Bad Faith (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 1)

by Nick Stevens

  He wanted that burrito.

  As the pair neared Logan Circle, Mason noted the upscale apartments, complete with attentive doormen and well-lit entrances.

  “Not the neighborhood I expected for a poor English major.”

  Laurel chewed the inside of her cheek. “It’s my dad. He’s the CEO of a big defense company. He insisted I stay off campus. Thinks it’s too dangerous for me alone.”

  “Based on what happened tonight, he might be right.”

  Laurel shrugged. She resumed making a meal of the inside of her cheek.

  At last, the pair arrived outside The Hudson and DeSoto apartments, its red awnings framing the glass and steel entrance.

  Mason scanned the building, a pang of envy flaring his nostrils. “Nice place.”

  Eyes glued to the sidewalk in front of her, Laurel’s foot traced a circle on the concrete.

  “Do you want to…”

  Mason looked at Laurel, her sudden nervousness highlighting the age difference between her and Mason.

  She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

  “Do you want to come up?”

  The offer caught Mason off guard. His thoughts were on devouring a breakfast burrito and getting some sleep. Bedding Laurel was the last thing on his mind.

  “I’m flattered, but it’s probably not a good time. You’ve been through a lot tonight and I don’t want to take advantage, or have you regret it later.”

  Lips pressed tight, she swallowed hard as her cheeks flushed.

  “Fine. Thank you again, and for walking me home.” Voice clipped, eager to flee from sudden embarrassment. She turned and walked into the modern structure as a security guard waved her in. The guard looked at Mason through the glass, scowled, and went back to scrolling on his phone after writing something down.

  Mason sighed. Taking a last look at the building, he turned on his heel and began his walk home.

  Parking the car in a dark alley, the driver reached into the back seat. He placed a black Washington Nationals baseball cap on his head, the white W still pristine. He'd purchased the hat with cash several hours ago.

  Exiting the car, the driver hid in the darkness cast by the corner of a building. Checking his watch, he estimated an hour or so before sunrise. He had to move fast.

  He’d scouted this location days ago. During his surveillance, he’d found two cameras perched on the back of the apartment building. For a little cash, Darius and his crew disabled them. A staffer at the apartment building caught them tossing rocks at the cameras and she tried running them off. The boys gave her a few stitches for her trouble.

  The driver’s route into the building clear, he approached the employee entrance. The thumb latch on the heavy door handle didn’t budge. Cursing under his breath, he untucked his denim shirt and unbuttoned the top button. Ready, he rapped his knuckles against the industrial door.

  Waiting a few minutes, he pounded on the door a second time, threatening to take the door off its hinges. The driver knew time worked against him.

  A sharp click from the door, and it swung open. An older man in a janitor’s uniform opened the door.

  “Si?”

  “Hey buddy! Forgot my keys.” The driver patted himself down, miming the search for the janitor. He added a sway, feigning drunkenness. The driver had never touched alcohol, but years spent watching his squad mates stumble around gave him ample material to work with.

  The janitor mumbled something in Spanish, then let the driver pass.

  Barging past the confused man, the driver waved, “Thanks señor! You’re a lifesaver!”

  Rounding a corner, the driver sprinted into a cargo elevator. Pressing the button for the top floor, he prayed he still had time. He tucked his shirt back into his khaki trousers, giving him a similar look to the janitor.

  Stepping onto the sixth floor into a maintenance room, he opened the door to the common hallway. With the hallway empty, he took a deep breath. Finding apartment 613, his knuckles grazed the door, fearful of waking neighbors.

  He checked for light under the door and behind the peephole. Nothing.

  He must have missed her. Or she went home with the security guard. Swearing under his breath, the driver turned back down the hallway. He planned on ducking out using the cargo elevator.

  The distinctive chime of an elevator reaching its floor echoed down the hallway.

  The driver slowed his pace. He realized he’d expected the girl to be alone on her way to the apartment. The security guard may have more in mind than an innocent walk home. Grabbing one petite girl didn’t present a challenge for him. Dealing with the other guy, easily as tall as the driver, wouldn’t be simple. Or quiet.

  He recognized the girl from her social media feeds as she rounded the hallway corner. Alone, the girl’s eyes locked to the vacuumed carpet covering the hallway.

  The driver passed the girl as he neared the doorway to the maintenance room he’d emerged from.

  Spinning around, his right arm wrapped around the girl’s throat, the left clenching around the back of her head. The girl fell limp from the rear naked choke before the driver pulled her into the maintenance room. Pulling a syringe of fentanyl from his pocket, he injected the powerful sedative into her shoulder.

  Laurel recovered as quickly as she’d passed out, her arms flailing as the man held her, his arms like a vise. Dropping the syringe, he wrapped a hand over her mouth and pinned her to the floor. He’d only used fentanyl twice before. It took a few minutes for the sedation to kick in. The girl kicked at him and clawed at the arm and hand holding her. The driver stared back at her, bored with her feeble attempts to fight back.

  After a minute, her movements slowed and her eyes drooped. Another minute passed. He checked her pulse, finding it steady and slow.

  The driver tossed the girl over his shoulder, her weight effortless on his frame. Ducking back into the maintenance room, he blew a sigh of relief as the cargo elevator’s doors slid open.

  Reaching the ground floor, he propped the doors open while checking for the janitor from earlier. Seeing no one, he lugged the girl, still unconscious, out of the building.

  Making his way back to the car, the driver dropped her into the trunk. Taking a roll of tape, he wrapped her hands behind her back, and her feet at the ankles. A short length of tape covered her mouth for the last touch.

  The driver sped out of the alley as the sun rose over another Sunday morning in Washington D.C.

  Chapter 3

  A rattling sound came from the floor near the bed. Mason peeled back an eyelid and rolled over. His phone rested on the fat ring of keys on the floor, right where he’d dropped it before he’d fallen asleep. The time on the phone showed just after ten in the morning. His head hit the pillow less than five hours ago. He waited for voicemail to pick up. The phone went silent after the fifth ring. After a pause, the phone buzzed again.

  His phone only rang when Clay or his team needed something. With the club closed on Sunday, it wouldn’t be them.

  His finger hovered above the dismiss button as his bloodshot eye slowly focused on the caller ID.

  Borisov. He hadn’t spoken to Jonathan Borisov in years.

  Mason pushed himself off the mattress with one hand, collapsing when his other arm failed to respond. He’d slept on it, leaving it numb and unresponsive.

  Flailing with his one working arm, he punched the button, accepting the call. Stabbing at the screen with a fingertip, he managed putting the call on speaker by the third try.

  “Judge?” Mason croaked into the air, his voice foreign and distant.

  “Mason, are you okay?” The familiar voice of Chief Justice Jonathan Borisov barked from the phone’s tinny speaker.

  Spotting an old cup of coffee on the floor near the bed, Mason gulped down the cold, bitter liquid, grimacing. The label stuck to the side of the cup showed he’d ordered it on Wednesday. Best case, the stale coffee was four days old. He shrugged and set the cup down.

  “Don’t I
sound okay? And do you know what time it is?”

  “It’s seventeen after ten. On Sunday morning. Most people are awake now, Mason, enjoying the day,” Borisov chided.

  “I was enjoying the day. Sleeping. Most people don’t work until the wee hours. But I’m guessing you didn’t just call to criticize my sleep habits.”

  The numbness in his arm subsided, replaced with tingling as nerve signals started flowing. The familiar morning stiffness and aches returned to his right shoulder, the web of scars a daily reminder of the old judge. Mason picked up the small dumbbell next to his bed, warming up the old injury and restoring movement to the shoulder.

  “I need your help. Or, rather, a dear friend of mine needs your help. It’s urgent.”

  “I’m not a cop anymore, Judge. Maybe you should call the Metro police.”

  Borisov paused. “Despite being the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, there are times even I can’t call the police. I’m sending a car to collect you. One hour.”

  Mason’s stomach growled. He needed food, real coffee and a shower.

  “Make it two. I’m still at the same place.”

  “Sal is picking you up. Be ready.”

  Less than two hours later, the doorbell rang on Mason’s ground-floor apartment, followed by four authoritative knocks. A showered and shaved Mason opened the door, wearing beat-up Nikes, jeans, and a simple black t-shirt.

  On the other side stood a Black woman, muttering to herself and shaking her head. She sported khaki pants, a purple v-neck t-shirt and a lightweight grey sweater. “Mason Ashford?”

  “I’m not interested.”

  The woman took a deep breath, followed by a long exhale.

  “I’m Salome Peterson. Chief Justice Borisov asked me to pick you up. Let’s go. I have better things to do with my Sunday than chauffeuring you around.”

  Wincing as she turned on a heel, Mason followed Salome - Sal, he realized - past his front door, setting the door’s three locks and engaging the alarm system from his phone. She paused at the delay, rolling her eyes at the security theatrics for a run-down apartment.

  “Worried the roaches might get out?”

  “Property crimes are climbing here in Columbia Heights. Can’t be too careful. And hey, those roaches are my friends.” Mason attempted a weak grin as he walked past her, still abashed at his assumption Sal would be a man.

  Sal shrugged off Mason’s attempt at humor, pointing to a newer Honda Civic in white.

  “Get in.”

  The pair drove into Bethesda in silence, with Sal fending off Mason’s attempts at conversation. Sal’s car sped past rows of multi-million-dollar houses, many bordering on full mansions. The immense Borisov residence, with its manicured grounds, appeared on the right. Black, steel-framed windows popped against the flat white exterior.

  Mason hadn’t seen the judge in over three years. Not since Claire’s funeral. The same day the judge tried talking him out of resigning, but Mason had made up his mind.

  The car halted on the long, crushed gravel driveway leading to the garage. Mason recognized the judge’s car parked outside. The old Jaguar XJ, its ocean blue paint waxed to a high sheen, glinted in the sunlight. The polished chrome accents blinded Mason for staring a bit too long. A black BMW 750i parked behind it, sporting temporary paper license plates.

  Mason caught the smell of fresh cut grass as he walked to the door. “It even smells better here.”

  “I think it’s the money.”

  Sal reached the black framed glass doors first, pressing the doorbell. She followed the chimes with four hard knocks against the steel, the same way she’d beaten on his door. Her confidence with the knocking routine implied she was used to pounding on doors and getting answers. Mason suspected Sal was some type of cop. Either that, or she hated doors.

  The squeak of rubber soles against marble echoed through the house, drawing closer to the entrance. Borisov rounded the corner, wearing a red Nike polo shirt and white shorts. He smiled and waved as he saw his guests through the thick glass doors.

  Jonathan Borisov changed little since Mason last saw him. Greyer around the temples, but his crystal eyes had lost none of their spark. The judge’s daily tennis obsession had kept the pounds off, at the cost of two total knee replacements. Angry red lines still showed below the hem of the judge’s tennis shorts.

  “Great to see you again Mason, although I wish the circumstances were more… eh? Positive?” He shifted to Sal, her arms crossed.

  “Salome, thank you for joining us. Your help will be invaluable. And thanks for picking up Mason. He still doesn’t believe in cars.”

  “To be clear, I believe cars exist. I don’t believe in owning them.”

  Borisov ignored Mason and waved them into the house. “There’s someone I need you two to meet. He needs your help.”

  Mason raised a hand, motioning for Sal to take the lead. She stomped into the house, her light brown boots cracking against the marble floor tiles.

  The front door opened to a massive foyer with polished marble tiles in grey and white. Hallways led off to the left and right. A wide spiral staircase dominated the space on the right, its modern bannister arching up to the second floor. The high backs of dining chairs were visible, covered in a light blue velvet fabric. Large cylindrical chandeliers hung over the wood table.

  Borisov led them from the foyer and through the family room. The judge didn’t give the room a second glance as they passed through. Mason noted the groove the confirmed bachelor wore into the blue and white patterned carpet connecting the kitchen with the front door.

  From the left, Mason heard a television blaring a tennis match, the sportscasters fawning over Federer’s continued dominance.

  The judge opened the rear door in the family room leading outside. An outdoor table and chairs sat on a large concrete pad near the house. A second concrete pad, separated by the first with tasteful bushes and mulch, held two outdoor couches in front of a modern fireplace.

  A man sat on one of the couches, slouched over, hand on a glass of something amber. As they approached, Mason noted the wrinkled clothes and several days of beard growth sprouting on the man’s face.

  “Sal, Mason, please meet Judge Harrison Stewart. He sits on the D.C. district court. He’s why I called. He needs your help.”

  The judge stood and shook hands with Sal, then Mason. He introduced himself again, not hearing Borisov’s earlier introduction. Dark circles under his eyes gave him a hollow appearance. When he sat back down, he picked at already bloody cuticles. His blank eyes stared at a point a thousand yards away.

  Borisov sat down, indicating Sal and Mason should take a seat.

  Borisov picked up his own glass from the table. Mason knew it held Woodford Reserve, Borisov’s spirit of choice. “Harry’s daughter has gone missing, and we need your help to find her.”

  Since the judge didn’t offer, Mason considered getting his own glass of bourbon, then thought better of it. His relationship with the old judge wasn’t that casual. “If his daughter has gone missing, why not just call the cops or the marshals? Or have you already?” Federal judges had ample protection and access to all levels of federal police.

  Borisov shook his head, “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Confidentially, Associate Justice Henderson is retiring soon, opening up a spot on the Court. Harry’s a top candidate for the job. But he’s also handling some sensitive criminal cases at the district level. A missing daughter might look like somebody trying to get leverage over his decisions, ruining his chances as an Associate Justice.”

  Sal leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re saying a Court appointment is more important than finding your daughter?”

  Harrison Stewart roused from his trance. “How dare you? I love my daughter! She’s everything to me since… I want her back, more than anything.”

  “Then call the cops. Call your protective detail. They do this sort of thing.” Mason offered, again eyeing the amber liquid resting in Borisov
’s glass.

  Borisov pointed at Mason with a disjointed finger, a reminder of Mason and Borisov’s shared past. “You do this sort of thing. At least, you did.”

  The burst of indignation exhausted Harry, and he faded back into the seat cushion. His hand trembled. “Mr. Ashford, have you heard of the District City Royals? I know Detective Peterson here is acquainted with the organization.”

  Mason nodded, “Only what I’ve read. Drug trafficking, armed robbery, murder, and money laundering.”

  “They also get into witness intimidation, firearms trafficking, and kidnapping,” Harrison added.

  Borisov placed his glass on the table in front of him, leaning forward and interlocking his fingers. “Kenneth Miller, head of the District City Royals, killed the leader of a rival gang and had another man killed for snitching. He also doesn’t care for the police.”

  Sal snorted, “Doesn’t care for them? He had my partner tortured and killed.”

  “What?” Mason stared at the woman as she dried her hands against the khaki fabric of her trousers. Gangs don’t touch the police. It’s bad for business.

  Borisov jumped in. “You two haven’t met?”

  Mason shook his head, “Just brief introductions when she picked me up. Murdered partners aren’t something you get into when you first meet someone.”

  Sal glared back at Mason. “I’m police, at least I was. Five years working through the ranks and finally made detective investigator. They dropped me into the gang task force, where I got paired up with Jay Babbitt. We worked together for six months. Word around the district was Babbitt was dirty, taking money from the gangs he should’ve been investigating, steering police to rival gangs, that sort of thing. One day, an abandoned building went up in southeast D.C. Arson. When the fire burned out, they found a body inside. It was Babbitt.”

  Mason read the story when it happened, horrified at what happened to a fellow cop. “You said you were a cop. What happened?”