A Touch of Regret (A Nick Bracco Thriller Book 8), page 5
Stevie smiled. He had no idea he had done that.
“What’s so funny?”
“I like you.”
“I like you too.” She smiled that smile. “You never talk about your job. You said you’re a computer tech for the government. Which branch?”
“Department of Justice.”
“Like DEA? Or Attorney General?”
Stevie hesitated, and she picked up on it immediately.
“Ah, you’re with the FBI,” she declared.
Stevie nodded.
“I had a feeling.”
“Tell me about this feeling,” he said.
“You seem to reverse engineer every answer I give you. I tell you something simple like my favorite color is purple and you ask if that’s because I was on the swim team at Columbia. Now that’s an innocent comment, but you sure knew what color my college team was quick enough, didn’t you?”
“I’m from New York, so I’m familiar with all the school colors.”
“Okay,” she said, still playing with her chocolate spoon. Then she lifted the spoon and steered it toward Stevie’s mouth. As he opened his mouth to receive the treat, she quickly pulled it back. “Now, before you answer this next question, understand that if you lie to me, I’m walking out that door and there will be no fourth date.”
Stevie shrugged. “Shoot.”
“Did you use the FBI’s database to look into my profile in any way, at any time, since we first met?”
“No,” he answered quickly and honestly.
“Why not?”
“Tell me something,” Stevie said, planting his feet firmly on the ground and leaning toward her. “When you buy a book, do you read the last chapter first? Or do you start from the beginning?”
Her smile increased. She offered the spoon to Stevie, who cautiously opened his mouth and was rewarded with a treat of chocolate icing.
“Good answer,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“So you’re a computer technician for the FBI?’ she asked. “What does that mean?”
“I take care of cybersecurity, drone navigation, satellite imagery, wherever I’m needed.”
“Do you travel much?”
“Not too much.”
She rested her elbows on the table, then propped her chin on the palm of her hand. “You ever been shot?”
Stevie grinned. “I’ve never been critically injured in the line of duty, no.”
“Evasive. Very nice.”
“You ever been assaulted by one of your patients?”
Her eyes shifted, as if in thought about how much she could reveal.
“See,” Stevie said. “Not so easy to answer when there are other people to protect.”
She gave him a wry nod.
To Stevie, it felt like a friendly tennis match, the two of them having fun, yet still testing out the parameters. He picked up his own spoon and swirled the icing around on the plate.
“I have a question for you,” Stevie said. “How come you always meet me instead of letting me pick you up?”
“I want to be on equal footing.”
“That way you don’t feel any obligation?”
“Exactly.”
“So I’m still auditioning?”
“I guess.” She tilted her head, as if looking at him from a different angle might reveal something. “You’re still hiding something though.”
Stevie’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Do you mind if I glance at my phone for a second. It might be work.”
“Of course not.”
When he looked at the screen, his mind floundered for a few seconds trying to figure out what had happened. When he pressed the icon, his brain fired all kinds of crazy thoughts while gazing at the encrypted message.
“Something wrong?” Amanda asked.
He stood up and put the phone in his pocket. When he leaned down to give her a peck on the forehead, she tilted her head back and met his lips with hers for a quick kiss.
“I sure hope you’ll grant me date number four,” Stevie said.
“Where are you going?”
“You’re right,” he said. “I am hiding something from you. I will always be hiding something. But it will only be about work and nothing else.”
She nodded. A sense of acknowledgment came across her face. “I can accept that.”
“Good.”
“Can you at least tell me where you’re going?”
He thought it couldn’t hurt to give her something. “Arizona,” was all he said.
Chapter 8
Walt Jackson sat behind his desk with the phone to his ear and listened to his wife, Joy, pour out her fears about their twenty-five-year-old daughter. Two black parents trying to raise their girl into a strong woman, while attempting to protect her from a discriminating world.
“But they didn’t come out and accuse her of anything?” Walt asked. “Did they?”
In the silence, he could sense Joy rolling her eyes. “They didn’t arrest her, no.”
Walt was the Special Agent in Charge of the Baltimore Field Office where he oversaw the counterterrorism department. It was a massive responsibility which caused him numerous days away from his family and plenty of late nights with aluminum-foiled meals left in the fridge. It also meant he spent a lot of time parenting and trying to be a good husband from his office.
“I’ll call Jack over at the DEA and—”
“No!” she shouted. “You can’t eliminate bigotry with a phone call, Walt. I don’t want you to do anything. I want you to listen to me and understand my frustration, okay? Just listen to me.”
Their daughter, Amelia, was followed by two DEA agents in the DC airport because she was traveling to New York without luggage. She’d missed her flight because she had to spend forty-five minutes explaining her job as a reporter for the Baltimore Sun and needed a phone call from her boss to vouch for her assignment. He had to prove to them it was a day trip which required no overnight stay. This was her penance for traveling without carrying luggage, yet carrying her color skin.
Walt swiveled in his chair and looked out over downtown Baltimore high rises through his bulletproof window. The shadows lengthened as the sun settled on the horizon.
“How is she doing?” Walt asked.
“Better than me,” Joy said, sounding more conciliatory, maybe realizing that Walt wasn’t her actual target.
“Have her come over this weekend,” Walt said. “We’ll have a family meal together.”
Joy was quiet. Her angst seemed to have run dry, leaving a sigh in its wake.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll make that shrimp-pasta thing she likes.”
“Honey. This is going to happen again.”
“I know, Walt, but we’ve come so far.”
There was a quick knock on his door, and Stevie Gilpen rushed in, unabated by the phone to Walt’s ear. He had a panicked expression.
“I’ve got to go,” Walt said. “I love you.”
Stevie waited in front of Walt’s desk for him to put the phone down.
“What’s going on?” Walt asked.
“It’s about Jake Marino.”
Walt waved his hand. “Close the door.”
Stevie did, then returned to the desk.
“When was our last contact with him?” Stevie asked.
“What’s this about?”
“Well, I just received an encrypted text message from Jake.”
“What did it say?”
“It was marked urgent and gave me a location where to meet him in Arizona tomorrow morning.”
“I’m listening,” Walt said, moving his mouse and bringing his laptop to life.
Stevie moved his hands around from excitement. “He may have found a lead to Falcon.”
Walt froze. “How?”
Stevie shrugged. “I don’t know. The text came from a phone that wasn’t in my contact list.”
Walt took a deep breath, then scrolled until he found the file he was looking for. He pointed to the chair across from him and said, “Sit.”
Stevie sat.
“When did you receive his message?”
“Thirty minutes ago.”
“Did you send him a message back?”
“No, he gave me a 10-3.”
“Do not communicate.”
Stevie nodded.
“Stevie, Jake Marino has been—”
“A good FBI agent.”
“I was going to say unreliable.”
“He’s turned it around,” Stevie said, a little agitated. “I’m telling you, he’s sober. He’s back training for marathons and Ironman races again. The guy is a changed person.”
Walt pursed his lips, trying to maintain some equanimity. “Look, there’s a reason he was transferred from Baltimore to become a resident agent in a border town in Arizona. He took over a territory that covers a thousand acres of nothing but open desert. Jackrabbits and coyotes. You understand, right?”
“Walt, everything you’re saying is true, but I just know he needs help. You saw what the Arizona Daily Star wrote about him. You don’t think someone told them what to say? I have to fly out there tonight.”
Walt moved his laptop in front of Stevie and let him read the open file with Jake’s performance. He pointed to a report about Jake found inebriated, sleeping behind a gas station next to a dumpster.
“This is the guy who uncovered Falcon? The most notorious ransomware criminal in the world? The guy who you, the best cyber technician in the FBI, have been chasing online for almost a year?” Walt asked. “Because I’m finding that hard to believe.”
Stevie read the report with a look of astonishment. “That was six months ago.”
“Agreed.”
Stevie looked up at Walt with a questioning look. “Then what?”
Walt pulled the laptop back in front of him. “You are one of the best technicians I’ve ever seen. You can do amazing things with a computer. But I have decades of experience working with field agents and after a while you learn to trust certain instincts.”
“And what are your instincts telling you?”
Walt tapped his index finger on his desk. “I called the Phoenix office and spoke with the SAC, Lloyd Thiel. Jake hasn’t responded to any messages. There’s been no contact at all. What do you think?”
“I’m telling you, that was him who sent me that message.”
“I believe you.”
“Then you think he’s compromised?”
Walt shrugged.
“C’mon, Walt. You really believe Jake is running with a cartel?”
“Lloyd told me they received a tip from Border Patrol that Jake was seen meeting with Caesar Gallardo. The Daily Star printed that story because there were multiple sources putting Jake and Gallardo together.”
Stevie said nothing. He sat there with a disgusted expression trying to talk himself out of what he was hearing.
Stevie looked up at Walt. “There’s one more thing Jake said in the message.”
“Trust no one,” Walt answered for him.
“How did—”
“It’s his way of assuring you’re all alone.” He took a deep breath. “It’s an ambush, buddy. I can smell it from three thousand miles away.”
Stevie chewed on his lower lip.
“Listen to me,” Walt said, “I’m going to send you there to work with Nick and Matt. Meet with Jake, but don’t forget about our conversation. Put your emotions aside and be the analytical guy I know you are. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Stevie said. “Can you get me out there tonight?”
“I’ll arrange everything, but you need to listen to me.” Walt reached over and placed a hand on Stevie’s shoulder. “I’ve seen this one before. And I promise, you’re not going to like the ending.”
Chapter 9
Senator Ron Walker was sweeping the garage in his Arizona home when the phone vibrated in his pocket. It was his week to be home before spending the next two in Washington. He was doing two weeks in DC and one at home, which seemed to be working for the time being. With the kids out of the house, he and his wife were finally enjoying their empty nest, and he was clearing the place of all the children’s toys to finally make room for two cars.
His wife, Jennifer, was a lawyer with a local firm which specialized in international law. That was the main reason he was so adamant about bringing international criminals to justice no matter their location on the map. Cybercrime had jumped by 500 percent just in the three years he’d been in office. It was time to crack down on the criminals no matter where they hid. And Jennifer was the driving force.
His phone vibrated a second time, reminding him of the text message waiting for him. When Walker pulled out his phone and saw the message, he dropped the broom. His knees faltered, and he took deep breaths while his heart sank into his stomach.
There was a picture of his son, Bruce, saturated with sweat, sitting in the dark with his hands bound behind his back. Bruce’s eyes were in complete shock and pleading for help. The text message was clear and concise.
Walker’s mind swirled with unnerving thoughts. His only son looked beaten and abused. He stared at the photo on his display and had to push down the urge to vomit.
The inside door to the garage opened and his wife, Jennifer, came out with her keys in hand. She took one look at her husband and immediately rushed over to him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Walker wanted to hide the phone. He wanted to keep his wife from seeing the disgusting image he was forced to view. Their son was a pawn in the game of politics.
Jennifer took the phone from him and gasped. She processed the information with incredible resolve, as if she already knew how horrible things were by her husband’s reaction.
She handed the phone back to Walker and took her phone out, pushed a button and held the phone to her ear.
Walker’s gaze wandered, landing on a shelf full of Bruce’s bowling trophies. A severe cramp hit his solar plexus.
After a minute, Jennifer dropped the phone to her side and looked at her husband with glistening eyes. “He’s really gone.”
Walker nodded.
“We need to get help,” Jennifer said, her stature now taller and her voice firm.
Walker shook his head. “You saw what he wrote, this Falcon. We can’t tell anyone.”
“But—”
“I’ll vote down the bill on Tuesday, just as he demanded, and we’ll get our boy back.” But even as he said the words, he saw the doubt looming in his wife’s eyes.
“He won’t release him, Ron. Bruce knows too much. He’s seen too much. He can lead the authorities right back to the creep, and Falcon knows that.”
As usual, Jennifer was the sober one, cutting through the fantasy brewing in Walker’s mind. She’d already moved past the trauma and was onto the resolution. Meanwhile, his mind was a tornado of dark thoughts.
“What else can we do?” Walker asked, almost to himself.
“We need to tell someone in law enforcement,” Jennifer said.
Walker shook his head, imagining his son tortured like Falcon had promised if anyone was contacted. “He’ll know.”
“Honey, we need help. We can’t rely on this guy’s honor to release our son after the vote. That’s not a plan I can live with. If we sit on this, we’ll regret it the rest of our lives.”
Walker knew she was right. He looked at her and saw a name forming on her mouth, but before she could say it, Walker said, “Nick.”
# # #
Caesar Gallardo made his way down the wide staircase where two armed guards waited for him.
“He’ll keep the dog in the car,” Gallardo told them, going into his cartel leader mode now. “Wait for my signal.”
The Border Patrol SUV climbed the final ridge of the dirt road, then made its way between a stand of strategically placed trees and slowed to a stop by the front porch of the Gallardo complex. Gallardo waited with his two men as the plume of dust wafted and the Border Patrol agent got out. The agent went up to Gallardo with his cap in his hand.
“Patron,” he said respectfully behind aviator sunglasses.
“You had better have good news, Berto.”
Berto Alvarez tried to look brave. “I do not.”
Gallardo nodded to his men and they stepped down off the porch and casually wandered away.
Berto glanced at them momentarily, then said, “He must be lying dead in the desert. There is no possible way he could have survived in in that heat.”
“Unless he had help.”
“There is no indication of that, Patron.”
“Yet here we are.”
Gallardo turned to face the buttes behind his mansion. On the other side of the buttes was a small Mexican village. “Could he have made it into Michado?”
Berto frowned, then shook his head. “I am sorry. No. We have scrutinized everyone. He could not have found refuge there. Not one soul would have harbored him.”
“Yet here we are,” Gallardo repeated.
Berto played with the brim of his cap and remained quiet.
“He could not have made it to Douglas,” Gallardo said. “We have too many people on the payroll. I would have known.”
“It doesn’t matter. The FBI agent is dead. We have yet to recover his body. My men are scouring the desert floor as we speak. He will be found.”
“According to you, he did not make it to Michado. So, there is only one place he could have gone,” Gallardo said, now looking over Berto’s shoulder as the shadows dissolved among the cacti and mesquite. “North.”
Berto’s silence told him everything. Gallardo slowly stepped down the two steps to the ground and jabbed his index finger into Berto’s chest. “You should have told me you knew about an FBI agent so close to one of my residences.”
Berto had his hands up now. “It was nothing. The guy was a loser, he wasn’t a real field agent.”
“Apparently you were the loser, because someone found their way into my server and was able to see our entire operation. I believe he was the intruder.”
The Border Patrol agent shook his head. “No, that is not possible. Not him. He was not capable. He is considered a black sheep.”
“I don’t understand you, Berto. Explain how a man in his underwear could possibly get more than a mile from here without being spotted. You have drones navigating a two-mile perimeter around my house. No one is that capable.” Gallardo pointed to his backyard. “My girlfriend just killed one of my men because he was disloyal. Should I include her in this conversation?”
