As the live orchestra began their set, a familiar face slid up to the bar. Rand Kershaw had known Melissa Dagan for years. She’d been his first partner—a mentor who’d shown him the ropes during his early days at the Bureau.
Each year since, they enjoyed a brief drink together at the annual gala. They had grown close in their early years working together, and there were times he missed her leadership and methodology.
Climbing into her fifties, the veteran officer looked just as good as the day they’d met.
“Rand Kershaw!” she announced with a wide grin.
“Melissa,” Rand managed through a thick tongue.
The two shook hands and looked each other over.
“I was hoping to run into you,” she confessed. “How’s life?”
“It’s a blissful combination of work and play. How’s Seattle treating you?”
“The weather is miserable,” she replied, motioning for a drink.
“Five years after being recruited by the CIA and you’re still slumming it, huh? You should’ve stayed with us. We miss you around here.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet of you,” Melissa said with a coy smile. “You were always a charmer, Rand. Still single?”
He replied with a snort and a pull of his drink.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Anybody sitting here?”
“It would seem you are,” he smirked.
Rand was happy to see an old familiar face. The two spent a few minutes sipping drinks, comparing old war stories and regaling over some former colleagues and informants that had gone off the radar—what’s he up to? Where’s she live? Is this guy or that guy still alive?
“So, after all these years,” Melissa finally pointed out. “I still know you. And I know those slouched shoulders and puppy eyes. What’s hurting so hard in your world?”
Rand returned a slow nod and a slick grin. “Yeah. Let’s just keep talking about the old days.”
Melissa laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll try guessing.” She took a draught of her beer. “You either had your heart broken…or you’re workin’ a case that’s beating you up.”
Rand kept a tight poker face until finally tapping his index finger to his nose.
“Tough case. I knew it!”
“It’s a career killer, Melissa,” the half-drunk agent asserted.
“No, sweetie. There are no career killers. Only bad cases and screw-ups that might land you in a different field office,” she reconciled.
Melissa had always taken a slightly maternal approach to Rand. He was an eager young agent when he arrived from the academy and she quickly grew to respect him.
“This one’s different,” Rand offered.
“How bad can it be?”
“Let me put it this way, I just got back from the middle of the goddamn North Pacific chasing pirates that were supposed to be casino robbers but turned out to be pirates.”
“Ouch! Bad week at sea, apparently,” noted Melissa.
“Yeah,” Rand agreed. “Bad week at sea.” He chugged the last drops of whiskey before blasting the highball back against the bar.
“Well, did you at least get to fast-rope?” she asked.
“I did actually,” he confirmed with a light laugh. “Wait a minute. What do you mean it was a bad week at sea?”
Melissa didn’t think twice about it. “I don’t know, sounds like you weren’t the only agent that experienced bad luck in open waters. A few of our guys had a rough operation out there, too. Couple days ago, just off the Mexican Peninsula.”
“No shit,” Rand replied.
“Yeah, I guess the San Diego office lost some kind of off the books, high-profile asset to a few, as you say, pirates.”
Rand perked up again. “How many pirates?”
“Three or four…I think. The only reason I remember is because the guys were posing as Coast Guard officers. The intel was shared with all the Pacific coast teams. We had a good laugh.”
“What was the asset?” Rand inquired. “Anything valuable?”
“It sure sounded like it,” she confirmed. “I kept hearing the word ‘priceless’ but I have no clue what it actually was. Why do you care so much?”
“Just curious, I guess. Been up to my damn ears in shipping lanes, cargo freighters and pirates lately. Guess I’m starting to take an interest in the topic.”
“You think there’s a connection, don’t you?” Melissa finally asked out of pity. “You know, when you’re desperate it’s easy to see connections that don’t exist.”
She had always been the voice of reason.
“Well, I just happen to be looking for three highly-skilled adrenaline junkies with a knack for grand theft felonies. A coincidence, I’m sure,” concluded Rand. “I’m fine, really. I just can’t keep my mind straight, ya know. This one’s got me bogged down.”
“Listen, if there’s anything I can do to help just let me know.” The CIA agent stood and handed Rand her card.
“You know damn well I have all your information,” he responded. “It was great running into you. Let’s not wait so long next time.”
“Call me if you’re ever in Seattle, I’ll buy you a drink. Take care of yourself, Rand.”
The two embraced in a genuine hug.
“Hey,” Rand snapped over the music. “Did you guys capture the pirates?”
“Nope. Still at large,” she confirmed with a wink. “I got your email address, I’ll send you everything I have.”
They shared one last smile before Melissa’s red dress melted into the sea of suits and cocktail gowns.
Rand raised a fresh glass of whiskey to the face staring back at him in the mirror.
“To the greatest crime that ruined your career,” he toasted sardonically.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The following Monday, Rand arrived early at his desk and noticed a large manila envelope perched against the filing cabinet. The return label just happened to be from Minneapolis—Twin Cities Water Solutions. Rand hesitated for a moment, fully expecting another lead to fall apart. Nonetheless, he ripped open the seal and thumbed through the pages. His heart raced with excitement when he realized it contained order documents for the water purifiers: payments, logistics, shipping dates, receiving signatures and international customs filings.
He paused to peel back the lid of his gas station coffee and blew over the top of it. He took an exaggerated slurp and checked over his shoulder for any nosey co-workers.
As he dove through the payment documents, Rand noticed a familiar name he hadn’t seen in a while, and it caught his waning attention: Atlantic International Bank—a financial institution in Belize with a reputation for protecting expats from tax indictments—and right there in black and white was the twelve-digit account number for the final payment to Twin Cities Water Solutions. The wily agent’s eyes zeroed-in on the numbers.
He fumbled for his laptop. Kershaw had dealt with this bank before. He had a guy on the inside—Jorge Salvatori. The bank clerk had shared valuable intel with the FBI during an investigation into an Arkansas drug smuggler who happened to be hiding money in Belize.
Must’ve been six years ago, Rand reminisced. He found Jorge’s contact information. What are the chances this guy still works there?
He pulled his cellphone from his jacket pocket and punched in the international number. C’mon, c’mon!
A female voice answered. “Atlantic International Bank, you’ve reached investment specialist Jorge Salvatori’s office, how may I help you?”
A vigorous fist pump. “Yes, may I speak with Jor
ge?”
“Who’s calling?” she asked.
“This is Special Agent Rand Kershaw with the FBI.” Rand cringed.
“Hold please.”
Several minutes passed before the line beeped, then went silent.
“Jorge Salvatori,” the familiar voice said.
“Jorge, this is Agent Kershaw,” Rand greeted with a sigh of relief.
“Agent Kershaw, I don’t recall offering you any additional favors but if you’re in town I’d be happy to buy you lunch.”
Rand smiled. “I’d like that. But, unfortunately, I’m calling long distance.”
“I see. Las Vegas, is it?”
“Yeah. Vegas.”
“So, what can I do for you, Agent Kershaw?”
“Well, first and foremost, congratulations on your new position. Investment specialist—it has a nice ring to it.” Rand was priming him now.
Jorge replied with a deep laugh, and another inquiry into the purpose of Rand’s call.
“I have a rather large money wire originating from an account at your bank, Jorge. I just need anything you can give me that might point me in the right direction.”
“Agent Kershaw, you know I cannot give you any information that would incriminate our customers. Even if that customer is an expat of yours.”
“That’s the thing, Jorge. I can say with near certainty that the owner of this account has never stepped foot in Belize,” Rand assured him. “In fact, we currently have the individual in custody here on American soil.” He was rolling the dice now. Totally winging it. “But I need your help. We can only hold this guy for so long without evidence. Bureaucratic red tape, ya know. If I can’t tie him to this transaction, he’s gonna walk out the front door, a free man. Of course, he’ll more than likely head south and turn up on your doorstep looking to empty his account. This guy brings bad juju wherever he goes, and I promise the last thing you want is him waltzing into your bank.”
Jorge Salvatori thought about that for a moment. He didn’t like it. “What’s the account number?”
Another fist pump. Rand read a twelve-digit number to his old friend and patiently waited. After a few minutes, he could hear Jorge breathing back into the phone.
“Okay, Agent Kershaw,” the banker began. “All I can legally give you is the corporation named on the account and a phone number.”
Rand grimaced in disappointment. “C’mon, Jorge. I know you guys. For Christ’s sake, our programmers built your Internet security and tracking software. Give me an IP address,” he begged. “I know you have it. It’s staring you in the face as we speak.”
Kershaw was right. Jorge was staring at the data on his computer screen, which held the IP address of the last secure login to the account through Atlantic International’s online customer portal. The investment banker closed his eyes and shook his head.
“C’mon Jorge. What do you want? Anything,” Rand offered.
“I want you to never call me again.”
“Fine. I can do that.”
After a moment of contemplation, Jorge dictated the IP address from the file.
“And the company name?” the agent finally asked.
“Boro Industries,” Salvatori reluctantly answered.
Holy shit! Boro Industries paid for the water purifiers! The name raced through Rand’s head. It was the same dummy corporation that made the donation to St. Jude, which he had, in theory, already connected to the Wynn heist.
Special Agent Rand Kershaw now had the very first actual breakthrough—one that tied the two separate donations together, and quite possibly the Wynn heist and Hamilton hack. He couldn’t believe it.
“I can’t thank you enough, Jorge.”
“It was nice knowing you, Agent Kershaw.”
“Likewise!”
The line went dead.
Within seconds, Rand was running a reverse-IP lookup through the Intel Group’s database from Washington. His search kicked back an exact location—it was a physical address on the outskirts of San Francisco.
He anxiously pulled up his web browser and his fingers couldn’t type the address fast enough.
Bingo! Spartan Cyber Security. Silicon Valley.
Rand lost himself in the computer screen, gazing into each pixel that made up the map pinpointing Spartan Security. A boyish grin spread across his face like wildfire. The world seemed to stand still as he reflected on every misstep he had taken along this journey. But none of it mattered now. He had broken through the rabbit hole and finally held something of substance—something he could track and hunt.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rand had secured a jump seat on the next available flight out of Las Vegas—often given to federal agents and required no more than a simple request to the airline. Four hours later, a Boeing 727 touched down at San Francisco International Airport. United 1837 was thirteen minutes off schedule and the landing jolted Rand from his laptop in the tiny jump seat.
Outside, a local FBI agent sat parked on the curb in a gray sedan with tinted windows. Rand exited the airport and thrust himself into the open air and trotted over to the car through a gauntlet of travelers. He still had an hour to reach Silicon Valley before the close of business.
The agents exchanged a quick nod through the windshield before Rand jumped in the passenger side and tossed his bag in the floorboard.
“Welcome to San Francisco,” the local agent greeted.
He was a short, stocky guy with dirty blonde hair. Rand pegged him as the fraternity type, disheveled and unorthodox.
“Thanks for picking me up.”
“I’m Special Agent Chris Reynolds, look forward to working with you.”
“Rand Kershaw, Las Vegas office.”
The sedan sped away and bolted toward the on-ramp to the 101. Once they reached the freeway and blasted into the fast lane, Agent Reynolds hit the lights, which flashed angrily from the top of the windshield. Traffic parted in front of them and the sedan easily opened up to 100 mph.
“We’re looking for Spartan Cyber Security, Bradford Drive,” Rand said.
“Yeah, I got the message earlier,” Reynolds confirmed. “Already got it in the GPS. We’ll be there in thirty-three minutes.”
Rand checked his wristwatch. “That should work.”
“Surprise attack?”
“Yeah, sort of. Chasing down an IP address, might be better if we show up unannounced so let’s kill the lights once we get off the freeway.”
“You got it.” Agent Reynolds took a breath and glanced out the window. “The Wynn case, right?”
Rand clenched his jaw in frustration. “Yep.”
Clearly his reputation had carried all the way to San Francisco. A cloud of awkwardness filled the sedan. Rand couldn’t get to his destination fast enough. Thirty minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of Spartan Security. Rand tore off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his light blue dress shirt. He tightened his tie and checked his 9mm pistol, then slipped it into his side holster.
The sedan attacked the front of the large beige building and came to a screeching halt at the foot of the marble steps. The front doors of the sedan blew open and two intimidating agents leapt out and charged up the stairs toward the front entrance.
As they rushed inside, Rand raised his badge in the air. The security officer sitting at the atrium desk rose to his feet.
“Special Agents Kershaw and Reynolds, FBI,” Rand shouted. “I need to speak with your CIO immediately. No one enters this building, and no one leaves.”
His sense of urgency was viral—the g
uard reached for his desk phone and frantically dialed. After a moment of hard whispers and attempts at an explanation, he placed the phone down and told the agents that one of the executives would be down in five minutes.
“We don’t have five minutes,” demanded Agent Kershaw. “You need to take us upstairs now.”
The overweight guard seemed eager to help. “Where do you guys want to go?”
“CIO—head of IT,” Rand answered without hesitation.
The man led both agents to a nearby corridor, where an open elevator awaited and brought them swiftly to the fourth floor. They stepped out and walked past a startled receptionist, then zigzagged through the halls before finally arriving at the door of Martin Hanley, Chief Information Officer.
The guard raised his hand to knock but was intercepted by Rand, who reached in and forced the door open to find Martin Hanley sitting with two younger executives.
“Mr. Hanley, I’m Special Agent Rand Kershaw with the FBI. My partner and I need to speak with you. It’s quite urgent.”
“You can’t just come barging in here—”
“I tried to tell them you’d be right down, sir,” the guard offered, attempting to cover his own ass.
Hanley waved off the large man, who hung his head and pushed through the doorway, back to his post downstairs.
The CIO then sent his executives packing as well, whom Reynolds eyed with a smirk.
“What the hell is this all about?” barked Hanley.
He was a slick sixty-something with a solid build and an expensive suit. The C-Level officer leaned back in his brown leather chair with his arms crossed, waiting for an answer.
“Mr. Hanley, we’re conducting a federal investigation and have evidence that leads us back to this building. In fact, I have an IP address I’d like you to locate on your internal servers. We need a name.”
Hanley narrowed his eyes in thought, then gently picked up the phone on his desk.
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