1:41 P.M. (LOCAL TIME)
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
Standing at the back door of a dilapidated building in a run-down section of Richmond, Devlin pressed a button, looked up and to her right, and zeroed in on a dime-sized hole, a hole that she knew acted as a window for a small camera.
Fifteen seconds later, a voice from a hidden speaker: “It seems I’m quite popular today.”
A buzzer sounded, and a latch released.
“You know the way.”
Having been here before, Devlin entered the structure and took a set of stairs to the basement.
Back in Seattle, with no government planes available, Deputy Director Thorn had worked her contacts and gotten her agent on a private jet, a Cessna Citation X+.
Its twin Rolls Royce AE3007 C1 turbofan engines providing 6764 pounds of thrust each, the Cessna had zipped across the country at 700 miles per hour, shaving an hour off her return trip to Virginia.
During the flight, Devlin had placed a half a dozen calls to former contacts, but none had produced credible results on where Crane might seek help. Thirty minutes out from the airport, she had been informed that a Toyota had been stolen near where the SUV with the dead deputy marshals had been abandoned. That Toyota had then been spotted at a gas station in Ashland, Virginia a short time later.
Following her target’s path from Alexandria to Fredericksburg to Ashland, Devlin had studied a map of the state on her phone. Knowing Crane would be looking to get out of the country, she had examined cities further south before she had wagged her finger at Richmond.
Landing at Richmond International Airport, the marshal had hopped into a Chevy Tahoe, that her boss had waiting for her, and driven to this part of Richmond to see a man she had crossed paths with earlier in her career.
Devlin negotiated a dark hallway, parted a wall of hanging beads, and stepped into a wide-open, dimly lit room.
Surrounded by computer equipment and seated at a large rectangular table with more devices on it, a man rose from his perch and limped away from the stool to greet his guest. “It’s been a while, Deputy Marshal Devlin.”
Deciding not to correct him on her new title, she approached his workstation and spied a pristine computer, monitor, printer, and scanner. “I see the fake identity business has been good to you, Sasha.”
The man who had been forced to flee Russia for double-crossing the Russian Mafia, but not before taking a bullet in his left leg, held a shrug. “Who knew there were so many people seeking to disappear these days?”
“Is Michael Crane one of those people?”
Rubbing a spot on his left thigh, the source of his limp, the man dialed up a faint grin. “A man in my profession takes confidentiality very seriously.”
Devlin drew her Colt and let the weapon hang loosely at her side.
Sasha pumped hands her way. “What is it with you people and your guns?”
“I’m on a tight schedule. Don’t screw with me, Sasha. Has Crane been by to see you?”
His crooked spine not allowing him to reach his full five-six height, the man looked up at Devlin, glimpsed her firearm, and eyed her again. “He has.”
“For a new identity?”
“Yes.”
“What is it...the new ID?”
“The deputy director and I had an agreement...he allowed me to operate my business in exchange for me providing useful information on certain high-value criminals that may one day seek my services.”
She huffed and shook her head at the floor. No wonder I was told to back off.
A few years ago, poised to arrest Sasha for beating up a high-priced call girl, Devlin had received orders from her boss instructing her to stand down. Her superior had gotten the directive from then Deputy Director Crane.
“May I assume that agreement will be honored by whoever takes over for him?”
Squinting at the squirrelly man, she envisioned herself slapping a pair of handcuffs on him, bending his frame further in half, and shoving him into the back of her Tahoe. She sighed. Unfortunately, I don’t have time for that. “Sure. Whatever. Tell me everything you know about Crane, and I’ll see what I can do.”
*******
10:56 A.M. (LOCAL TIME)
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Having spent the last four hours talking with residents of Faith’s apartment building and not getting any closer to finding the missing woman, Randall met Detective Harker in the lobby. “Any luck?”
Harker shook his head. “No one remembers seeing the man in the black suit. And still no hits on facial recognition either.”
Noticing the coffee machine that he had seen yesterday, Randall dug out a handful of change from a pants pocket and plucked a couple quarters from his palm. “Coffee?”
“No. Thanks. I’ve already had three cups.”
Randall inserted two coins into the machine’s slot.
His phone buzzed.
He eyed the screen before taking the call. “Deputy Director Thorn...any news?”
His phone vibrated again.
“My techs got a hit through face rec. I just sent you a file.”
Randall opened the communique, scanned the information, and put the cell back to his cheek. “So he is a deputy marshal.”
“And it appears Deputy Marshal Mason has close ties with the former DD. You have his last known address. Go check it out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I have people working on known associates in the Marshals Service as well as other properties Mason may own...or people he knows may own. If his home turns out to be a dead end, I’ll have other places for you soon. Get going, Randall.”
“One question.”
“What is it?”
“I realize Mason is law enforcement, so,” he paused, “what are the rules of engagement here?”
“Jessica has told me you have terrific...instincts shall we say. So, regardless of his title, if you suspect he has anything to do with her sister’s abduction,” the line went silent for a few seconds, “then you put those instincts to good use.”
“That’s all I needed to hear, ma’am.” Randall clicked off, retrieved his coins from the machine, and jogged over to Harker. “I need your car keys.”
Sitting, the detective stood. “What? Why? Where are you going? Have you found something?”
Recalling Thorn’s words...you put those instincts to good use, Randall stared Harker square in the eye. “I think it’s best if I go it alone from here.”
“What are you talking about? If you know something, I need to know. This is my city. I’m—”
“That’s right. You’re a cop here, and that’s exactly why you need to let me handle this...my way.”
“What the hell does that mean? What is your way?”
“Let’s just say that before I became a deputy marshal, I...I handled delicate situations for my country—our country—in places you probably never knew existed.”
Harker slowly nodded at the other man. Delicate situations. “Special Forces? Black ops?”
“I can’t say. But I can tell you this. My main objective here is getting Faith back to those who love her.” His mind recalling the photo he had viewed on his phone, the picture of Deputy Marshal Mason, Randall flexed his jaw muscles. “Making an arrest...is not.”
After a few moments of reflection, catching the other man’s violent hidden meaning, Harker handed over the keys to his Dodge Charger. “As far as I know, you just asked to borrow my car? You never told me where you were going.”
Randall smiled. “Thank you, Detective.”
“She doesn’t deserve any of this. Faith’s a good person. Everyone at the precinct likes her, respects her.”
Trotting toward the front doors, Randall remembered the people he had met. From Detective Harker to Officer Duncan—the female cop on the elevator, to the tenants he had interviewed, all of them had good things to say about Faith Mahoney. He turned back to acknowledge the detective. “That’s what I’ve heard, too.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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