CHAPTER 32

J. J. FOLLOWED ORDERS. He always followed orders, including those he didn't understand. He was told to site down on a particular Chinese Spec Ops member but to hold fire. Fine with him. But he was uncertain what to do with the idea of watching a Russian military splinter group sneak up on a Chinese covert unit. In one sense, they had done the same thing. Okay, fine. But release the satellite to the Russians without squeezing off so much as a shot just seemed wrong on a dozen points. Hadn't they been tasked with retrieving the radioactive fuel, then blowing the thing up?

He tried to ignore it, but the thought crawled around in his brain. Had Boss lost it? The stress of his daughter's abduction may have unhinged him. Had J. J. received word while on mission that someone harmed Tess, he had no idea how he would respond. He was pretty sure he'd lose his mind.

The missions he conducted under Moyer's leadership were rough, painful, and deadly, but no fault could ever be laid on the leadership.

J. J. prayed for his team leader.

TESS PRAYED FOR J. J.

She had just spent fifteen minutes with Colonel Mac in the Concrete Palace conference room. At first, she was admitted into the Special Operations Command Center situation room, where Mac sat with Sergeant Alan Kinkaid. Mac greeted her, but Tess barely heard it. On a large, wall-mounted monitor was an overhead view of men in a field. She counted five, one short of J. J.'s team.

As if a mind reader, Mac looked at her then at the monitor. "That's not them. The team is fine."

"Who is that?"

"Chinese Spec Ops. They got to the satellite before we did."

"Oh no. Where is . . . ?"

"I tell you what, Tess, let's step into the conference room for a few minutes. This won't be long and you'll have fewer distractions."

"Yeah. That's probably wise."

Mac opened the door for her and as she crossed the threshold she heard Mac say, "Sergeant, I want to know if the situation changes."

"Yes, sir. Understood."

Mac led Tess into the conference room where they sat at the far end of the long table. The Concrete Palace had many rooms, but she had only seen the briefing room and Colonel Mac's office. J. J. told her there was a basement where they kept equipment. She didn't ask what he meant by "equipment" and he didn't volunteer an explanation.

"No time for pleasantries, Tess. Jerry Zinsser was here. He's investigating Gina Moyer's abduction."

"How's that progressing?"

"Slow. They're doing everything they can. CID and the FBI are covering the case as well as the local cops. They believe they're dealing with professionals and that's the problem. The abductors know at least something about the team's mission and about Eric Moyer. The question is, how? Zinsser thinks we have a mole. How do we find them?"

"Why ask me, Colonel? CID has trained investigators for these things."

"Yes, they do and they're on the case, but I need someone who thinks outside the box. Besides, it may not be an Army problem. It could be someone on the civilian side, someone in one of the intel groups, a politician in the know. I'm a soldier, Tess, not an investigator. You and Zinsser are mavericks in your thinking."

"Still, Mac, I'm not an investigator."

"Sure you are. You're a scholarly investigator. I don't need you to lift fingerprints. I need you to answer one question: Who benefits if we bring the team back? The Chinese? The Russians? The splinter group? A politician? I'm open for ideas. That's what I want: ideas."

"Where do I get information?"

"I'll brief you with what I know. After that, Zinsser will be your contact, but the way he's working, you'll have trouble catching up to him." Mac stood. Tess followed his example. "If anyone gives you grief, let me know. The president has our backs. Not many people give him grief."

"No, sir, I guess not." She debated whether to say the next sentence that came to her mind. "There's a price, sir."

"Oh, brother. There's always a price."

"How's the team doing?"

Mac clenched his fists and placed them knuckles down on the table. "Okay, come on." Mac marched from the conference room and into the situation room. Tess had to walk briskly just to keep up. He stopped at the door and passed his smartcard badge over the security lock situated near the right jamb. Tess heard a click as the automatic lock surrendered its position and Mac walked in, holding the door for Tess.

"Any change, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir. Just a moment ago Junior just sent a flash message that the Russian splinter group is approaching. We've located their vehicles a short distance away. Best guess is the Russians will engage the Chinese once they reach the open area. They have the advantage of surprise and better cover. Chinese don't have a chance."

Mac shook his head. "I can't figure out why the team didn't take out the Chinese, grab the fuel, and blow the thing to kingdom come. They had enough time. They could have done the deed and been back in the cover and headed to their vehicle, but Moyer hesitated."

"Why did he hesitate?" Tess marveled at the image. She was seeing live action on the ground in eastern Russia. She glanced at her watch. It was early evening now. That meant midmorning tomorrow there.

"That's my point. I don't know. That's the first part of their mission. Now they have to engage the Russians which number . . ." He looked to Kinkaid.

"Junior's message said eight men armed with automatic weapons."

Kinkaid spoke as if discussing an ongoing baseball game. His words turned her stomach. Then an idea hit her. "What's the second part of the mission?"

"You already know that, Tess."

"I do know that, but I'll bet you a pizza that's your answer."

"I don't follow."

"It's simple, Mac. Their mission is to destroy the satellite and do what?"

"Rescue whatever Air Force Spec Ops men remain alive."

"Where are those captives?"

"We don't know exactly."

Tess studied the image on the screen. She couldn't see the team and assumed they were undercover nearby. "How then can the team rescue the men—?"

"Sons a—"

"Watch it. There's a lady present. Me."

Mac looked at her. "See, I told you you think outside the box." He rubbed his chin. "Sergeant, let's get POTUS on the line."

AMBASSADOR HUI XU POURED another glass of warmed shaojiu. His third and he had yet to have dinner. Normally a wine man, he took to distilled spirits when anxious and he was anxious. Earlier, the self-righteous president of the United States insulted him repeatedly, then made demands; demands he didn't intend to honor.

He had called his government, not because Huffington told him to, but because any meeting with a head of state had to be reported. He did his duty and reported the conversation and threat. His superior listened patiently, then hung up without a word. Hui knocked back the drink.

Had his career, maybe even his life, just ended?

JERRY ZINSSER'S MIND RACED despite his weariness. During Ranger training he learned to get by on little to no sleep. In some ways, he felt sharper; in others he felt dull and insipid.

He and Brianne were doing their part in tracking down home-improvement stores. The hidden digital manufacturing watermark on the video enabled them—rather, enabled the FBI video gurus—to track the maker and the model. Brianne had her team make calls, so they had a list of stores that carried that brand of security camera. The problem was, they had no idea how far the abductors took Gina. Were they even in the same state? The FBI and the far-more-limited CID offices in three states were doing the same thing as he and Brianne: going from store to store, rousting whatever manager was there, and asking questions about purchases.

This was the fifth Home Warehouse they visited. They were in a community forty miles north of Columbia. Zinsser found a parking spot near the front door.

"Lucky driver," Brianne said. "If I were driving, we wouldn't find a spot within two blocks. I'm unlucky that way."

"If that's the only bad luck you have, then you may be the luckiest person on the planet."

"I have a confession to make."

"Let me guess. You're a Russian spy."

"Nah, couldn't master the language. No, my confession is this: While I was gone, I did a little research on you."

"Uh-oh. Do I owe back taxes or something?"

She studied him for a minute. "Are you always this glib?"

"Yep. It's a coping mechanism."

"I learned you're a hero. Won an award."

"I don't talk about it." He opened the car door.

"Seems you should be proud of it."

"Seems that way, but most people I know who carry medals are proud of their service but prefer to forget what they had to do to earn it. It may not be true for everyone but it's true for me."

"Message received." Brianne opened her door and exited.

Home Warehouse was a Home Depot–Lowe's style home-improvement store, a do-it-yourself supermarket with tall metal shelves and workers in yellow work aprons. Zinsser walked to the help desk. A large, sweaty man in a T-shirt and dirty jeans was chewing out some college-aged employee. She looked on the verge of tears.

Zinsser stepped close to the man and looked at the lone employee. "Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt—"

"Beat it." The man stunk of beer and cigarettes.

Zinsser moved an inch closer. "This is official business."

"Do I look like I care? I was here first and I'm not done straightening this girl out. So you and your chickie can just wait your turn."

Zinsser removed his badge and ID holder and opened it, pushing it close to the man's face. "Sir, I'm with CID—"

"What's that? Some kinda rent-a-cop thing? I'm not impressed."

Brianne elbowed between the two and flashed her badge. "Maybe you'll like these letters better."

"FBI. You? I don't believe it." A lecherous grin spread across his face. "Of course, if you wanna come over to my place you can try and convince me." He set a beefy hand on her shoulder. "I like to play cops and robbers." He winked.

The man outweighed Brianne by 150 pounds and looked to have some muscle hiding beneath the fat. Zinsser leaned an inch forward, ready to school the man in the proper way to treat a lady, when Brianne became a blur. Zinsser had time to blink once before he realized the man was on the floor, his offending arm twisted behind his back at an angle that made Zinsser's shoulder hurt in sympathy. Even more painful was the knee Brianne had pressed into the man's neck, pinning his head to the tile floor. Zinsser couldn't help smiling.

"Whatcha think, Agent Zinsser? Drunk and disorderly?"

"Nah, he'd be out on bail in no time."

"How about ugly and stinky? Think we can make that stick?"

"No doubt, but I'd go with assault on a federal officer. That's a felony. Wait, I know. He's interfering with our investigation. That makes him suspect in my eyes. What say we hold him for seventy-two hours?"

"I like it." Brianne pulled a set of black handcuffs from the holder on her belt, hidden beneath her coat. She wiggled them in front of the man's face.

Three men pressed through the crowd. A name tag on the man's work apron helped Zinsser recognize him as the store manager. He guessed the other two were store security.

"What's going on here? I'm calling the cops."

Zinsser raised his badge. "We are the cops. I'm with Army CID and she's FBI."

"Oh. What do you want me to do?"

"Just sit tight for a moment. We need to talk to you." He squatted next to Brianne. "It's your call, but we have to think about time."

She nodded then spoke to a man whose arm, thanks to her, would ache for the next week. "So what's it gonna be, friend? You gonna give me any more trouble, or would you like to spend a couple of days behind bars?"

"No more trouble, Agent."

"Hey, you found your manners. If I let you go, are you gonna walk out the door and not look back?"

"Yes, ma'am. Out the door. No lookin' back."

"That's a good citizen."

She stood. The man lay still for a moment, then rolled to his back and sat. He rubbed his shoulder, then struggled to his feet. He glared at Brianne then Zinsser but kept his jaws locked. Without a word, he walked away.

Brianne looked at Zinsser, then did a double take. "What are you grinning at?"

"That was so hot. May I kiss you full on the mouth?"

"Professionalism, Agent Zinsser. Professionalism."

"Pity." The action had taken his mind off the urgent business. It came back with tsunami force. He addressed the manager and formally identified himself and Brianne. He asked the other men if they were store security. They said they were.

"I need to talk to you."

"Whatever you need." He paused and looked at the young lady behind the customer service counter. She looked close to fainting. "You better take your break." The employee was gone two seconds later.

The manager—the name tag read "Ben Elliot"—led them to the back of the store, past the employee break room where the customer service clerk sat dabbing a tissue at her eyes, and into an office made crowded by two large desks and cardboard boxes. For a store that made millions selling decorating supplies, the office was as dull and bare as a cave.

"That was really something out there." He pulled out a couple of folding chairs and offered them seats. Elliot looked like a man who had worked construction sites most of his life. What propelled the man to leave the field for an indoor job? "He's been a problem before. Hopefully you scared him away for good."

"Glad to be of service," Brianne said. "Now we need your help. We're investigating an abduction and we believe one or more of the people involved may have been in a home-improvement store like yours."

"Do you know how many home-improvement stores there are?"

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Elliot, we do." Zinsser crossed his legs. "We have people canvassing every one of them."

"Okay, let me put it this way: Do you know how many people come through this place every day?"

"I'm sure it's a lot," Zinsser said. "Maybe you could let us ask the questions."

"Oh, sure. Sorry. I've never been interviewed by federal agents before. You know, I once considered becoming a cop—"

"Mr. Elliot."

The man stopped and scratched his thick goatee. "Sorry again."

"You track purchases by computer. Is that correct?" Zinsser kept his tone even, pressing down his impatience.

"Of course. It's how we track inventory. By comparing what has gone by the registers and what's on the shelves, we can also estimate how much shoplifting goes on."

Zinsser pressed on. "My understanding from talking to other stores in your chain is that you can access your database locally."

"Yes."

"I need you to do a Boolean search for a set of items associated with a single purchase. At least we hope it was a single purchase."

"I have no idea what you just said."

Zinsser simplified. "Sorry. I spend a lot of time with computers. A Boolean search is a technique for using several search terms to narrow results. For example, if you go on the Internet and search for 'home improvement stores in South Carolina,' then your first results will include all those terms."

"Okay, I got it. I didn't know the term. This Boolean guy is some kind of Internet ninja?"

"Nineteenth-century English mathematician. You can look him up later. Can you access the database from the computer on your desk?"

"Yes." Elliot tapped a key and the computer came out of sleep mode. "Okay, the senior manager is the one who usually handles this."

"Look." Zinsser stood and rounded the desk. "Let me have a crack at it."

"Don't you need a search warrant or something?"

Zinsser stuffed a few more emotions.

Brianne leaned toward the desk. "Mr. Elliot, you have a right to ask for a search warrant; you have a right to call your superiors; you have a right to remain silent—wait, sorry. Force of habit. We are not trying to find out if you're stealing from your company. We're trying to find a teenage girl who's been abducted."

The man lowered his head. "I have a six-year-old daughter at home."

"Imagine if someone took her." Zinsser hated playing on emotions, but it was that or yanking Elliot from the chair and breaking the law by conducting the search without a warrant.

"I can't imagine that, but I don't want to lose my job."

Zinsser leaned close. "If you lose your job over this, I will come back and have a chat with your boss. If we find what we're looking for, you will be a hero."

"I don't care about being a hero, but I do care about the girl. Have at it, but if I lose my job, I'm moving in with you."

"Deal."

"Call up the database and then give me some room." Elliot did. From memory he typed in the name of the security camera system and the estimated materials necessary to create the small room. A few moments later, a result appeared. "Bingo."

"You got a hit?" Brianne shot to her feet.

"Two days ago, six in the morning. We're off on the number of studs and drywall but we're close, and they bought the camera." Zinsser turned to Elliot. "I need two things, hero: one, the receipt for the purchase; two, I need to see your recordings. Please tell me you have the recordings."

Elliot grinned. "You bet we do."

"Mr. Elliot, I could kiss you full on the mouth."

Zinsser looked at her. "Hey!"