by James Hunt
His head hung lazily on his shoulder. His face had swollen, blood still oozing from his nose, mouth, and cuts along his cheeks.
“To keep you company,” Joza said and then walked out of the room with his men, slamming the door shut behind him.
Mocks whimpered some more, the warm fluid from her bladder already released, and she sat still, exhausted. After all of the two-bit shit dives she’d been into where she’d gotten high on drugs, Mocks thought she had seen hell. But she was wrong.
There was one stop that Grant needed to make on his evasive journey toward the docks, and it came with some risk. But there was no one else he could call, and no one else that he could turn to. This was his only option.
Grant exchanged the dirty jacket and hat, upgrading to a newer hoodie and a pair of sunglasses in another dumpster that he found on his escape from the traffic cops, and he kept his shades on when he entered the West Coast Library.
The revolving glass doors at the front entrance were caught in a perpetual spin as Grant filed into line, keeping his head down.
He’d been in the library before, and made a beeline to where the computers were located. It was busy, and whispered words drifted toward the high, five-story-building ceilings, where the ghosts of librarians pressed their fingers to their lips and sent hushes back down to the floor, suppressing everyone’s voice in the conservation of silence.
Despite the crowd at the library, there were quite a few computer stations available, and Grant found one positioned three spots from the end in the third row. He walked past students researching assignments, the elderly checking emails, and a few homeless folks who’d fallen asleep watching videos on YouTube. Grant was hoping he’d blend right in.
Grant plugged the drive into the computer and prayed that it wouldn’t get flagged or cause the computer itself to shut down. It took some time for the file to upload, but when it did, Grant clicked the folder, expanding the files inside.
Hundreds of smaller folders filled the drive, and when Grant drilled down into them, he found that each file was separated into three accounts, all designated by different numbers.
And while no two numbers were ever the same, there was consistency with the quantity of numerical digits: nine. The same amount in a routing number for a bank account.
It was some kind of disbursement software. This was how Links was going to drain the accounts of the codes that he stole from Charles Copella.
Grant leaned back in the chair, trying to figure out if there was anything else in the underlying code, but the algorithms were so advanced that it was beyond his understanding. Software engineering had never been his strong suit.
But Grant knew enough to figure out that the program had the capacity to ghost the money, meaning it would make the transfer of funds untraceable. It was probably some new type of software that the FBI techies had developed.
Grant had seen stunts like this when he worked Missing Persons. Every now and then, there would be a ransom request for one of the abducted kids. So in an effort to speed up the process, their tech guys would fake wire money into an account as a place holder, and then when they retrieved the kid, the money would disappear, and they would track the abductors down with the digital marker that was inserted into the money. It made the days of cash in bags look like child’s play.
He imagined that software could be applied here, just on a much larger scale. But he knew that trying to rig this piece of software was beyond his ability. If he was going to do it, he would need help.
7
Hickem grew angrier with every second that ticked past without an update on Grant’s whereabouts. He stormed into the bull pen on the first floor, where he had come down every fifteen minutes for the past two hours to berate the drones for their unsuccessful efforts. Without a word, he walked to the center of the floor, and the drones grew silent.
Hickem raised his hand high above his head, his phone clutched in his palm, and slowly spun three hundred and sixty degrees.
“In three minutes, this phone is going to ring,” Hickem said. “And I’m going to have to speak with the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, and he’s only going to ask me one question: do we have him in custody? If the answer isn’t yes, then I will spend the next seven minutes explaining to him why my answer is no. If I don’t have an update before this phone rings, someone will lose their job, here and now.”
Sam watched from the corner. She hadn’t done much in helping with search efforts. But with the intelligence agencies scouring every piece of recorded video in Seattle, there wasn’t much work for her to do in the first place. It had become a waiting game. And she found that Hickem wasn’t very good at waiting.
Hickem arched his eyebrows, and when everyone kept their mouth shut, he lowered his arm and then kicked the side of the nearest desk. “If you don’t have anything good to share, then look harder! God dammit!” His cheeks flushed, and as he stormed through the floor, the drones returned to work.
The clack of fingers on keyboards, and the chatter of voices on phone calls roared back to life, and Sam rushed to intercept Hickem, hoping to get an update. “Did IT get back with you?”
“Huh?” Hickem rubbed his eyes, nodding. “Yeah, um, I just got an email about it to let Multz know. You can come along if you want.” He dropped his big hand from his eyes, stretching out his face with his mouth, and then stumbled forward.
While Sam had only worked with Hickem for the past week, she had never seen him so frazzled. The stress of the job was taking its toll.
Once they reached Multz’s office, Hickem collapsed into a chair and tossed his phone on Multz’s desk then rubbed his face until it turned a shade of red. When he finished, he crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat while Sam leaned against the wall behind Multz’s desk.
“The program that Grant downloaded from Links’s account is a prototype software developed by the CIA that disperses money and makes the transaction untraceable. And it can happen from any computer, anywhere in the world,” Hickem said.
“Any good news?” Multz asked.
“The only silver lining is that the program is a prototype and they don’t know if it will work, which puts our odds at the money disappearing at fifty-fifty.” Hickem sighed. “If I was a gambling man, I’d say we put all of our chips on red.”
“Did they say anything else?” Sam asked.
“No,” Hickem answered, reaching for his phone when it rang again. “I think I’ll just go ahead and tell the senator to pick someone else to fill the director position when this is over.” He answered the phone and walked out of the room.
Sam started to follow, but Multz called her back. “Shut the door. I need to speak with you for a minute.”
“What’s up?” Sam took Hickem’s seat but kept her posture upright.
Multz fiddled with his fingers. Sam had never seen him this anxious. Even worse, she’d never seen him look worried. “Once the dust settles on this case, there will be an investigation.” He looked her in the eye. “About you.”
Sam shifted in her seat, unable to conceal her surprise. “May I ask why?”
“It’s been requested that you be evaluated to determine if you are still fit for service with the US Marshals.” Multz recited the words as if he were reading him from an email.
“Requested by who?” Sam stood, the quick motion forcing Multz to retreat back into his chair. “It’s already been proven that the only reason the Copellas were taken was because of the mole in Hickem’s unit. And now we know that the person who controlled that mole was the director of the FBI!”
“It doesn’t have to do with the Copellas’ abduction.” Multz maintained an even-keeled tone. “It’s about your relationship with Grant.”
Sam slowly lowered herself back in the chair.
“You were the lead officer on the case, and that means that those under your command were your responsibility. The investigation will determine if there was any negligence or ineptitude on your end. But du
ring that investigation, you will be on administrative leave. Six weeks. With pay.”
“Six weeks? Boss, this is ridiculous—”
“It’s as good a deal as you’re going to get,” Multz said and then sighed. “Maybe you and I can go on a trip somewhere.” He laughed at Sam’s confusion. “Apparently, Congress is spooked about agency heads after our latest debacle.”
“It’s bullshit,” Sam said.
“I know.” Multz shrugged apathetically, knowing there wasn’t anything either of them could do. “That’ll be all, Marshal.” But when Sam reached the door, her hand on the knob, he called out to her. “If he calls, you need to let us know. The investigation will cover everything that happened during this time, and it’s best that you keep your nose clean. Understand?”
Sam turned around, nodding. “Yes, sir.”
Finished, she thrust herself back into the hustle and bustle of the hallway, doing her best to keep from collapsing. The Marshals were her life. She had trained so hard to be here. She had sacrificed so much.
It wasn’t until Sam made it down to the end of the hall that she realized her phone was ringing in her pocket. Absentmindedly, she reached for the device and put it to her ear without even looking at the number on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Sam, are you alone? Can you talk?”
Grant’s voice snapped her out of the daze, and she immediately ducked out of the main hallway, avoiding the traffic. “You need to come back.” She kept her head on a swivel, always feeling a pair of eyes on her back no matter which way she turned.
“You know I can’t,” Grant answered.
“They know you stole the program,” Sam replied, and without even thinking, she told him what he wanted to know. “Hickem says the CIA guys who created it aren’t even sure it will work.”
Grant paused, hesitation on his tongue. “Did Hickem tell you to tell me that?”
“Christ, Grant, I don’t have the brain pan to play triple agent.” Sam hushed her voice as more agents passed, and she knew she needed to find a place to speak privately. “Hang on a minute.” She pressed the phone into her chest, muffling the speaker, and found an empty conference room on the south side of the building. She pulled the blinds shut and locked the door. “You’re the one who called me, remember?”
“What I’m about to ask goes beyond what you signed up for,” Grant answered. “But if you can’t do it, then tell me now.”
The earnestness in Grant’s voice was a refreshing tone. And she couldn’t let him go through this alone. “What do you need?”
“I need to modify the software I downloaded,” Grant said.
“Modify how?” Sam asked.
“Your tech guys might call it something different, but it’s basically a program that police departments use to make it look like money has been transferred to an account when in reality it never moves. If I can get one placed into the program that Links wants to use, then I can keep him from actually dispersing the money, which gives me leverage on him to give Mocks up.”
“You think that’s enough?” Sam asked. “Links doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d fold. He’s got nothing left to lose.”
“Maybe,” Grant said. “But I’m willing to bet Links will want his life over revenge, and he needs the money to prevent Joza from killing him. I’m going to drop off the drive at the corner of Mayberry and Third. It’ll be in a grey plastic bag. I’ll be hanging around until I see you show up. Is there someone in your IT division that you trust?”
“Yeah,” Sam answered. “I have a guy down there who will work it for me.”
“Good. After you have the device and the software has been added to the drive, meet me at 3487 Tanner Boulevard. And tell Hickem what you’re doing.”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’ll establish your credibility with him. He has to know that if I were to reach out to someone, it would be you, so give him what he wants to know. Make up a location near the drop point, and then slip away. Trust me, Sam, it’s our best shot.”
“All right, when do I meet you?”
“Twenty minutes.”
The call ended, and Sam lingered in the conference room long after it was over. She wasn’t sure if she was making the right decision, especially after what Multz had told her about the investigation. But as she walked out of the room then left the marshal building and skirted the rows of news vans, she felt better the more distance she put between herself and the building.
Grant positioned himself in a side alley across from the pickup point, watching the plastic bag like a hawk. He wasn’t sure if she’d come, or if she’d come alone, but he didn’t think she’d betray him.
The twenty minutes came and passed, and still Sam didn’t show. He waited an hour, and was about to leave, when he spied her walking up the east end of the sidewalk.
Sam picked up the bag in stride, and while he watched her at least try and look for him, she played the part perfectly.
It was hard seeing her again only to have her disappear so quickly.
And with nothing to do but wait, Grant tucked himself in a nearby alley and leaned his back up against the cold concrete of the building.
The hum of air conditioning units overpowered the noise of traffic, and Grant glanced around the dingy alleyway. He tried to breathe through his nose to protect himself from the smell, but he’d already grown numb to it.
He was always amazed at how quickly an individual became desensitized when thrust into an extreme environment. He’d watched it happen to a few kids that he brought back. Most of those instances involved some sort of sexual assault, the child either coerced, tricked, or forced into the acts.
Grant looked up the kids from his old cases every once in a while. A few months ago, he looked up a girl who was taken when she was fourteen. She went willingly, though that was because the forty-eight-year-old man that abducted her was a psychology professor at the University of Washington. She’d attended one of his seminars—that was where the relationship started. Grant had found one of the ticket stubs buried in her locker that she kept at school.
One background check on the professor told Grant everything he needed to know about the scumbag. He’d already had a few run-ins on campus with some girls that were enrolled in his class, though nothing substantial was ever proven.
After everything was said and done and Grant recovered the young girl, she screamed and hollered about how they were in love and no one understood that they were meant to be with one another.
The girl turned eighteen a few months ago, so Grant found her on Facebook. From the social media posts, he knew that she still hadn’t dealt with the psychological repercussions of what she went through. Which made sense, because the free resources that the state provided only did so much.
Unless a family was incredibly wealthy, it was unlikely that the kid would get the attention or the type of help that they deserved and needed. It boiled down to money. Just as it did right now.
Sam discarded the plastic bag at the nearest trash can and pocketed the USB drive. She ran her thumb over the drive inside her coat pocket the entire walk back to the marshals’ office.
While she hadn’t necessarily lied to Grant about having a contact in the IT department to help her out, she may have fudged the line on exactly how solid their relationship was. But she had a plan.
All surveillance requests had to be approved through Multz before they were sent down to the techies to either tap wires, scan emails, or try to set some other digital mousetrap for escaped convicts.
Usually, after Multz approved an order for a marshal, most marshals threw away the signed request forms, seeing as how there were copies filed with the tech team. But to see those files, you needed to be granted access by someone in that department.
But being a stickler for details and redundancies—or at least she used to be—Sam kept copies of her own requests at her desk.
All she had to do was get a fresh form, fill it out,
and then use one of the old forms to trace Multz’s signature. With all of the commotion in the department, she knew that she would be able to slide it through in time to get the drive back to Grant.
The aftermath of her stunt, however, would definitely come up in the investigation that Multz had warned her about. But she couldn’t let Grant do this alone. He’d done so much already.
Once back at the marshal building, Sam skirted the line of reporters that had formed a blockade, and entered through one of the more private side entrances. Normally, the side entrances had minimum security, but with all of the attention that they’d received over the past couple of days, even this place was locked down tight.
Sam flashed her badge and put the thumb drive along with her wallet and service pistol into a small dish that fed into the scanner. She prayed that the x-ray wouldn’t cause any trouble, and breathed a sigh of relief when it passed without alarm.
Tech was on the third floor, and Sam made a pit stop at her desk for the forms in her drawer. She scribbled across it hastily, knowing that the details didn’t matter, and put it as a rush for the Joza case.
Sam kept an eye on the crowds around her desk as she plucked one of the signed copies of the form from her drawer. She placed the unsigned document over the signed one, doing her best to line it up perfectly, and then started the quick trace of her boss’s signature.
The end result was a little skewed, but the two-inch squiggle was hardly ever legible, and Sam was confident it would pass. She grabbed the drive and then ascended to the third floor.
With the coordination efforts between the FBI and the marshals, the tech room was practically bursting at the seams with bodies and computers. And Sam saw enough fiber wire in that one room to stretch from the earth to the sun.
A few heads turned when Sam entered, a reminder of her gender anomaly. She found one of their guys and set the form on his desk, which he ignored.