by Jack Hardin
“Thanks, gents.”
“Chachi, he’s out doing a little recon,” Boomer said. “Getting his ear to the ground and talking to the locals. If there’s anything useful out there, he’ll hear about it.”
I couldn’t help but marvel at the sudden turn of events. Half an hour earlier, I was walking through the market, feeling under resourced and ill advised. Now I was standing among some of my country’s best warriors, men who knew how to locate targets, subvert the enemy, and accomplish the mission objective as well as anyone on the planet. And while I didn’t possess their level of training and experience, I was still supremely capable and found myself right at home among them.
Boomer made his way toward Granger and looked at his computer monitor. “Anything yet?”
“Just about.” Granger bit down on his bottom lip as his fingers flew expertly over the keyboard. “It’s taking a little longer than I thought.”
I stepped up to one of the tables. Sitting there were three desert Sig Sauer P-226s, two Glock 19s, three M9A1 Berettas, and over a dozen spare, fully loaded magazines. On the next table were several M1A carbines, HK14s, and a single M3 submachine gun.
“Whose grease gun?” I asked.
Teapot was running a cleaning pad down his rifle’s barrel, but he raised a finger. “That would be mine. I plugged a muj last month with one of those HKs over there. He was carrying the M3, and I decided to relieve him of it. I’m going to modify the front sight when I get back stateside. But it’s fun to shoot.”
Granger suddenly raised a celebratory fist in the air. “Got it!” he yelled.
Boomer was still looking over his shoulder. “Got what?”
Granger swung his boots off the desk, placed the keyboard on it, and scooted in his chair. “Okay, here’s the deal. There’s three cell phone carriers in Greece: Cosmote, Vodafone, and Wind. I’ve been hacking into their networks and getting access to their call records and radionavigation systems.”
“Weirdo,” Teapot mumbled.
Granger shot him a look and continued. “It took me a while, but I managed to aggregate all the GPS data for all three carriers. At any given time, they all have the GPS locations for nearly all the phones on their networks. Some burner phones, the rare flip phone still in use, and any phones reworked by tech geeks won’t show their locations. Most users think that simply disabling the location services on their phones means that they can’t be tracked, but micro data still gets pinged to and from regional antenna masts. Meaning anyone can locate you if they want.”
“So you have the location of everyone with a cell phone in Athens?” Boomer asked.
“I do.”
“And how does that help us?” Teapot asked.
“After I amassed all the GPS data, I went ahead and pulled the names of every known convict in Greece as well as everyone on INTERPOL's watch list. Then I overlaid the data to see if I could get a match in the general vicinity of the market yesterday.”
I was starting to get the picture. “You aggregated the names of all known felons currently in Athens and then used the GPS info from their cell phone carriers to pinpoint their exact locations?”
“I did indeed.”
Teapot shook his head. “So you can play with a keyboard. Too bad you still can’t hit a target at three hundred yards.”
Granger gave me an exasperated look. “I missed an easy shot when we were in Iran a couple months back. It was my turn on the rifle. The rest of the troop was set to engage a high value target outside of Kashan. I sighted onto a suspicious character.” He shrugged. “I missed.”
Teapot set the barrel down and picked up a rag. “Go on. Tell him the rest of the story.”
Granger sighed. “The rogue shot alerted the guy and his buddies. They got on the mic and notified the rest of their friends. Long story short, there was a firefight, and Teapot ended up getting shot in the ass.”
“You ever go a full month not being able to take a proper dump?” Teapot said.
“All right,” Boomer interjected. “Reel it back in. Granger, you’re saying that you have a live map of every felon in the city? What did that turn up?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“No. Nothing.”
Teapot smirked and shook his head.
“But then I created a secondary pool of names,” Granger continued, “associates and known contacts of the first group. Basically friends of the criminals. And that gave me some hits.”
“No kidding.” Boomer said.
“I’ve got the last location of Kathleen’s cell phone at the market. It looks like it’s right where the two of you and Savage met up. Right near the north exit.”
“A merchant saw her get into a car at that spot with two men.” Boomer said. “Probably coerced.”
Granger motioned for me to come over. Boomer and I watched his monitor as he kept talking. “Okay, look. This dot right here, this one at the exit. See how it lines up with Kathleen’s location for about ten seconds, just before Kathleen’s stops issuing a signal?” Boomer said he did. “And then it goes back out the exit, and to the edge of the street. But then…” Granger set his hand over his mouse and clicked it twice. “Then we see it move down the street, turn onto Alexandrus Street, and then eventually move onto the highway.”
“This is who took Kathleen?” I asked.
“I’d bet you a bullet in the ass,” Granger said, grinning.
“Who is the phone number registered to?” Boomer asked.
“A guy named Adonis Galatas. He didn’t show up in the first set of names I pulled, so his record is clean. But he’s connected to two people who are not. They both have records. One of them served time for murder and is out now. Looks like the second one is his cousin. He has a battery assault charge but hasn’t served any time.”
“Where did Galatas’s phone end up at?” I asked. “After they grabbed Kathleen?”
“Let’s find out.” He clicked the mouse again, and the dot resumed its movement down the Motorway E75 heading north out of the city. It passed through the districts of Patisia, Nisidia, and Nekretafio before slowly coming to a halt.
“Am I seeing this right?” Boomer asked. “They stopped right on the highway.”
“Yeah.” Granger said, and then cursed.
“Where did the dot go?” Boomer asked.
“I… I don’t know,” Granger said. “Hold on.” His fingers worked the keyboard again.
“He ditched the phone, didn’t he?” I said.
Granger hit a few more keys and then threw his hands up. “Yep. Jerkwad got rid of the phone. It hasn’t pinged since then. He probably realized he’d made a mistake with the phone and ditched the battery or sim card or both.”
Teapot was nearly finished with the rifle’s reassembly. “What about any video footage of the vehicle?” he asked. “A camera somewhere had to have picked it up. We get the plate and we’re in the money.”
“Whoever took her knew what they were doing. They did it right where they were sure no camera would catch them. This isn’t London or LA. There aren’t cameras on every corner.
“What’s the address for Galatas’s residence?” I asked Granger.
“Let see… looks like it’s on the northwest side of the city. He’s not married, no kids, no roommates as far as I can tell.” He struck a key, and an image filled the screen. A man in his late twenties or early thirties stared back at us. He had full cheeks and slanted eyes. A thin scar tracked along his forehead.
“Let’s go pay him a visit,” Boomer said. “Suit up, gentlemen. It’s go time.” He looked at me. “Do you have a piece?”
“A SIG.”
“Threaded?”
I shook my head.
“Grab a SIG and a suppressor from the tool table. We like to keep a low profile when we show up uninvited at someone’s house in the middle of the day.”
I went to the table, slipped my SIG from the back seam of my jeans, and set it down. I selected the desert brown SIG,
checked the load, and brought back the slide, press checking it. Boomer tossed me a leg holster and a tactical vest. I strapped them on, grabbed two extra mags and a suppressor off the table, and slipped them into the webbing on my vest.
Granger opened a metal storage cabinet and selected a set of clothes off a shelf. He disappeared to the other side of the curtain, and when he reappeared he was wearing a blue jumpsuit with the HCI logo over his chest. A matching hat sat low over his brows, his ponytail threaded through the back.
Boomer jingled a set of keys while Teacup screwed a suppressor on the end of his HK. “Today’s chariot will be the van,” Boomer said. “Granger will brief us on the lay of the land on the way.” He gave me a nod. “Let’s rock and roll.”
Chapter Five
Adonis Galatas lived in Acharnes, a middle-class suburb in the shadow of Mount Parnitha. The ride across Athens took close to an hour, with traffic clogging the first stretch and a car accident a portion of the last.
As soon as we piled into the van, Teacup stretched out across the back seat and fell asleep. I took the center bench seat, and Granger rode up front with Boomer and a laptop and continued his research on Galatas. “I’m not finding a whole lot of info on this guy,” he said.
“Where does he work?” I asked.
“He doesn’t. I’m not seeing any work history for him. He has regular cash deposits coming into his bank account, but no direct deposits from what looks like an employer. The last real job he had was down at the docks working a forklift. But that ended over two years ago.”
“He’s just the muscle,” Boomer said. “Someone paid him to get Kathleen. If he’s home, we’ll let Teacup work him over until he tells us who. If he’s not home, then we plan a surprise party for when he shows up.”
I looked out the tinted window and watched the city roll by, wondering where Kathleen was and how she was holding up. So far, I’d made a conscious effort to suppress any thoughts about her precise predicament. But now, in the relative silence of the van, all the possibilities surfaced. Was she tied to a chair or strung up by her wrists? Was she being tortured? Abused? Was she scared? Even alive? Kathleen was tough as nails, but everyone, regardless of training or disposition, had their limits. Everyone cracked at some point.
Kathleen had given her entire life to protect her country. Now it was time for her country to protect her.
I took out my phone and typed out a message to Zoe: Stay strong. I’m going to find her and bring her home safe. That’s a promise.
Boomer exited the highway and turned onto a newly paved street lined with three- and four-story condos, privacy shrubs and date palms blocking out those on the ground floor. The road began a slight incline the closer we moved to the mountain, and the condos gave way to single-story homes with lush lawns and walled backyards.
“Half a mile,” Granger said. Boomer pulled to the curb. Granger stepped out with two magnetic signs that read “HCI Logistics.” He affixed them to the sides of the van and got back in. I turned around and smacked Teapot’s leg with the back of my hand. “Showtime.” He grunted and sat up, looking like he was in an Ambien haze. Granger unsnapped a Pelican case and passed around our ear mics. Once we had them in and tested, Granger passed back an iPad with the home’s floor plan. While we studied it, he summarized the information.
“Two stories, main entrance is dead center, staircase is on the north wall. Swimming pool in the back. The wall should be six meters. Master bedroom at the back of the first floor. Three bedrooms on the second. Didn’t get any pings on an alarm system, so we should be straight.” Teapot finished with the iPad, and I handed it back up.
“There,” Granger said. “Third on the right.” He opened the glove box and swapped the laptop for a clipboard.
“Teapot and Granger, you take floor two. Savage and I will take the ground.” He stopped long enough for Granger to jump out and started away again before the door had fully closed. Granger walked casually down the sidewalk and turned down the walkway leading to Galatas’s front door. My mic picked up the sound of him knocking on the door and announcing in Greek that he had a delivery.
Boomer reached a cross street and turned around, slowly making his way back. Granger knocked again, more loudly this time.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “Inside is quiet.”
“Twenty seconds,” Boomer said. “Get picking.”
“Roger that.”
Boomer pulled over, and I heard Teapot re-checking the load on his HK. Boomer turned the van off and said, “On my mark.”
My veins were tingling with adrenaline.
“Lock is disengaged,” Granger whispered.
“Go.”
The three of us exited the van and moved smoothly across the lawn with our weapons at the ready. Granger was at the front door, standing to the side with his hand on the knob. When Boomer gave him a nod, he flung open the door, and we flooded in, silent as Christmas Eve.
Granger and Teapot moved left toward the open staircase and started up as Boomer and I worked in tandem to clear the dining room and study at the front of the house. Moving into the kitchen, I cleared the corners, and Boomer advanced, training his muzzle ahead. Next was the living room, a small bathroom, and a sunroom. The ground floor was empty. The place was spacious enough to fit a large family but furnished like a bachelor pad. Most of the rooms were sparsely decorated, if at all, and the furniture was an eclectic mix of mismatched styles.
The back sliding door was locked from the inside. Peering through the glass, I did a quick scan of the backyard and pool area. “Downstairs clear.” No sooner had the sentence passed my lips than Teacup cursed in my ear.
“You two are gonna want to come up here.”
Boomer shot me a look, and I led the way upstairs, shutting and locking the front door as we passed it.
“Last bedroom on the left,” Teacup said.
Boomer reached the top landing on my heels, and we passed up several rooms, reaching the end of the hall and entering the bedroom. Teacup and Granger were standing with their backs to us, their attention fixed on something in front of them.
“Whatcha got?” Boomer asked.
Teacup stepped to the side, and Boomer cursed a long string. Sitting in a desk chair was Adonis Galatas, his head cocked limply to one side and two bullet holes in his forehead.
“He’s still a little warm,” Granger said. “This was probably an hour ago, maybe two.”
“Someone’s tying up loose ends,” Teacup said. He was holding a bottle of whiskey. He set it to his lips and took a long swig.
“Where'd you get that?” Boomer asked.
“It was on the desk. Figured he wouldn’t be needing it anymore.”
Boomer holstered his pistol. “Let’s tear this place apart and see what we can find. Computers, cell phones, you know the drill. This a-hole had a direct hand in kidnapping Kathleen. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let our progress dead end right here.”
Chapter Six
The mattress was exceptionally comfortable, maybe the most comfortable she had ever lain on. The same assessment could be said for the pillow. They were like two pieces of cloudy marshmallow that perfectly molded to every part of your body and neck.
Kathleen Rose sat up and rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. She took in a slow, deep breath before swinging her feet off the top of the bed and placing them on the floor. Her head was pounding, and she still felt woozy, tipsy even, as though she had consumed far too much wine the night before.
She looked down at her hands. They were still swollen, and bright pink splotches had appeared all over her body. They itched like she was suffering from a bad case of poison ivy.
She had woken an hour ago. At least, that was her assessment of how much time had elapsed. They had taken her watch, her phone, and the white plaster walls were bare, save for a painting of a cypress tree and another of a rocky coastline.
The room was spacious, with a bed in the corner, a plush armchair, and a square
wooden table that held a pitcher of water, a glass, and a platter filled with fresh fruits and cheeses. A white couch sat against a wall beside a narrow door that offered access to a half bath.
If she didn’t know better, Kathleen might have thought that she had been forcefully transferred to a Mediterranean bed and breakfast. But the camera mounted in a corner of the high ceiling was the discrepancy confirming that she hadn’t dreamed everything up. The bulbous optic stared coldly at her, the omniscient and unreadable eye of whoever had brought her here.
Bright sunlight spilled into the room via narrow windows set just below the ceiling. They lay horizontally—far too high to reach, too high to peer through to get a glimpse of where she was. The only exit was an arched wooden door on the other side of the room. Kathleen hadn’t bothered to try it. They—whoever they were—had brought her here for a reason, and allowing her to waltz right out of the room on her own accord wouldn't be in the cards. They would come for her when they were ready.
Another wave of nausea rolled through her. Kathleen pressed her palms into the mattress and steadied herself. She had already thrown up once after waking with a vicious stir in her stomach. She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly through her nose.
She recalled being in the market, surveying the neatly displayed wares of the merchants as she looked for something to bring home to Zoe. A stall with carved cedar images of the Parthenon had grabbed her attention; another with small busts of Socrates and Plato, ostensibly carved from rocks taken from the foot of Filopappou Hill itself. She had crossed the busy aisle to another stall that was selling handmade blouses when two sturdy men appeared on either side of her. They had stepped in close and grabbed her upper arms. Before she could register a protest, she felt the press of a gun’s muzzle poking into her lower back.
“Don’t say a word,” one of the men had growled in her ear.
She complied, and within seconds she was escorted past the food merchants and led outside to a waiting car, where she was forced to get in the back seat. Her accosters sat on either side of her, and even now she could remember the acrid smell of their sweat and the stale scent of their breath. The car had blended into traffic, and the next thing Kathleen felt was the stinging prick of a needle in her shoulder.