Bad Faith (Mason Ashford Thriller Series Book 1)

by Nick Stevens

  “That could be it. We’re heading in that direction,” Sal whispered.

  “Well, this is the interesting part. My mom owns a real estate brokerage in Silver Spring, so I called her. It took some work, but she found out it is an old camp used by the Boy Scouts of America. Some place called Camp Perseverance. The Scouts sold it to pay for legal bills. It’s near where Maryland and West Virginia come together. The old website is available, and satellite pictures of it are online.”

  Mason played through the possibilities. Drug trafficking didn’t sound right unless they partnered with cartels. A large camp could be a staging area for terrorists, domestic or otherwise, but Bethany Kaine didn’t fit that model. Terrorists were, almost as a rule, men.

  Sal said, “They’re moving girls.”

  A hushed, “What,” drifted from the phone’s speaker.

  Sal continued. “A big camp in the middle of nowhere. Nobody asking questions, and girls disappear. Sounds like some kind of human trafficking to me.”

  Mason pushed back, “We talked about this. These women are the children of the great and the good. They aren’t sex trafficking targets.”

  “Nothing else makes sense. You think blondie up there,” Sal waved to the road in front of her, “is training terrorists? I’ll bet you that designer jumpsuit she’s wearing that she’s the one bringing in these girls. Then? Who knows what happens to them?”

  Mason followed Sal’s logic. He realized it didn’t matter what was happening at the former scout camp. Terrorists or traffickers, their road ended at the mystery camp.

  “There’s more.” Clacking keys from a keyboard came over the phone’s speaker. “Someone had to apply for an import license for MaryMex and it has two names associated with it. Paul Edwards and Aaron Kreuger. I’m running background checks on them, but they could be aliases.”

  “Any idea where they import from and export to?”

  “No. There’s nothing available online. That’s all I have right now.”

  “Okay. Give me the Maryland address and let us know if you get anything else.”

  Mason entered the address into his phone and into the GPS on Sal’s car.

  “Thanks for your help Ashley. We really appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Ashford. I’ll be in touch.”

  Sal examined the map on her car’s GPS. It showed an arrival time over three hours away. Sal slammed a fist onto the steering wheel.

  “Problem?” Mason asked from the passenger seat.

  “We don’t have enough gas to get there. If traffic opens up and she floors it, we can’t keep up. We’re at less than a quarter of a tank. Betsy’s efficient, but not that efficient. We have less than a hundred miles of gas left. What do you want to do?”

  “Wait. Your car’s name is Betsy?”

  “Yeah, Betsy was my first dog. Every dog after that, too. Confused the hell out of the males. Can’t have dogs anymore since I work, I mean, worked, too much.” Accepting her life as something other than a cop remained a long way off for Sal. “So, the car’s name is Betsy.”

  “Betsy it is.” Mason weighed his options. If they delayed refueling until they didn’t have another choice, they’d lose the Range Rover in the faster traffic. Exiting now gave them a chance, a small one, he admitted, of finding their target once they’d refueled.

  “Get off at the next exit with a gas station sign. Even if we lose her, we have to assume she’s heading to the camp.”

  Mason dialed another number, this time for Rob. He picked up after the phone rang half a dozen times. “Hey Rob, sorry about waking you.”

  “No, it’s good you called. The cops from last night said you’re a murder suspect, including one girl you kidnapped. That can’t be right, can it?”

  Dread crept over Mason. The police wanted to hang five bodies on him, even Laurel Fitzgerald. “It’s wrong, Rob. It’s all wrong. I’m sorting it out now, but I won’t be at work tonight. Did you do what I asked with the security footage?”

  “The craziest thing. The hard drive corrupted and we lost everything from the last week. Even took out the copies stored in the cloud. You should look into that when you get back.”

  That was the only good news Mason had in the last three days. With the security footage erased, the police couldn’t use the alley assault as evidence. Somehow, even without that, they’d linked him to Laurel and the guys in the alley.

  “Did the police say anything else about why I’m a suspect? I can’t figure that part out.”

  The voice on the other end of the line grew dark. “The fat cop said they’d gotten a video from an anonymous source of you assaulting four people in Gridlock’s back alley. Shot on a phone.”

  Mason rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Okay, thanks for the help, Rob. I’m innocent. I’ll get this cleared up soon.”

  “I believe you, boss. I’ll square it with Clay.”

  Hanging up, Mason turned off his phone. He reached into the back seat and hauled his olive backpack into his lap. Unzipping a small pocket, he extracted a black mesh baseball cap. Digging further, he found a pair of sunglasses, the massive frames covering his face from eyebrows to cheekbones.

  Sal raised an eyebrow at Mason’s fashion choices. “What’s that about?”

  “I should’ve thought of this sooner. The police want me for kidnapping and five murders. If they haven’t issued a BOLO yet, they will soon. There’s a chance they’ll use traffic cameras for the search. Unlikely they’ll search outside of D.C. right away, but it’s better to be safe.”

  “And this Unabomber look is safe?”

  “What can I say? I can’t afford designer jumpsuits and luxury SUVs.”

  Sal snorted a laugh as she flicked the turn signal for the next exit. “Who can?”

  “Do you want to pump or pay?”

  “Oh. I think it’s sexier when the man pays. I’m fine pumping.”

  As Sal refilled the Honda, Mason filled a grocery basket with packaged snacks, toilet paper, and hand sanitizer.

  Watching Sal return the nozzle to the gas pump, he took a dark green floppy hat from a nearby stand. Putting the hat in the basket, he noticed a dozen dusty fishing poles propped up in a corner. He grabbed two poles, a cheap cooler, ice, and a couple of lures.

  He also bought a case of water, four copies of various maps, bug spray and sunblock.

  The cashier leaned against the cash register, scratching the belly hanging over his belt. He examined the random collection Mason piled on the counter.

  “You got a fishing license?”

  “What?”

  “You’re buying fishing gear. Actually, you’re buying shitty fishing gear. You’re going to need a license.”

  “All good. My friend out there has one.”

  The cashier straightened, watching Sal as she leaned against the car. “You sure? She looks like a city cat to me.”

  “Yeah, man, you should see her on the water. Reels them in all day.” Mason gave a man a wink, hoping to spur the transaction.

  Stretching his red suspenders before letting them snap back against his bulk, the cashier let out a throaty laugh. “I’ll bet! Hey, we got some rubbers here in the back. Bet there’s some stuff you don’t want to catch, eh, buddy?”

  “Just ring me up. We need to get back on the road.”

  Putting his hands up, the man said, “Okay, okay. No problem, buddy.”

  Moments later, Sal’s jaw went slack as she watched Mason carry half a dozen plastic grocery bags, a case of water and two fishing poles. “We’re going camping now?”

  Nearing the car, he responded in a hushed voice. “We might need a cover story if we go poking around out in the woods. This stuff,” he pointed to the fishing gear, “gives us a working story.”

  Sal shrugged, putting her hand on her chin. “I guess. You want me to grab the cooler and ice?”

  “No, you don’t want to meet our proprietor. Unless buying some condoms is high on your list.”

  She hesitated a mo
ment before responding with, “I think I can wait.”

  Tires crunched against the gravel on the long road to the compound as Bethany kept her foot on the accelerator. Snarled traffic put her behind schedule, and she’d stopped twice for food. Pushing aside her pristine diet of steamed fish, rice and vegetables for the convenience and comfort of fast-food drive-throughs, greasy cheeseburger wrappers and French fry boxes littered the passenger seat and floor. Bethany popped more pain killers with each stop.

  Sliding to a stop before massive steel gate, she pressed the garage door control mounted to the driver-side visor. The gate eased open. Bethany knew these security measures were more for show than real protection. The fencing extending from the gate ran for twenty or thirty yards into the trees. It made driving into the compound impossible without gate opener. Nothing stopped someone from walking into, or out of, the compound through the trees.

  Bethany grabbed the burger wrappers within her reach. The pills dulled the pain in her ribs, but she winced at the sudden effort of bending sideways. Rolling down her window, she tossed them to the ground as she sped through the open gate.

  Rounding a corner, the old ranger house came into view. She parked in front and thought about the next several hours. Her role tonight was simple. She’d greet the guests at the ranger house and escort them to the chapel, a hundred yards away. Once there, Paul took over.

  Bethany leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. She focused on her breathing, keeping breaths even and shallow. The oxycodone numbed everything, not just the pain pulsating from her battered ribs. Holding a thought took intense concentration. On the long drive from D.C., she’d almost run off the highway into a lane barricade as her mind wandered.

  A sharp rap against the driver’s side window startled Bethany awake. Paul stood on the other side of the glass, dressed in his uniform of flowing white cotton shirt and matching trousers. She pressed the button on the armrest and the window slid down.

  Paul smiled. “Are you alright? You look like hell.”

  “Just what a girl loves to hear. Thanks.”

  He waved her out of the car. “Come on. Let’s get this started.”

  Not waiting for Bethany to climb out of the car, he stomped toward the house. She gathered her purse and stepped onto the gravel. Stretching as much as she could after hours in the car, she followed Paul at a glacial pace, her bandages slowing her pace.

  Once inside the house, Paul explained the plan. “We’re giving the Stewart girl to our guests.”

  Bethany flopped onto the couch in the center of the room. “What? They’ll know it’s not Laurel. They’re backwards, but not stupid. All they have to do is check social media to know what Laurel looked like. And that’s if they don’t know she’s dead.”

  “This isn’t a bait and switch. It’s a gift since the original plan fell through. I’ll return their deposit and, hopefully, we can keep doing business.”

  Bethany imagined a counter displaying the money she owned Max. The dollars kept going up.

  “That doesn’t work for me. I need that money, Paul.”

  Paul’s affable face transformed to stone. “I don’t care what you need, Bethany. We, meaning all of us, need to keep this client happy. It could mean millions of dollars going forward.”

  Bethany shuddered as Paul’s lips curled into a feral grin. She’d seen that on another sociopath, Max. Now she found herself caught between them.

  “Look, Paul, I need that money.”

  He waved her off. “You’ll get your money. Have I ever not paid you?”

  “No, I need it now.”

  “Well, you can’t have it because it doesn’t exist.” He sat on the arm of the couch, invading her personal space. He stroked her cheek with a light finger. “But maybe we could work something out. I could advance you some money.”

  Bethany’s stomach lurched. She slid away from him. “I’m not your type. I’m not a starving drug addict.”

  Paul gasped, feigning injury. “That hurts, Bethany.” Standing, Paul glided for the door.

  “They’ll be here in a few hours. When they arrive, make some drinks.” He pointed to a well-equipped bar along the back wall. “Make small talk. Play hostess. Then call me on the land line. I’ll be getting the girls ready. I want to soften them up before I have to break the bad news.”

  “What bad news? They’re getting everything for free.”

  Paul rolled his eyes at her on his way out the door.

  Bethany paced around the cramped room in slow circles. The money she counted on to pay Max had slipped through her fingers because of Paul’s stupidity and fear.

  She had Paul on one side. Max on the other. She couldn’t do anything about Max, at least not right now. Paul was different. She could replace him with help from the North Koreans.

  Max forced her to look back now. He’d forced Bethany to do many things while they were together.

  Paul left her no choice. With her back to the wall, she knew she could only count on herself.

  Sipping top end vodka chilled over ice, she readied her plan for her visitors.

  Chapter 19

  The Honda Civic strained as Sal mashed the pedal, the two-liter engine’s cylinders building speed. As the road opened, Sal questioned Mason.

  “What, exactly, is our plan?”

  Mason took off his hat, giving his hairline a quick scratch.

  “The plan is to search this camp, playing like we’re out for some fish as cover.”

  “That’s pretty fucking thin, Mason.”

  “Yeah. Pretty fucking thin. You got a better idea?”

  “I’m along for the ride. Cops aren’t after me.”

  Adjusting the rear-view mirror, Sal spotted the green bag Mason clutched like a safety blanket since she’d met him outside the townhouse.

  “What else is in your magic bag there?”

  “The usual. Random stuff, a flashlight, first aid kit, granola bars, bottle of water, a change of clothes, a couple thousand in cash and a 45-caliber.”

  “All the essentials for a romantic getaway.”

  “I was a Boy Scout. I take that whole ‘be prepared’ thing seriously.”

  “I just sold cookies. But there’s a shotgun in the trunk with two boxes of double-aught.”

  Mason smiled, donning his old cap. Must have been some cookies, he thought.

  With his phone turned off, Mason plugged Sal’s smartphone into the charging cable snaking out of an armrest. Searching the camp’s address, he browsed an old Boy Scouts of America website detailing the park. Clicking another link, he found an image of a hand-drawn map of the camp.

  The map showed several camp sites and buildings. The primary entrance was at the southeast corner of the camp. Camp sites sprawled along the southern edge of the property. A chapel and dining hall rested in the center, while an array of other buildings fanned out from the center to the east.

  The Potomac River, still narrow this far west, wandering throughout the camp. The river split the camp in two, separating the remote camping sites from the rest of the property. A bulge in the river filled a small lake in the northeast corner of the camp before continuing its journey east. The hand-drawn map showed a boathouse at the lake, along with a path leading back into the camp.

  Bringing up Google Maps for the same location, Mason switched to the satellite view. Dense tree cover obscured most of the buildings. He matched one hexagonal rooftop in the photo with one on the map. The differences between the satellite imagery and the old map put a knot in Mason’s stomach. Modern buildings, dwarfing those shown on the hand-drawn map, dotted the northwestern edge of the camp. Resting beyond the camp sites, these buildings sat at the extreme edge of the camp’s property.

  Using the scale at the bottom of the map, Mason estimated the camp extended roughly seven hundred feet on its northern and southern borders. The eastern border was the smallest, at about three to four hundred feet. He guessed the western border at six hundred feet, putting the entire camp
between four and a half and five acres.

  Even with a squad of soldiers, Mason knew conducting a thorough search of five acres would take hours, maybe longer. It was just him and Salome.

  Mason shared his findings with Sal as the car ate up miles on the two-lane highway.

  A hint of defeat crept into her voice. “What do you want to do? We can’t search all that area.”

  “There’s canoe rental place just past the old camp. I have a plan.”

  The Honda’s tires crunched against the gravel parking lot. The car stopped in front of a sign reading ‘Seven Springs Canoe Company,’ the painted letters crisp and vibrant. Two white passenger vans, each with an empty canoe trailer attached, sat parked beside the squat green cinderblock building. As Mason approached, a lanky man in his sixties shoved open the screen door, letting it slam behind him.

  “Hi folks! You two looking to explore the wilderness from the river?” The man smiled. Mason noted several missing teeth. Threadbare clothes hung on his narrow frame. The familiar eagle, globe and anchor tattoo showed on the man’s forearm, popular with Marines.

  “Yes sir,” Mason shouted, “As long as you’re willing to rent to a Ranger.”

  “Well shit, sonny. I’ll try to use smaller words.” Laughing, the man walked up to Mason, sticking out his right hand. “I’m Tommy.”

  “Mason.” Mason shook the man’s hand. Tommy’s shabby clothes belied a firm grip and clear-eyed stare. “And this is Salome.”

  Tommy extended his hand to Sal. “You look too smart to be a grunt. I’m Tommy.”

  Sal took Tommy’s hand. “No, sir. Cop.”

  Tommy’s head shook. “Cut it with that ‘sir’ shit. I work for a living. What kind of cop?”

  “Apparently not a very good one, sir. Sorry, Tommy. I’m on leave for a bit.”

  Tommy scratched his chin, nodding. “My son’s police in Baltimore. Tough job. Well, what can I help you kids with?”