While examining the screen, Nick said, “Where does your family live, Mr. Chapin?”
The Border Patrol agent seemed to be thinking of the best answer to use in this situation. It certainly wasn’t going to be the truth, because the truth didn’t take that much time to consider.
Finally Chapin said, “Phoenix.”
“Then why is there only one phone number in your contact list and the number is a San Diego area code?”
Chapin gave it a few moments to mull over. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. “It’s nothing sinister.”
“I’m listening,” Nick said.
Chapin bent over, groaned in pain, then came up with his gun, his eyes wild with fear. He pushed away from his chair and stood with the pistol trained on Nick.
“I’m getting out,” Chapin said.
“No you’re not,” Nick assured him.
“You can’t stop me,” Chapin said, a crazy delirium planted on his face. He whirled around and pointed the gun at Stevie.
Even though he knew it was coming, Nick winced as the gunshot rang out in the small room. Chapin howled, while clutching his bare hand. The same hand which held a gun moments earlier. Stevie quickly picked up Chapin’s gun from the floor.
By the time Nick came around the desk, Matt had already holstered his Glock. He was the quickest draw in the Bureau and possibly the nation. Nick examined the Border Patrol agent’s hand. It was red and scraped up, but nothing permanent. It was only Matt’s pinpoint accuracy which saved him.
Resigned to his fate, Chapin fell to his knees, grasped his damaged hand and began to sob. He curled up on the floor as the anguish oozed from his body in the form of tears and moans and undecipherable words.
Nick didn’t feel the least bit compassion for the man. He was certain Chapin was the reason Ricky and Jim were dead. The reason Nick had to call Nicole Hernandez and explain why he hadn’t kept his promise.
The office door opened and Decker stood there with two armed agents. He stared at Chapin as the agent moaned, but otherwise seemed unharmed.
“We’ve got it under control,” Nick said, then slammed the door shut.
Matt opened the door and stuck his head out to say a few words, then pulled his head back and shut the door again.
“You stupid bastard?” Nick spat, standing over Chapin, every muscle taut and ready to unleash a fury of kicks. “How much did Garza pay to have my friends killed?”
“No,” Chapin uttered, his arms covering his head ready to be assaulted.
Nick got down to a knee and burrowed into the man’s face. “How much!”
“No,” Chapin murmured again. “She’s going to die.”
Nick looked at Matt who stood beside him with a quizzical expression.
“What did you say?” Nick asked.
Chapin found the strength to shove Nick and sit up against the wall. “My daughter,” he said staring at the ceiling. His breathing was labored and his head flopped to the side. A look of pure despair showed in his eyes. “Garza kidnapped her two weeks ago. He’s going to kill her if I don’t tell him everything.” He looked up at the three FBI agents. “She’s thirteen.”
“Shit,” Matt muttered.
“Why didn’t you come to us?” Nick said. “You’re a government agent. We would’ve brought our best people to handle it.”
Chapin rolled his eyes deliriously. “Yeah, right.” He pointed his thumb to the closed door. “Half the damn staff is on Garza’s payroll. He already knows you’re here.” Chapin covered his eyes. “She could be dead already.”
The agent was near catatonic. He was of no value to Nick in his current condition. Nick was certain Chapin was overstating Garza’s reach, but he understood the paranoia.
“You have no idea what you’re up against,” Chapin’s voice was weak and shallow. “He has connections everywhere.” With this, Chapin looked straight up at Nick with swollen eyes. “I’m serious. The guy has informants on both sides of the border. He’s unreachable. You can’t get to him. You have rules and regulations to follow. He doesn’t.”
Nick and Matt exchanges glances.
“He’s right,” Matt said, raising his eyebrows. “We need help outside of the agency.”
Nick understood the connotation. “I know. Walt suggested the same thing.”
“Then why not call him?”
Nick stuck his finger into the bullet hole Matt left in the drywall. “I tried. He’s out of the country. I’m not sure he has cell coverage.”
Matt shrugged. “All he’d have to do is make a few calls. He could get us information.”
Nick looked at the expression on Matt’s and Stevie’s faces, wanting him to contact his cousin Tommy like it was a call to Batman.
“Relax,” Nick said. “He’s in Africa somewhere. I’ll find a way to get him a message. In the meantime, let’s find another way to get Garza.”
In the corner of his eye, Nick could see Chapin wordlessly shaking his head, as if to himself. “You have no idea,” he whispered.
Nick looked up at Matt. “Have Decker call in three random agents.”
Matt cocked his head. “Why?”
“Because if there really are any other moles I want to know about it,” Nick said. Then he looked at the mess of flesh sitting quietly on the floor. The man who had Ricky and Jim killed. “Besides, if there are others, they’ll report to Garza that the entire building was interviewed and it won’t arouse any suspicion toward this asshole.”
“What do we do with him?” Matt asked.
Nick came to his feet and patted Matt’s shoulder. “First, we get his daughter back.”
Chapter 6
The basement of the FBI’s Baltimore field office housed the most sophisticated War Room in the nation, which required an iris scan and a short elevator ride to gain access. The FBI’s information technicians worked long hours, so to avoid disorientation the walls were dotted with recessed TV monitors in the shape and position where windows would normally be placed. The monitors displayed the security images from the perimeter of the building with such clarity it felt like you were looking directly outside. Even the ceiling portrayed images of the actual sky above so the brain was fooled into believing it was in a ground floor office instead of fifty feet underground.
The perimeter of the room was lined with computer stations where techs would decipher data they’d received from the field and analyze their level of validity, then their level of threat. More than a third of the staff there were multilingual and many more were pure interpreters.
A weekly department head meeting was held there strictly for discussion of terrorist threats on US soil. Even though it was Walt Jackson’s home office, he was there early to mitigate any animosity between his boss, FBI Director Louis Dutton, and CIA Director Ken Morris.
Dutton and Morris sat across the round table in the center of the room, pretending to be occupied on their tablet computers, while Walt and Defense Secretary Martin Riggs waited for the final member of the group to arrive.
Riggs was an ex-Marine with little patience for politics and seemed to sense the tension around the table. He waved a finger between Dutton and Morris and said, “You two know each other?”
Walt said nothing, while Dutton and Morris maintained their fascination with their tablets. The elevator chimed and out stepped Secretary of State, Samuel Fisk. He was a large man with a slow methodical gait. He held a plastic cup full of trail mix and placed it on the table as he took his seat next to Walt.
Fisk patted Walt’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Walt said, lamenting the loss of two of his men. “Me too.”
Fisk popped a handful of trail mix in his mouth and looked around the table. “Are we ready?”
Morris and Dutton both shoved their tablets aside and nodded.
Fisk looked at the CIA Director first. “Ken, what’s going on with Templeton in Cairo? I thought that was taken care of?”