by Glen Robins
“Mexico City. Penh’s plans revolve around Mexico City. All the intel we have points there.”
“That’s very unusual, don’t you think? Why Mexico City?”
“This whole thing is unusual, Collin,” said Lukas. “I can’t give you all the details, but I can tell you we know there’s something big happening there.”
Collin expected him to continue, but he didn’t. “How do you know?”
“An aid working for a certain Mexican senator has been providing inside intel for several weeks.”
Collin snorted and shook his head as he began to wolf down his cereal, shoveling in two or three bites each time Lukas spoke, then chewing furiously before he began to talk again. “If he’s got a tracker on the laptop and he sees me going to Mexico City, won’t that tip him off that we’re on to him?”
“Not necessarily. Think about it. Mexico City is a transportation hub. It’s a logical place for you to catch a flight back home to the States. Plus, we’ve got assets in the area, ready to move on this. They can provide you with security.”
“Won’t my presence cause problems for the assets there?”
“Not necessarily. Penh will track you, but will be more focused on the rest of his plan. Our other men can remain undercover and do like they always do.”
“Will I be able to talk to my family and let them know I’m all right?”
“Not just yet.”
Chapter Two
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
June 17, 7:12 p.m. Malaysia Time; 5:12 a.m. Honduras Time
Pho Nam Penh fumed at the far end of the rickety table in the smoke-filled room. He sat leaning back, legs crossed, cigarette between his fingers. The seven men huddled around computer screens remained silent. The only sounds in the darkened room were the beeps and clicks from an array of computer equipment and the whirring of fans blowing thick, muggy air around in a vain attempt to cool the men and the machines. That and the breathing of Pho Nam Penh as he inhaled and exhaled through his nose, trying to tamp down the rage that filled him.
Collin Cook was the source of Penh’s frustration and anger. He had once again vanished into the night, eluding Penh’s hired help and the authorities Penh had manipulated into aiding in the hunt. Cook was not among the survivors of the shipwreck found by the Colombian Coast Guard. That was bad news, but it was old news at this point. The really bad news was that the divers Penh had hired and sent to the wreck came back empty-handed and injured. Cook had thrust a fishing spear into the diaphragm of one of Penh’s hired divers, cut the oxygen tube of the other, and escaped with the computer.
Penh needed that laptop to retrieve the money Cook kept hidden from him. $30 million dollars. Although he had pilfered plenty of cash from other sources, those sources were no longer available due to the heightened security after his recent high-profile heist. Every bank and financial institution had beefed up their systems, moving the “low-hanging fruit” out of reach for the time being. The $30 million Cook stole was now needed more than ever to placate the high-priced hackers on the payroll.
Penh had spent a fortune amassing the team and bribing authorities as he spun a web of deceit and intrigue aimed at bringing the United States to its knees. Funds were now running short. But that was only part of the story, a part no one else would ever know.
The real issue now revolved around maintaining his profile as a leader. These men and the others in his organization needed to know beyond a doubt Penh’s supremacy. It was unacceptable to be made a fool by the likes of a common man like Collin Cook. Cook had defied him repeatedly and his men knew it. To regain the respect of those men, Collin Cook had to be made an example. He had to suffer in the most extreme way to pay for the gross indignations he had caused Pho Nam Penh and the potential setbacks to the cause. It was the only way to reestablish the proper order of things.
One man among the group of expert computer hackers, the same man that stood before him days before and announced that he had a positive ID on Cook in the Cayman Islands, stood and cleared his throat and bowed to Penh before he dared speak. Penh acknowledged him with a grunt and a nod of his head.
“Sir, I am sorry to share this news with you, but our diver, the one injured by the spear, died shortly after he arrived at the hospital.” The man bowed again and took his seat.
“He died bravely,” Penh muttered. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. He didn’t move for several moments. “He honored the cause with his courage.”
The man stood again, bowed, and responded. “Yes, sir, he did.”
Another long pause ensued while Penh stared at the dark curtains on the opposite side of the room. “What about the other one? The one that was shot.”
“He is expected to make a full recovery, sir.”
Penh breathed in audibly, held it, then spoke slowly. “He, too, has honored the cause with his courage, but he, too, has failed.” Penh stood abruptly, sending his chair crashing into the bare concrete floor behind him. “How? How does this commoner evade us?”
No one said anything. Each man looked intently at the screen in front of him until the same spokesman arose and cleared his throat and bowed again in deference to their leader. “Sir, if I may, it appears there was a sea plane in the area of the wreckage. The shots that were fired at the boat that carried our brave divers came from the vicinity of that plane. It also appears Mr. Cook boarded that plane and that it departed to the north moments after the shots were fired.”
Penh cocked his head and squinted his eyes. “So Mr. Cook is indeed receiving assistance from some external source. But who?”
The spokesman for the group sat quickly and began to peck at the keys of his computer. He looked up at Penh, who was pacing at the far end of the room, and added, “I have something here.”
Penh grunted and lifted his head.
“It’s a signal coming from Mr. Cook’s computer. It appears he is on the move.”
Penh stepped quickly to the man’s side. The man pointed at a pulsating blip on the screen in southeastern Honduras.
“Very well. Send a message to our team in Mexico City informing them that I will move up my arrival date. Now that we know where Cook is, we can execute ahead of schedule. Let’s bring the moth to the flame and scorch him.” Penh turned on his heels and stormed out the door. His footsteps could be heard as they pounded along the concrete hallway outside and down the metal stairs.
All seven men let out a collective sigh and the tension in the room dissipated with Penh’s departure. Nervous glances were exchanged. The foreman surveyed the other six men with a steely glare, then sat down. The tapping and clicking of keyboards and mice resumed, timidly at first, then more vigorously as the spokesman reminded them of the task ahead of them and the amount of work they needed to do to accomplish it.
****
London, England
June 17, 1:28 p.m. London Time; 5:28 a.m. Pacific Time
Dejection wasn’t quite the right word. Nor was irritation. No. The best way to describe Nic Lancaster’s mood alternated between utter frustration and absolute humiliation. Or maybe futility. Every time he thought about Collin Cook, one of those emotions took control. Collin Cook, the everyday American who was supposed to be so easy to find and track and apprehend had proven to be anything but. It should have been an easy assignment. Nic, the brightest and hardest-working young detective in Interpol London’s Cybercrime Task Force, felt he was destined for a meteoric rise through the department’s ranks. All he needed was to break one big case and his lane on the fast track would be assured. His name in headlines and front page photos would surely follow.
Finding this Collin Cook fellow appeared on the surface to be just the kind of case he was looking for. Cook was supposed to lead Nic to the “big fish,” Pho Nam Penh, the cyberterrorist responsible for shutting down the Royal Bank of Scotland for a full day back in April and pilfering millions of dollars from dozens of international banks over the past several months. He and his group were the primary suspects i
n these and several other embarrassing attacks, but they were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. At least until a photo surfaced online showing Penh sitting with Cook in a London pub. That’s when Nic got his big break, the assignment that would propel his career into the next realm.
This Collin Cook was nothing more than a former electrical supply salesman from California who had experienced a great tragedy and was wandering around Europe apparently trying to find himself. The photos that came to light on the Internet showed otherwise. Cook, perhaps because he had become disaffected with life, had turned to crime. His new cozy relationship with Penh, as evidenced by the London photos as well as a second set of photos released a few days later showing Cook meeting with Penh and his top lieutenants in the Bahamas in early April, made him a suspected accomplice in a rash of high-stakes online larceny. Common man turned criminal. It was sad, but not completely unique.
None of that was Nic’s concern, however. Bringing Cook and Penh to justice was all that mattered to Junior Detective Nic Lancaster. That and his moment in the spotlight, hauling in such an elusive criminal as Pho Nam Penh.
Since receiving this potentially breakthrough assignment, however, Nic had had to awkwardly explain how each confirmed sighting of Cook had resulted in a dead end. Cook had managed to not only evade him, but embarrass him at every turn. First, Cook was a no-show on the raid of a Caribbean sailboat eye witnesses swore they had seen him board the day before. Second, Cook had somehow slipped through the net Nic and Interpol had dropped over the Executive Suites Hotel in Panama City, Panama. Planted trained agents, feigning hotel staff while working another case, had reported that Cook was staying there and was in his room, but Cook managed to slip away and disappear. When Cook reappeared two weeks later at the JW Marriott in Lima, Peru, Nic spared no resources. He went all-in, sending a Peruvian commando squad into room 2321, the one confirmed to be Collin Cook’s room. At four o’clock in the morning, the room was empty and Nic Lancaster faced the worst torment of his young career for that maneuver.
But that wasn’t the end. Cook managed to sneak out of Peru and into Argentina; and from Argentina to Canada; and from Canada he was somehow able to cross the border into the United States. He showed up in Chicago, where he outran, outmaneuvered, and outsmarted a group of FBI agents sent to detain him at the Chicago Convention Center. Should have been easy, but this amateur evaded eight trained agents and wasn’t seen or heard from until Nic’s counterparts, FBI agents Reggie Crabtree and Spinner McCoy, tracked him to Key West, Florida. From the marina there, Collin drove a small dinghy headlong into the mounting Hurricane Abigail and was presumed dead. No one survives a Category 2 hurricane in a twelve-foot rubber dinghy with only a fifteen-horsepower engine. No one, that is, except the enigmatic Collin Cook.
Two weeks had passed since Cook’s supposed demise. Nic had been given several other, lesser assignments in the meantime. He viewed these menial tasks as a punishment, but realized he had to work his way back into the good graces of his bosses. Most of those menial tasks were completed successfully, as they were essentially grunt-work assignments that required little brain power and zero elite-level talent. But Nic had managed, by working late hours and weekends, to keep track of the Cook case because, as he learned, Crabtree and McCoy had not given up on it. And if they weren’t giving up, neither was he, except for when he had to deny his involvement to his boss.
Nic was asked just two days ago for his help. This put him in a difficult spot in light of recent inquiries and his vehement disavowals to his superiors. But, to his surprise, his boss, the unpredictable Alastair Montgomery, had not only agreed to help, but had used his impressive social and professional network to get the Colombian Coast Guard involved in the search for the sailboat Cook was alleged to be on.
Once again, all signs pointed to Cook being dead. The sailboat went down and several survivors were found floating in the water nearby. The Captain and crew all vowed that Cook had been killed and his body disposed of two days before in the middle of the Caribbean.
Nic was ready to wash his hands of the Cook case after his chums from the academy begged him to let it go. It had done enough damage to his ambitions, they said. It was time to lick his wounds and move on. Time to rebuild. His career may not take the meteoric rise he had hoped for, but it was still salvageable. Their urgings almost worked, at least when he was awake. The problem was the dreams he kept having. Perhaps they were daydreams, conjured up as a way to inspire greatness within himself. Maybe it wasn’t real, but the sweet sniffs of the essence of victory they provided was a powerful motivator.
Nic was still working on a sandwich and a bag of crisps at his desk when a call came in from a San Francisco number. He knew it was Crabtree’s mobile. He knew he didn’t want to answer it. But he also knew he should. Professional courtesy and all.
“This thing is not over yet, Lancaster,” came the low fatigued voice of Reggie Crabtree.
“Why did I know you would say something like that?” Nic crunched on a crisp and ground it between his teeth loudly to exaggerate his nonchalance.
“Because, deep inside, you want the chance to prove that you were right and to get this guy,” said Crabtree, who Nic knew had not slept much the past few nights as they all frantically worked to figure out how Cook disappeared again. The two of them had been in frequent contact since the Cook case hit Nic’s desk. Crabtree and McCoy, his FBI counterparts, had worked on this case as hard as he had and were closer to it in some ways than he was. They had more invested, emotionally speaking. “There’s no hiding that, Nic. You’re too good a detective to let this case sully your record. You don’t want this thing hanging around your neck for the rest of your life. Not when the collar is so close at hand. You need redemption and I think I have a way for you to get it.”
“What are you on about now, Reggie?” asked Nic, his voice rising an octave with the uncomfortable stress that comes when determination and disbelief occupy the same brain at the same time. “We have four eyewitness accounts stating that Cook was killed and dumped overboard.”
“We have four very similar stories from four of Cook’s friends who have aided and abetted him at least twice before. They’re in this thing with him somehow and will say whatever needs to be said to protect him and possibly themselves.”
“What about the Asian guys? Didn’t they say something similar?”
“They said he was dead, sunk with the ship. But they are considered unreliable sources, especially since only one body, their leader’s, was found on the boat.”
“Then what information are you going on?” asked Nic, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. He wiped the sour-cream-and-onion powder from his fingertips onto his slacks.
“Two divers were brought into a hospital on the island of Providencia about an hour ago. One died shortly after arrival. Killed by a fishing spear to the diaphragm. The other had a gunshot wound to his shoulder. The surviving diver and the other two people on their boat told authorities that the man who speared the other diver swam toward an airplane and that the airplane flew away to the north.”
“So . . .”
“So, the guy was white, not Asian. He had long brown hair.”
“Once again, I don’t see the relevance,” stammered Nic, trying desperately to sound disinterested.
Nic heard Reggie exhale, and figured it was in mock frustration. He must have sensed Nic was getting excited, but was trying to control his display of emotions as best he could. Reggie seemed to play along with Nic’s charade, for now.
“You know what I’m trying to say, Nic. You sense it in your gut the same way I do. We’re detectives and detectives know when something ain’t right. This whole situation smells. It smells like Collin Cook to me. He’s up to something and he has someone helping him. We need you to help us figure out who it is. Then maybe we can find him and get some useful information about our pal Pho Nam Penh before he strikes again.”
Nic involuntarily let out a littl
e chortle. He was hooked again. The pump inside him that filled his veins with ambition and energy kicked into gear once more. “I don’t know why I should believe anything you say anymore, Reggie. What have you got in mind?”
Chapter Three
Huntington Beach, California
June 17, 5:27 a.m. Local Time
Rob Howell, Collin’s best friend and neighbor since kindergarten, had practically grown up in the Cooks’ home. He knew the code to open the garage door and the code to silence the house alarm, the one Collin’s dad, Henry, usually didn’t bother to set. He had been checking in at the house since Emily and Sarah were rescued from their kidnapping ordeal. Henry and Collin’s brother, Richard, and sister, Megan, were all staying in Emily’s La Jolla condo at Emily’s insistence. It was five minutes from the hospital to make it easy for the family to visit Sarah. Since Emily was in the hospital, she wanted someone to be there to take care of her plants, she said. Perhaps that was the reason, but Rob suspected the real reason was to have people in and out of her condo so as to ward off invaders. Being abducted played tricks on people’s perceptions, he knew.
Likewise, Henry seemed happy to have Rob drop by their house daily. He, too, wanted there to be at least some activity at the house. After all, it was in that very garage that Henry was knocked down and Sarah dragged away by those evil men. Who knew if they were still lurking around?
Making his way to the Cook home after picking up his morning coffee prior to his 6:00 a.m. conference call with a client in New York, which he would handle from the comfort of the Cooks’ den downstairs, Rob scanned his surroundings as he approached the security entrance to the gated community. He punched in the numbers and waited as the gate made its arduous elliptical trek across the cobblestoned drive. Nothing seemed unusual. At least, not at first. He inched his rented Ford Fusion through the entrance and came to a stop in front of the large panel of locked mailboxes situated just inside the gate to the right. In his rearview mirror, he saw the gate shudder and jerk as it started to close. He parked in the widened pull-out space in front of the mailbox shelter, complete with a red-tiled roof. As he pushed the door open and swung his legs out, something grabbed his attention. He listened to a distant sound drawing closer. The roar of a powerful motorcycle engine approaching grew louder, reaching ear-piercing levels as it turned the corner and barreled through the slowly closing gate. Both the driver and his passenger were clad in black leather biking gear and black helmets. A dark face shield obscured the driver’s features, but the passenger had her shield up and smiled at Rob as the motorcycle gracefully glided past him and angled to make a right turn at the end of the short entry road. Her smile caught Rob’s attention. The exotic young Asian girl locked eyes with Rob long enough to flash a seductive smile and wink at him. As they rolled past him, her head swiveled to maintain eye contact, even as her macho boyfriend revved the potent engine and banked hard into the right-hand turn. They were out of sight a split second later.