Predator Read online

  What in the world was that man doing in Boston? What was he doing with that cell phone?

  And what had he done with Mackenzie?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Simon Sloan didn’t know what to make of the situation.

  When he woke up this morning and saw the five voice mails the gorgeous redhead from the Parker Agency had left on his phone, he’d decided he better listen to them.

  The sound of her sultry voice had put his head into a spin, his heart into a trance like state. But what she’d had to say snapped him right out of it.

  Miranda Steele’s daughter was in trouble, and the whole team was in Boston looking for her.

  Boston.

  He’d called her back right away.

  As soon as he hung up, he’d put in a call to Cooley, but had gotten his voice mail. He’d left an urgent message.

  As soon as he got in the car on his way in to work, he’d called his boss again and left another message.

  Now he knew how Janey must have felt last night when he didn’t answer her calls, he’d thought, as he marched through the spacious corridors lined with plaques and recognition awards for agents past and present on his way to Cooley’s office.

  He’d found the office empty and had been told by Cooley’s aid that his boss was in meetings all morning.

  “Meetings. Bureaucratic BS,” Sloan muttered to himself as he paced back and forth between the worn metal desk and the matching file cabinet in the hole of an office he’d been assigned.

  An image came to his mind. Anatoly Tamarkin in the interrogation room of the Metropolitan Correctional Center in New York two weeks ago. The thug known to Group 141 as Yakiv Doroshenko. The huge beast of a man had been reduced to a blubbering mass by family photos his sister had shown him.

  His sister had called him Sasha, his pet name growing up. The man’s real surname was Antonenko.

  But when Wade Parker had walked into the interrogation room, Anatoly Tamarkin had been terrorized. He had thought Parker was his boss.

  Sloan didn’t have an explanation for that, but Parker and Steele had gone to Kiev and discovered Tamarkin’s boss ran an operation there, and he’d been the one the Stavoses reported to. Sloan was convinced this man was the head of Group 141. The criminal organization he’d been pursuing for years.

  They called him the Man in Boston.

  Sloan glared at the time on his phone. It had been over three hours. What was there to talk about that long?

  Enough meetings for today, he decided, and marched down the hall again. He would find Cooley, burst into the conference room, and pull him out if he had to.

  He didn’t have to.

  He found Cooley in his office, staring at a sandwich he’d just unwrapped on his desk. Corned beef on rye, from the smell of it, and from Sloan’s familiarity with his boss’s tastes, with dill pickle relish and extra sauerkraut.

  “What did you want to see me about, Agent?” Cooley said without looking up.

  Cooley’s budget dark suit and tie looked a little rumbled at the moment. His blond Caesar cut hair didn’t have its aristocratic sheen. His face was drawn.

  Sloan slung himself into the guest chair. “My messages were urgent, Cooley. Why have you been putting me off?”

  “Couldn’t be helped.” His boss took a sip of coffee from his Washington Wizards mug.

  “You did hear me say this is in regard to the MIB, didn’t you?” The MIB was Sloan’s current acronym for the “Man in Boston,” despite the reference to the silly movie he disliked.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you have to say instead of bitching about it?” Cooley took a bite of his sandwich.

  Sloan gazed at the FBI seal on the wall and told his boss everything Red had said.

  Apparently Miranda Steele’s daughter, Mackenzie Chatham, had been lured to Boston by texts they had assumed had come from a young boy. The team from the Parker Agency had tracked her flight to the city, and last night found the boy in question. But his account had been hacked, and he hadn’t been the one sending those texts. Janelle and the team were convinced the girl had been kidnapped.

  She didn’t have to say by whom.

  Cooley’s face was as frozen as the Potomac two months ago when they’d had that ice storm. He put his sandwich down and wrapped it up again.

  Sloan had to break through the ice wall.

  “Don’t you see, Cooley? This could be it. The lead we’ve been waiting for. The big payoff. If we can find this guy and arrest him, we’ll finally have the head of Group 141. It will bring the nationwide child sex slave trade he’s been running to its knees.”

  Cooley turned pale. He looked like he was about to upchuck.

  “Something wrong with that sandwich?”

  Cooley turned away and stared at his computer screen, pretending to study a report.

  Sloan ran a hand over his face. “Look, I know I screwed up with Tamarkin. It was an idiotic idea. I know you blame me for Shaw’s death.”

  “I blame myself, Sloan. I should have said no to your plan. What was idiotic was approving it with too little manpower. If I hadn’t said yes, we wouldn’t be down an agent, and we’d still have Tamarkin in custody.”

  The words only made Sloan feel guiltier.

  “But if we follow up on this lead now, Shaw and Endicott and my sister-in-law won’t have died in vain.”

  His boss remained silent.

  “We have to help them. A young girl’s life is at stake. It’s Miranda Steele’s daughter.”

  Cooley’s eyes started to tear up.

  Sloan was at his wit’s end. “What the hell’s going on, Cooley?”

  Cooley took his sandwich and tossed it into the trashcan. Then he leaned back and staring up at the ceiling, drew a breath in through his nose. An angry breath. “The committee has decided to do an investigation into the Custodians.”

  Sloan felt as though his boss had slugged him in the jaw. “What?”

  “They’re demanding everything we have. Every bit of evidence, every report, every phone call on record. A team of lawyers is going to go over every jot and tittle.”

  Sloan’s mind raced. “What about the pen drive Parker and Steele got us from Kiev? It has the names and aliases of a slew of thugs working for Group 141. We can’t give them that.”

  “That drive is part of our investigation. We have to turn it over. If they find anything we’ve done over the past five years isn’t a hundred percent above board, they’ll start drawing up charges for false imprisonment for everyone we’ve put away.”

  Sloan’s head started to pound. “You mean every sex offender? Every sleazy drug dealer? And sex slave operator?”

  “If they have their way they’ll all go free.”

  Sloan was choking with anger. “Damn politicians. Who’s side are they on?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  It wasn’t until that moment that Sloan saw how enraged Cooley was over this development. He knew more, but he wasn’t talking. Sloan was sure of it.

  “Do you suspect something?”

  Cooley gave him a hard stare. He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. “What do you want, Sloan?”

  “What do I want?” The question took him off guard. “I want to go to Boston with a team. I want to find Miranda Steele’s daughter and the head of Group 141. I want the manpower to put him away for good.”

  “That’s a tall order.”

  “You wouldn’t have said that a month or so ago.”

  “I’m saying it now. I can’t authorize an operation like that while the Custodians are under investigation.”

  Sloan couldn’t believe his ears. Was this really his boss talking? The man who had set up the Custodians with him?

  He leaned in close to the man. “Think about it, Cooley. If we can find this guy. If we can put him away, it’ll prove we’ve been on the right track all along. Wouldn’t that get the committee off our backs?”

  Sloan watched his boss as he considered the idea. Was h
e coming back to the man Sloan knew? Not yet.

  Hesitating, he shook his head. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Sloan.”

  “It’s always been dangerous.” Cooley didn’t know that as well as Sloan did. He was a manager. He didn’t know what it was like in the field.

  “Maybe I could pull some strings.”

  Sloan sat up. “What kind of strings?”

  “I could transfer you, O’Cleary, and a few of the others to a task force in Boston.”

  Now he was back. “That sounds good.”

  “It’s a cyber crime unit. But they’re good.”

  “Okay.” The messages sent to the girl from the hacked account would fall under that jurisdiction.

  “Raoul Hernandez is in charge of the unit. If he agrees, he would work solely under my command. I’d give the order and he would just be carrying it out.”

  “You’re saying you’ll take full responsibility.”

  “I am. Still, if the operation fails, it could mean all of our careers.”

  “I understand that, sir.” That was the Cooley he knew.

  “Even if it doesn’t fail, it could mean our careers if the committee gets wind of it.”

  Sloan didn’t believe that. That politicians would try to put a stop to such a mission was incomprehensible to him.

  He could see his boss hesitating again as he considered the implications. “Think of what will happen to the kids who get snatched up by Group 141 and its tentacles if we don’t get the Man in Boston, sir.”

  Cooley gave him a look that almost made him regret his statement. He knew his friend was between a rock and a hard place. He had a family to think of, too. As well as the families of the Boston unit whose careers he was putting at risk.

  If Cooley wasn’t going to green light this scheme, he might just go AWOL and go to Boston himself. It would be worth it to spend the rest of his life as a security guard if it would save children from Group 141.

  “Give me an hour to think it through.”

  “An hour? But sir, Steele’s daughter—”

  Cooley slammed a hand on his desk. “One hour, Agent. I’ll give you my decision then.”

  Chapter Forty

  Santana relished the afternoon sun glistening off the black glass of the Sector Building as his limo exited the parking garage and turned onto Exchange Plaza in the heart of Boston’s Financial District.

  The driver turned onto Congress and they waded through the traffic between the corridors of tall buildings, some of which housed businesses he was invested in.

  It would be warm in a month. He would no longer need a topcoat. But then he would not need it anyway. He would be in a southern location before then.

  The driver turned left and continued on Congress, slowing for the occasional trolley.

  Santana reached for his phone and read the text from Doroshenko. He had fed the girl lunch, opening the door and leaving a tray on the floor as instructed. She had been quiet for the last few hours. He would check whether she’d eaten in another twenty minutes.

  He was satisfied with that.

  As he put his business phone away, his encrypted cell hummed. He took it out and read the text.

  This one made him smile.

  Beasley was making good progress. Soon that FBI toe-rag, Simon Sloan, would be out of his hair for good. And not a moment too soon. Funds from his income sources had diminished lately due to the FBI and the Parker Agency. He badly needed to replenish his coffers after the heavy investments he’d had to make.

  His plans with the senator had required much more than expected.

  As if prompted by that thought, a new text from Beasley came in. The senator wanted to know his status, as always.

  Chafing at having to report to the man, Santana opened a website on his phone and checked on his project.

  The foundation had been dug, the eight-foot steel reinforced concrete walls had been poured three years ago. The engineer and the design team Santana had selected for the job had been the best. And costly. As had been the materials. The structure was huge. Three stories of rooms placed around the perimeter of the circular design.

  Everything was underground and spacious. The operations room, the viewing room, the control room. Plus there was an abundance of storage rooms in the main structure.

  And of course, the deep hollowed out crevices a hundred feet away.

  A week ago he’d made a short trip to the location and double-checked every measurement himself. There was no room for error on this project.

  Everything had been built to specification.

  It was almost finished.

  Just a few touches more. The door locks to be secured, the cameras for the security system. He had no doubt it would be done in time.

  Photos and texts from his engineers confirmed the fact.

  Everything is on schedule, he replied to Beasley. And on your end?

  The shipment is two-thirds of the way to the destination. Also on schedule.

  Excellent, Santana replied and put his phone away.

  Yes, the construction was going well, but it was supplies that were proving to be a challenge.

  Usually he would hire a consultant to handle such a large project. But this undertaking was too important. And too secretive. He’d had to handle the planning and management himself.

  He and his small army of technicians and assistants would need at least four thousand pounds of canned and freeze dried food for three months at the site. Then there was clothing and bedding and washing and toiletry supplies. And a good supply of clean water, though the filtration system would handle some of that. Arms and ammunition would also be essential.

  If they had to stay underground for longer, he might have to eliminate a portion of the personnel.

  That shouldn’t be a problem. Cost wasn’t an issue, either. The problem was transporting the supplies. They couldn’t be purchased locally near the site. That would draw to much attention. They had to be procured here in Boston and shipped to the destination.

  He owned a small cruise line that operated out of a wharf in the harbor. The cruise ship season didn’t start until mid-April, but people would assume he was getting the jump on his competitors if the first ship set out in a few days. He would need to make several trips for everything. The last cargo would be the team itself. Each delivery would take four to five days round trip.

  He consulted his calendar. It would be tight, but it was doable.

  He gazed out the window.

  They were on Washington, passing the tall red brick high-rise that was his destination this afternoon. He’d always known the annex near Tufts Medical Center he’d purchased several years ago would come in handy. He’d turned it into a research center, and no one had ever noticed any unusual activity here.

  His driver pulled around the block and into the garage. Without being told, he drove to the hidden access in the back.

  That was both good and bad.

  “Samuel,” Santana said as the limo came to a smooth stop.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You are aware of what will happen to your family if you should ever reveal my connection to this building, are you not?”

  There was a pause, a cough, then a decisive reply. “Yes sir. I’m aware.”

  “Good. Don’t let that slip your mind.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour.” And Santana got out of the car without his driver’s assistance and made his way to the hidden elevator.

  One couldn’t be too careful. Not with the project he had underway.

  Chapter Forty-One

  On the top floor of the research center, Santana used his keycard to open the thick steel security access and made his way through the labyrinth of pure white, unadorned hallways. After several turns, he found the first man he was looking for escorting a subject back to her room.

  “You are to rest now,” said the large man in a Ukrainian accent.

  Dressed in her army fati
gues, the young woman kept her back rigid as she stepped through the door. “Yes, Sergeant. I will. Will you tell me how I did on the exam as soon as you know?”

  “I will, Corporal.” And he shut and locked the door behind her.

  Santana chuckled at the delusion the young woman was under. She believed she was in training for a top secret military mission. It was partially true.

  The large man turned toward him and stiffened.

  “Sir. I did not see you there.”

  “I didn’t intend for you to see me, Gregor. I’m here for your report. Are you headed to the lab?”

  “I am, sir.” Gregor’s posture was just as militaristic, despite the orange Phoenix tattoo on his face and head.

  He was one of the homeless boys from Kiev and had always wanted to be in the Russian army. He had excelled in his martial arts training and was loyal and shrewd enough to advance to his current position.

  “Let’s walk.”

  They moved through a set of doors and entered another corridor painted in the same stark white as the one they had left. The flooring matched the walls. His scientist had assured him the design reinforced the disorientation essential to the subjects’ programming. He had used the same style in his project in the south.

  With a deferential bow, Gregor opened another set of doors and Santana passed through.

  “How did it go this morning?”

  Gregor’s smile was satisfying. “Exactly as you said it would, sir. I charged the phone, went to the frog pond and waited. About forty minutes later four of them showed up.”

  “Ah. The fifth one was nearby in the vehicle, tracking the phone.”

  “I assume so. It was how they knew where I was.”

  “Go on.”

  “I led them through the park and into the subway. They thought they had trapped me on the train, but I got the better of them, thanks to your advice about using the crowd.”

  “Excellent. And did you reveal yourself to them?”

  “I did. After I left them on the train. You should have seen the look on their faces through the window. Especially the woman’s.”

  Gregor laughed and Santana joined him.