by G. K. Parks
“Don’t call me if you end up in the clank,” Bastian warned. “I’m too busy to bail you out.”
* * *
On his way to Trila International, Mercer reviewed the intel they possessed. Frankly, it was nothing but contradictory rubbish that served as fodder for a dozen different conspiracy theories. Something about Logan rubbed Mercer the wrong way, but people reacted strangely to stress and threats; although, Logan’s actions or lack thereof were more indicative of an accomplice rather than a frantic husband. Of course, the nature of Trila fueled the fires of mistrust. The armed guards and security measures weren’t typical of most corporations, especially when it seemed routine to have an afterhours meeting with some foreign dignitary, or so Logan wanted him to think.
“Bugger,” Mercer sighed, reluctantly rolling down the window a few inches.
The guard tapped against the side of the car with a nightstick and gestured that Mercer step out of the vehicle. Apparently, it was high treason to park this close to the garage. Mercer tilted his neck from side to side, loosening up just in case things turned ugly, and obliged. Noting, the automatic weapon at the man’s side and the earpiece, he decided it was best to let this play out before acting.
“Mr. Mercer, you are not authorized to be on the premises today,” the guard said in a cordial but authoritarian tone. “Sensitive corporate matters could be compromised if we allow the public inside. Please vacate immediately.”
“I’m here to discuss sensitive matters of a much more urgent variety,” Mercer responded.
The man practically smirked. “That’s doubtful.”
“Trila security is aware of Mr. Porter’s situation, are they not?”
“Yes, but now is not the time.”
“When will be?”
“If Mr. Porter wants you to have access to the building during non-business hours, he’ll put in a request. Until such time, you are not welcome here.”
Mercer held up his hands, stepping backward toward the car. He could practically hear the smug superiority in the man’s voice. Someone ought to teach that bastard some manners. Turning his back to the man, he caught the briefest glimpse of a black limousine in the side mirror. Spinning around, he noted the same diplomatic plates. The guard moved closer, annoyed by the delay, and shoved Mercer into the car using the nightstick like a horizontal bar.
That action removed whatever resolve Mercer had, and he grabbed the baton. Catching the man by surprise, he kneed him hard in the stomach and followed through with an uppercut to the jaw. The guy stumbled backward, said something that was relayed through his comms, and came at Mercer again. This time, the guard wasn’t caught by surprise, and he moved like a man trained in close-quarters combat. It had been some time since Mercer faced off against a worthy adversary, and a part of him, the twisted, sadistic part, was pleased.
The two circled and fought like bare-knuckled cage fighters. Before permanent damage was delivered, the other guards arrived and ripped Mercer away from their comrade. It took three men to subdue him, and as Mercer remained on the ground, breathing heavy beneath the weight of two of Trila’s guards while they decided what to do with him, the limousine pulled out of the garage.
Some clipped remarks were made, and the guards eventually let Mercer stand. They held him at gunpoint until someone escorted Logan Porter outside. From Porter’s expression, it was obvious he didn’t enjoy finding his negotiator in this condition. It was also apparent that Porter had little choice in what he said based on the prodding he received from the man standing next to him.
“Mr. Mercer, this is not the time or place for us to discuss my private matters. If you have something for me, please call ahead. My associates do not appreciate being told there is a security breach when it is simply an overzealous employee.”
“I thought Trila wanted my team to help you.”
“They do but not on their time. Please,” Porter jerked his chin at the car, “go on your way. We will meet later at my home.”
Mercer eyed the man beside Porter, but he didn’t look familiar. Memorizing the man’s features, Julian would have to go through the Trila employee database later to determine the man’s identity. However, gun barrels were deaf to protests, so Mercer saved his breath. He gave one last look to Porter, hoping that if the man was in some sort of danger that he’d signal or say something. Instead, Porter turned and marched back to the main entrance of the Trila building.
“You win, for now,” Mercer mumbled, getting inside the vehicle. The guards didn’t return to their posts until he was half a block away.
Seven
“What the hell are you doing, Jules?” Bastian asked, exasperated. He’d been half-listening while Mercer gave the abbreviated version of what happened. “You loathe coppers. We aren’t investigators, but for some reason, you’ve gotten it into your thick head that we should investigate. Meanwhile, you’ve pissed off our client. If Porter says we’re done, we’re out of here.”
“You don’t decide that,” Mercer snapped.
“Yes, I do. I’ve been handpicking our assignments since we started this endeavor. And there’s no reason to stick around and make enemies when they don’t want our help.”
“Something else is going on at Trila.”
“Since when do you care, Julian?” Bastian shot back. The words came out of anger, but they were true enough. He licked his lips. “You don’t care. You haven’t given two shits about anything in the last couple of years. No one blames you for that. I know it’s been hard since Michelle.”
“I care,” Mercer said, his voice low and even.
“Is it really about the recoveries and asset retrievals or is it the proper avenue for your violent outbursts that you care about?”
“Stop psychoanalyzing me.”
“Since we’ve arrived, our client has been toying with us. We’ve been left in the dark, denied access to pertinent information, and been subjected to an utter breakdown of communication. They don’t want our help. They just wanted negotiators on-site in order to ensure that the ransom insurance was forthcoming. We’re here. They got it. It’s done. We’ve been used, but at least they had the decency to buy us the metaphorical dinner first.”
“Explain,” Mercer snarled. His anger had shifted from Trila to Bastian.
“I finished the preliminary analysis of our client, his assets, and the potentially involved parties. Logan’s bank accounts are sparse. Trila provides a salary, most of which is spent on the necessities, paying off student loans that he and his wife have incurred, and paying the utilities and rent on her office. Their savings are considerably small given the luxury accommodations we’ve seen, but like I told you, Trila’s footing the bill for those things. Actually, most things.”
“Your point?”
“My point is that Sarina Porter is a shitty target. After running through the Trila employee database, the parts I can access, there are at least two dozen executives that actually have substantial personal assets. It stands to reason that if someone at Trila were involved in Sarina’s disappearance, they would have picked their target more carefully.
“It could be personal, particularly since there hasn’t been a demand.”
“Well, not one that we’ve been privy to, but that’s another thing,” Bastian continued. “I’ve concluded the background checks on the two sentries, the maid service, the car service, and the groundskeeper. It’s highly doubtful that any of them are involved. I’d say the system was accessed remotely by someone with technical expertise.”
“But how could they get in and out without the two guards at the front gate noticing?” Mercer asked.
“Because they didn’t enter the property through the front gate.” Bastian pointed to a satellite image of Porter’s estate that he’d printed from the day of Sarina’s disappearance. How he’d managed to come by such a thing wasn’t worth asking. “The house is accessible from the back. The thick brush cover isn’t impenetrable, but it would be slow going.” He pointed to a parall
el street. “They could have had a car waiting, and once they made it through the dense foliage, they would have been able to take off with no one being the wiser.”
“It’s speculation,” Mercer replied.
“The point I’m making is I don’t think this is an inside job. Porter’s staff looks clean, and it wouldn’t make sense that someone at Trila would target him. The man’s in charge of rubberstamping projects for the R & D division.”
Mercer sat stiffly and stared at his second-in-command. “I’m tired, and I don’t see the point.”
“The point is they don’t want our help. It isn’t some conspiracy that you need to unravel. More than likely, it’s Porter’s way of securing a nice payout while he keeps his wife stashed away somewhere.”
“Did you watch the video on the USB? Did you see the way Porter’s hands shook this morning?”
“It’s called acting, Jules. It’s the same thing you’re doing right now by feigning interest.”
Mercer picked up the mug that Bastian had been using and threw it across the room, watching it shatter into a dozen pieces when it hit the front door. “I let those bastards best me, but I won’t let you do the same.”
“Then tell me what the bloody hell is going through your mind?” Bastian bellowed. “Why this case? Why the mistrust? Why the need to investigate?”
“Someone has to protect Sarina. Her husband surely didn’t.” Julian let out an exasperated breath. “Forget it.”
Mercer stormed out of the room, slamming the door to one of the bedrooms. Flipping the mattress off the bed and positioning it against the wall, he took out his anger and aggression until his knuckles left a bloody pattern on the sheet. Finally calm, he sat at the desk and unlocked the drawer, removing the file he’d compiled that detailed his wife’s murder. The reason he wanted to investigate Sarina Porter’s disappearance was he needed practice. Like Bastian said, they had never been detectives or trained investigators, but maybe those were skills he could pick up, like interrogation techniques, combat training, and precision shooting. After all, he’d learned how to aptly negotiate, most of the time.
Unfortunately, now was not the time to review the file he’d read hundreds of times or the recently acquired new information that he’d already examined a couple dozen times. Today, he needed to focus on the task at hand. It was the entire reason he became a kidnapping specialist — to have something to focus on besides his own tragedy.
A slight knock sounded at the door, and then Bastian cautiously turned the knob. “Not to bloody bother you, your majesty, but Logan Porter’s on the phone. He wants to speak to you.”
Nodding, Mercer held out his hand, taking the phone from Bastian. “Yes?”
“Mr. Mercer, I’d like to apologize for this afternoon. Hopefully, there are no hard feelings.”
“Fine.”
“After our breakfast this morning, I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Have there been any new developments?”
“You tell me.”
“Now’s not the time,” Logan said cryptically. “What I said this morning is still true. I’ll contact you tomorrow to arrange our next meeting.”
“Mr. Porter, if you refuse to assist us, then there’s no reason for our continued presence here.”
“No, please, just wait until tomorrow. Okay?”
“Fine.” Disconnecting, Mercer handed the phone back to Bastian who was surreptitiously eyeing the file on top of the desk.
“You know you still owe me an apology,” Bastian said. “I’m not your punching bag,” he cast his eyes at the mattress, “and neither is the furniture. But maybe I was rather harsh.” He went to the door, smirking slightly. “Deal with it.”
Eight
“See if you can establish a trace,” Mercer said, eyeing the unknown number on his ringing cell phone.
“Two seconds,” Bastian replied, double-checking that the equipment and software were operational. “Do you think it’s the kidnapper?”
“I don’t know, but the only person with access to this number is Logan Porter and whoever he gave it to.” Mercer waited half a second and answered.
“Don’t say anything. I don’t have much time. I snuck away for a minute, but I don’t know if it’s safe to talk. I’m not sure if my house is bugged. Did you check?”
“Your security system is functioning normally,” Mercer responded, recognizing Porter’s voice. “We didn’t find any other devices on our preliminary walkthrough.”
“Okay, then I guess that’s okay.” The sound of a toilet flushing sounded in the background. “I want to avoid another incident, but the people here are untrustworthy. I thought they’d help. They called you, but it seems to be for naught.”
“Where are you?” Mercer asked, making eye contact with Bastian who appeared just as flummoxed by the call.
“At work.”
“Stay there. I’ll see what I can do.”
“No, please, I don’t want another incident,” Porter said hurriedly. “I have to go.”
Mercer’s protests were met by the sound of dead air. Hitting end call, he slammed the phone down and blew out a breath. “I’m not the conspiracy nut.”
“It doesn’t appear that you are,” Bastian agreed, clicking through the information they obtained from the call. “Porter used a burner phone to ring us. The GPS interface shows he’s at work, probably in the loo from the sound of it.” Bastian chewed on his lower lip while he entered more commands into the computer. “I can’t get access to Trila’s security system. They have too many firewalls in place.” He blew out a breath. “Do you think they have him under surveillance?”
Mercer gave him a look.
“Stupid question,” Bastian muttered. “So what do we do?”
“We get him out of there. I need to know the exact route his car service takes.”
“I don’t think I like where this is headed. I’m opposed to hitting the help, remember?” Bastian went to the wall and pulled down a few of the city maps. He had marked the garage location and most likely path the driver would take based on mileage, traffic, and time of day. “It’s just a guess, but it’s a start.”
“Better than nothing.” Mercer glanced at his friend. “It might get messy.”
“In that case, I should probably come with you. You might need my assistance, and if not, Porter’s driver definitely will.” He gave the computers a final glance. “Just a friendly reminder, we aren’t in the business of shooting people.” Despite his words, his hand moved to his hip, feeling the reassuring weight of his holstered weapon.
“So you say, but we shoot an awful lot of people.”
“Only when it’s absolutely necessary,” Bastian reminded him, “and I don’t think the driver is a necessary casualty.”
“It’d be easier.”
“But much messier.”
It was the same argument they had during every mission, but as Bastian insisted, they weren’t mercenaries. Wet work wasn’t a service that could be ordered. It was only a side dish that was occasionally required in fulfillment of an asset retrieval. Mercer knew this, and there were times he appreciated having the reminder, except when that reminder became a hindrance to finding answers and saving the lives of innocents.
“Do you have a plan?” Bastian asked as he climbed into the passenger’s seat.
“Yes.”
“Would you like to tell me what it is?”
“Intercept and replace. It should ensure access to Trila’s garage and a way to get Logan out of there without anyone being the wiser.”
“We’ll need a diversion and an identical car to perform the switch.” Bastian was already keying something into his phone. “The service has two garages. Based on location, I’d guess the driver comes from the western lot. I might be able to disable the vehicle remotely, and if we intercept the driver’s outgoing calls, no one will know anything’s amiss. Can you score another car from the lot without causing an international incident?”
“Yes.”
&n
bsp; “Great,” Bastian remarked sarcastically. “We can add grand theft auto to our résumé.”
“It should already be included. After all, this isn’t the first time we’ve had to borrow a ride,” Mercer mused, enjoying the cross look on Bastian’s face.
* * *
Stealing a car wasn’t difficult. Normally, it took little more than a miscreant in tattered clothes. Car thieves didn’t wear suits like professional chauffeurs, walk onto a lot, go directly to a vehicle, and get inside the car without batting an eye. It was even less likely that they’d be able to start the car or drive away in broad daylight, but that’s precisely what Mercer did. The joys of keyless entry and remote engine start.
Bastian created an app that could hack into almost any vehicle. Mercer used it to open the door. He climbed inside, opened the glove box, disabled the GPS tracker, and started the engine. After driving away from the garage, he turned down an alley that connected to a parking lot. Bastian seamlessly entered the vehicle, and the two found an out-of-the-way place to wait for Logan Porter’s driver.
The former SAS were situated on a side street near the garage exit. A few vehicles had already left, and Mercer was getting antsy. He wasn’t convinced that they hadn’t missed their opportunity. For all he knew, Logan Porter’s driver could already be halfway to Trila International. He let out a gruff sigh and focused on the car and driver that had taken them to Logan’s home two days before.
“They told you that the drivers rotate. What makes you think that Porter’s driver today will be this Appleman chap?” Mercer asked.
“Trust me.” Bastian winked. “The car service doesn’t bother encrypting their servers. It’s the same vehicle and the same guy.”
“Who drove the day of Sarina’s abduction?”
“Kyle Culchek, the relief driver. Based on what I’ve uncovered, there are only a handful of men that drive for Logan either because he’s too persnickety or because of a security issue. It appears Trila International tends to keep tabs on each of their employees, particularly those closer to the top.”