13
Route 66
9:31 AM Thursday, January 15
Brynn’s heart rate was having a hard time keeping pace with Lyla’s driving. The Audi Q5 hugged the curves almost as snugly as the jeans and sweater Lyla wore.
“It won’t help our mission if we die before we get there.”
Lyla shot a quick glance at Brynn and smiled deviously. Thankfully, the congested morning commute slowed down Lyla’s driving. “Nicolás is always complaining I drive too fast, among the other things he likes to nag me about. Typical older brother.”
Brynn nearly snorted at Lyla’s inaccurate assessment but thought better of it. From her vantage point, she studied the speed racer. Even with minimal makeup, Lyla exuded a confidence that was both beautiful and enviable. Especially for someone so young.
It made Brynn want to know her story. How did Lyla get involved with SNAP and Jack, and why in the world couldn’t she see Garcia was totally into her?
Maybe she didn’t want to see it? Maybe Lyla had her reasons like Brynn had when Jack unexpectedly showed up in her life.
Lyla’s cell phone rang on the luxury vehicle’s Bluetooth system. “Hey, Kekoa, what’d you find out?”
“Moustafa Ali was a registered student at GMU. I found the phone number for his dorm resident advisor, who actually answered, and she said most students are still away for winter break but some are returning. She checked Moustafa’s room and found it empty, which she also said wasn’t unusual for some students, as they could be moving into apartments. She checked the spring semester’s resident list and Moustafa’s name wasn’t on it.”
Brynn frowned. “Wait, you said Moustafa was registered? Is he not registered any longer?”
“Nope. At least not for the spring semester, but it’s weird because the records show he paid for a full class load. Even had scholarships.”
“What did the school’s registrar say about that?”
“Uh, I didn’t talk to the school registrar. I did a little research since the offices weren’t open yet.”
The way he said the word research made Brynn hold her breath. Do not ask what he means by that. Do not ask.
“Okay, thanks for the update, Kekoa.” Lyla hit her blinker to change lanes toward the upcoming on-ramp for 66. “I owe you one.”
“Not brownies, I don’t wan—”
Lyla ended the call with a huff. “One time. I don’t like to bake, okay? Does that make me not wife material? Why does the wife need to be the one to cook anyway? I know plenty of men who cook, and they have very happy marriages.”
The faster Lyla talked, the heavier her foot pressed the accelerator. Brynn wasn’t sure if she should interrupt or hold on and pray.
“I’m not much of a cook either,” she ventured. “It’s takeout or sandwiches and soups. Sometimes my neighbor, Mr. Cooper, cooks for me.”
“See?” Lyla elongated the word. “And I bet his wife is very happy.”
“Well, she’s dead, but I’m sure she was when she was alive.”
Lyla looked at Brynn and then busted up laughing. “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s not funny, it’s just your face was so serious.”
Brynn allowed herself to relax in the moment a little. A few seconds of silence spread between them before Lyla tapped her thumb against the steering wheel.
“So, tell me, Brynn Taylor. Why the CIA?”
The question caught Brynn by surprise, and she was unsure if it was less than innocent given Lyla’s previous chilly reception. “I want to stop terrorism.”
Lyla eyed her. “You sound like a post-9/11 recruitment commercial.”
Brynn almost smiled at Lyla’s astuteness. “My father was a NY firefighter for Engine 7. They lost five and two were badly injured, including my dad.”
Lyla’s shocked gaze swung to Brynn. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” Brynn sighed, still uncertain after all these years how to properly respond to someone’s condolences. “He loved his job and was proud to serve.” Pushing aside the heavy emotions, she asked, “What about you? Any family tragedy push you into your career?”
“Nothing like that.” Lyla laughed. “Dad worked for the government. My mom stayed home to raise me. Grew up in NoVa.”
“Said with all the emotion of someone who wants more out of life.”
“Touché.” Lyla smiled. “It’s not lost on me how fortunate I am, but I will admit I’ve always been predisposed to life outside the country club.”
For whatever reason, it didn’t surprise Brynn to learn Lyla came from money or that she leaned toward a lifestyle opposite of her parents. In fact, it was almost textbook profiling.
“How long have you been with SNAP?”
“About five years. I joined right after Jack.”
A memory returned from the night before. Jack had said he’d been working for SNAP for six years, but it had been eight years since their time together at the Farm. “Were you and Jack in law enforcement before joining?”
Lyla looked at her, a mixture of confusion and amusement on her face. “I was still in college—desperate to get out. And Jack had just finished treatment.”
Brynn’s stomach hollowed. “Treatment?”
This time when Lyla looked over, Brynn saw the fear creasing her smooth skin. She’d said something she wasn’t supposed to, and her eyes were searching Brynn for a way to get out of it.
“What was Jack in treatment for?”
“Uh”—Lyla looked back to the road—“maybe you should talk to him about it. I wasn’t thinking, and I spoke out of turn.”
“Lyla, please.” Brynn hoped her voice conveyed the genuine concern mounting inside of her. “What was Jack getting treatment for?”
Lyla’s lips flattened and a bit of the edge had returned to her pretty features. “If you want to know, ask Jack.”
Brynn sighed. It felt like the progress she’d made with Lyla had slipped away. She was hoping Lyla might become an ally, but it was clear that her loyalty belonged to Jack.
She glanced out the window, not even realizing how quickly they had traveled from congested city into the frosted terrain of farmland. They passed a sign for Clifton County. Large farmhouses sat in the middle of fields edged with tall spruce trees, making it hard to believe the busy suburb of Washington, DC, was only a few miles away.
“Hmm, I think I’m in the right area . . .” Lyla slowed her car down and looked left and right. “I don’t see anything but trees and farmland.”
Double-checking the GPS coordinates Kekoa sent them, Brynn searched the area. Maybe Riad really had gotten lost. “There’s a road there you can turn around on.”
Lyla pulled onto the rutted dirt road, her tires kicking up rocks, and looked for a place to turn around. Brynn spotted an opening where the barb-wired posts widened, giving the road more space. She was about to point it out when something caught her eye.
“What?”
“Keep going, a little bit—there.”
In front of them stood a small farmhouse, white clapboard splitting and rotted beneath a roof missing more than half its shingles. The windows were boarded up, and overgrown weeds and ivy were nearly overtaking the lopsided porch.
“It looks empty.” Lyla stopped the car behind an old pickup truck with flat tires and a tarp over the back of it. “And creepy.”
“Maybe this is the place Riad was looking for.”
“You said the kid was going to George Mason. This is quite the drive to Fairfax.”
“True, so what would bring Riad here?”
Lyla shrugged, cutting her engine. Pulling a cute pink knit cap over her cascade of chestnut hair, she glanced at Brynn. “Let’s take a look.”
“I’ll send Kekoa a text and let him know where we’re at.” Because something in Brynn’s gut said maybe they were onto something—or walking into the next story setting for a Stephen King novel. And someone should know where to look for their bodies.
Brynn climbed out of the car, her steps crunching against the frozen earth. Heart hammering the closer she got to the house. Passing the truck, she spotted a shed. “There’s a—”
A loud snapping noise stopped her. Looking over her shoulder, she expected to see Lyla, but no one was there. She must’ve gone toward the porch, which was blocked by a pile of wood pallets. Great. They probably should’ve had a plan.
Holding her breath, Brynn searched the area when another noise twisted her around in time to catch a blur of black rushing toward her. Arms wrapped around her midsection, throwing her backward and crashing her hard against the ground.
“Get off!” she shouted before using her knee to incapacitate her assailant. A painful cry told her she’d hit gold, and she used it to her advantage. Swinging her foot behind the man’s leg, she twisted herself out from beneath his weight before solidly striking him in the nose with the base of her palm.
He rolled backward, clutching his bloody nose, and Brynn pushed to her feet. The man growled and started for her again, but the second he rose up she struck the side of his knee with her foot, dropping him to the ground with another sharp cry of pain. She was ready to strike again when she noticed he was holding his hands up in surrender, fearful eyes pinned on something behind her.
Breathing hard, she turned to see Lyla aiming a gun at the man.
“You okay?” Lyla asked.
Brynn looked down at herself, knees muddy, the back of her clothes wet from the snow. “Yeah, I think so.”
“That was pretty impressive,” Lyla said, her aim not wavering. “Why don’t you bring your fella over here with the rest.”
The rest? Before Brynn could ask, Lyla was using her gun to direct the man’s movements. He rose slowly, hands still up, blood dripping over his beard. Without lowering his hands, he walked cautiously toward them, giving Brynn a chance to study her attacker.
His dark-brown hair was unkempt and dirty like the rest of his clothing. The brown sweater he wore was torn and had holes, too thin to keep him warm in this weather. His nails were filthy, and the smell . . . Brynn swallowed, fighting the urge to gag.
With her aim still trained on him, Lyla took a sidestep, giving Brynn space to walk around the stack of pallets. When she did, her eyes widened at the three men sitting on the porch, eyes hollowed but watching their every move. And like the man who attacked her, they were filthy, smelly, and afraid.
With Garcia hot on his heels, Jack pushed his way past the local deputies, showing his credentials to anyone trying to step in his way. The only thing slowing him down was the stench he walked into when he stepped inside the dilapidated farmhouse.
On a couch that made Kekoa’s old one look luxurious, four men sat quietly, shoulders hunched as though they were trying to retreat into the cushions. Beneath dark, matted hair, their eyes tracked the movement happening around them even as they huddled beneath wool blankets. Jack saw Brynn standing near the fireplace, speaking with an older man in a heavy blue parka with “ICE” written in bright white letters on the back.
Her gaze lifted to his, and the chaotic pounding in his heart that had started the second Kekoa called him slowed. She’s okay.
Jack heard Garcia release a relieved breath when Lyla entered the room and walked toward them. He looked her over. “Are you guys okay?”
“Yes.” Lyla tilted her head at Brynn. “Girl knows how to hold her own.” She peeked around Jack’s shoulder at Garcia. “And I had Cupcake.”
“Well, I can be glad for that, but it doesn’t excuse you two being out here on your own.” Jack fisted his hands. “A simple phone call, Lyla, and Garcia or I would’ve come with you.”
“Hudson, don’t even go there,” Lyla warned. “You know we run tips all the time. Besides, there was no way to know we would stumble on this.”
“Stumble on what, exactly?” Jack studied the men, his attention snagging on the bloody face of one of them. “Who got hurt?”
“Only him. I told you, Brynn took care of it.”
That should’ve been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Not only could Lyla have been hurt, but Brynn too. He tightened his jaw, not wanting his heart to go there.
“Jack, this is Agent Phillip Flores with ICE.” Brynn crossed the tiny front room of the house with the man at her side. “The Clifton sheriff called him after they arrived.”
“Ms. Taylor explained that she and Ms. Fox arrived here to follow up on an assignment for Director Walsh.” He glanced over to Brynn. “And that’s all she’d give me until I placed a call to Tom.”
Jack appreciated that Brynn followed protocol by providing enough information without compromising their work, but he was stuck on the last part Agent Flores said. “You know Director Walsh?”
Agent Flores tugged his overcoat tighter. “Tom Walsh and I go way back. I’m happy to do him a favor, though I don’t quite understand your involvement in what appears to be a trafficking case.”
Trafficking case? “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
“Certainly.” Agent Flores stepped aside as a female ICE agent entered the home with a duffel bag.
Jack started for the front door, Brynn, Lyla, and Garcia following. Outside, he rubbed his gloved hands together, noting there wasn’t much temperature difference between inside the house and outside. He stopped in front of the Tahoe, and the back passenger window rolled down.
“Howz it?” Kekoa’s voice carried a lightness his eyes did not share. “You two okay?”
“Kekoa, you would’ve been impressed by this one. She went kung fu on one of them.” Lyla held out her fist to Brynn, who obligingly fist-bumped back with a sheepish look.
“Oh yeah?” Kekoa’s hulking shoulders relaxed, and Jack understood why.
The man had been keeping an eye on both women and hadn’t stopped worrying from the second he told Jack about the 911 call he’d monitored. He’d refused to stay at the office, and Garcia hadn’t spoken the entire drive out. These two women, strong and trained as they were, had had the three of them terrified.
“We’ll get you a medal when we get back to the office.” Jack’s gaze pinned Brynn. “But for now, please explain why you’re here.”
The skin between Brynn’s brows pinched. “Riley called and said Riad was looking for a friend’s son, Moustafa Ali, who’s been studying here in the US. They haven’t heard from him, so we asked Kekoa”—she flashed a look of apology at him—“if there was anything on the GPS to indicate where Riad might’ve been looking—”
“Or hiding,” Lyla said.
Brynn nodded. “We drove here and found this place.”
“And you called ICE?”
“No, we called the police and they called ICE.” Lyla answered Jack, arms folding over her chest. He noticed she’d taken a decidedly purposeful step closer to Brynn. Taking sides.
“You heard Agent Flores. This is probably a trafficking case.” Brynn gestured to the house. “The men are undocumented and have probably been in this dump for a while. They’re hungry and in need of a hot shower.”
Agent Flores walked over to Jack. “Would you mind joining us?”
“Lyla, you stay here with Garcia and Kekoa.”
Ignoring Lyla’s narrowed eyes, Jack turned on his heels and marched back toward the house with Brynn.
“Agent Angela Royce is a trained medic.” Agent Flores gestured to the female agent Jack recognized from earlier. “She’s been assessing and treating the men. I’ll let her explain what she discovered.”
Behind her, Jack noticed only two of the four men sitting on the couch with water bottles and granola bars and being watched by ICE agents.
“I’ve checked all the men. They’re dehydrated and malnourished but are okay for the most part. During processing we take their photos, and that’s what I wanted to show you.” She picked up a camera from her duffel bag and gestured to the two men on the couch. “Por favor.”
They put down their snacks, stood, and faced her.
“We have to take multiple photos of them for our records because oftentimes they don’t give us their real names.” She held up her camera. “Colgaté sonrisa.”
Both men smiled. One timidly, the other a full one along with a chuckle as Agent Royce took the photo.
“Colgaté sonrisa?” Brynn asked.
“Colgate smile,” Jack and Agent Royce answered at the same time.
Brynn looked between them. “Like the toothpaste?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “Their commercials use the phrase Colgaté sonrisa to mean smile bright.”
“Exactly,” Agent Royce said. “I use it to sort of ease the stress of the situation.”
Jack appreciated that the ICE agent was compassionate, but he was also confused. “What’s the significance of this?”
“This way.” Agent Royce led him, Brynn, and Agent Flores past what was supposed to be a kitchen but was more like an ugly jack-o’-lantern. The space was filled with holes and gaps where appliances should’ve been, and the floor was covered in trash at least a foot deep. The stench grew almost intolerable when they passed a bathroom before stopping at the end of the short hall.
Inside the postage stamp of a bedroom, two male agents stood sentry near the other two men, including the one who fought with Brynn. Blood still caked his nose, but it was the dark glower he sent Brynn’s way that set Jack’s nerves buzzing. Jack kept his gaze fixed on the bloodied man and put himself between him and Brynn.
Agent Royce held up the camera again, and both men barely looked up. “Colgaté sonrisa.”
The men stood there. No change in their expression. No chuckle. No smile.
“Colgaté sonrisa.”
At the repeat direction, the men shifted but neither of them smiled. Jack’s pulse raced. He narrowed his eyes on them, studying their features. Cardboard and tinfoil had been used to cover the two windows, making it hard to see. Dark hair, dirty faces, dark eyes just like the other two guys, but . . .
“Aibtisama.”
Both men’s eyes flashed to Jack, sharing the same expression of panic, but neither smiled like he asked. Unless he counted the sneer of the bloody one.
“Min ‘ayn ‘ant?” Jack asked, demanding to know where they were from. The question caused the unbloodied one to tremble, and Jack wasn’t sure if it was from the chill penetrating the dirty room or fear.
“One of the men from the front room has a record on file,” Agent Flores whispered over Jack’s shoulder. “He’s from Mexico, and we’re assuming the other one with him is as well.”
Which meant the two standing in front of Jack were not.
“‘Ant last fi mushkila.” Brynn’s Arabic had a softness to her tone that showed real concern for the hungry, dirty souls staring at them. “You’re not in trouble. Where are you from?”
Jack grew antsy in the silence passing between them, when finally one of the men, the younger one, pointed to himself.
“We are from Egypt. I speak some English.”
Brynn took a step forward. “Moustafa Ali?”
The man shook his head. “La’a. Tarek Gamal.”
Jack saw Brynn’s shoulders drop. The man was not the one Riad was looking for. He turned to the other man. “What is your name?”
The man pressed his lips together.
“Shoo ismák,” Jack repeated in Arabic, his tone rough.
Irritation filled the man’s eyes. “Seif El-Deeb.”
“Do you speak English?”
Seif gave a tight nod. “British school.”
There was smugness in Seif’s tone that didn’t match the fear hovering in his gaze. “Why are you here?”
“Work.”
The simple answer felt anything but simple. It also aligned with Agent Flores’s belief that this was likely a trafficking situation. But if it was true, why would Riad come here looking for his friend’s son? Had Moustafa been trafficked to America? Human trafficking was a growing epidemic, but how did Riad fit into this? There were too many questions, and Jack’s instincts were on high alert. None of this was a coincidence.
“We’re going to take these two with us.” He turned to Agent Flores. “Director Walsh will get whatever approval you need—”
“Now, wait a minute.” Agent Flores held up his hand. “I can’t allow you to take them with you. They need to be processed properly. If you want to question them in our facility, I can make that happen, but—”
“With all due respect, sir”—Jack turned so his back faced the two men and lowered his voice—“I can’t give you details, but I can say it’s a matter of national security.” He took out his phone and pulled up Walsh’s number. “A phone call will ensure your agency is protected.”