Missing Person: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery- Book 2 Page 3

  Grant tightened his fist around the lighter until the plastic cracked. “You know that I won’t let this go. You can run and hide, but I will find you, and one way or another I will kill you.”

  Links was quiet for a long time, the silence lingering to the point that Grant thought he might have hung up, but he finally spoke. “I read all about you, Mr. Grant. I know your strengths, and I know your weaknesses, which is why you’re in the position that you find yourself now. That rage burning in your belly will be used to my advantage, because while I know you’re thinking you can gain some type of leverage on me, but it won’t matter because I have something of yours that I do not possess, something I’ve rid myself of long ago.” He paused, and lowered his voice. “I have something you love.”

  The call ended, and Grant had to fight the urge to throw the phone on the ground and smash it to bits. But instead he pocketed the device and made it three steps toward the front of the building before he stopped, realizing that he still had the lighter in his palm.

  He stared at the fresh cracks that lined the side, the plastic brittle from its time under the sun. He was about to toss it back in the grass, but instead he pocketed it and then headed toward the marshals’ building’s front doors.

  4

  The moment Grant stepped back into the marshals’ building, an invisible target appeared on his back. He knew that no one really understood his motives, but that didn’t stop his imagination from running wild with every pair of lingering eyes that watched him quickly weave through the lobby, and then toward the bull pen on the first floor.

  Dozens of makeshift desks had been crammed into the open space, cables and wires running all across the floor, and Grant took care not to trip on any of them as he searched for an open station.

  The computers were set up so anyone that needed a desk could have one. It was a quick place to run reports, search data inquiries, or check emails.

  Grant found a spot near the back corner of the room. When he sat down, he did a quick scan of the ceiling, trying to see what security cameras were watching him, but then gave up. Whatever file he was about to access would be flagged the moment he entered Links’s information.

  Grant opened the program files, searching for the database that Links had told him about, but it didn’t appear. He retyped it again, just to double-check his spelling, but still found nothing.

  Grant opened a browser and typed the database in the search field, but it provided no successful search inquiries.

  Grant leaned back in the chair, unsure of how he was supposed to access the files. Since anyone could walk in and plug into them, the stations might have been given limited access to the FBI’s network. If that was the case, then he’d need to access the information via a permanent desk.

  Keeping his head down, Grant ascended to the second floor. He turned left down the hall and paused at the corner, craning his head around the side to see if Sam was at her desk.

  Once he found it clear, Grant moved toward it quickly and prayed that her screen wasn’t locked. He tapped the space bar and sighed with relief when the desktop background appeared.

  With the username and password, Grant searched for the program via the FBI’s network, locating it quickly.

  Grant drilled down into the folders, scanning the files one by one in search of the program, and found it buried beneath a stack of digital decoys. He opened Sam’s drawers, searching for a USB drive, and found one in the bottom drawer. He plugged it in, dragged the file onto the drive, and waited for it to download.

  He glanced left and right, checking behind him as well, but everyone was too preoccupied with their own work to even notice his presence.

  The progress bar increased slowly. Whatever Links had him downloading, it was a large file.

  “Grant?”

  Heart dropping into his stomach, Grant spun around, hoping that Sam didn’t notice the lack of color in his face or the sweat starting to bead on his forehead, all the while trying to anticipate an answer for the obvious question that was about to be hurled at him.

  “What are you doing?” Sam asked, dropping a folder onto the desk and examining the screen.

  “Hickem wanted me to take a look at some stats in regard to the probability of where Links might end up.” He struggled to keep the urgency out of his tone but didn’t think he was doing a very good job.

  “I just saw him. He said he was looking for you,” Sam said, sitting on the desk, her back toward the monitor. “Listen, I just want you to know that I’m in this all the way with you. All right? No matter what.”

  Grant kept an eye on the progress bar in his peripheral vision. “I appreciate that.”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, well, I just wanted to make sure you understood where my head was at.” She stood up from the desk. “I’m on my way to meet with Hickem now. I’ll let him know you’re finishing up.”

  “Thanks.” Grant watched her leave, wanting to tell her more, upset over how indifferently he had treated her, but the less she knew about what he was about to do, the better off she would be in regard to her plausible deniability. Still, he couldn’t help himself. “Hey, Sam.”

  Grant jumped from the chair, taking four big steps to catch up with her, as she turned around. “What I said before. I shouldn’t have—”

  “I know how much she means to you.” The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched upward in preparation for a smile, but she quickly wiped it away and gestured down the hall. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  Grant lingered in the hall even after she’d turned the corner and disappeared. He wondered what she would think when she found out what he did. He wondered if she would understand or if it wouldn’t even matter at all.

  Sam was good at her job, and she loved her work. And once Grant walked out of this building with that thumb drive in his pocket, it’d be her job to find him and stop him.

  When the progress bar finally reached one hundred percent, Grant removed the thumb drive and hurried toward the building’s nearest exit on the first floor.

  The talk with Grant helped Sam refocus, and the walk back to Multz’s office was easier than the walk out of it. It had been a long time since she held onto someone’s opinion of her as she did with Grant. Undecided if that was good or bad, she accepted the smile spreading across her face as a good sign.

  Both Hickem and Multz were on the phone when she entered. Hickem kept his mobile glued to his ear since his latest promotion, and judging from the strained tone in his voice, she was betting the old deputy director had grossly underestimated the shoe size of his new role.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Hickem sat in a chair on the opposite side of Multz’s desk, face buried in his palm, and an elbow planted on the desk. “Absolutely, sir. We’ve already got a few leads.” He removed his hand from his face and looked around the room. When he spotted Sam, he snapped his fingers for the folder in her hands, but she hesitated. It was fun watching him sweat.

  With Hickem looking as if he were about to have an embolism, she finally handed over the papers, which he snatched angrily from her hands then quickly flipped through the pages. “Yes, we’ve already run through a quarter of the footage, so we’re making excellent time. Yes, sir, and I just got off with digital forensics, and they’ll keep me updated on any fingerprints that Links leaves behind.” He dropped the folder and returned his forehead to his palm. “Yes, sir.”

  Sam snaked over to Multz when he was off the phone, and she gestured to Hickem. “Has it been twenty minutes already?”

  “Afraid so,” Multz answered, doing his best to keep his voice down. “Thorn has himself buried in Hickem’s skin like a tick.”

  “Senators do have a tendency to suck people dry,” Sam said. “Hey, listen, I didn’t get a chance to thank you.”

  “For what?” Multz kept his attention on his computer screen, squinting at the small print.

  “For keeping me,” Sam answered. “After what’s happened, you had more than enough reason to bo
ot me off the case.”

  “You’re a good marshal, Sam.” Multz scrolled down and made the font larger. “You don’t put your top player on the sideline in the most important game of the season after a few bad plays. You let them find their rhythm.” He turned to look at her. “But I wouldn’t mind if you found it sooner rather than later.”

  Sam repressed her smile. “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Hickem hung up the phone and let it thump onto Multz’s desk then leaned back in his chair, exhausted. “If we’re still trying to figure out motivation for why Links did this, I think it’s safe to say that he was driven mad by politics.”

  “It gets easier,” Multz said.

  “Yeah, well, how long will that take?” Hickem straightened in his chair and then reached for his phone, keeping it in his palm. He looked at Sam. “Where’s Grant?”

  “He’s finishing up that data query you requested,” Sam answered.

  Hickem frowned. “I didn’t ask him for a query. What the hell is he trying to jerk me around for?” His phone rang, and he answered, irritated.

  Sam’s stomach soured, and suddenly blinded with tunnel vision, she stumbled toward the door, but she stopped when she heard Hickem’s voice.

  “When did the access happen?” Hickem grew more excited. “Where?”

  Sam turned to find the big man already on his feet, with Multz intrigued enough to peel his eyes away from his monitor.

  Hickem hung up, whirling toward Multz. “Someone accessed an FBI network drive using Links’s information, here, in this building. We need to lock this facility down, now!” Hickem barked the order and rushed past Sam and into the hallway, his footsteps thundering.

  Multz reached for his phone. “This is Multz. Lock down the building. No one in or out. No, this is not a drill.”

  It was the alarm and the flash of lights that finally triggered Sam out of her stupor, and it catapulted her toward the front lobby. She had to get out before the doors were locked. She had to find Grant to—

  The thought battled in her consciousness, and Sam slowed. What would she do? Stop him? Help him? If Grant really was the person responsible for the access breach, then he had thrust himself into the number-two slot on the FBI’s most wanted list.

  Commotion filled the lobby, FBI agents and marshals struggling to either enter or exit, but the building’s security had already locked the doors. They corralled the feisty officers into a line, none of whom enjoyed being on the other side of locked up.

  Sam shoved her way through the crowd toward to the glass doors and got close enough to peer into the parking lot. It was just as mad a scene outside, but Sam squinted, searching for a tall man with dark black hair peppered with bits of grey.

  Hundreds of people lined the parking lot, but she saw a head of black hair turn back toward the door just outside of the security check point. It caught her eye because it was the only motionless head she’d seen, and when her eyes settled, she knew the man’s face. It was Grant.

  “Cohen!” Hickem barked, storming into the lobby and ending the petulant squabbling about the lockdown.

  Sam peeled her face away from the window and spotted Hickem, who was flanked by four of his cronies, and when she returned to the window, Grant was gone. She was yanked from the entrance and pinned up against the wall, surrounded by Hickem and his men.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Hickem asked.

  “What do you—”

  “The station where Links’s account was accessed was your desk,” Hickem said. “You have ten seconds to tell me what the hell you did and why the hell you did it.”

  The words came out without hesitation. “It was Grant. He was downloading something off the computer, said it was for you. I didn’t see what it was.” She swallowed. “I didn’t realize what he was doing.”

  Hickem ground his teeth, and his jaw jutted forward. He raised a finger as if he were scolding a child but then lowered it, though he was still frustrated. “Why?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Sam answered.

  “Try me.”

  The lobby had remained silent, and every head was turned toward Sam, everyone watching, wondering what was going on, wondering what had happened, wondering what she would say. “Links has one of the most important people that Grant cares about. You think he took her by mistake? He’s using Mocks to blackmail Grant.”

  Hickem squared his hips with her and then spun around to address his men. “I want to know what was downloaded, and I want to know if he’s still in the building. Now!”

  The men scattered at Hickem’s booming voice, and once they were gone, the lobby returned to its normal chatter as Hickem turned to face Sam again.

  “This doesn’t look good for you right now, Cohen.” Anger simmered on his tongue, but the bite had disappeared from his voice. “It’ll be Multz’s call to keep you on after this, but my personal vote? Kick you out now.”

  “I just told you what I knew,” she replied. “You think I’m lying?”

  “I think you have the same problem now as you did when the Copellas went missing,” he answered. “You’re too close to him. And don’t try and bullshit me with how you’re not. I’ve been around you two long enough to know that something is going on.”

  “Nothing is going on.” Sam spoke through tight lips, her tone more defiant than she intended.

  “You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.” Hickem walked away, leaving Sam with a few dozen eyes still trained on her.

  Sam turned back toward the front glass doors one last time, wanting to catch a glimpse of Grant but knowing he was long gone by now. But she could still help him, at least from this side of the fence. She’d meant it when she told him that she’d do whatever she could to get Mocks back. And it was a promise she intended to keep.

  5

  The moment Grant was out of eyeshot of the marshal building, he broke into a sprint, and he didn’t slow down until he no longer heard the din of the alarm, but he still kept a light jog.

  Rule number one after abduction was to get as far away from the point of extraction as possible, as fast as possible. Once Hickem determined that Grant was no longer in the building, assuming they found out it was he who accessed Links’s accounts, it wouldn’t be long before they put the whole city on lockdown.

  But Grant didn’t have any plans on leaving Seattle. Everything he needed and planned to do was within the city limits. Still, he kept off the main roads, dodging down side alleys and skittering through slums. He knew every dark spot in the city, and he planned on using that to his advantage. If he couldn’t evade the authorities for the next twenty-four hours in his own damn city, then he would hang up his coat for good.

  Still, even with Grant’s knowledge of Seattle and his understanding of the authorities’ response, it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk.

  Grant’s face was about to be plastered on every television and computer screen in the country. He flipped up the collar of his jacket and kept his head down, hands in his pockets, feeling the thumb drive between his fingers.

  He had no idea what he downloaded, but he knew that it had to be tied to the money. Even though Links had the codes, the accounts still hadn’t been drained.

  Withdrawing 5.8 billion dollars and hiding it was no easy task. It would take a slew of accounts to handle transferring that much money. Grant just needed to figure out exactly how Links planned on accomplishing that.

  He planted his foot in a puddle down an alleyway, causing water to splash up his pant leg. He paused to shake the water from his shoe, and when he lifted his head, he saw a police cruiser crawl past the alleyway entrance.

  He froze, knowing that if he made any sudden movements it would only draw more attention to him, so he continued his charade of drying his pant leg, waiting for the cruiser to disappear. With nothing but the trunk viewable from the alley, Grant sprinted in the opposite direction, quickly veering left at an intersection of alleys behind a mix of apartment buildings an
d businesses.

  Panting, he leaned up against a brick wall, the rough edges of stone catching on his jacket, as he caught his breath. He needed to find a place to lie low, someplace where he could blend in with others who didn’t want to be found. The docks fit that bill perfectly.

  Grant craned his neck around the corner of the alley where he’d just retreated from and found the police car gone, and his heart rate slowed. He’d head north and then skirt around downtown and then head west to the water. Pending any sightings by police or pedestrians, he should be fine.

  But just to be sure, Grant scoured the dumpsters in the back alleys, knowing he needed a change of clothes. He found a ratty old coat, the faded blue smeared with dirt, and a weathered grey beanie that he pulled over his skull.

  Both reeked with a rotten stench, but it helped him blend into the local community of drug addicts and homeless that plagued not just the docks but also the whole city. It had been a problem when Grant lived in Seattle, and there hadn’t been much in the way of progress, at least from what he could tell.

  The huddled masses that clumped beneath dirty sheets, towels, boxes, and newspapers either slept from exhaustion or were passed out from their most recent high. He watched outstretched feet poking out from blankets twitch from the drugs coursing through the people’s veins.

  People didn’t realize the thin line between their life and the lives of the homeless. Your world could come undone in the blink of an eye. He remembered telling Mocks about that one night during his probation. His very public trial had recently ended, and he had to fight the urge to run.

  “I just want to fade away,” Grant said.

  “That’s not who you are, Grant,” Mocks said. “You don’t run away from things. You run through them.”

  Grant shook his head. “Did you ever get like this? Going through rehab?”

  “A few times. But my desire for disappearing stemmed more from escaping to a place where I could do bad things. Getting high was the purpose for my retreat.”