“How’d your day go?” she asked.
He brought her up to speed as they made the long walk down the far hall to the room Carlos was sequestered in.
Horror filled her eyes at the information Carlos had provided, and he wished he could provide comfort, assure her he’d get the terrorist cell before they could carry out whatever they had planned, but there were so many unknowns at play. He was reminded, yet again, of how desperately they needed God’s help and guidance.
They relieved Agent Tim Barrows from his post guarding the interrogation room door and stepped inside. Carlos’s wary eyes darted to Tanner.
“Hi, Carlos,” Tanner said.
“This,” Declan said, setting down a cup of steaming coffee in front of Carlos, “is Tanner Shaw. She’s a counselor with the Bureau.”
Carlos looked skeptical. “Counselor?”
“She’s been working this case with me.”
“Oh right. You were with the refugees on the Hiram.” The hesitancy on Carlos’s face eased slightly. “I thought you looked familiar.”
“Is it okay if I join you two?” she asked, letting Carlos feel a bit in control.
Carlos thought it over a moment, and then nodded.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a seat next to Declan.
Declan pulled a handful of sugar and creamer packets from his trouser pockets and dropped them on the table. “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee,” he said to Carlos.
“Always black,” Carlos said. “They don’t bother with sugar or cream for the crew.”
Of course.
Declan looked to Tanner. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Okay then,” Declan said. “We were discussing the five men who were recently brought over from . . . Malaysia, I’m guessing, as you said southeast Asia.”
Carlos nodded.
“You also said they were treated as Anajay Darmadi had been—receiving special treatment as highly honored guests on the ship.”
“Yes. Except whenever we made port, then they hid in the special cargo hold.”
“And when you reached Baltimore . . . ?”
“They disembarked onto a fast raft when we were still a ways out, and then the fast raft was replaced after we were in port.”
“Replaced by whom?”
“Lennie Wilcox and some men.”
“And that didn’t draw suspicion?”
“Not to the customs officials who always were attached to our ship.”
“You always had the same customs officials?”
Carlos nodded.
The ones Stallings or Ebeid had in their pockets. Knowing how the port ran, Declan figured it was more likely Stallings’ influence. He would also need to get a sketch artist in for Carlos to provide a description of the customs agents. Even if Carlos didn’t have direct contact with them, he should be able to at least give a basic description—but that could wait for a moment. He wanted to finish the current vein of questioning first.
“How far out were you when they left in the fast raft?” Declan asked.
“About a dozen nautical miles, I guess.”
He’d have to pinpoint where that would be and what was in the surrounding area, but he was pretty sure they’d chosen to come ashore somewhere far more remote than Anajay Darmadi had. And yet, Dr. Ebeid blamed the entire connection with Darmadi on his murdered assistant, Jari Youssef. With Jari dead and no contrary evidence, there was no way to charge Dr. Ebeid with smuggling terrorists. It was sickening and frustrating, but one day Dr. Ebeid wouldn’t be so lucky, and today might bring them one step closer to that day.
“Any idea where they went after reaching shore?” Declan asked, before taking a sip of his coffee.
Carlos shook his head. “I think the Egyptian handled those men and the weapons. Stallings seemed to handle the refugees and the drugs.”
“Speaking of the Egyptian . . .” Declan pushed a picture of Dr. Ebeid across the table.
Carlos flinched.
Asking didn’t seem necessary, but Declan did anyway. “Is this the Egyptian you saw with Stallings?”
Carlos nodded.
“Can you respond verbally?” Their interview was being recorded.
“Yes. That’s him. He didn’t always come himself. Sometimes he sent another man—younger, taller. But when important matters were to be discussed—at least when everything was tense in the building and I was sent to clean the lower room—the Egyptian showed up.”
“His name is Dr. Khaled Ebeid,” Declan said. “He’s the head of the Islamic Cultural Institute of the Mid-Atlantic. Did you ever hear any of your shipmates or building mates mention that?”
“No.”
Well, at least they’d obtained eyewitness confirmation that Dr. Ebeid and Max Stallings were both involved in the smuggling and trafficking, and in it together, at least on some level. Declan would be paying them both a visit once Carlos was safely with the Marshals.
He’d also pay Lennie another visit. What were Stallings and Lennie thinking? They were working with a man smuggling in terrorists and weapons of destruction. Did they not care about their country at all?
He shook his head. Men like Lennie and Max only cared about money.
“Let’s shift back to Burke for a minute,” Declan said. “There were items we took as evidence out of your and Burke’s bunk room.”
Carlos nodded.
“One area that was communal was the desk. Were the items on the desk—magazines and maps, if I recall correctly—yours or Burke’s?”
“They were mine. I liked to see where I was spending time. Thought of relocating a time or two. You know, pretend I had a different life. Like somehow I could escape the cycle.”
“The Marshals will do just that for you, Carlos. And I can give you some pointers before you leave, if you’d like,” Tanner said.
Carlos didn’t really seem interested, but he clearly liked Tanner, so he nodded, smiled, and said, “Okay.”
“So everything on the desk was yours?” Declan needed to be certain.
“Yes, but Steven read through it all. He was especially interested in Baltimore, as that’s where we were making port. He read that Chesapeake magazine I’d gotten at one of those free tourist boxes my last trip in. He read it over and over. Studied the map. I just assumed he was trying to familiarize himself with the place.”
Maybe he had figured out that Baltimore was where the cells were building. Maybe he knew that’s where the attack was going to occur. Declan needed to go through those magazines and maps with a fine-tooth comb, check to see if Burke had made any notations or markings.
“Did you ever notice Burke writing in the magazine or on the maps?”
“Yeah. A couple times. He asked if it was okay. I said I didn’t mind. He made marks so small and faint I couldn’t even find them. He went out of his way to be a nice bunkmate.”
“Did you ever write or mark in them?”
“No. I just read them.”
So anything they found marked inside could only be attributed to Burke.
“Do you know what happened the day of Steven Burke’s death?”
Carlos swallowed. “He got caught going through Darmadi’s berth.”
“Did he find anything in Darmadi’s berth that you’re aware of?”
“All I saw when I stopped by after hearing the commotion were a couple brochures on the floor of his room, but it couldn’t be over them. If he found something, it must have been something else.”
“How come?” Declan asked.
“Like I said, it was just brochures. One about a bridge and another about tunnels.”
Declan swallowed. “In Baltimore?”
“I think so, but I barely got a glimpse at the bridge. The brochure was folded, so it was only a section.”
“Was the bridge metal or concrete?”
“Metal . . . I think.”
“And the tunnel? Did it have a name on it?” There were so m
any tunnels in the Chesapeake Bay region. The Bay Tunnel, the Harbor Tunnel, the Fort McHenry Tunnel . . . the list went on and on.
Carlos shook his head. “It just showed cars moving through a tunnel—it was such a brief glance. I peeked in later after Darmadi was gone, but the brochures were gone too.”
Was a bridge in Maryland their target—the Key Bridge in Baltimore or the Bay Bridge in Annapolis? Or was it in D.C.—the Woodrow Wilson Bridge? Was that what the IEDs, line charges, and other weapons were for—to blow up a bridge or a tunnel?
“And then what happened?” he asked.
“Two crew members hauled Burke up to see the captain. I knew something bad was going to happen. Darmadi rushed after them, and within seconds, there were gunshots.”
“What happened next?”
“Darmadi grabbed his stuff and left in a fast raft. A bunch of us went up to see what happened on the bridge, and we found Burke and Joseph, the first mate, dead, and the captain knocked out and slumped on the floor.”
“Why didn’t you report any of this while we were on the ship?” He knew it was a foolish question, and Tanner thought so too by the roll of her exquisite brown eyes—the color of his mom’s homemade sea salt caramels.
“I was afraid.”
“Of course you were,” Tanner said.
“I understand,” Declan responded, but they could have saved so much time, made so much progress, if Carlos had just talked earlier. He believed, however, that God had His timing, and ultimately, Declan trusted in that, in Him.
He just prayed they weren’t too late.
Tanner continued chatting with Carlos until the Marshals arrived and Declan signed off on his transfer.
As soon as Carlos was gone, Declan headed for evidence.
“Going to get the magazines and maps?” Tanner asked.
“Yeah. I meant to grab them out of evidence earlier, but haven’t had a chance until now. I’m really praying we find some of the notes Carlos said Burke made. I’m sure they are in code just as the postcards were, but Burke might have found a way of noting his thoughts without it being obvious to a casual observer.”
Tanner joined him after he returned with the evidence in question, and together they sat on the black leather couch in Declan’s office and began combing through each magazine, brochure, and map, looking for any hint of a notation.
They certainly had their work cut out for them.
32
Declan roused himself, his eyelids heavy, his right arm asleep.
Please tell me I didn’t fall asleep in front of Tanner.
His heart in his throat, he glanced to his right and found the reason for his numb arm—Tanner’s head resting on it while she was fast asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he took a moment to look around, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The magazine, brochures, and maps still surrounded them, his notebook with markings, scratched-out markings, and more notations lay open on the coffee table by his socked feet.
Tanner’s legs were curled up beneath her on the sofa, her hand resting softly on his abdomen.
He swallowed and, blinking, looked at the clock on his office wall. Midnight?
Last he’d looked it had been seven.
The puzzle they were attempting to put together had just been too inviting to stop midway.
He inhaled, the smell of coconut and vanilla lingering in the air. Tanner’s shampoo.
How long had they been asleep, and who had seen them? He looked to find his office door closed. He frowned. Had Tanner shut it, or one of his colleagues? If the latter, he’d never hear the end of the ribbing.
He hated to wake her, but he needed to get her back to his guest room so she could get a good night’s rest. Yesterday, he’d insisted she stay in his guest room until the case was over. Thankfully, she hadn’t fought him on it, which was both surprising and encouraging.
He moved his arm slowly, the blood rushing painfully to the numb limb. Her head lolled, and her eyes fluttered open. Confusion marred her brow. So she hadn’t closed the door.
She sat straight up. “What happened?”
“We fell asleep.”
She stretched, planting her feet on the carpeted floor. “What time is it?” Her eyes lifted to the clock. “Midnight?”
“If you’re too tired to head to my house, we can stay here. You can have this couch, and I’ll take the one in Barrows’ office, but I’d rather you get a good night’s rest.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. Let’s head to your place.” Knowing Tanner, she was probably more worried about the sleep he needed than her own, but they headed down to the garage. The temperature had dropped, and Tanner wrapped her coat more tightly around herself.
“I’ll crank up the heat,” he said as he held the passenger door of his vehicle open for her. “It should kick in soon.”
“I’m fine.”
He climbed into the driver’s side and started the engine. She was shivering. He looked at the temperature display on the dash. Thirty-seven degrees. Not even close to the afternoon temps of sixty-five. October was the month of temperature swings in Baltimore.
The car warmed quickly, and soon Tanner relaxed, even unbuttoned her coat partway.
His house was a half hour drive from the office, but at this time of night they wouldn’t hit any traffic. He pulled onto 695, another SUV pulling on after him, and another, and another, and finally a fourth one—the four spreading out. Two in the lane to his right, one to his left and one behind.
Declan pulled his gun from his holster. “Grab the gun out of my glove compartment. We’ve got company.”
He watched her assess the situation as she pulled out the gun, and he hit the accelerator, but it was going to do them no good. They were about to be boxed in.
Declan punched the Bluetooth button on the dash. “Call Griff!” he yelled, explaining the situation in as few grunted words as possible when Griff picked up. Declan floored the gas pedal—the dark SUVs accelerating in turn. Then, just as he’d anticipated, the front SUV in the right lane sped up and tried to pull in front of him. “Fire at his tires before he can box us in.”
He powered down Tanner’s window just enough for her to aim the gun out of it, and she shot the car’s rear driver’s side tire out. The vehicle swerved, but the driver regained control. Declan accelerated to give her a better angle, and she shot the front tire out. The SUV wobbled and screeched to a stop, the other three vehicles maintaining pursuit.
“Nice shooting,” he said, rolling up her window as the windows of the SUVs on either side of them powered down. “Get down.” He shoved her head toward the floor. The bullets ricocheted off the bullet-resistant glass he’d had installed after Jari’s execution.
She tilted her head sideways. “Bulletproof glass?”
“Bullet resistant,” he said as a round cracked the glass. Praise God it hadn’t penetrated it. He accelerated, but not before a round made contact with his rear driver’s side tire.
He swerved, bullets ricocheting through the night air, one pinging off his bumper, another landing in his rear passenger tire. He was now riding on two rims. Sparks shot out from the rims rolling at high speed along the asphalt. The two SUVs slammed into them from either side at the same time as the one on his bumper rammed them from behind.
Tanner’s head whiplashed forward and back.
“Hang on tight.” He hit his brakes, the two side SUVs flying past, the one behind swerving slightly.
Declan’s heart dropped as the SUV behind them angled just right and . . .
“Hang on!” Declan roared as the driver rammed their back corner with the front of his SUV at just the right speed and position, sending Declan’s Suburban flipping end over end. They landed upside down and skidded along the pavement.
Please, Father, let me see police lights.
They spun sideways, the brake lights of the SUVs that had flown past now frozen thirty feet in front of them as they rocked to a stop.
He looked over at Tanner and his heart sq
ueezed at the blood dripping from her head. She appeared unconscious, but her hair hung long as she remained pinned upside down by her seat belt, so he couldn’t tell how severe the wound was or exactly where on her head the blood was oozing from.
Please, Father, let her be okay. You know the love I have for her. Forgive me for waiting so long to tell her.
The SUVs reversed, and men piled out. Declan reached for his gun, but his arms were pinned. They kicked the window in and hauled him out through it. His heart clenched.
Please don’t take Tanner.
Thankfully, for whatever reason—probably the emergency lights drawing near—they left her. Shoving him into the back of the SUV, they pulled away as the sirens blared closer.
Thank you, Father. At least Tanner would be taken care of. Please let her be okay.
Waiting for the opportune moment, he slammed his elbow into the man’s face beside him, knocking the gun from his hand, only to be cracked across the back of the head. Everything went black.
Tanner roused to consciousness, to see Declan being shoved into an SUV. She painfully craned her head left as the SUV sped away. Declan was gone.
A few seconds later a police officer knelt by the window beside her.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?” the officer asked, his flashlight shining in her eyes.
She blinked. “They took him.”
“Took who?”
“They kidnapped Federal Agent Declan Grey.”
33
Declan woke to blood rushing to his head, a rhythmic swinging motion pulling him back and forth, back and forth, as he was upside down? His head hung several inches above a cracked concrete floor. He followed his naked torso to his legs and up to the ropes that tied him to the wooden beam just inches below the low ceiling, his feet bare.
Who had him and what did they intend to do to him?
The room was practically barren. An old steel conveyer belt ran the length of the concrete wall on his left. A few tattered bags that once might have held grain had all but been chewed through until only shreds of burlap remained.
Some kind of deserted warehouse, he guessed.