Nine miles and fifteen minutes later, as they passed through Machipongo, Jason rolled down the passenger-side window and leaned out of the cab. The truck accelerated in jerks as Peter awkwardly shifted gears. He waved at an approaching vehicle. A Jeep Grand Cherokee was gaining on them in the right lane, being driven by a burly, bearded man wearing a worn John Deere baseball cap.
Jason motioned for him to roll down his window.
“Can I use your cell phone?” he shouted.
The man scrunched his brow, thought for a second, and flipped Jason the bird before speeding off. He tried this tactic three more times with equally insufficient results.
A few miles later, on the fourth attempt, Jason flagged down the female driver of a white Chevy Malibu. The Malibu pulled even with the truck. She had short spiked black hair. Dark mascara ringed her eyes.
She shook her head no when Jason asked his question, and fell back.
“Damn it,” he blurted, rolling up the window.
“We could risk pulling over,” Peter said. “She’s got us taking whatever’s in the back of this rig somewhere. So she needs us. If she hurts them, then she’s risking her own plan.”
“Would you risk it if it was one of the girls?”
Peter shrugged. “No.”
“I’ve got to know where they are. I’ve got to make her think we’re following along. But we’ve got to know more. Broadhurst will know. He’ll help.”
The short, loud blasts of a horn interrupted the former marine. They both looked out Jason’s window. The Malibu crept back into view. The spiked-hair woman was mashing the horn in short bursts as her eyes alternated between the road and the truck.
Jason rolled down the window.
“For two hundred dollars, you’ve got a deal,” she hollered.
“Deal!” Jason shouted back. “I’ll get into your car at the next light.”
Peter picked up Delilah Hussein’s cell phone. “I won’t be answering this,” he said.
Jason, realizing he would not be around to talk to Hussein said, “That’s a good idea. If she calls, listen to the message and respond with a text like it’s from me.”
“Will do.” Peter smiled wryly. “By the way, have you forgotten that the old geezer took our phones and our money?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then how are you going to pay her?”
“I’m working on it. Whatever you do just keep driving, I’ll catch up with you.”
“The brother’s cell phones have been tracked to Norfolk, Agent Broadhurst.”
“Show me.”
The wall screen filled with an overhead satellite view of the Norfolk, Virginia area. Two blinking triangular red icons flashed on a section of the grid. “We’ve overlaid the phone’s signals onto the map.”
“Where is this?” Broadhurst asked.
“It’s an overhead view of the Virginia International Terminals south of the Norfolk Naval Base.”
The blinking icons flashed in the general area of the terminals. “Are those the signals?” Broadhurst asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Zoom in.”
The screen zoomed in, focusing on the icons. The icons and the detail became more distinguishable. “What street is that?”
“That’s Terminal Boulevard with the offshoot to the marine terminal gate. The signal is coming from a gas station.”
“Where is my FBI person?” he shouted.
Broadhurst spun, a little too fast. He lost his balance and braced himself on a nearby table. The rapid intake of air into his damaged lungs formed a tickle in his throat. He coughed, trying to clear it.
“Right here, sir.” A thirty-something, crewcut appeared.
The cough persisted. Consumed with the urge to clear his congested lungs, he was racked with an uncontrolled spasm. Broadhurst removed a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth. The spasm lasted thirty seconds.
He choked out a question to the FBI agent through the handkerchief. “Where are our FBI agents in the area?”
“Two were in traffic on the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel. They were operating the purchased drone when it lost power. They are returning to the field office in Norfolk where there are three more agents.”
Broadhurst lowered the blood-tinged cloth. He noticed the FBI agent’s eyes following it as he rammed it into his pocket.
“Have them contact Norfolk PD. I want agents and cops scouring that area. I want those phones found ten minutes ago. And get me a video file from the gas station!”
“Michael, are you there?”
“That’s kind of a dumb question. You think I’m going anywhere?”
The early morning sun rose through the small window near the top of the east wall.
Chrissie shook her head. “That’s was pretty sarcastic, young man. I know your father didn’t raise you to speak to adults that way.”
“Well, it was a dumb question.”
They sat in silence for a short time. Then Chrissie asked a question she should have asked an hour ago.
“Michael, have you seen your father? Is he here too?”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“I guess that’s good,” she sighed.
She decided to confront Michael. “Why do you not like me?” Chrissie asked, turning her blindfolded eyes toward the sound of Michael’s voice.
“I don’t know.”
“So you admit you don’t like me?”
Silence.
“Are you mad because of something I did?”
“No.”
“Something I didn’t do?”
“No.”
“Please tell me why then.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Chrissie heard Michael sigh from across the dusty cell. Sensing an opportunity, she urged him.
“Michael, I’m not your enemy. I’m not trying to get between you and your father. He loves you very much. He talks about you all the time.”
Michael grunted a guttural sound.
“Tell me, what have I done to you?”
Michael exhaled again. “My father never wanted children. He said he wasted all those years. He was talking to you. I heard it.”
Chrissie felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. “Michael, what are you talking about? When did you hear this?”
“When my father was in the hospital. You and he were talking behind the curtain. I walked in. You didn’t see me. But I heard him say he loved you all this time and that he wasted all those years.”
Now it was Chrissie’s turn to exhale. She remembered their conversation in Tidewater Regional Medical Center and the squeak from the hallway. Chrissie had whipped the curtain back. But no one was there.
“Oh, Michael, that was you?”
“Yup. I heard it, don’t tell me I didn’t.”
“No, he said it,” Chrissie replied. “Have you never discussed this with your father?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Never mind,” she said. “I think I know why.”
“Why does he love you more than me and my mom?”
Chrissie instinctively tried to move her hands. The hurt in his voice touched something maternal in her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and embrace him. But the only thing she managed to do was rattle chains.
“Michael, I want you to listen to me … very carefully. I’ll try to make you understand.”
“This ought to be good,” he mocked.
Less than an hour after Clay Broadhurst had requested it, the grainy black-and-white video footage filled the wall screen in the SIOC. Broadhurst, seated in his wheelchair, and Brad Lane and Director of Operations John Beck stood behind the Secret Service agent shoulder to shoulder and stared up at the images. The technicians and agents situated before their computer monitors and screens had collectively stopped what they were doing and were also gazing up at the surreal scene. The time stamp on the screen indicated that the surveillance had been recorded at 3:45 a.m. More than two hours ago.
On the monitor, a battered Hummer, steam seeping from under the damaged hood, pulled to a stop in the far corner of the BP gas station. The vehicle was mostly hidden from view. But Jason Rodgers, the pharmacist, and his ex-marine brother, Peter, alighted from the truck and walked to a person in the shadows. He had positioned himself in such a way that his upper body and face were hidden from the camera. The images also revealed that he was leaning on a cane.
As the two men approached, the partially hidden man removed a gun from his jacket pocket. Jason and Peter Rodgers, in unison, raised their hands in a sign of surrender.
“He’s wearing a jacket with wording on the front. Can you read it?” Brad Lane asked.
“Freeze it, right there,” Broadhurst croaked as he held a handkerchief to his mouth.
“Can’t read it sir. Too many shadows.”
An unseen technician halted the recording, reversing it a few seconds to maximize the shot of the obscured individual. The gunman’s hand moved the gun, waving it slightly as he spoke to the pair. After fifteen seconds, the Rodgers brothers both removed items from their pockets and placed them in a bag on the pavement. Once that was completed, the stranger backed up out of sight as the brothers followed.
Three minutes after that, a portion of a white panel truck was visible driving off. Only the wheels and a sliver of the cargo hold were visible.
“Stop it there,” Broadhurst commanded again.
After a few adjustments, the image froze on a few feet of the cargo hold, the wheels, and chassis of the white truck.
“What’s that writing in the truck … right there? Zoom in … we might get a clue as to the origin of the vehicle.”
The image zoomed in, becoming more pixelated and grainy.
“Can anyone read that?” Beck, the CIA man, demanded.
“Yes, sir, I can,” an anonymous voice called out.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense.”
“It reads: Vengeance.”
“Vengeance?” Broadhurst muttered. “That was the name of her yacht!”
Broadhurst lowered the handkerchief from his face as his mouth hung open. Beck’s forehead crinkled in confusion, and Brad Lane uttered one word, “Shit!”
Jason raced around the front of the Chevy Malibu and climbed in a moment before the light turned green.
“Just keep pace with the truck,” Jason explained. “And I’ll get out at another light.”
“Just curious, but why can’t you make a call on your own cell phone?” The woman snapped, her voice filled with contemptuous curiosity.
Jason blinked in frustration. “I lost it. And it’s a very important call.”
“And what about your friend’s?”
“He lost his, too.”
“Let me guess,” the young Goth woman said, “your mother had to write your name on all your clothes when you were little, right?”
“Look … what’s your name?”
“Sheryl. Sheryl Penney. That’s Sheryl with an S.”
“Okay Sheryl with an S, I really need to make a phone call. Can I use yours or can you take me to a gas station or a motel or something? I don’t have time to argue with you.”
“Sorry,” she replied, wiping her forehead with a paper towel. “I get cranky. I’m overdue for my medication.”
“Can I use the phone?”
She pulled her phone from her purse at her feet on the driver’s side.
“My password is 2-4-8-2-4. Do you know what that spells?”
“No …”
“B-I-T-C-H!”
“How appropriate,” Jason deadpanned.
She licked her lips and swallowed hard, pulling the phone back.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing … I’m fine. Now as that guy in Jerry Maguire said, “First, show me the money’!”