by Matt Lincoln
“I’ll send TJ,” Diane decided. “He’ll get Meisha’s office set up.”
“Ooh, you know how he is about flying,” I reminded her. Warner was a mess after only two minutes on our King Air turboprop. “He’ll freak out.”
“I’ll make sure he gets something to knock him out. He’s going, and that’s final.”
I chuckled. “Okay, send the kid. We’ll scrape him off the ground when he gets here.”
“Good.” She took a deep breath. “Take care of Robbie, Ethan. He’s a badass in his own way, but I know how he gets about his sister.”
“Copy that, boss.”
I returned to our little group and snuck a close look at Holm. He was my best friend since we joined the Navy, and then through SEALs. We’d lucked out to be assigned to the same platoon and then to be partnered together in MBLIS. We worked well together, and we’d seen each other through big life events and smaller ones like our craziest breakups. Since my grandfather died, his family kind of adopted me, and Ronnie was like a sister to me. I had to see him through this first.
We were brothers, and brothers didn’t let each other drown.
CHAPTER 6
“I can get through this,” Ronnie muttered to the empty room. “I can do it.”
She held herself as shivers wracked her body again, and her head throbbed from the ultra-bright lights and pounding thrash metal Volkov’s stooges pumped through speakers she couldn’t access. Vents blew frigid air into the windowless concrete room. They’d given her a thin shirt and shorts after she’d tried to use her gown as a sheet.
Ronnie had lost track of how long she’d been in the cell. The hall outside the steel door leaked a strip of light that didn’t dim or brighten when she looked under the door. There was no way to track the hours or days. The only relief she got from the lights and noise was when Volkov visited. Although her sense of time was off, she sensed his visits were at random intervals. Nothing had a pattern, and that kept her off balance.
The door’s tiny window slot opened as she stared at a crack in the floor, and the volume was turned down on the music.
“Veronica, I have food,” Volkov called through the door. “If you would be so kind as to stay back, I bring in to you.”
As if she had the energy to argue or fight back. The shivering alone consumed all her gumption. Volkov opened the door, and the lights eased to a level easier to bear. A fresh, almost floral, breeze entered with the man, but it got cut off by a guard who pulled the door shut.
Volkov set the food on the floor next to her and then stepped back. On the plate was a rice ball, a tiny amount of pulled meat, and a slice of pineapple. As much as Ronnie wanted to pick up the plate and throw it, she couldn’t summon the will. She saw a water bottle in Volkov’s off hand. Her dry mouth ached for the water, if only a tiny sip.
“You must be thirsty,” he noted. He played with the bottle, removed the cap, and tasted the water. “Ah, sweet and pure.” He twisted the cap back on.
Ronnie heard herself groan. The sound did not escape her captor’s notice.
“Simple yes or no,” Volkov said in a cajoling manner. “Is your real name Veronica?”
Acknowledging her name was the first step to breaking, she knew. If she gave in on that one little question, it’d be easier and easier for Volkov to wring answers from her. That’s what they taught in training. Don’t give in. Don’t agree that the sky was blue or the grass green, because the interrogator would know how to get past her defenses.
Ronnie looked down, but Volkov wasn’t having it. He stalked over and grabbed her by the chin. Something in her brain screamed to fight the man, but her limbs felt like molten lead, too heavy for the job. Her heart railed against the lethargy. Fight, claw, punch!
“Is easy question,” Volkov told her. “Yes or no, is Veronica your real name?”
The water bottle was close, within arm’s reach. As Volkov badgered her about her name, she withdrew into herself and pushed all she had into her body.
Ronnie launched herself toward Volkov’s middle. Her calves and quads cramped up from the cold, and she hurtled into his shins. He shook his leg and sent her sprawling onto her back. She scrambled to get to her feet, but everything was slow, so slow. Volkov was quick to grab her arm and flip her onto her stomach. He put his weight on her back.
“Is not good idea to test my patience,” he growled. “You will talk. If not, I watch you die of thirst.”
Icy water splashed across her head and neck. As Volkov stood, he poured the rest down her back. Ronnie’s teeth chattered so hard she thought they’d break. She rolled onto her side and pushed up to a sitting position.
“M-m-my n-name is Alex M-m-moore,” she stammered.
“I waste time on you,” he scoffed as he knocked on the door. One of the guards opened it. “Start talking, or I leave you to rot. Or maybe I let guards throw you to sharks.”
He slammed the door shut. The lights went up again, but the music changed. They no longer played thrash metal. This time, it was screeching metal and nails on chalkboards, all the sounds that render a person’s nerves raw and useless.
One thought and one thought only held Ronnie Holm steady. It didn’t make sense, and she knew it was impossible, but it kept her sane.
Robbie will save me.
CHAPTER 7
Everyone met at the office after Meisha and Stark got back from interviewing Herman Jones. We’d dropped Davis off with his car after the library and were grabbing food with Little Jo when the call came in.
“How’d it go?” I asked as we walked in.
“No worse or better than expected,” Meisha said. “I have the recording queued up.” She plugged a portable speaker into a jack on her laptop. “He acted like he didn’t have a clue as to why we were there.”
“I’m not buying,” Stark said. She got a chair, turned it around, sat on it backward, and crossed her arms over the top. “How can he not know they’re laundering? Either he’s playing dumb or actually is.”
“Agreed,” Meisha said with a snort. “They never think we’ll see through them. Have a listen.”
“Mr. Jones.,” Meisha’s voice began in a firm, professional tone, “we’re investigating some individuals who have attempted to buy insurance policies for artifacts we believe to be worth far less than their sale values.”
“Is that so?” Jones’s arrogant tone grated on my nerves.
“These sales were conducted through your office,” Meisha continued. “We’d like to know more about how they were held.”
“You’ll find my sales are of the highest regard,” he answered in that snooty voice. “Buyers and sellers contact me and arrange to meet on neutral ground, which is here. We help negotiate the final sales price, form of payment, and other considerations my clients may have.”
“What kind of considerations?” Stark wanted to know.
Jones took a moment. “That varies. Some clients offer material property as part of an exchange. Others may provide professional services. It’s all aboveboard, I assure you.”
I smirked at that. Whenever someone assures me something’s above board, it almost never is.
“How do you confirm the authenticity and provenance of each piece?” Meisha asked. Paper rustled in the background, but I couldn’t tell if it meant anything.
“I have a specialist who provides that service. He’s an independent contractor.” Jones spoke as if this was a fact anyone should know.
“We need his name and contact information,” Meisha informed him.
Jones cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but you need a judge’s order for that. We have a nondisclosure agreement.”
“When these clients get a hold of you for a meeting, how do you determine an item’s fair value?” Stark sounded skeptical.
“I refer them to my specialist,” Jones insisted. “He handles all of that.”
Stark made a noise that sounded like the way I felt hearing that. “So your office just provides the real estate and
legal services?”
“Essentially,” Jones affirmed.
“Why would anyone travel all the way from the mainland for this kind of transaction?” Meisha demanded. “That’s a lot of effort.”
Jones sighed. “There’s limited potential for this aspect of my business on the islands. Therefore I compete by offering complimentary vacation packages. Word of mouth brings in most of my new clients.”
“Has it occurred to you to be more hands-on?” Meisha sounded annoyed.
Jones humphed. “Why? I hire people to do the vetting since that is not my area of expertise.”
“Why?” Stark’s incredulous tone came through loud and clear. “Try money laundering. You run these sales. How on Earth do you not see what’s happening under your nose?”
“That is a serious accusation,” Jones snapped at her. “I don’t like your tone, young lady.”
“You may call me Special Agent Stark, Mr. Jones. And yes, it’s serious. Your clients are paying far more than these items are worth, and you don’t at the very least vet these people before outsourcing them to your independent contractor?”
“That’s why I pay our legal team, Special Agent Stark.” I imagined the sneer on his face and wanted to wipe it right off. “Look, I run a tight ship. If people were laundering money, I would’ve found out and shut it down by now.”
“We’ll be back with a warrant for your specialist’s information, as well as a list of your clients.” A fair amount of rustling suggested Meisha and Stark got up from their seats. “We’ll see how tight a ship you run.”
The recording ended there. Holm’s slow blink echoed everyone else’s expressions.
“It can’t be possible for someone in his position to be that oblivious,” I pointed out when the recording ended. “Who would seriously think that law enforcement would believe that story?”
“I buy the part about delegating,” Meisha answered. “I’m thinking he’s going for plausible deniability. As long as he doesn’t ask too many questions and the job gets done, he doesn’t have to worry about it.”
“That’s what he thinks,” Holm growled. “I bet the so-called specialist is the one who has Ronnie. We might not have time for a warrant.”
“Easy, cowboy,” Davis warned.
Holm waved him off. “Have you put in for that warrant yet?”
Meisha nodded. “The reasonable cause is thin. It may take some convincing. If the Massachusetts team digs up anything new, it’ll help.” She gave me a look, but I shook my head. I didn’t expect to hear back for a while, yet. “In the meantime, I want to have someone lined up to authenticate whatever pieces we can get our hands on.”
“I’ll check with the natural history museum,” Davis volunteered. “They should have someone who can do that.”
“Good.” Meisha turned to me. “Check in with Diane about that team in New England.”
“I will. Also, she’s sending TJ Warner out here to get this place set up for Cyber support.”
Holm almost fell out of his chair. “Is she crazy? The kid couldn’t handle flying from Miami to Belize with Bette Davis. How’s he supposed to survive the trip out here?”
“Who’s Betty Davis?” Davis asked. “Obviously not the song.”
I laughed. “Yeah, the song. Our plane got a paint job, and someone thought it looked like it had Bette Davis eyes.”
“You have a plane?” Davis’s face darkened, and he faced Meisha. “We barely have an office, and Miami has a friggin’ plane? I get you having a bigger office because of your location, but an airplane?”
Holm sat back in his chair and found imaginary lint to pick off of his shirt. This left me to bear the brunt of Davis’s righteous fury… not that I blamed the guy. It didn’t help that Meisha now gaped at me, as well.
“It got approved before anyone heard about the funding cuts,” I told them. “There’s been some weird stuff going on with MBLIS budgets. We get overfunded, you got underfunded, and I have no idea what other offices are dealing with.”
“‘Weird stuff’? That sounds intentional,” Meisha mused. “How do you know it’s not a series of snafus?”
I repressed the urge to fidget. “I have a reliable source.” At the expressions that met me, the urge to fidget turned into a need to squirm. “All I know is that our low profile is working against us right now. Half the members of Congress have no clue we exist. Some don’t need to know. The problem is getting them to vote for the right budgetary items so the Pentagon will keep giving us money. Otherwise, we’ll have far more serious issues.”
“Sell the plane,” Davis suggested with zero humor. “Cut that from your budget so other offices can pay for basics.”
“I wish it were so easy.” Well, I didn’t wish that so much as I wished other offices were as well-funded as Miami’s. “I’ll keep you guys in the loop as much as I can.”
The frown on Davis’s face made it clear he didn’t give a rat’s ass about my promise. “I’m going to the museum right now,” he announced. “Let me know when we have the funding for our own lab and Cyber units.”
“Hey!”
I jumped a bit. Little Jo had been so quiet that, in the heat of things, I’d forgotten she was there.
“Yeah?” Davis called back from the exit.
“I’m your lab unit,” she insisted. “I just don’t have a lab.”
“That’s what I meant.” He left without another word.
A text came in on my phone at the same time. It was from Diane.
Bonnie is coming to babysit. Have fun.
“Jo, your lab unit just got a little bigger for the week,” I announced. “Bonnie, er, Rosa Bonci from our office is flying out with our tech guy.”
A wry laugh came from Holm’s direction. “Jo gets to be Clyde.” He stood. “I’m gonna go get some air.”
“Jeez,” Meisha muttered. “Ignore them, Jo. ‘Clyde’ is what they call Joe Clime. It’s a silly name thing that happened. Jo and Joe.”
A corner of Jo’s mouth quirked upward. “Bonnie and Clyde, huh? I dig it.”
My phone vibrated again, this time with a text from the Oahu area code.
This is Sadie with the pirate journal. Want 2 meet 4 coffee? Dragon’s Rogue. OMG!
I texted back asking for a place and time.
Seven at O’Harley’s on Main. C’ya there.
“Got a date?” Stark asked. “That was the chick who found the pirate journal.”
“How’d you know that?” I stared at her, and she smiled a little. “What?”
“I walked up behind you, and you didn’t notice.” Stark shook her head. “You’re in la-la land today.”
“A little.” I stifled a sigh. Maybe I was going soft. “You shouldn’t be looking over people’s shoulders, Stark.”
“Anything interesting enough to grab your attention like deserves a peek,” she countered. “So, is it a date?”
I stowed my phone. “It’s a meeting.” I didn’t blame Stark for trying. Despite her tendency to stick to a professional demeanor, she’d been trying to distract me from feeling down about Tessa Bleu returning to New York City when she’d been so close to moving to Miami. Yeah, it was disappointing, but I wasn’t despondent. Tessa had her obligations, just like I had mine.
My phone buzzed yet again.
“Hi, TJ,” I answered. “When’s your plane leaving?”
“Too soon,” he complained. “Hey, I can’t get ahold of Agent Holm. I have an update for him, but I had to leave it in a message. Bonnie is going to knock me out with something from the lab, and I’m a little freaked out.”
“Hi, Ethan!” Bonnie’s voice came from further away than TJ’s. “I was joking. It’s a sleeping pill the doctor called in for him. TJ should be fine on the way out. We’ll see you tomorrow morning. I think.”
“Thanks,” TJ told her in a dry tone. “I told Director Ramsey I should get a bonus for this.”
“You’ll be fine,” I said with a frown. “Remind me what you were up to with Robb
ie.”
“I got some of those names you all needed.” A series of clunking sounds in the background suggested he was underway with his luggage and who knew what else. “The in-air wifi isn’t secure enough for me to finish the search, but the most relevant results already came back with some clients there on Oahu. I’ll get more of the list when we get there.”
I glanced over to where Holm had been sitting. His phone sat on the tabletop and flashed a notification.
“Call when you get in,” I told him.
After I ended the call, Meisha frowned at me. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I grabbed Holm’s phone and headed outside.
CHAPTER 8
I found Holm smoking behind the Suburban in the office’s small parking lot. He saw me coming and shook his head. The cigarette butt was almost dead, and he dropped it on the asphalt to stomp it out.
“I promised Ronnie I wouldn’t smoke anymore.” He adjusted his ball cap and squinted in the too-bright sunlight. “She promised she wouldn’t go into any form of law enforcement.” He kicked at the flattened butt.
“I’m not judging,” I told him. “Not about the smoking.”
Holm looked at me and saw his phone in my hand. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Robbie. TJ just called me because you didn’t have your phone on you. He said he only got some of the names, but not all. He seemed to be under the impression that we were asking.”
Holm held out his hand, but I hung on to his phone.
“Give it to me, Ethan.”
“I’m worried about you, partner,” I stated in a soft tone.
“Seems like everyone else is your partner these days.” He moved closer, and I caught a faint scent of beer. “You’re just as bad as everyone else treating me like an invalid. Like I’ve never been hurt before. ‘Be care, Robbie,’ ‘Don’t look for your sister, Robbie,’ ‘Desk duty, Robbie.’ God, I can’t stand it.”