and Bruce walked up to the driver's door while Tank slipped in between the trailer and the back of the truck cab.
Locke rapped on the door with his knuckles.
The driver lowered his window and stuck his head out. “Yes?”
“Mornin’!” Bruce said cheerfully. “Just doing a fire inspection of all the trucks. Something the city requires.” He backed up and looked at the side of the truck, then he whipped his pencil out and wrote something on his clipboard. Stepping forward and returning his pencil to his ear, he asked: “You got a stovetop in your bunk?”
“I’m sorry,” the trucker said, giving away a slight accent of some sort. “Who are you?”
“With the city of New Bern. This’ll just take a second.”
The driver licked his lips quickly. “Fire inspection?”
“Yup,” Bruce said, suddenly stepping on to the stainless steel stair and pulling himself up, so his head was even with the driver’s.
“Hey! Get off
my truck!”
In fluid motions, Locke reached in the door, unlocked it, slid his arm back out and down to the outside handle. He shifted his body away from the door, jerked it open, and climbed inside, pulling his weapon out from behind his back with his right hand and slamming the door shut with his left. Digging his knees into the trucker’s thighs, he held the gun under the guy’s chin, safety on.
"¿Que demonios?"
Spanish. And the driver wasn’t alone.
Tank had unclipped the red and blue air hoses and the power cable that connected from the cab to the trailer, then he slipped underneath by the fifth wheel and loosened the lock handle that barred the kingpin from slipping out. If the truck cab took off for some reason, that trailer would be staying in place.
“Sit down!” Bruce ordered, seeing the Spanish speaker jump off his bed, reach to a side shelf, and pull out a knife. “No. You don’t want to do that! Just relax, okay?”
Tank could feel the truck cab shake a little, with the action inside. He didn’t want to hurry to the passenger side, since it faced the YMCA ball fields and all the other trucks parked in them. So he began casually walking around it, looking the rig over as he did.
The situation was escalating quickly. Bruce decided he needed to incapacitate the driver for a few minutes, so he slammed the L-shaped part of his left hand into the guy’s windpipe, just enough to get him focusing on trying to breathe more than anything else, and pointed his weapon at the guy in the back. The driver started coughing and sputtering, and Bruce moved off his thighs and stood between the seats, over the gear shift, with his back to the windshield.
In the movies, people always have a conversation, but Bruce knew that wasn’t how it worked. He didn’t hesitate. He sprang towards the Spanish speaker and smashed his left forearm into the guy’s face before he could even raise his knife. Agent Locke heard the lacrimal bones on each side of the hostile’s nose cave in and break. Tank casually stepped up, opened the passenger door, and climbed inside. Quickly assessing the situation, he reached across the driver and rolled up his side window. The dark glass made it hard for anyone to see inside. Then he dragged the guy off his seat and tossed him into the back, on the sleeper mattress, next to the hostile with the crushed nose and bloody face.
Trey was waiting patiently completely still. He knew that any movement could draw attention to himself and give away his position. To his right side was the thick base of a Water Oaktree. And to his left was some underbrush. He was as perfectly concealed as someone could be, without a ghillie suit. He had his HK UMP45 strapped to his back and set to three-round bursts, but opted for his Sig Sauer P226 Tactical Operations Pistol in his hand. He could see the jostling of the cab, but it wasn’t overly noticeable unless someone was watching very carefully. He figured the people in the trailer could feel it, though. And he was ready for them.
The driver had stopped coughing and sputtering, and was drawing in deep breaths. Bruce decided to address him, because his English was better.
“What’s your name?”
“Volodymyr.”
“Russian?”
“Ukrainian,” the guy spat out. “Don’t know the difference?”
Tank spotted the second guy’s knife on the floor and scooped it up. He held it with a reverse grip, blade out. Both of the hostels glared at him.
“Got some people in the trailer, Volodymyr? Huh?” Locke demanded. “You got some people back there?”
Now the truckers understood what was happening and they looked terrified. The driver, especially, started to shake. “Please. Don’t kill us. Don’t. We’re just transportation. It’s a job. Please. I have a family.”
“Dammit, Hemlock!” Bruce barked, touching his comms to activate them.
“Vegas?”
“These guys are like frightened school girls. The driver just wet his pants.”
Trey understood. Not technicalized operators. Hardly the kind of team that would be surrounding Iris. “Let’s unlock the hatch.”
Tank opened the driver’s door and jumped down shaking the keys in his hand. Trey slipped his UMP off his back and leaned it against the tree. Then he stood up, drew his pistol from his side-holster, and held it down by his thigh. He came out of the trees, zipping up his jeans with his free hand as if he’d just taken a leak. The two men walked to the back of the trailer, and Lakota inserted the key to open the lock. He lifted the door bolt, slid it back, and as he jerked the door open, Trey drew his weapon, ready to fire. Inside the bare truck were a group of a dozen vagrant workers, blinking hard in the bright sunlight. A few blankets were scattered around on the floor, and the stench of stale urine escaped from inside.
Chapter Thirty-Three
She didn't want to boast. But she knew she was better at this than anybody else. Getting a new person from merely inquisitive to raving fan of the school took a carefully choreographed dance. Everyone the new person met had to be planned in advance. Linda Wagner made sure to wear her Chanel textured, sleeveless pink mini dress. The brand wasn't overtly ostentatious, but it was classic and spoke old money wealthy. Coco Chanel’s struggle from orphan girl to arguably one of the most powerful women on the planet was an inspiration to millions. It had worked on many others. Just by seeing the brand, they already liked Linda. She remembered her daughter asking why she always wore Chanel. She answered, “People only like what is out of their reach, Sweetie, especially when it comes to luxury.”
Deep in her heart, Wagner knew the reality. Those same people would never make it to Coco’s status. The story of Chanel was like winning the lottery: everybody buys a ticket, but nobody really expects to win. She had her own story too, Linda would tell herself. Granted, she wasn’t an orphan, but her parents were high-ranking Communist Party officials. That meant that they had sold every one of their friends out, compromised whatever basic values are considered human, and sacrificed their lives and their souls for the ideal of making everyone in the country work for them. She herself had never signed on the dotted line, but she still enjoyed the perks.
Of course, Linda knew that money didn’t satisfy; it was a dirty little secret kept by the rich. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t about the money. It was about power and control. When she announced that she wanted to serve on the Punahou School Board, even when her kids had graduated, peers and press applauded her. She was called selfless, brave, a community leader, compassionate, and concerned. The cold reality was that she didn’t care about a school for spoiled children of elites that sat in the mold capital of the world, surrounded by tropical roaches the size of Hot Wheels, in the middle of a cesspool of saltwater. What she did care about was the network of prominent relationships she made through her board membership.
The only accessory she wore to this meeting was the Tiffany Cobblestone, a thin $100,000 diamond necklace that made for a modest addition to her Chanel threads. She’d initially put on the matching $75,000 diamond bracelet too, but following Coco’s own rule for accessorizing, she looked in the mirror before leaving and took it off. She was looking forward to meeting Kyoko Hashimoto and had done her research. Apparently, the entire Hashimoto family was a little reclusive. But she’d found out that their company did over 2 billion dollars in revenue last year. That was certainly impressive. It sounded like they were Punahou material. They’d decided to meet for a late breakfast at the Hilton on Waikiki.
Michi arrived from the airport in a limousine and stepped out of the car with an air of simultaneous confidence and humility. She bowed to her chauffeur and graciously thanked him and then was escorted by one of the handsome bellboys to the restaurant that overlooked the sparkling Pacific Ocean.
“Mrs. Hashimoto, how wonderful!” Linda exclaimed.
“You must be Linda,” Michi said, smiling and bowing. “Nice to meet you.”
Wagner was slightly off her game. Kyoko Hashimoto was stunning. She also wore Chanel. An iridescent white tweed mini skirt that showed off some perfectly toned legs, with an embroidered lustrous tweed to
p that was a muted red, white, and blue. Her neck was graced by a rare collectible Tiffany & Co. necklace, an exquisite art deco ruby and diamond piece that was worth at least double the price of the Cobblestone.
Michi spoke first, “You look lovely, Mrs. Wagner. That pink is such a pretty color on you.”
The Punahou School Board member was still a little flustered. She was used to everyone complimenting her, of course. But she was used to them being secretly envious. Hashimoto wasn’t. Linda didn’t like her at all, she told herself.
Jennifer Wu had extraordinary talent and was one of the highest-paid women working for HSBC in Hong Kong. The Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Company is the seventh-largest in the world and the biggest in Europe with just under 3 trillion dollars in assets. There had been a little drama between her and Trey when Wu’s sister had dated one of Stone’s best friends. It turned out that she was playing the hearts of several guys, and when found out, the relationship had imploded in spectacular fashion. Trey and Jennifer were thrust to opposite corners of the ring and hadn’t communicated for several years afterward. But when Agent Stone’s family was violently abducted, he’d had a gut feeling that she was the right person to reach out to. Not only was she intelligent, thoughtful, and in a position of influence, but she had a nose for following money that he thought might be helpful. Much of what she’d discovered had become vitally important to the investigation.
Now, she was standing by the windows of her office, looking out over the sparkling night lights reflecting off the waters of Kowloon Bay and trying not to be terrified. Her hand was still quivering, and the chunks of ice in her much-needed bourbon chinked as they bumped against each other. Straight across the channel from her was the famous Avenue of the Stars, modeled after the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Jennifer had just spent hours poring over the details of what she was discovering for the LaunchPad team. She was starting to put something together that she knew would be important for Trey and his father when something had just happened that was still causing her to tremble.
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