by Fiona Quinn
I watched silently as Zoe used a pipette to drip blood from the vial onto the strip then pushed the test strip into an analyzer. She sat on a rolling chair and tapped into the computer, pressed ENTER, then spun toward me. “We should know if there are any matches in the system in about a half hour.”
“Thank you so much.”
She shrugged. “It adds to my body of research to see how you use this information. Helping to locate the sisters who came through the Syrian points of entry and how they moved through Europe was remarkable. Is this a similar case or am I allowed to know?”
“It’s classified for the time being. But if we get anything from this, I’ll ask that you be read into the program. Certainly, you should be able to have at least a redacted version so you can use it to support your work, especially if your work turns out to be a lynch pin. And to be honest, I’m crossing my fingers pretty hard. If you get nothing, I’m not sure where to head next with the case.”
“We’ll know soon enough.” She glanced back at the vial of blood that sat in the holder. “Can you tell me if this is the subject?”
“It is not. It’s a relative’s sample.”
“I see. A close relative?”
“The sister.”
“Okay, just checking to make sure. You know it has to be a pretty tight biologic group. I’m going to focus back on my work, if you want to make yourself comfortable.”
Next to me on the table was a tray with some tiny components, a microscope, a magnifying glass, a cloth with various sized tweezer-looking implements. I wanted to play. But who knew? That odd little squiggle of black might be a ten-thousand-dollar microrobotics component. I moved my stool over by the window to be out of the way of any accidents I might cause.
Leaning over, I pulled my laptop from my bag. Since I was in a secured location, I went ahead and pulled up the file that Prescott had sent me.
The file held the photos and the data points on each of the people who went missing that day. As I clicked on one man’s sub-file, I found photos in the wild, plastic tents, demarked pieces of clothing. These were followed by grisly closeups of remains that were given a string of case numbers. Deceased was stamped at the bottom of the page.
I didn’t need to see these. Didn’t need them as part of my headspace, at least not right now. I could come back and revisit them if they became relevant later.
I wasn’t trying to solve the crime. I was trying to save Kaylie if she were alive.
Right now, the only thing I needed to know was yes or no, was Kaylie dead? And if she was alive, did the NSA computers correctly identify that woman as Kaylie amongst the people moving toward the refugee camp?
I opened Kaylie’s file and the bottom stamp was MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD.
The case notes indicated that there were vehicle tracks at the site.
Tracks, in general, were hard to date. In the movies, the guy crouches in the dust, rubs his chin, then says, “These tracks were made three days ago.” But the reality was, without a major weather system that one could say, “these were made before the rain,” or “these were made after the rain,” there really was no way to date a track in the dust.
The tire tracks could have been made weeks before.
They weren’t helpful.
As I read along, that’s basically what the report indicated. While they found bullet casings, none of the bodies had wounds associated with a bullet’s impact. Or the impact of any weapon for that matter. It could be that the bleeding parts of their bodies attracted the bugs and animals first, and so they were destroyed first.
Looking at the wide camera angles, if there were shots ringing out, it didn’t look like there was any place that Kaylie could have run to be safe. There were no walls or homes or even trees in these photographs. Just wide expanses of scrub and dirt.
I flipped to the folder that documented the state of the research camp, the scientists’ point last seen. Well, last seen by a friendly.
All the Jeeps had been accounted for, so the research group must have been driven away by someone else.
The scientists had to have been moved in a vehicle or vehicles because the Niger boarder was too far to walk in the time between when their disappearance was reported and the time when the Iniquus K-9s tracked the remains.
The body decomposition indicated that they had been dead for more than forty-eight hours when they were collected and put on ice. Forensics determined that the subjects most likely died the night they moved or were moved from their camp.
I drummed my fingers on my keyboard.
The researchers were in the vehicles for a reason. All of them. Including the local help, except for the cook. Had the cook not gone back to her home, it might have been a great deal longer before red flags were raised.
Still, not soon enough to save the group.
Why were they driven toward Niger?
Surely the FBI and Iniquus, the CIA, everyone with a chit in the game, would have looked into Niger. I flipped through the files until I saw that had indeed happened.
Nothing was found.
If the plan had been to kill the researchers, why not just kill them in their camp?
So many questions. And none of the answers really mattered. The how and why of Kaylie being in Syria wasn’t dependent on the how and the why that Kaylie disappeared in the first place, I didn’t think…
“Lexi,” Zoe said. “How long has this woman been missing?”
I pulled myself from my thoughts and focused over on Zoe. “Seven years.”
“This is reminding me of the last Syrian case you brought me.” She was looking at her computer screen.
I closed my laptop and left it on the stool as I hustled over.
She turned to me. “The last time, we found two women who were associated with your subject.”
“This woman wouldn’t have any relatives in the Middle East.”
“My data would disagree. The computer didn’t find the biomarkers for your missing subject. It did find three biomarkers with familial traits.” She stretched her face closer to the screen, rolling her lips in with concentration. “I’m assuming from the birthdates that are listed, that these are her children.”
“Children?” I whispered.
“A girl, who would be five now. A boy, who would be three now. A girl, eleven months.”
My heart was racing. Kaylie had survived Nigeria. She was alive in Syria. She had kids. “Together? You have a location of the data collection?”
“Three different dates when they were treated by the medical teams. Three different GPS locations, all in Iraq. Three different last names.”
Chapter Eight
I sat in my car, my phone pressed to my ear, calling Prescott.
She was alive!
Well she had been alive as of the birth of her youngest daughter. Up until eleven months ago, Kaylie Elizabeth Street still breathed.
The call rang and rang and rang. “Come on Prescott,” I growled into the receiver.
His voice mail answered. “I’m unavailable. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message.”
After the beep, I said, “She’s alive,” and hung up. If he couldn’t figure out who the heck I was and how to get in touch with me, then he shouldn’t be a special agent in charge at the FBI.
“Now what?” I asked the air. I was buzzing too hard with excitement to just sit still. I opened my contacts, scrolled down the list and called Sophia Abadi.
After her “Hello?” I asked, “Hey there, do you happen to be at home? Could I swing by?”
“Sure, I’m here.”
“I wanted to ask you about some Arab cultural norms, but I was also hoping you’d help me with images of some GPS coordinates and what you know about the area.”
“Both of these are about Syria?”
“Potentially,” I said, thinking it was better not to talk about this over a cell phone connection.
“You don’t sound like yourself right now. Are you okay? I’m assuming
this is about an Iniquus case?”
“A missing woman. Her file was handed to me this morning, and I’m afraid our window for finding her and getting her back safe is a very small one.”
“It’s after dark in Syria, I won’t be able to look at real-time satellite images. But I do have access on my computer to the last seventy-two hours. Will that help? I’m surprised Iniquus doesn’t have this available.”
“We do. But…I want your unique perspective and regional expertise. Would it be okay if I came right now? I’m about a half-hour away.”
“Yeah sure. That’s fine. Brian is picking the boys up from day care on his way over. We’re having dinner together. Can you stay?”
“Probably not. I’d love to. It’s just, I’m really focused.”
“Your small window. I understand. I’ll see you when you get here. And I’ll do what I can to help.”
I reached out to put my car into gear. The glitter of diamonds in sunlight stalled me.
On my right hand was the ring that Striker had designed for me back when we started dating. It was a redesign of the gold and stones from my engagement and wedding rings that Angel had given to me.
After Angel’s death, wearing Angel’s vows on my left hand dropped me into awkward conversations. People got confused about Striker’s and my relationship, some of his friends had even been offended that he’d gone off and gotten married without his telling them.
With my blessing, Striker took my rings to a jeweler friend of his. They used the gold to create a setting for the sapphires and diamonds creating the suggestion of an infinity symbol with the design.
Striker made it easy for me to deal with my Angel grief. Striker recognized that Angel had always been and probably always would be a force in our relationship.
Striker didn’t even want me to take down Angel’s pictures in my home. It didn’t really matter though, even without the pictures up, Angel was always there. Not a day went by when I didn’t think about him.
Before his death, Angel and I’d had a hurry up and wait kind of relationship.
We met the night my apartment building burned to the ground. He had been in town on leave from the Army, to visit his great-aunt, whom everyone called Abuela Rosa.
I recognized Angel as part of me the very moment our eyes locked, standing in the parking lot that horrible January night.
Valentine’s Day, I said yes when he pulled out a ring box and asked me to marry him.
When I said, “Til death do us part,” at the courthouse, I had known him for all of three weeks, but it felt like I’d always known him, that we’d been destined to be together.
The morning after we were married, Angel headed off with his Ranger team to fight.
Nine months later, when he came home, it was in a coffin.
I’d had three weeks of time with him.
I spun my Angel ring. I was glad to have it glittering there on my right hand. I’d ceded my left ring finger to Striker and his engagement ring.
“Explain that,” I said aloud. Even if I was in love with Striker, even if we planned our future lives together, I still wasn’t ready to take off Angel’s rings.
He still had a hold of me.
These nightmares that I’d had all week reminded me of the night Angel died. I woke up awash of horror and knew that something devastating had happened.
I was at Iniquus when I was told that the trucks carrying Angel’s team had hit an IED and been blown up, Striker was by my side when I got the news. My team had stuck to me like glue, getting me through those first horrible moments, days, weeks.
No, I couldn’t ask more of my team or of Striker.
I couldn’t really ask more of myself.
I thought by now, things would be easier.
But all week long, Angel had been part of every inhale and every exhale, and I hated it.
I hated how I felt.
I hated living this way.
My hand shot out, slamming my gear shift into drive and took off with a screech of tires.
Perhaps I needed another trip to see Dr. Carlon, my traumatic brain injuries specialist. Since Avril Limb wasn’t helping, maybe there was physical reason for these intrusive sensations and thoughts.
An explanation.
Some means to get relief.
And there it was. The guilt. The pervasive guilt.
“Stop it!” I yelled at myself. “Focus. A woman’s life is on the line. Three little ones are potentially in harm’s way.”
I swiped my hand over my face, trying to get rid of the sensation of Angel. But it did nothing to silence his begging. “I’m burning! Help me!”
Chapter Nine
I parked at the end of the cul de sac in front of Sophia Abadi’s house. Brian Ackerman came roaring up in an Iniquus Land Rover and parked beside me.
Ah and here comes the junk yard dog to nip at my heels and warn me off.
That was unfair. Brian was a good guy. Kind, intelligent, but he was rabid when it came to protecting Sophia and her sons, and with good reason. She had NEAD, a seizure disorder that was associated with PTSD. Brian wouldn’t want anything to trigger her. Iniquus business could certainly do just that.
Shifting into park, I pulled my visor down to make sure my face had softened, and I didn’t look like a wolf on the hunt. I took a moment to slick some gloss on my lips, unbuckled, and reached for my bag.
Sophia was standing in her open door, waiting for us.
I met Sophia and we became friends after an event where I had been the closest person—vicinity-wise—on the highway when Panther Force thought Sophia had been in an accident. They’d been talking to her on the phone while she drove through Washington D.C., heading toward Headquarters, when they heard a bang, and Sophia stopped talking. Panther Force couldn’t be sure what had happened.
I was supposed to get eyes-on.
Sophia had blown a tire. She hadn’t responded on the phone to Brian and the team because she went into one of her NEAD seizures. We had to break into the car to get to her.
Brian had lifted her from the driver’s seat, rolled her into his chest, and carried her back to his vehicle. I knew from the way he moved, the tenderness of his touch, the concern and more… the fear in his eyes, that he loved her deeply.
And I also knew he had been at a loss for how to help her.
I tipped my head to watch as Brian rounded to open his back door and unstrap Sophia’s two little ones. He was a natural at the daddy business. The boys’ biological father had died right after Chance was born. They needed someone to step in. Someone who loved them and made them feel safe.
My involvement on Sophia’s Iniquus case had been miniscule. But it had been immensely interesting.
Dr. Sophia Abadi worked for AACP—The Ancient Artifact and Cultural Preservation Society. Sophia was fighting to safeguard Syrian relics from being stolen and sold into private collections by terrorists.
Her colleagues were in harm’s way in Syria. They were being kidnapped, tortured, and killed. And Sophia, her knowledge, and her connections meant she too could become a target. Prescott’s FBI task force had hired Iniquus to keep their eyes on her.
Seeing Prescott today had made me think not only of the professional expertise of Dr. Zoe Kealoha and her BIOMIST registry but also of Dr. Sophia Abadi.
Beyond her profession, Sophia had a unique background.
Sophia’s father had been a professor of archaeology. Sophia had spent her summers in the Middle East from the time she was very young. She was fluent in Arabic, Farsi, Turkish, and Hebrew. Sophia followed in her father’s footsteps, getting her own PhD. She was already a known and respected name in the small, tight-knit world of working archaeologists.
But she had gone the route of twenty-first century technology. She was a space archaeologist, using satellite imagery to find possible dig sites of ancient cultures.
When I met Sophia, I learned that ISIS was involved in digging up the ancient relics in Iraq and Syria and was selli
ng them on the black market where a high price was paid for conflict relics.
This was one of the ways that ISIS developed their vast wealth.
Sophia used the satellite images, her expertise, and her contacts to save the cultural pieces as best she could. And that meant she had a network of people who worked in the resistance in Syria, which is where that NSA image of the possible-Kaylie was captured.
It had occurred to me that Sophia could have a contact who knew something about an American woman in the area. She had all kinds of contacts, including the CIA operating in the region, and I thought Sophia’s contacts might be the only way we could succeed in a hot zone.
I popped open my door and climbed out of my car.
Brian raised his hand as a hello. His muscles were loose, his smile wide.
Walking over with outstretched arms, I took baby Chance from Brian while he got Turner unbelted.
Sophia held the door wide as we walked up the steps. “Come on in.”
Turner squiggled to get down from Brian’s arms and ran past his mom toward the den.
“Not even a hello or a hug, Turner?” she called after her older son. She reached out to take Chance from my arms and after giving him a smacking kiss, she set him down.
Chance toddled after his brother.
“That smells good.” Sophia nodded toward the bag in Brian’s hand.
“When you said Lynx was stopping by, I thought it might be easier if I just grabbed something.” He turned toward me as Sophia planted a kiss on his cheek, whispering thank you.
“There’s plenty for you to join us,” he said.
“I don’t want to mess up your evening. I just wanted to pick Sophia’s brain a bit.”
“So she said.” He sent me a look that wasn’t exactly a warning shot. I’d just call it a “mind your Ps and Qs” reminder. When he focused back on Sophia he said, “I’ll keep the boys busy so you two can talk.”
Sophia gestured toward her sofa, and we each took an end cushion, swiveling so we were face to face. “Chai?”