by James Hunt
When Mocks finished, she cast a healthy dose of side-eye toward Grant before returning to the presentation. Unlike everyone else in the room, she didn’t take notes. She’d always had a good memory, an attribute she used to dangle over Grant’s head when they were partners.
Hickem clicked to another photo. “Neil Sambayo.” He was tall, bald, and had a jaw that looked as if it were chiseled out of granite, with a pair of dead eyes that sent a chill down your spine. “He is a member of a group of mercenaries that call themselves the Merchants. They’re a group of guns for hire that will do any job so long as the price is right. Intelligence from both the FBI and CIA have told us that Joza hired the Merchants to kidnap the Copellas. So far we’ve met two of the Merchants’ foursome, Mr. Sambayo, and this man.” Hickem clicked the remote and another photo appeared on the screen. “Gusto Debrov. He is currently in custody, but so far his lips have been sealed, but we’re pressing him as hard as we can.”
“The other two members of the group?” Grant asked, circling both men’s names on the list, seeing as how they were the only suspects in relation to the case.
“Danny Mullens and Greta Fitz,” Hickem said. “We believe that Sambayo is heading north to the Canadian border to rendezvous with his comrades to smuggle the girl out of the country. Now, to give you a sense of the stakes that we’re dealing with, I’m going to hand it over to Director Multz.” Hickem took a seat and placed the remote on the table for Multz to pick up on his way.
The presence of the head of the US Marshals was a stark contrast to the hulking figure of Hickem. He walked with his head down, exposing the thinning flat top of his greying crew cut. He was barely over five and a half feet, but was stocky. He wiped the bristles of his thick mustache, adjusted his glasses, and picked up the remote and clicked it. The projected image revealed a map of the globe, slowly populated with red dots that spanned Europe and Asia, South America and Africa. “The case that our justice department and the international community was compiling against Joza was substantial. As Deputy Director Hickem stated, Charles Copella was a key witness in that testimony and was responsible for making a large portion of Joza’s fortune disappear as well as the imprisonment of his son, Viktor.” Director Multz removed his glasses and rubbed an eye. “Unfortunately, during negotiations between Mr. Copella and federal attorneys, Mr. Copella refused to give up the money.”
“Why?” Mocks asked, not bothering to raise her hand.
“Mr. Copella wanted a deterrent against Joza should his situation ever be compromised,” Multz said. “And since the authorities already had Joza’s son in custody, they didn’t press the issue. We’re able to view the accounts, but only Mr. Copella has the access codes. But we also believe Mr. Copella’s abduction could be twofold. Joza wants the money and his son.”
Grant raised his left hand, his right still scribbling on his yellow notepad. “How much money are we talking here?”
“Five point eight billion dollars.”
Air and sound was sucked from the room as the words settled. Grant stopped writing, exchanging a glance with Mocks as she mouthed the astronomical figure without speaking.
“If Joza is able to retrieve the codes to the accounts from Mr. Copella, that large sum of money will be back in the hands of a man who will use it to fund his criminal associates around the world,” Multz said. “Corrupt governments, terrorist groups, dictators, warlords, the worst scum that humanity can offer. Which brings us back to Anna Copella. We think that Joza is going to use Anna against her father to gain access to the accounts. We’re monitoring the money in the accounts closely. So long as the funds remain where they are, the Copellas should remain alive.”
The projector turned off, and the lights turned on. Multz twirled the remote with his thick, stubby fingers. “We’re on a time crunch, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s get to work.”
Chairs were pushed back, and everyone and their respective teams formed up in groups, whispering to one another their thoughts, and for the moment, the “collaborative” environment that both leaders had tried to cultivate dried up.
Mocks swiveled her chair toward Grant, eyebrow cocked up. “I suppose I have you to thank for getting my ass pulled out of bed at this ungodly hour.”
Grant finished scribbling his notes. “Didn’t think you’d mind.” He finally looked up from his notepad, smiling. “I thought pregnant women had to pee every sixty seconds.”
Mocks smirked, but the expression didn’t last long. She scooted forward, rolling the chair closer to Grant, the tips of her feet barely able to reach the carpet. She kept her voice low and was surprisingly serious. “Are you okay to do this?”
Grant nodded. “It’ll be good for me.”
Mocks scoffed, leaning back in her chair, rubbing her stomach. “About as good as a kick in the balls.” She was a small woman, and even her pregnancy couldn’t make her look bloated. The only weight she gained was from the baby itself. She reached for the bruise on his cheek, barely touching it with her fingertips.
Grant grabbed her hand, gently taking it in his own. “I’m all right.”
Mocks looked back toward Hickem. “Not much talk on the person who gave you those welts.” She turned back to Grant. “Did they at least give you a bag of peas?”
“I’m fine, Mocks.”
Mocks held up her hands, finally submitting, tugging on the cuffs of her long sleeves. She never wore anything that exposed her arms. Too many scars. “So do you think Hickem was involved?”
“Not sure,” Grant answered, keeping his eyes down, still taking notes. “Doesn’t look good, though.”
“I don’t like how any of this smells,” Mocks said, rubbing her stomach in rhythmic circles. “Rats always make my stomach uneasy.”
“Anything that isn’t a strawberry frosted Pop-Tart makes your stomach uneasy.”
Mocks smirked and then gestured toward Sam. “What’s your girlfriend think about the situation?”
Grant kept his response silent, though his glare was enough to shut her down for once. Whatever attraction he might have toward Sam had been shelved. He needed to concentrate on finding the girl, and since the Copellas were Sam’s responsibility, he knew she did as well. “The marshals are taking precautions, but the FBI is handling the matter internally.”
“Internally, my ass,” Mocks said. “C’mon, you know Hickem. He’ll do anything to make sure he keeps his job and to secure that next promotion. You think he’s going to let this come back on him? Kover was on his team. And Kover was in bed with this Joza character. It doesn’t take a math genius to figure this out.” She looked at Sam, who started to walk over. She leaned closer to Grant. “And it doesn’t take a love guru to figure out that you like that girl.”
“Lieutenant,” Sam said, walking over and smiling at Mocks. “We appreciate the boots on the ground you put together for us.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like I have a lot to worry about at the moment.” Mocks glanced at her stomach, a look of exaggerated surprise flashing across her face. “Oh yeah.”
“When are you due?” Sam asked.
“Week and a half,” Mocks answered. “And it can’t come soon enough.” Mocks rocked forward to push herself from her chair, and Grant lent his arm to help her up, and she wobbled before she could stand straight up. “Whoa.” She laughed. “Still haven’t quite mastered the extra ballast.”
“Your first?” Sam asked.
Mocks nodded. “And depending on how this goes, most likely my last.”
“I’m sure Rick will have something to say about that.” Grant walked her to the hallway. “You need help out?”
“No, I’m fine.” Mocks reached for his hand and then pulled his arm until he bent over close enough for her to plant a kiss on his bruised cheek. “Be careful.”
“I will.”
She turned to Sam. “We’ll be in touch.” And then without warning she smacked Grant hard on the ass, laughing as she waddled down the hall. “Keep it tight, cowboy!”
> Sam chuckled while Grant rubbed his backside. “Has she always been like that, or are those just the pregnancy hormones?”
“I’d like to say the pregnancy hormones,” Grant answered, “but that’s just not true.”
“Partners like that don’t come around very often. You were lucky to work with her.”
“I still am.” Grant watched Mocks waddle down the hall, forcing people out of her path until she disappeared around the corner at the end.
“Grant! Cohen!” Multz barked down the end of the hall. “My office. Now.”
Sam led the way, and Grant tucked the notepad inside his jacket pocket and then checked his watch. Whenever he worked a missing person case he always kept a timer running. It helped keep him focused. The first six to twelve hours were crucial after an abduction. And Anna Copella had been missing for one hour and twenty-three minutes.
“Shut the door,” Multz said as Grant and Sam stepped inside.
Sam obliged, and the three of them circled Multz’s desk.
“I spoke to Director Links at the FBI about Hickem’s mole,” Multz said. “Agent Kover is currently on his way to DC to be interrogated.”
“When do we get to speak with him?” Sam asked.
“We don’t.”
“C’mon, boss, you really think that we’re going to learn anything unless we get to speak to him ourselves?” Sam’s neck flushed red with anger, and Grant caught himself following the flush all the way down to the top button of her blouse.
“We don’t have a say in the matter.” Multz collapsed into his chair. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but our hands are tied. We could try and get the justice department involved, but I don’t want to waste any resources on an endeavor that’ll just be a dead end. Our priority is finding the girl.”
“If your priority is finding the girl, then discovering Agent Kover’s motivations for leaking the family’s location to Joza’s contacts should be important.” Grant crossed his arms. “There could be other leaks.”
“I have assurances from—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sam scoffed and turned away from Multz with her head down and her hands on her hips. Her blond ponytail swayed back and forth.
“Hey!” Multz slapped his hand on the desk. “We’re walking on thin ice here. If we start pointing fingers at everyone about who’s to blame here, then that’s time on finding the girl wasted!” He took a breath, his cheeks still flushed as he stared Sam and Grant down, reining in his volume. “When the smoke settles, I can assure you that we will get to the bottom of this, but right now we continue working in good faith with the FBI. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Grant answered.
Sam remained in the corner, her body only half turned toward Multz, but she nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get out of my office and find me that little girl.”
Grant was at the door first, and Sam joined him in the hall. She was still fuming as they headed back toward her desk. As far as partners went, Sam was about as polar opposite from Mocks as he could get. Sam was tall, standing five feet ten, and had blond hair, blue eyes, tan skin, and a rigidness for the rules that his former partner didn’t share. He couldn’t talk to her the same way he spoke to Mocks. And he didn’t want to.
“Listen, hey, just hold on for a minute.” Grant slowed, pulling Sam to a stop with him. “I know the Copellas were your first case. I know how badly you want to find them. But you need to channel that anger into something productive.” Two agents approached them in the hall, examining a folder, and Grant waited for them to pass. “Because if you don’t focus that rage, it’ll burn you.”
“Is that what happened to you?” Sam asked, a slight edge to her words.
“Yeah.” Grant cleared his throat, taking a step back. “So unless you want to find yourself working as a special investigative liaison, I suggest you listen.”
Activity erupted back near the conference room, and Hickem stormed out into the hall with his agents, a phone glued to his ear, passing Sam and Grant. “Seattle PD found a boat on Washington’s north shore and tire tracks heading north.”
Grant fell into stride with Sam and the others, the brisk pace shoving everyone out of their way, with Sam hopping up to the front.
“We need a traffic cams check on the routes leading away from the lake, and I want a tactical unit ready to deploy.” Sam turned to Grant. “Go catch up with Lieutenant Mullocks and see if we can get a bird in the air.”
“On it.” Grant jogged ahead, stepping out into the cool night air where he found Mocks on the phone just outside of the building.
“I got it, Commissioner,” Mocks said then hung up.
“Hey, we’ve got—”
Mocks held up her hands. “I know. We have reports of a car hijacking and shots fired northwest of the lake. Three units are already on scene.” She struggled to keep up with Grant’s stride, due to both her stomach and her height.
“Air support?” Grant asked.
“We’ve got a chopper gearing up now.”
Hickem and Sam spilled out the building’s front doors, and everyone headed for their vehicles. Hickem whistled, circling his finger in the air. “Let’s round up the wagons! I want this bastard in cuffs before the sun comes up.”
3
The caravan of vehicles heading north on the 405 toward the north end of Washington Lake lit up the night sky with a blur of red and blue lights. Grant rode with Sam in the middle row of an SUV. He looked out his window at the night sky and saw the chopper’s spotlight in the distance. It hovered to the northwest, circling the same spot. They were getting close.
“Local PD has already secured the scene,” Sam said, hanging up her phone. “Your old partner works quickly.”
Grant nodded. “Suspect or victim on scene?”
“Just the boat,” Sam answered, her focus past Grant and toward the chopper he was staring at earlier. “They’ve tracked the hijacked car to a neighborhood west of Brightwater Park. That’s where we’re headed.”
Grant shifted in his seat as the caravan turned off the interstate. He imagined it was quite a sight for anyone still on the road at this early hour. It was a motorcade that would have made the president jealous.
“Fifteen minutes,” the driver said, echoing the orders he received through the earpiece that ran up from the inside of his suit.
The marshals that Grant rode with grew tense, thickening the air with electricity that touched anyone inside. It was always like that before a raid.
But while his thoughts should have been focused on their mission, Grant found himself sneaking glances at Sam. He tried not to be too obvious. But from the quick peeks, he found that she wore no wedding ring and that she kept her fingernails short. She had a beautiful profile, complemented by a slender neck. She kept her hair pulled back in a ponytail that was tightly wound to prevent any issues in the field. She sat straight and still and wore her firearm on her right hip.
Unlike Sam, Grant couldn’t sit still, and he flushed with heat. He adjusted the Kevlar vest they’d given him, which was bulkier than the ones the other officers wore, most likely because theirs were custom and his was a loaner.
He checked his watch, which showed that they were still within the second hour after the abduction. Out of all the variables an abduction case offered, the only consistent one was time. The longer authorities took to find their victim, the lower their probability of success.
It only took twelve hours after an individual was abducted for the success rate to drop in half. They were lucky they had a good jump on the abductor, and they were even luckier to have the amount of resources available to them. But after the rundown Grant saw of Joza, he was willing to bet that the man had some significant resources of his own.
“What’s with the watch?” Sam asked, commenting on it as Grant checked it again.
“Helps keep me on point,” Grant answered. “I wore it when I was a detective. I guess old habits are hard to break.�
� He peeled his eyes away from the watch, and when they landed on Sam, he felt himself become unarmed. She had an assertive gaze, probably developed out of necessity in her male-dominated field. It wasn’t a look that most men in authority enjoyed. It made them feel inferior. Grant liked it.
“You’ve worked with Hickem before?” Sam asked.
Grant nodded.
“From what I read, he fared pretty well after throwing you under the bus with that human-trafficking incident.”
The “incident” that Sam referenced was the cause of Grant’s dismissal from Seattle PD. And it had cost the lives of a dozen Philippine women and caused more sleepless nights than Grant could keep track of. Ghosts made for bad bedfellows.
“He’s a climber,” Grant said. “He’ll fudge the lines to get what he wants, but he’s not a traitor.”
“Well, I don’t trust him,” Sam replied.
“We don’t need to trust him,” Grant said. “We just need to find the girl.”
The brake lights of the cars in front of them glowed red, and the vehicle slowed as the ones in front of them started to pull off the side of the road. Up ahead, the tactical team was already in position outside of a house where Grant saw the hijacked sedan parked in the driveway.
“Stay in the car,” Sam said, getting out and reaching for her sidearm in the same instance.
Doors opened and closed quickly, rattling Grant’s seat as he watched the raid through the front windshield. The officers and agents on scene surrounded the building, guns up, clustered in five-man tactical pushes.
Grant reached for the radio wedged into the center of the dash and turned up the volume.
“Breach, breach, breach.” A loud bang erupted in the night, triggering a few neighboring dogs into a frenzy as they busted down the front door and then stormed inside. “Living room clear.” The radio clicked off, and then another voice appeared. “Bedroom clear.” A few crackling static bursts blared through the speaker, and another voice broke through. “Kitchen clear. House secure.”