No Good Deed

Chapter 12

Broward County had been a different place in the early eighties. The beach had its splashy hotels and towering condos, but the rest of the county had been farmland. Thirty miles to the south, the Miami drug wars were claiming lives every day, but that was a different world, and far removed from Broward’s slow, laid-back pace.

Lancaster had grown up in an area called Southwest Ranches. The houses sat on big lots, and it wasn’t uncommon to see a horse tethered to a hitching post. When people talked about predators, they meant the hawks that cut the skies, searching for prey.

One early July afternoon, his mother had gone shopping with her two sons. A flyer in the paper had announced a sale at Macy’s, and she wanted to buy several items. Macy’s was the anchor store in the Pembroke Pines Mall, and she parked on the building’s north side. Before getting out, she made her boys promise there would be no shenanigans once inside.

Logan had broken his word as they’d neared the entrance.

“Logan hit me!” Lancaster said.

“Logan, stop tormenting your brother,” their mother said.

“Jonny stuck his tongue out at me,” his brother lied.

“No I didn’t,” he bellowed.

His mother made them stand in front of her, and pinched their chins. “That’s enough out of both of you. If you don’t behave, there will be no Tastee Treat during the drive home. Are we clear?”

Her sons nodded solemnly. There was no greater treat than a soft ice cream twirl from Tastee Treat, the roadside buildings designed like giant ice cream cones.

They entered the store. Just inside the doors was the toy department. The boys stopped in their tracks, transfixed by the end display on the first aisle. It was the Atari Asteroids space shooter game that was all the rage, the clamor of spaceships and cannon fire tearing up the air.

“Can we play?” they asked.

Their mother removed the flyer from her purse. One of the sale items she wished to purchase was a few aisles away in household goods.

“You may, so long as you stay together,” she said.

“Yes, Mom,” they said.

No sooner had she walked away than they were arguing about who should play first. Logan won out, and was soon blowing up alien spacecraft while trying to avoid being hit by counterfire. As the game progressed, the obstacles increased, and Logan became hypnotized by the machine’s flashing lights.

“Let me play,” Jon said.

“You’re up next,” Logan said.

“I want to play now.”

“Stop bothering me. I’m close to making ten million points.”

He’d started to sulk. Soon their mother would be finished, and they’d leave the store, and he wouldn’t get a chance to play. It sucked being the younger brother.

“You stink,” he said.

Logan gave him a Bronx cheer. Steaming, he walked into the appliance department, and flipped the channels on a TV with a remote while pretending it was a video game. He did not notice the strange man until he was right on top of him.

“Hey, little guy,” the stranger said.

The man flashed a twisted smile, and he put the remote down and backed away from the TV. His mother had taught him not to talk to strange people.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asked.

He shook his head as if to say, Nothing doing.

“Look at what I have. Help yourself.”

The man had a brown paper bag, which he opened and shoved beneath his nose. It was filled with an assortment of mouthwatering candy. The temptation was too great, and he stuck his hand in, and pulled out a bag of M&M’s. He frowned and tossed it back.

“What’s wrong?” the stranger asked.

“I don’t like M&M’s,” he said.

“That’s too bad. What’s your favorite candy?”

“Reese’s Pieces. When we leave the store, my mother is taking us to Tastee Treat, and I’m going to get a chocolate twirl sprinkled with them.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jonny.”

“Well, Jonny, you’re in luck. I’ve got a big bag of Reese’s Pieces in my car. Come with me, and I’ll give you some. What do you say?”

“Okay.”

The stranger gave another smile. His face was marred by a wandering eye that refused to stay still, and his clothes smelled dirty from days of wear. Two of the buttons on his shirt were undone, exposing a shiny purple fabric underneath.

The stranger stuck his hand out. “Let’s go.”

He stared at the stranger’s hand and saw that it was covered in scars. A voice inside his head screamed at him. There was no bag of Reese’s Pieces. The stranger was lying, and if he went outside with him, he was never going to see his family again.

“No,” he said forcefully.

“Don’t you want to come with me?”

“No!”

Leaning down, the stranger punched him in the stomach, which knocked the air out of him; then he grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the store. By the time they reached the parking lot, his voice had returned, and he started to scream. Several shoppers getting in their cars stopped to watch but did not intervene.

“That’s enough out of you,” the stranger scolded. “Now be quiet, or you won’t get any dessert tonight.”

He kept screaming and kicking the pavement. The man came to his vehicle, a ’71 black-over-white Cadillac with a dented bumper, and dug out his keys. The man popped the trunk and lifted him off the ground by the back of his shirt.

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll throw you in,” the man threatened.

The trunk’s interior was lined with carpet. On it lay a collection of rusted tools, including a shovel and a machete. Seeing them, he stopped crying.

“That’s a good boy,” the man said.

He was fixated on the machete. He had seen landscape crews in his neighborhood use them to prune trees. They were dangerous, and they scared him.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he whispered.

The man laughed under his breath. He didn’t mean for his victim to hear him, the sound born out of the sickest of impulses.

But Jon did hear him, and screamed even louder.

Fresh from conquering space, Logan burst out of the store. Seeing his brother’s dilemma, he sprinted across the parking lot, and kicked the stranger squarely in the nuts. As the stranger crumpled to the ground, groaning in agony, his shirt came out of his pants, revealing a purple dress beneath.

Logan grabbed his brother’s hand, and they ran back inside.

“You okay?” Logan asked.

He sucked back his tears and said yes.

“Don’t tell Mom,” his brother said. “If you do, we won’t get ice cream.”

He awoke from his fever dream drenched in sweat. Over the course of his life, he’d been in plenty of tight spots, but none of those situations had stayed with him like that day in the mall. He realized that a loud and persistent knocking on his hotel room door had woken him, so he slipped on yesterday’s clothes and strode across the room to stare through the peephole. Daniels stood outside, holding a bag from Panera. He pulled back the security chain, and she entered.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? I was worried about you,” she said.

“I never heard it ring.”

“Check it, if you don’t believe me.”

His Droid sat on the night table. A notification bar on the screen said that she’d called six times. She was being truthful, and he felt like an idiot.

“I must have muted the volume. How did you find me?”

From the bag she removed a steak-and-egg bagel and a large cup of coffee. “The FBI has access to every hotel’s registration in the country. It makes tracking down suspects a lot easier. You like your coffee with artificial sweetener, right?”

“Good memory. Did you get anything for yourself?”

“I did, and ate it in the car. Sorry, but I was starving. Where did you go last night? I got worried when I saw you’d left, but your car was still there.”

She sat down on the bed, and he pulled up the room’s only chair and dug in. The food was still warm, and he could feel it healing his insides as it reached his stomach. “I took an Uber to a bar and closed the place down. Then I Ubered it here. What time is it, anyway?”

“Eight thirty.”

“Have you been up all night?”

“Afraid so.” Her hand touched the sheets, and she pulled it away in alarm. “These are soaking wet.”

“I was having a bad dream.”

“You have nightmares?” she asked.

He said nothing and continued to eat.

“Do you suffer from PTSD?” she asked.

Daniels was not the type to let up, and he decided to answer her.

“Yes. This was something that happened to me as a kid.”

“It must have been traumatic. Was your brother in the dream?”

He stared at her. “How did you know that?”

“Your brother was murdered last night. It’s only natural that it would spark a memory from when you were kids. I’m sorry it was a bad one.”

“So am I.”

She pushed herself off the bed and came over to him. Her palm touched his forehead, and she frowned. “You’re really warm. Do you feel okay?”

“I’m hungover. It was a bad night.” He offered her the last bite, and when it was declined, popped it into his mouth. Done, he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “So what can I do for you, Special Agent Daniels?”

“You’re still angry at me, aren’t you?”

“A favor of a reply would be appreciated.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That’s the line that junk mail companies print on the outside of envelopes they send out. I texted and called, and you didn’t reply. Do you have any idea how crummy that made me feel?”

“I’m sorry. I should have called you back.”

“But you didn’t. Your niece said it was standard behavior.”

“When did you talk to Nicki?”

“Why don’t you call your niece and ask her yourself?” He got out of the chair, went to the bathroom, and took a cold shower to get his heart racing. She was still standing in the middle of the room when he came out. His open suitcase sat on the dresser, and he dressed in a pair of cargo fishing shorts and a T-shirt that said JIMMY BUFFETT FOR PRESIDENT while she turned her back and stared out the window.

“All done,” he said.

Turning around, she eyed his wardrobe. “I thought you said you were on a job.”

“I was going to Key West for some R&R when I heard about Elsie Tanner’s murder and her granddaughter’s abduction,” he said. “It struck a nerve, and I asked the director of Team Adam if I could handle it. He agreed, and sent me the file, which I printed off my computer. Then, I drove up here.”

“What do you mean, it struck a nerve?”

“I was nearly abducted as a kid, and I screamed my head off. The file said the granddaughter’s scream was heard all over the neighborhood. That nerve.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Their relationship hadn’t progressed enough for him to feel comfortable talking about his first brush with evil, or its aftermath, and he slipped on his Top-Siders.

“How about a lift to my car?” he asked.

“Sure, Jon,” she said. “Whatever you’d like.”

Chapter 13

Florida was bursting at the seams. Every day, the state added a thousand new residents, not including newborns. The population growth wasn’t expected to stop until it reached thirty million residents. By then, all the desirable places to live would be taken, and hopefully the out-of-staters would stop coming.

Living in the Sunshine State wasn’t paradise, not with monster hurricanes and man-eating alligators that appeared on golf courses and front lawns. But it was nicer than anywhere else on the East Coast, so the people kept on moving down.

Because of the growth, traffic was a nightmare, and the major roadways often resembled parking lots. Tampa was no exception, and they crawled down the four-lane Veterans Expressway with Daniels manning the wheel.

“We need to talk about what happened at the Jayhawk,” she said. “I know it’s painful, but I’ve got to do it.”

“No such thing as a free meal, huh?” he said.

“Jon, please let me do my job.”

“Did you get in hot water for letting me walk away last night?”

She nodded stiffly. “My boss chewed me out pretty good.”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stay there.”

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“Instead of grilling me, may I suggest another approach?”

“What would that be?”

“Let me tell you what I think is going on. When I’m finished, you can ask me all the questions you want. Okay?”

“Sure.”

He spent a moment collecting his thoughts. He had worked cases with the FBI before, and knew how their agents operated. There was a voice-activated tape recorder in Daniels’s purse, and everything he was about to say would be recorded, and later analyzed. He couldn’t blame Beth for this; Logan was an accomplice to a murder and a kidnapping, and he’d been the last person to talk to Logan before he’d died.

“Let’s start with the facts. A dozen women have been abducted, and there are no clues to their whereabouts. That’s hard to fathom, considering the resources the state uses to find missing people. There are high-resolution surveillance cameras embedded in light poles on every highway, and in traffic lights at major intersections. The images are fed into computers with facial recognition software programs, which lets law enforcement capture bad guys on the run. It’s also a handy tool when looking for missing people, because the only way to get around in the state is by car. Yet, so far, there have been no hits.” He paused. “Sound about right?”

“You’re on fire. Keep talking,” she said.

“You were brought in to run the investigation because you’re an expert in human trafficking. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Now, I’m going to go out on a limb, but I’m pretty sure that you started working the case from the start. Am I right?”

“How did you know that?”

“Personal history.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“The first victim was abducted four weeks ago, which is when you stopped talking with me,” he said. “Then another woman vanished, then another. You got so wrapped up in your investigation, that you shut out the real world. You didn’t talk to me, or your sister, or your niece. Total tunnel vision. Am I right?”

“Yes, you are. I get wrapped up in my cases, and stop talking to people. I was going to call you once I was done. I enjoyed our dates.”

“So did I. The people behind these abductions have done this before, haven’t they?”

Her jaw tightened. “Who told you that?”

“You just did.”

“Why, what did I say?”

“You confirmed that you started working the case at the beginning. The first victim was a Hispanic woman from Miami in her late forties. Your specialty is finding missing kids, not middle-aged women. The Miami abduction must have matched an abduction that took place somewhere else, where a juvenile was taken.”

“You don’t miss much. The Miami abduction matched a case in Jacksonville where a teenage girl disappeared three months ago. I worked the Jacksonville case, so my boss gave me the assignment.”

“What made the cases similar?”

A driver in the left lane needed to move over. She let the vehicle cut in front of her, then said, “I can’t tell you that. It’s against bureau rules.”

“Can I guess?”

“Fire away.”

“Were there demonic symbols left at the crime scenes?”

“Who the hell told you that?”

“My brother had a 666 tattoo on his neck, and there was a 666 spray-painted on the victim’s driveway in Lakeland. Sorry, cat’s out of the bag.”

“Please don’t go around repeating that. We don’t need wild stories about devil worshippers splashed across every newspaper in the country.”

“The sheriff in Polk County already leaked it to the media.”

“He’s a fucking idiot. No one’s going to believe him.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Thank you.”

“If you want my opinion, the guys who are behind these crimes aren’t really devil worshippers. It’s a smoke screen. You should ignore the demonic symbols.”

“If they’re not devil worshippers, then what are they?”

“They’re criminals. While in prison, my brother was recruited into a gang whose leader is named Cano. Logan said that Cano would cast spells over the guards, and get them to secretly bring laptops and cell phones into the prison. Logan made it sound like Cano was a witch doctor who could track people with his spells.”

“You think it’s a bunch of bull?”

“Of course it’s bull. Cano is from Colombia. When I was a SEAL, I did several rescue missions in Colombia, and got to know the country pretty well. There’s an indigenous tree called the borrachero that produces beautiful white-and-yellow trumpet flowers. When those flowers are ground up, they become a drug called scopolamine, which the locals call Devil’s Breath. Blow some in a person’s face, or slip it into their drink, and they turn into a zombie. My guess is, Cano got some Devil’s Breath smuggled into the prison, and is drugging the guards.”

“So Cano’s a fake.”

“Absolutely. If Cano can perform black magic and cast spells, what does he need laptops and cell phones for?”

“Good point.”

Tampa International Airport abutted the highway they were driving on. A jumbo jet flew directly over their vehicle with its landing wheels down, the sound making conversation impossible. Daniels exited onto Interstate 275 north, and soon they were driving past Tampa’s jagged skyline of office buildings and new construction.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“I have one more thing to share. Call it a suspicion,” he said. “I think the gang behind these abductions is in the Tampa Bay area.” He paused. “Am I warm?”

“That’s the assumption we’re working off. How did you know?”

“Two things tipped me off. Dexter Hudson murdered Elsie Tanner and took her granddaughter. Last night, he murdered my brother. Dexter could have taken off between murders, but that’s unlikely. I’m guessing he’s hiding out in this area.”

“One guy doesn’t mean the whole gang is here.”

“I said there were two things.”

“Yes, you did. What’s the second?”

“Tampa is ground zero for the FBI’s investigation. You’re camped out at the Marriott on State Road 54, and are taking people there to be questioned. You’re also butting heads with the sheriff’s department, which tells me you have a lot of agents sniffing around. There could be only one reason for that.”

She let out a frustrated sigh. “Are we making our presence that obvious?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you have a choice. This gang is here, and you need to find them. Hiding your presence won’t accomplish anything. May I ask you a question?”

“What’s that?”

“What led you here?”

“We had a report in Miami of a guy with a Fu Manchu and sideburns in the neighborhood where the first abduction took place. He showed up again in Orlando, then was spotted in Keystone. He got spotted several more times in Tampa after that, leading us to believe he’s camped out here with his gang. Everything you’ve told me confirms that.”

“So the key to solving this is Dexter.”

“It certainly seems that way.”

A few minutes later she pulled into the Jayhawk’s parking lot. It looked worse in the daylight, the sidewalks cracked and buckled from the relentless heat. All that remained of last night’s shooting was a chalk outline on the pavement where Logan had fallen and died. It still wasn’t sinking in that Logan was gone, and he wondered if it ever would. When this was over, he planned to bury his brother next to his parents at the cemetery in Fort Lauderdale. Maybe then he could achieve some kind of closure.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Not really,” he admitted.

The office door opened, and Skip came outside. Seeing Lancaster, he tipped his head and gave him a two-finger salute. It was not a mocking gesture, but a way of saying thanks for hiding the bag of dope that Lancaster had found on the desk.

Skip went back inside. Lancaster undid his seat belt and turned to face her.

“I can solve this thing,” he said.

Her eyes went wide. “Your brother told you how to find Dexter, didn’t he?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, and it shouldn’t take me very long. Once I find Dexter, you can put his feet to the fire, and get him to tell us where the victims are. Case solved.”

“You’ve got this whole thing figured out, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I can’t do it alone. We need to team up. You need to let me join the FBI’s investigation.”

“I’d get fired if I did that.”

“Ask your boss for permission. If he says yes, you’re in the clear.”

“What if my boss says no?”

“Then I’ll round up my old SEAL buddies, and find Dexter myself.”

“My boss is going to want to know what your brother told you. Are you going to tell me what he said?”

Lancaster shook his head. Daniels exploded and grabbed his arm.

“God damn it, Jon! You agreed to answer my questions,” she said angrily.

“I changed my mind. Either we solve this as a team, or I’ll do it on my own. Take it or leave it.”

A long moment passed. She was still holding his arm. They’d hugged and kissed on their dates, and he’d enjoyed the intimacy, but this was different; if she didn’t let go, whatever thing they’d shared would be destroyed.

“Call me when you’ve made up your mind,” he said.

She let go of him, her lips moving in silent rage. He climbed out of the car and slammed the door. His own vehicle was where he’d parked it last night, the roof covered in bird droppings. He backed out and tried to leave. He couldn’t get past Daniels’s vehicle and had to drive over the chalk outline. An unearthly chill passed through his body, and he turned onto Nebraska and hit the gas.

Chapter 14

Daniels found a service station and filled up her tank. She was ready to erupt and took several deep breaths to calm herself down. Jon’s refusal to answer her question had made her so angry that she considered dragging him to the nearest police station, and throwing him into a cell. She’d done that with uncooperative witnesses before, and it always paid dividends.

Only she’d let him go. That wasn’t like her, and she supposed it was the nagging desire to rekindle their relationship, and start dating again. It was weird. She liked athletic-looking men, and Jon wasn’t that. Nor was he handsome or debonair. His wardrobe left a lot to be desired, and the blond stubble that covered his chin would never pass as a beard. So what was the attraction? She wasn’t entirely sure, just that it was real, and that she wanted to see him again.

She entered the station’s convenience store to buy a water and spied three teenage boys hovering around the register. They wore heavy gold chains and looked like trouble. She placed her purchase on the counter, tossed her money down, then pulled back her blazer to show them the sidearm strapped to her side.

“Get out of here,” she said.

“You can’t order us around. We didn’t do nothing,” the tallest one said.

She showed him her badge. “I’m with the FBI, and I can do whatever the hell I want, which includes searching you. If I find any drugs or weapons, I’ll arrest you. Now get your sorry asses out of this store, and don’t come back.”

The teens took off. Through the store window she watched them race down the sidewalk as if their pants were on fire. It lifted her spirits, and the manager gave her an appreciative smile along with her change.

She drove north on the interstate. A few miles before her exit, she got a call from her boss. His name was Joseph Hacker, J. T. to his subordinates, and he was the acting director of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division. They had worked together for over a decade, and J. T. was responsible for her rapid rise within the department.

“Good morning, J. T.,” she said.

“Hello, Beth. Are you on a speakerphone?”

“Yes. I’m in my car, driving back to the hotel.”

“Are you alone?”

The question caught her by surprise. “I am,” she replied.

“Good. This conversation goes no further.”

“Understood.”

“Have you had a chance to question Jon Lancaster?”

“We just finished up. Jon did most of the talking. He knows a lot.”

“Do you think he’s involved with the gang behind these abductions?”

“Absolutely not. Jon is here on behalf of Team Adam, and discovered that his brother Logan was involved in Elsie Tanner’s murder and her granddaughter’s abduction. That’s the story Jon gave to the police, and I have to believe that it’s true.”

“Will Jon help us?”

“That’s up in the air. Jon wants to join my team. In return, he’ll help us track down the gang’s ringleader, Dexter Hudson.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t give him an answer.”

“But you’re considering it.”

“I don’t have much choice. Our investigation has hit a brick wall. If Jon can find Dexter, then I need to bring him on board.”

“I’m not comfortable with this, Beth. Call me on Skype when you reach your hotel. We need to talk this over further.”

J. T.’s voice had turned cold. That wasn’t like him, and she sensed that she’d said the wrong thing. She agreed and ended the connection. Her exit was up ahead, and she flipped her indicator on. The bureau had forty-five directors who dealt with everything from domestic terrorism to cyber security, and they’d all been walking on eggshells since Deputy Director McCabe had been fired and stripped of his pension. It was a hard time to be in the FBI, and she assumed that J. T. didn’t want his career to go down in flames because one of his agents had done something stupid.

The Residence Inn by Marriott on State Road 54 was tucked behind a complex of commercial development and invisible from the street. She used a plastic key to take the elevator to the basement where the conference rooms were located, and walked down a hallway to an unmarked door, which she rapped softly upon.

The door swung in, and she entered. Her team had seven members including herself, and the others sat around a conference table, poring over reports. Photos of the victims were thumbtacked to a cork bulletin board, while a whiteboard contained the details of each abduction. To help them keep their geography straight, a map of Florida was taped to a wall, with gold stars applied to each city where a woman had vanished.

The room also had a flat-screen TV, and it contained a live feed of surveillance cameras from Tampa’s highways and roads. The images were sharp, the faces of drivers and their passengers being compared to the victims on a software program. So far, there had been no hits, but there was always the chance.

She murmured hello, and got several muted greetings in return. She didn’t need to ask them how things were going; the worry on their faces said it all.

She entered a breakout room, and shut the door. Taking her laptop from her purse, she put it on the table, and sat down in front of it. The FBI had switched to using Microsoft Surface Pros, which were the size of a tablet but more powerful than most PCs.

She got on to Skype and found J. T. in her contacts. Moments later, his face filled the screen. He was pushing fifty but looked older, his face lined with worry. His unhappiness was more evident than it had been during their phone conversation.

“I’m not comfortable with this situation,” he said, forgoing the usual hello. “Jon Lancaster is the brother to a suspect in this investigation. He’s also your boyfriend. How the hell do we put these things into a report?”

“He can find Dexter Hudson. I have to use him,” she said defensively.

“Please answer my question.”

“My relationship with Jon has no bearing on the case. I wasn’t planning to include it in my report.”

“But what if your investigation breaks bad?”

She shook her head, not understanding. J. T. gave her a slow burn. He didn’t like to explain himself, and she found the ensuing silence unbearable.

“We’re going to find these guys,” she said. “They’re hiding out in the Tampa Bay area, and we’re going to sniff them out. It’s just a matter of time.”

“But what if one of their victims is dead?” he said. “You know how the families react when a loved one dies. They blame us, and we end up in court.”

One of the sad truths about performing rescues was that the victim’s family was often not prepared to deal with tragedy. If a victim died in captivity, there was nothing the FBI could do about it. But that didn’t stop the grieving family from filing a wrongful death lawsuit, which would lead to the bureau having to turn over the investigation’s reports, and the agents who’d handled the case being deposed. Daniels had been on the receiving end of these lawsuits before, and they were never fun.

“That wouldn’t be good,” she admitted.

“Actually, it would be a shit storm,” he corrected her. “If it came out that you and Lancaster were romantically involved, and that his brother was a suspect, we’d all go down hard. I could lose my job, and so could you.”

“What do you think the odds are of that happening?”

“You mean of a lawsuit?”

“Yes.”

“If there were only one victim, I’d say the odds were slim. But because there are so many victims, the odds are much higher. We already have our lawyers gearing up for it, just to be safe.”

Her mouth had gone dry. Their work was hard enough without throwing a bunch of lawyers into the mix. She took the water bottle from her purse and had a drink.

“There’s another problem with Lancaster,” he said.

The words caught her by surprise. She didn’t date men with problems, and she wondered what J. T. had unearthed in Jon’s past.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“I called the Broward County Sheriff’s Office this morning, and had an off-the-record conversation with Jon’s former boss, Sheriff Dempsey. I asked Dempsey if he believed Jon might be involved with these abductions.”

“What did he say?”

“Dempsey didn’t think Jon was capable of doing such a thing.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Jon worked for the sheriff’s department for fifteen years. I asked Dempsey if there were any blemishes on Jon’s résumé.”

“Were there?”

“That’s the interesting part. After Jon became a detective, he was accused of breaking the rules during several investigations. These accusations came from attorneys whose clients Jon had busted. The accusations were formally reviewed by the sheriff’s department, and Jon was cleared of any impropriety.”

Lawyers were paid to get their clients off, and she wanted to ask J. T. why he was bringing this up. She bit her tongue and waited for him to continue.

“Sheriff Dempsey confided that he believed that Jon had broken the rules during these investigations, but had cleaned up his transgressions,” he said. “The sheriff said, and I quote, ‘Jon is a master at covering his tracks.’”

Jon often talked about his cases as a police officer, and he was rightfully proud of his record while on the force. Not once had he mentioned tampering with or destroying evidence, which was what J. T. was inferring that Jon had done as a detective.

“Did Sheriff Dempsey offer any proof?” she asked.

“No, he didn’t. But he seemed convinced of it.”

“I don’t think we should judge Jon based upon what his ex-boss thinks he may have done. Jon has been fighting the good fight a long time, and the world is a better place because of it.”

“Are you in love with him?”

It was a fair question, one that she’d asked herself when they’d dated. Jon wasn’t her type, yet she’d found herself drawn to him.

“I don’t think love is the right word,” she said.

“Then what?”

“I admire him.”

The answer caught J. T. off guard, and he gingerly touched his stomach. From his desk drawer he removed a box of antacids, popped two tablets into his mouth, vigorously chewed, and then washed them down with a glass of water.

“So what do you want me to do?” she said.

“The way I see it, you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place,” he said. “Your investigation is stalled, and more women are disappearing. The only person who can help you is also capable of ruining your career. That’s a no-win situation.”

“I know it is,” she said.

“I’d like to offer my opinion, but I don’t know enough about Lancaster to do that,” he said. “The decision rests squarely on your shoulders. It’s your call.”

The FBI usually stood behind its agents, but there were always exceptions, and she supposed this was what happened when people were made to work in a climate of fear. “I need to think about this. I’ll call you later,” she said.

“I’ll be here,” he said.

She hit a command on her keyboard, and the screen went dark.

Chapter 15

Leaving the Jayhawk, Lancaster drove to the county medical examiner’s office on North Forty-Sixth Street. It was a depressing place, the soulless brick building sitting on earth so brown that it looked scorched.

He spent a half hour waiting in line to claim his brother’s body, and another half hour arranging for Logan to be transported home to Fort Lauderdale after the medical examiner performed an autopsy. The process was draining, and he went outside to the parking lot and sat in his car for a while.

He’d discovered the music of Jimmy Buffett after getting out of the navy, and had been a fan ever since. He listened to the steel drum happiness of Buffett’s classic song “Volcano” on his car’s CD player, and gradually started to feel better.

He was having a hard time accepting that Logan was dead. It wasn’t easy having your brother in prison for twenty-five years, and he’d convinced himself that someday, when he and Logan were old men, they’d reunite, and become friends again. Maybe it was a fantasy, but it had made the situation a lot easier to accept.

His cell phone vibrated on the passenger seat. He flipped it over and saw a strange number with an 813 area code. He was in no mood to talk and let it go into voice mail.

A minute later the same person called again.

Then they called again.

Pissed off, he answered it.

“Jon, is that you?” a female voice asked.

“Who is this?”

“Lauren Gamble with the Tampa Bay Times.”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Are you okay? You don’t sound like yourself.”

He asked himself why Gamble was calling. Had she heard about Logan’s murder, and figured out they were brothers? He hadn’t seen any reporters milling around the Jayhawk last night, and told himself to stop being paranoid and talk to her.

“My sinuses are bothering me,” he said. “What’s up?”

“I’m in Gainesville working on a story about yesterday’s kidnapping,” Gamble said. “There are some eerie similarities with the victim’s background and Elsie Tanner’s.”

“Like what?”

“The victim’s name is Audrey Sipos, and she’s a thirty-year-old nurse practitioner who lives in a remote area several miles outside of town. My GPS couldn’t locate the address, so I had to ask directions.”

“Just like Elsie’s place.”

“Correct. Sipos left work yesterday and went to the mall to do some shopping. Her kidnapper abducted her about a half hour after she returned home. The timeline is similar to Elsie visiting the Citrus Park Mall.”

“This is very helpful. Good job.”

“There’s more. Sipos works at Shands Hospital, which is part of the University of Florida. Every person I spoke with at the hospital told me how compassionate Sipos is, and how she always went out of her way to help patients and their families.”

“Another Good Samaritan.”

“That’s right. Sipos studied nursing at UF, and was a member of the Alpha Chi Omega sorority. I visited the sorority this morning, and discovered that there’s an award named after her.”

“What did she do?”

“She saved a sorority sister who was being raped by a guy who picked her up in a bar. This happened when Sipos was a sophomore.”

The last three kidnapping victims had made it their mission to help people, and he wondered if that were the case with the previous victims as well.

“Did you share this information with the Gainesville police?” he asked.

“Not yet. I wanted to call you first.”

“I appreciate that. But you should tell the police what you’ve learned. It might help their investigation.”

“I’ll call them after we hang up. Do you have a minute? I’d like to talk to you about your work with Team Adam. It will help me with my story.”

The conversation had taken a bad turn. He didn’t want Gamble’s story to be about him, and why he’d chosen to join Team Adam after retiring from the police force. That wasn’t anybody’s business, and he planned to keep it that way.

A black woman clutching a baby to her chest came out of the medical examiner’s building and walked past his car. She’d been behind him in line, and had scowled when he’d offered his spot to her. She was racked with sobs, her face awash in tears.

“Let me call you right back,” he said.

He ended the call and got out. The woman was trying to get her keys out of her purse while not losing her baby. He offered to help, and this time she accepted. He fished out her keys and manually opened the car, then opened the back door so she could secure her child into a baby seat in the back. The child was fussy, and it took a while.

“Would you like a water? I’ve got one in my car,” he said.

“No, but thank you,” she said.

“My name’s Jon.”

“Shawnda.”

He dug a wad of Kleenex out of his pocket and gave it to her. She dabbed at her eyes and tried to pull herself together. “Came here to claim my sister’s things, only her stuff’s down at the police station,” she said. “Got to go down there and go through this nonsense all over again. Why didn’t they put a sign up saying that?”

For Shawnda’s sister’s body to be here meant she hadn’t died of natural causes. The poor woman was barely holding on, and he wished there was more he could do.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“To claim my brother.”

“World isn’t a safe place anymore.”

“No, it’s not.”

She thanked him for his help, and drove away. He returned to his car and got directions to his hotel. Back on Interstate 275, he got a call from Gamble and let it go to voice mail. A minute later, she called again. Then, she called again. She was like a dog that refused to let go of a bone.

“Sorry about that,” he answered, “but I needed to help a lady in distress.”

“You enjoy doing that, don’t you?” Gamble said.

“I guess. Look, I would really prefer if you didn’t focus on me when you write your story. There are a lot more important people in this investigation.”

“The managing editor at my paper feels otherwise. I told him how you volunteered to work this case, and he thought that was fascinating.”

“I’m actually a pretty dull guy,” he said.

“You could have fooled me,” she said. “So here’s what I want to ask you. I did a search on the internet, and found a photo on the front page of the Times-Picayune that was taken after Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. It shows you standing on an airport tarmac with a bunch of kids who got separated from their parents. There’s another man in the photo named Andy Vita, who’s identified as being a member of Team Adam. Were you doing a job for them?”

“No. I didn’t even know what Team Adam was back then.”

“Was Andy Vita the reason you joined?”

“Andy was part of the reason. He had amazing resources. With one phone call, he could move mountains. That stuck with me.”

“So he was your inspiration. What exactly did he do?”

“How much do you know about Katrina?”

“Not much. I was in middle school.”

“It was chaos. New Orleans was under martial law, and law enforcement agencies from all over the country sent teams to help out. I led the team that was sent by the Broward Sheriff’s Office. There were ten of us. We were taking boats into flooded areas and pulling kids out of trees and off rooftops who’d gotten separated from their families. We’d take them back to the camps so the doctors could check them out, and then do it all over again. It went on for days.”

“How many hours a day?”

“All day, all night.”

“You didn’t sleep?”

“We couldn’t. The kids had no food or water. If we didn’t find them quickly, they’d starve to death.”

“How many did you save?”

“We had four small boats. Probably fifty kids a day.”

“You must have been exhausted by the time it was over.”

While training to become a SEAL, he’d often stayed up for seventy-two hours straight while preparing for missions. It had taught him how far his body could go.

“I don’t remember. It was a long time ago,” he said.

“How did you connect with Andy Vita?”

“That happened at the end. Most of the kids were reunited with their parents. But there were about twenty that weren’t.”

“Their parents abandoned them?”

“It was nothing like that. Millions of people had to evacuate, and families got separated. Then the floodwaters rushed in, and people ran for their lives. It was like a war zone.”

“Didn’t the kids have cell phones?”

“These kids were poor. Besides, the flooding took down the cell towers. There was no communication, except by walkie-talkie.”

“That sounds like a nightmare.”

“It was. We eventually tracked the parents down. They’d gone to live with other family members, and were scattered all over the country. Houston, Atlanta, even Chicago. That presented a problem. How were we supposed to reunite them? We couldn’t just put the kids on a Greyhound bus and say good luck. That’s where Andy Vita and Team Adam came in.”

“They saved the day.”

“I’d never seen anything like it. Andy arranged for private jets to fly into New Orleans, and take the kids to the cities their parents were living in. I personally put every kid on one of those jets to make sure they got out okay. Andy was with me the whole time.”

“Who paid for the jets?”

“Team Adam has arrangements with the major airlines. If a child needs to be flown across the country, an agent can arrange for a private flight at no charge. For the NOLA operation, the jets were supplied by Delta and Southwest.”

“That’s way cool.”

He’d been enjoying their conversation up until that point. Rescue operations were often mired in red tape and politics, and as a result, innocent people suffered. Vita had demonstrated that there was a better way to get things done.

“Have you ever covered a disaster?” he asked.

His question caught her off guard.

“No, I haven’t,” she said.

“Saving lives hinges upon everyone working together. While Vita was reuniting those kids with their families, people were dying inside the Superdome because there weren’t any doctors. Ten miles outside the city there were truckloads of medicine waiting to be sent in, only they weren’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because the mayor of New Orleans and the governor hated each other, and never got on the phone. They had a pissing contest, and innocent people died because of it.”

“Thank you for telling me that. It explains a lot.”

He didn’t know what it explained, nor did he care. He had a job to do, and talking to Gamble wasn’t getting it done.

“I’ve got to run,” he said.

Then, he hung up.

Twenty minutes later, he parked beneath a shady tree in his hotel’s parking lot. It was noon, and he was surprised that he hadn’t heard back from Beth. At the end of the day, it really didn’t matter what she said. Dexter Hudson was the key to solving this puzzle, and he was going to track the bastard down, with or without the FBI’s help.

Daniels awaited him in the lobby. She had her cell phone out, and slipped the device into her purse as he came inside. Her badge was clipped to her lapel, indicating that this wasn’t a social call.

“I was just about to call you,” she said.

“My ears were burning. What’s up?”

“We need to go for a ride. I want you to take a look at something.”

“Are you taking me up on my offer?”

“We can discuss that in the car.”

They headed for the door, and she pulled her car keys out.

“I’ll drive,” she said.

“What exactly are you taking me to see?”

“A body.”

Chapter 16

With Beth, it was all about being in control. She insisted on driving, even though she was unfamiliar with the area. Arguing with her was usually a losing proposition, and he strapped himself into the passenger seat of her vehicle.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“A little town called Tarpon Springs. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yeah. Although I haven’t been there since I was a kid.”

She drove west until she reached US 19 and headed north. US 19 was an ugly eight-lane highway with long uninterrupted stretches. Driving on it felt like NASCAR.

“Whose body do you want me to look at?”

“We’re not sure. It got hauled up in a fishing boat’s nets early this morning. It’s a white male approximately six feet tall and a hundred sixty pounds with a bullet hole in his back. He wasn’t carrying any ID. I need you to take a look, and see if you think it’s the driver from last night that you shot at.”

“It doesn’t sound like a match.”

“How can you say that without looking at him?”

“I shot at that bastard twice.”

“Maybe one of your bullets missed.”

In the navy, he’d shot over ten thousand rounds of ammo from a variety of different weapons and had won medals for his marksmanship.

“I don’t miss at close range,” he said.

“Take a look anyway,” she said.

“You’re the boss. Have you made a decision on my offer?”

“Let’s talk about it over lunch. I have a proposition for you.”

They came to a busy intersection, and Daniels turned onto Tarpon Avenue. The scenery dramatically changed, and she drove down a narrow cobblestone street lined with stately Victorian houses with gabled roofs. It led to the historic downtown, which had gone through a transformation, the dusty antique and consignment shops he remembered as a kid replaced by trendy eateries with outdoor seating and a microbrewery.

Soon they were at the sponge docks, and she looked for parking. Sponges had once been Florida’s biggest industry, and Tarpon Springs had been its capital. The divers who risked their lives every day needed to eat, and the main drag was filled with restaurants that had sprung up to serve them and continued to thrive.

She parked in a gravel lot. Across the street was a waterfront restaurant called Rusty Bellies that also had a seafood store. Three police cruisers were parked in front of the restaurant with their lights flashing. Next to the cruisers was an unmarked van that he guessed was a CSI team.

They had to walk up a flight of stairs to enter the restaurant. A group of waiters sat at a long table, talking among themselves. Otherwise, the place was empty due to the crime scene out back.

They passed through a pair of doors to a balcony that overlooked the Anclote River. Down below was a dock where two commercial fishing boats were moored. A body covered in a bright-orange tarp lay on the dock. There was a breeze, and the tarp was waving like a flag. The cops stood around the body, talking in low voices.

They went down a short flight of stairs, and Daniels identified herself.

“Who’s in charge?” Daniels asked.

“That would be me,” the female officer said.

“Where’s the crew that found the body?”

“I had them go inside the fish store,” the female officer said.

“Do you know these men?”

“I do. My kids go to school with their kids. They’re good people.”

“I need to ask you a question, and I want a straight answer. Do you think one of them might have removed a wallet from the dead man’s pocket? Be straight with me.”

The female officer hemmed and hawed.

“I don’t see any of them doing a thing like that,” she finally said.

Daniels wasn’t convinced. To Lancaster she said, “I’ll be right back,” and she left with the female officer in tow. Beth was an aggressive interrogator, and he pitied the fishermen if they decided not to cooperate with her.

Kneeling, he lifted the tarp. The dead man lay on his stomach. He had stringy hair and a nasty tattoo of a snake on his neck. A body thrown into the ocean sank to the bottom as its lungs filled with water, and stayed submerged until bacteria in the gut produced enough gas to bring it to the surface, which usually took a day or so. The corpse on the dock hadn’t been dead very long.

But was it the same guy he’d shot in the fleeing car outside the Jayhawk? The stiff’s T-shirt had a bullet hole right between the shoulder blades. With his fingertips, he gently opened the tear for a closer look. The wound was larger than normal. That decided it. Daniels returned a few minutes later.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“The fishermen are telling the truth. They didn’t steal the dead guy’s wallet,” she said. “How about you?”

“It’s him,” he said.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“I thought you said you shot him twice.”

“I did shoot him twice. Both bullets entered through the same hole in his back. That’s why the wound is larger than normal.”

“Come on, that’s not possible.”

“See for yourself.”

They both knelt down, and he lifted the tarp and showed her the enlarged wound.

“If you don’t believe me, ask the pathologist after the autopsy is performed. They’re going to find two slugs in the same hole.” He stood up and dusted off his knees. This bastard had been an accessory to his brother’s murder, and he stared at the body long and hard. Rot in hell, he thought.

He offered Daniels his hand, and she rose as well.

“Where are you taking me to lunch?” he asked.

They took a walk down the street to Hellas. It was one of the first restaurants to serve the sponge divers, and was decorated with furniture and artwork that had been shipped over from Greece many years ago. The outdoor seating area was full, and Daniels asked the hostess for a secluded table inside.

The interior was deceptively large. Waiters wearing white shirts set fire to skillets of saganaki and shouted “Opa!” while diners gorged on octopus and souvlaki. In the back of the room was a garish blue neon bar that could have been a set in Pulp Fiction. The hostess seated them at a raised table, and handed them oversize menus.

“Your waiter will be right over.”

She departed. Daniels put her elbows on the table and looked him in the eye. Her face softened, and she gave him a rare smile. Beth could be charming when she wanted to be, and he told himself to be careful.

“I talked to my boss about your offer to join my team,” she said.

“What did he say?”

“He was against it, but said it was ultimately my call. I want you on board, provided you do as you’re told. Think you’re up to that?”

“What do I have to gain from disobeying you?”

“You want to pay Dexter Hudson back for murdering your brother. I saw it in your face last night. And don’t you dare tell me that isn’t true.”

FBI agents were trained in the art of reading facial expressions. He broke eye contact and stared at the table, which was covered in aqua-blue tiles.

“Look at me,” she said.

He lifted his gaze and saw the fire in her eyes.

“Dexter is our key to finding the victims,” she said. “If you kill him, which you’re perfectly capable of doing, we may never find them. I can’t let that happen.”

“Can I kill him after we rescue the victims?”

“That’s not funny.”

Their waiter came. Daniels ordered a Greek salad for two and the broiled seafood combo to share. Glasses of water appeared along with a basket of bread and a plate of olive oil. He dipped a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth.

“You didn’t answer me,” she said.

“It’s your show, Beth,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want. But...” He let the sentence hang and popped another piece of bread into his mouth and chewed. “I won’t be your lapdog. I’ll share with you what my brother told me, provided you share with me. Otherwise, no deal.”

“Fair enough. Should I go first?”

“That would be a good start.”

She reached into her purse and produced a sleek black Droid, which she placed on the table between them. “This cell phone was found in the driveway of one of the Miami victims. We’re certain that it fell out of the kidnapper’s pocket before he fled the scene. The phone is encrypted, and had its microphone, camera, and other connectivity functions disabled.”

He picked up the phone and examined it. Logan’s phone had also been a black Droid, and he wondered if the two things were connected.

“The phone also contains a privacy app called KYTS, which stands for Keep Your Texts Safe,” she said. “The app looks like a calculator, and can be used to do simple equations. But it’s really a communication device. By entering a four-digit PIN and password, the user enters an encrypted vault, and can store text messages and videos.”

“Is that legal?”

“There’s nothing illegal if a person wants to keep their communications hidden. But if the phone is being altered and sold for criminal activity, then it’s illegal, and the manufacturer will be prosecuted.”

“My brother had a black Droid. Was it altered in this manner?”

“Yes. And it also had a KYTS app.”

“Did you find anything valuable on it?”

“Unfortunately, it had been scrubbed clean by the time we examined it.”

His cheeks burned. He’d been the last person to handle Logan’s cell phone. Did Beth think he’d gone and erased the information on it? She seemed to know what he was thinking, and she reached across the table and touched his wrist.

“Don’t worry, you’re not a suspect,” she said. “The KYTS app lets anyone who knows the phone’s number remotely wipe away the data, provided they have the PIN and password. We think your brother’s phone was scrubbed after he was shot last night.”

“By a member of his gang?”

“That’s our guess.”

“If the data’s been erased, what good is it to your investigation?”

“The company that made your brother’s phone, as well as the phone we found in Miami, is called Phantom Communications. This same company also developed the KYTS app. Guess where they have an office.”

“Tampa?”

“You got it. All roads lead to Tampa.”

The waiter brought their Greek salad. Beth didn’t think the scoop of potato salad was large enough considering she’d ordered a salad for two, and she made the waiter take it back. She’d done that in restaurants before, and it always amused him.

“Should I assume you’re going to raid Phantom Communications’ Tampa office, and seize their files and computers?” he asked.

“Our lawyers are drawing up a search warrant, and plan to take it to a judge tomorrow,” she said. “Our evidence is circumstantial, so we need to word the warrant correctly, otherwise the case might later get tossed.”

“Everything by the book.”

“That’s right, Jon. It’s how the FBI works.”

She tore off a piece of bread and chewed. She’d shared a valuable piece of information with him, and he needed to do the same. He’d lied earlier when he’d said he could find Dexter. The truth was, he could find people that knew where Dexter was hiding out, and with Beth’s help, would get them to cough up the information.

The waiter returned with a new Greek salad, which Beth inspected.

“Don’t send it back. I’m hungry,” he said.

She decided the salad was fine, and they both started eating.

Chapter 17

Along with being a picky eater, Daniels was hell on wheels, and the forty-five-minute trip from Tarpon Springs to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement’s Regional Operations Center in Tampa took less than half an hour. She parked in a visitor spot and killed the engine before addressing her passenger.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” she asked.

“Positive,” he said.

“Let’s go over it again, just so I’m clear.”

He’d already explained how he planned to track down Dexter, and didn’t see the need to repeat himself. “What aren’t you clear about?”

“I want to make sure we’re not breaking any laws,” she said.

“Dexter is a member of the Outlaws motorcycle gang,” he said. “When Dexter was in Raiford, he joined the Phantoms out of necessity. But he never stopped being an Outlaw. The gang’s motto is ‘Once an Outlaw, always an Outlaw.’”

“And you think the local gang in Tampa knows where he is?”

“I’m sure of it. When Dexter got released from prison and relocated to Tampa, he would have checked in with the leader of the local club.”

“What would he gain from doing that?”

“Motorcycle gangs are tribal, and hold loyalty to a high standard. Dexter would tell the head of the local club that he’s available if they needed him. That’s important to these guys. I dealt with them as a cop, and know how they behave.”

“And you think that you can persuade the leader of the local club to tell us where Dexter is hiding out. Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?”

“Not if you help me.”

She arched an eyebrow. “How does that work?”

“You grab your team, and we all go pay the local club a visit.”

“What do you plan to do, threaten them?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But I won’t break any laws.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

The FDLE’s primary job was to assist local police when dealing with homicides, drug trafficking, and missing person cases. The Tampa office was one of seven statewide, and employed over two hundred officers, who actually seemed to enjoy their jobs. The receptionist wore a creaseless beige uniform and a shiny gold badge. She handed back their credentials with a smile.

“How may I help you?” she asked.

“We’re here to see Missy Hopkins. She’s expecting us,” Lancaster said.

“I’ll tell Special Agent Hopkins you’re here. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

They moved away from the reception area. Daniels never stopped asking questions when working a case, her brain on overdrive.

“What’s your relation to Hopkins?” she asked.

“Our paths crossed after I joined Team Adam,” he said. “Missy posted an alert on the Missing Endangered Persons Information Clearinghouse about a missing girl named Tammi. Missy had gotten a tip that Tammi was living in Fort Lauderdale with a couple who were living under assumed names.”

“What was their motive?”

“They couldn’t have a child of their own, so they stole someone else’s. The couple had been seen driving around the neighborhood in a pickup, and they abducted Tammi out of her backyard while she was in a kiddie pool. I was given the case, and I decided to play a hunch. My hunch was that Tammi was enrolled in a public school in Fort Lauderdale, and wasn’t at a private school or being homeschooled.”

“What did you base this upon?”

“Two things. The pickup was in bad shape, which meant the couple didn’t have money. That ruled out private school. They could have homeschooled Tammi, but a neighbor who spotted them said they looked like hillbillies. Parents that homeschool need to get certified by the state. This couple didn’t sound like they’d pass.”

“It’s flimsy, but go on.”

“The school district police liaison is named Valerie Richter. I emailed Valerie, and requested that she ask the county’s elementary principals if there were any seven-year-old girls suffering emotional problems or depression.”

“What led you to that?”

“Kids who get kidnapped have a hard time adjusting if they’re older than five. Tammi was seven, and I was thinking she might be struggling with her new life.”

“I can see that. What happened?”

“Valerie came back with several leads. I worked through them, and one stood out. A seven-year-old girl named Tina was having outbursts. Tina’s parents had enrolled her into Embassy Creek Elementary a few months before. The timing was right, so I got permission to visit the school.

“I watched Tina in the playground. Her hair was a different color, and I wasn’t sure it was her. When school let out, I changed my mind. Tina was on a bench with a group of kids, waiting to be picked up. When the parents came, the kids ran to the cars. Not Tina. She let her mother come to her.”

“Tina didn’t want to go with her.”

“Not in the least. That night I contacted Missy, and told her what I’d found. She drove down the next day, and took over.”

“You let Missy rescue the kid? That was nice of you.”

“She deserved it.”

Many cops enjoyed the limelight, and actually seemed to thrive under it. He’d tasted fame as a cop, and hadn’t enjoyed it. To do his work, it was better to be a face in the crowd, and blend into the woodwork. He heard his name being called, and saw Hopkins standing by reception. She was a twenty-year veteran, and her eyes had an ever-present, slightly disapproving look.

“There she is,” he said. “Let me introduce you.”

Hopkins’s office was adjacent to the crime lab. Each FDLE operations center had a crime lab, which police departments relied upon when dealing with difficult cases. As a result, the labs were always busy, and Hopkins shut the door to keep out the noise. She offered them chairs in front of her desk, then sat behind it.

“It’s good to see you, Jon. It’s been too long,” Hopkins said. “I heard through the grapevine that there’s a movie in the works.”

“Shooting begins this summer,” he said. “Would you like a part?”

She laughed. “No, but thanks for offering.”

“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “Special Agent Daniels and I are planning to visit the local Outlaws Motorcycle Club. If I remember correctly, the FDLE was working a case against the Outlaws last year, and you were in charge. I’d like to ask you some questions about that case.”

He’d hit a nerve, and Hopkins shifted uncomfortably.

“I really don’t want to talk about that,” she said.

“One of their gang is a suspect in two murders and a kidnapping, and we need to find him,” Daniels said. “We’d really appreciate it if you helped us.”

Beth was being polite. The FDLE was the most powerful law enforcement body in the state and reported directly to the governor. But the FBI was more powerful, and Hopkins could get herself in hot water if she didn’t cooperate with them.

“All right,” Hopkins said. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“If I remember correctly, your case was tied into amphetamines,” he said. “The Outlaws were cooking speed and supplying it to long-distance truckers, and the Saint Petersburg and Fort Lauderdale clubs were involved. What I’d want to know is, are they still dealing?”

“I could lose my job over this.”

“It goes no further than this room,” Daniels said. “You have our word.”

“Yes, the Outlaws are still dealing speed,” Hopkins said. “The operation was in full swing the last time I checked.”

“Which was when?” he asked.

“A few weeks ago. It pissed me off that we never busted them. Hopefully, one day we will, and they’ll go to prison.”

“Why didn’t you?” Daniels asked.

Hopkins made a face, the memory eating at her. “I’ll give you the official version, and then I’ll tell you the real version. We were ready to shut the Outlaws down when we got word from Tallahassee telling us to suspend the operation, and to put our resources against fighting the opioid epidemic, which is one of the governor’s top priorities. We had five thousand people die from overdoses last year, so it made sense, at least on paper.”

“Are you saying the governor protected the Outlaws?” he said.

“That’s right. He protected them.”

“Why on earth would he do that?”

“One of the governor’s top advisers is Claude Littlejohn, the owner of the King Grocery chain, which is the largest in the state,” Hopkins said. “Littlejohn is a wealthy man who wields a big stick. It’s rumored that you can’t get elected if he isn’t backing you. It was Littlejohn who convinced the governor to drop the investigation.”

“Why?” Daniels asked.

“Because his business depends on trucking,” Hopkins said. “Truckers are supposed to follow something called hours-of-service limits, which is federal law. A trucker is not allowed to drive more than eleven hours straight, but many of them break that rule, and drive sixteen hours or more.”

“Are they on speed?” Daniels asked.

“Most of them are. Get on the interstate at night, and watch the semis fly down the road at ninety miles per hour. It’s scary as hell. I was told that Littlejohn saves millions of dollars by having his drivers break the rules. Not that he needs it. He’s a billionaire.”

It was not the first time a politician had put a donor’s wishes over the welfare of his constituents, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Hopkins excused herself and left the room. When she returned, she was holding a file, which she gave to them.

“The Outlaws are still under surveillance,” she said. “The FDLE considers them a threat, so we monitor their activity. This file contains a log showing every vehicle that comes to their local club. Every vehicle that isn’t a motorcycle is carrying speed.”

“Can we have this?” Daniels asked.

“Not unless you want to get me fired. Photograph the pages you want on your cell phones. I’m going to the cafeteria for a cold drink. Want something?”

They both declined. Lancaster followed Hopkins into the hall to thank her. She was taking a huge risk, and he wanted her to know how much he appreciated it.

“My name can’t be associated with whatever you’re doing,” Hopkins said.

“You have my word,” he said.

She glanced at the door. “What about your friend?”

“Beth’s good people. She knows how to keep a secret.”

“I don’t like the FBI, Jon. They’re a bunch of arrogant assholes.”

FBI agents weren’t known for their bedside manners. But there was a difference between bruising feelings and betrayal, and he had never known Beth to break her word.

“Please don’t worry,” he said.

“I’ll try not to,” she said, and walked away.

Chapter 18

The Outlaws’ headquarters in Saint Petersburg was listed as a nightclub on Google Maps. It was actually a fenced compound in a residential neighborhood that contained a pair of white two-story buildings, neither of which had windows.

They sat in Daniels’s vehicle at the end of the block. Lancaster was watching the house through a pair of binoculars while Daniels was on her cell phone arranging for a helicopter to fly over the compound for the purpose of scaring the daylights out of the bikers inside. It was dinnertime, and the neighborhood was quiet.

“Done,” Daniels said, ending the call. “The chopper’s pilot will text me when they’re in range. How are things looking at the club?”

“I think we just got lucky.” He passed the binoculars so she could have a look.

“I’m seeing a purple minivan drive into the compound and a wooden gate being pulled back by two guys wearing leather,” she said. “Now the van’s inside and the gate’s being closed. Think it’s a shipment of speed?”

“I do. The timing’s right.”

“How so?”

“Truckers use speed to stay awake at night, and buy it at truck stops on the interstate. The one percenters wait until dark to make their deliveries.”

“What’s a one percenter?”

“It’s what the Outlaws call themselves. Ninety-nine percent of bikers are law-abiding citizens. The other one percent are criminals.”

“So they’re proud of breaking the law. What degenerates.”

She pulled out her cell phone to read a text. “We caught a break. The FBI’s crime lab identified the body the fishermen pulled up in Tarpon Springs. His fingerprints were altered by the salt water, but his neck tattoo did the trick. His name is Skyler Seeley, and he served ten years in Raiford for raping a woman in Miami.”

She passed him the phone, and he studied Seeley’s mug shot. Rapists were on the low rung of the genetic totem pole, and Seeley looked like a Neanderthal. When he’d left the force two years ago, identifying criminals through tattoos had been an inexact science. He didn’t like challenging Beth, but wanted to be certain they had the right guy.

“How many bullets did he have in him?” he asked.

“Two. Both in the same spot. Nice shooting.”

“Thanks. How do you positively identify someone by a tattoo? Back when I was a cop, that wasn’t very reliable.”

“It is now. When a person gets arrested, their physical description is put in a police report, including weight, height, hair color, and any tattoos. Since most criminals are inked, the bureau thought it would be a good idea to compile a Tattoo Recognition Database. By getting a tattoo, these idiots make it easier for us to track them down.”

She got another text. “The team’s ready and so’s the chopper. Let’s roll.”

Her team was parked at the other end of the block in two black SUVs. Each vehicle carried three FBI agents dressed in body armor and carrying assault rifles. They would come running the moment she hit a button on her cell phone.

They crossed and walked up the front path. He pulled a pack of chewing gum from his pocket and offered her a stick. She declined with a shake of her head.

“Take one anyway. It will make you fit in,” he said.

“Is that the deal? I should have worn my leather jacket.”

She popped the gum into her mouth and blew a bubble. They reached the front stoop, and he noticed there was no bell to ring, or welcome mat. He rapped on the front door, and a moment later it opened a foot; a wild-looking guy wearing a leather vest with nothing underneath stuck his head out. He was missing both front teeth, and every word that came out of his mouth was accompanied by a whistle.

“What the fuck do you want?” the wild man said.

Daniels blew a bubble and popped it. Lancaster laughed and said, “I just got out of Coleman, and was friends with Snivelhead. He wanted me to pass a message to the head of your club. Is he around?”

The wild man’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Jon, my friends call me Jonny.”

“If you knew Snivelhead, tell me his real name, and how long he’s in for.”

“Snivelhead’s real name is Willy White. He’s a lifer.”

“Who’s the bitch?”

“She’s my parole officer.”

“Is that a joke? I’m not laughing.”

“She’s my girlfriend. Not that it’s any of your god damn business.”

Daniels popped another bubble, and the door was closed in their faces. In a whisper Daniels said, “How do you know Snivelhead?”

“He ran the Fort Lauderdale operation for the Outlaws,” he whispered back. “I helped put him away.”

“What for?”

“He decapitated a guy that he didn’t like.”

“How charming.”

The ruse worked, and the wild man returned. “Hawk said you can come in.”

He ushered them inside. The club took up the downstairs and was a paean to the biker lifestyle, with a pool table, a long bar that took up a wall, and assorted black leather furniture. A Lynyrd Skynyrd song about white supremacy played on a flashing jukebox, while a trashy woman in a tank top was passed out on the couch. A leather-clad man at the bar spun around on his stool. He sported a purple Mohawk and had muscles on his muscles. This had to be Hawk. He growled like a junkyard dog, and the pool players stopped their game and fell silent.

“Dirty Pete said you had a message from Snivelhead,” Hawk said. “What is it?”

“I lied. There is no message,” Lancaster said.

“Is this a joke?”

“No. But we do want to talk to you about Dexter Hudson.”

“Who?”

“Dexter Hudson. He’s a member of the Outlaws.”

“Never heard of him. I think you have the wrong address.” The pool players all laughed. To the wild man he said, “Dirty Pete, show these nice people out.”

“Let’s go,” Dirty Pete said.

“We’re not done,” Daniels said.

“Oh yes, you are. Start moving.”

Dirty Pete placed his hand on Daniels’s shoulder, which was a mistake. When they were dating, Lancaster had learned not to initiate physical contact with Beth, but to let her take the lead. She had been abducted by a pair of serial killers while in college, and thrown in the trunk of a car. By a stroke of luck and the grace of God she’d managed to escape, and as a result of that experience, she’d developed an aversion to men who thought they had the right to place their hands upon her.

She kicked Dirty Pete in the groin with enough force to make every male in the room wince. He groaned in agony, and sank to his knees. Pulling her wallet from her purse, she tossed it onto the pool table so her badge was showing.

“FBI,” she said.

Out came her cell phone. She pressed a button on the screen, summoning the troops. Hawk watched her with a bemused look on his face.

“Where’s your search warrant?” he asked.

“I don’t have one,” she said. “I came here to ask you a few questions, which I’m legally entitled to do, and one of your men assaulted me. You’re all under arrest.”

“You’re arresting us?” Hawk said in disbelief.

“That’s right.”

“God damn bitch,” Dirty Pete said, choking in pain.

Daniels grabbed Dirty Pete’s ponytail and jerked his head back. “Open your mouth again, and I’ll stick my shoe in it.”

The clubhouse began to vibrate, and the walls shook. It felt like an earthquake, and Hawk took a cell phone off the bar and pushed a button. Lancaster assumed he had an app that allowed him to view the surveillance cameras on the property, and was now looking at the police chopper dancing over the house and the small army of armed FBI agents poised to break down the front door and rush inside. Hawk let out a curse and tossed the cell phone back onto the bar, knowing he was beaten.

“Dexter isn’t here,” Hawk said. “He came by a couple of months ago, said he’d just gotten released from Raiford, and wanted to check in. He played some pool and drank some beer and then split. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Where’s he staying?” Daniels asked.

“The hell I know,” Hawk said. “I’m not his mother.”

One of the pool players snickered. Daniels clenched her jaw.

“We’re going to check the place anyway, just to be sure,” she said.

“I know my rights,” Hawk said. “You can’t do that without a search warrant.”

“Have it your way,” she said. “I’ll place you and your asshole buddies under arrest, and then I’ll get a search warrant. I happened to see a van pull into your compound earlier. We’ll start looking there first.”

It was a masterful stroke. Daniels had nailed Hawk without revealing that she knew the van was loaded with speed and compromising the source of her tip.

“All right, you win,” Hawk said. “Dexter is staying up in New Port Richey. He’s got a room in the back of a strip club he’s living in. The owner’s an old friend of his.”

“What’s the club’s name?”

Hawk looked to the pool players for help. Dirty Pete cleared his throat. Daniels put her hands on her hips and gave him a hard stare.

“Spit it out,” she said.

“It’s called Barely Legal,” Dirty Pete said.

“I take it you and Dexter are friends.”

“Yup. We’ve been running together a long time.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“’Bout a week ago. We went drinking, shot the shit.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Pussy.”

She cuffed Dirty Pete in the side of the head and made him see stars. Facing the others, she said, “Your friend is wanted for two murders and a kidnapping. So let this be a warning. If you contact Dexter, and we find out, you’ll be charged as an accessory to these crimes. Am I making myself clear?”

“Loud and clear,” Hawk said, as if putting an exclamation point on things.

Lancaster was impressed. Beth had used the right amount of aggression to convince the bikers that it was in their best interest to play ball. Their business was done, and he grabbed her wallet off the pool table and tossed it to her.

Only they weren’t done. The girl passed out on the couch hadn’t stirred, not even when the chopper had shaken the walls. Daniels sat down on the cushion beside her, and gently slapped the girl’s cheek to wake her up. The girl’s eyelids fluttered but remained shut. Daniels slapped her a little harder, and got the same response. A dark cloud passed over her face, and her mouth silently moved up and down. She stood up and parted her jacket, exposing the sidearm strapped to her side. It was a menacing gesture, meant to invoke fear. It worked.

“What the hell you doing?” Hawk said.

“Tell me about the girl,” she said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Her name would be a good start.”

“Tina.”

“She your girlfriend?”

“She’s everyone’s girlfriend.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Daniels stiffened, and Hawk got visibly smaller on his stool. The others turned to stone, including Dirty Pete.

“What’s she on?” Daniels asked.

“Ludes,” Hawk said. “She took some speed and started bouncing off the walls, so I gave her a lude to calm her down, and she fell asleep.”

“Wake her up.”

“How the hell am I going to do that? She’s passed out.”

Daniels cursed him. She got behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a glass, then sat down next to Tina and poured a few fingers of whiskey into the glass, which she put under the girl’s nose. When that didn’t produce the desired effect, she poured some whiskey into Tina’s open mouth, sending half down her chin. Tina came to and coughed violently.

“Who the hell are you?” the girl said.

“Special Agent Daniels, and I’m with the FBI.” Daniels paused to let the words sink in. “I want you to answer some questions for me. What’s your name?”

“Tina Hixby.”

“How old are you, Tina?”

“Nineteen.”

“Do you have a job? Or go to school?”

The girl shook her head.

“Then what do you do?” Daniels asked.

“I hang out,” she said.

“Where did you meet these guys?”

“We hooked up at a bar called Harlie’s.”

“Are you here because you want to be, or because they brought you here?”

Tina hesitated, and Daniels took the girl’s wrist and gave it a squeeze.

“I’m here because I want to be,” Tina said.

“Have you ever tried to leave, and one of these men stopped you?” Daniels asked.

“It’s not like that.”

“Have any of these men ever forced you to have sex?”

Tina’s eyes touched on each biker’s face. Every night, Lancaster guessed.

“Never. I fuck ’em because I want to,” Tina said.

Daniels had heard enough, and she returned the bottle of whiskey to the bar. To the bikers she said, “Remember, boys. If you contact Dexter, I’ll hunt you down and throw your sorry asses in jail. That’s a promise you can take to the bank.”

She moved to leave. Lancaster was a step ahead of her, and he opened the front door. Looking over her shoulder, she gave Tina a parting glance.

“You have poor taste in men,” Daniels told her.

Chapter 19

Daniels was on a mission. Her body language gave it away. There was a bounce to her step that hadn’t been there before, and a heightened alertness. Dexter was hiding in New Port Richey, and she would not rest until he was apprehended and the twelve women whom his gang had abducted were rescued.

The chopper had left, and except for a barking dog, the neighborhood was quiet. She addressed the FBI agents assembled on the sidewalk, and told them what she wanted done. Finished, she marched down the street to her vehicle and climbed behind the wheel. Lancaster barely had his door closed as they took off.

“Your plan is flawed,” he said.

They were in a residential neighborhood. The posted speed limit was thirty miles per hour, and she was doing fifty. She eyed him without slowing down.

“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” she asked.

“Professional courtesy,” he said.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You want the guys on your team to enter Barely Legal tonight, mingle with the customers, and root out Dexter. That’s not going to work.”

“Why not?”

Using Google Images, he pulled up a photograph and showed her. “It’s a hellhole, and the clientele are lowlifes. Your guys look like Boy Scouts. It won’t work.”

“You’ve been in this place?”

“No, but I know what to expect. There are two types of strip clubs in Florida. The clubs that cater to businessmen have nice addresses and are upscale. The clubs that don’t have nice addresses are dives. I visited New Port Richey once to pick up a guy who skipped bail. The town is the pits, and I have to assume Barely Legal is a toilet.”

“So what do I do? Put my team in disguise?”

The guys on her team had short haircuts and were physically fit. Those two things alone would set off alarms.

“Let me go inside instead,” he said. “I’ll unbutton my shirt and let my belly hang out. I’ll look just like every other slob in the place.”

“And let you handle Dexter alone? Not a chance.”

“I promise, I won’t kill him. I’ll corner him inside the club, and text you. Then your team can come in, and make the bust.”

A sign directed them to the interstate, and she didn’t reply until they were heading back to Tampa. “But Dexter knows what you look like. If he spots you inside the club, he might try to shoot it out.”

“He’s not going to spot me,” he said. “Back when I was a SEAL, I was the front man. Blending in is my specialty.”

Beth said nothing, which he didn’t take as a good sign. She had looked into his eyes the night before at the Jayhawk, and seen the hatred burning in his soul. It was the type of wound that would not begin to heal until justice was served, no matter what promises he made.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled up to his hotel in Oldsmar. Through the front windows he could see guests enjoying the complimentary happy hour. She still hadn’t responded to his offer.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked.

“I need to think about it,” she said.

He took that as a no, and climbed out. It was Beth’s show, and he had to play by her rules. He had the hotel door open when she called out to him.

“I’ll call you in an hour.” Then she added, “Promise.”

He grabbed a cold beer on the way up to his room. As he keyed his door, his cell phone vibrated. He’d gotten a text from Nicki. Her CSI class had researched the other kidnapping victims, and she wanted to share their findings. The beer could wait, and he put it in the fridge before calling her.

“Are you still in Tampa working the case?” the teenager asked.

“Yes, indeed. Guess who I joined forces with? Your aunt Beth.”

“That’s so cool. I bet you guys make a great team.”

“We’re trying. So what did your class find?”

“You’re going to like this. We checked to see how many of the victims were involved in community service, just like you asked us. It turns out all of them were. They did volunteer work for the handicapped and all sorts of other neat stuff. I put a list together, and emailed it to you.”

“Hold on a second. Let me see if I got it.”

He retrieved his laptop from the wall safe. Booting it up, he went into his inbox and found Nicki’s email, which had been sent hours ago. It had an attachment, which he opened, and the victims list filled the screen. It was in chronological order, starting with the first victim and ending with the last. His eyes briefly touched upon each name.

Picking up his cell phone, he resumed talking to Nicki. “I’m staring at your list right now. Your class did an awesome job.”

“Thank you. We couldn’t find out much about the victim in Gainesville, Audrey Sipos, except that she’s a nurse who lives by herself,” Nicki said.

“That’s already been done. Sipos is big on helping people. She even has an award named after her.”

“Wow. So all the victims were Good Samaritans.”

“That’s right. They share a behavioral trait. I’m sure there are others.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d bet you a dollar that none of them has ever been arrested, or broken the law,” he said. “Good people tend to be good all the time.”

“That makes sense.”

“The first name on your list, Gloria Joiner, has an asterisk. Why’s that?”

“She was mentioned in a newspaper article that I found online,” Nicki said. “Her neighbors’ house was broken into, and she called the police, and helped get the burglar arrested. The newspaper called her a hero.”

The story had a familiar ring. Audrey Sipos had come to the aid of a girl being raped, and helped send her rapist to prison by testifying at his trial. Had Gloria Joiner testified at the burglar’s trial? It was another link that needed to be pursued.

“How long ago was this?” he asked.

“It happened ten years ago.”

“Did the article publish the burglar’s name?”

“Yep. Get this. His name was Charlie Bandit.”

They shared a laugh. He now had enough information to move the investigation forward. He thanked Nicki, and started to say goodbye.

“So what’s the deal with you and Aunt Beth?” the teenager said. “Are you going to start seeing each other again?”

“We haven’t discussed it,” he said.

“Do you want to?”

“I wasn’t the one who broke things off.”

He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth. They sounded bitter, and that wasn’t how he felt about his relationship with Beth. “I like your aunt a great deal,” he added. “Hopefully, she feels the same way about me. I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks again for the help.”

“Tell Aunt Beth I said hi,” Nicki said.

“I’ll do that,” he said, ending the call.

He drank his beer while studying the list. He hadn’t known that Elsie Tanner’s name was actually Lisa Catherine, and the name struck a nerve. He shut his eyes, and after a long reflective moment he realized where he knew her from. Twenty-five years ago, inside a cramped courtroom in Broward County, Lisa Catherine Tanner had been the star witness at his brother’s trial, and had helped send Logan away to prison.

Lancaster got on the Broward County Clerk of Courts website, and did a search on the name Charlie Bandit. Had Charlie had a lick of common sense, he would have changed his last name, or gotten into a different line of work. When no records came up, he did a second search, and typed in the name Charles Bandit. That proved to be a gold mine, with over a dozen case files appearing.

He read each one. Bandit had been born to steal; he started shoplifting as a teenager, and then he graduated to burglary. Each file contained a criminal affidavit, which had been written by the arresting officer. In several of the later files, the arresting officer had stated that Bandit was high on drugs, and had resisted arrest.

He found the case when Gloria Joiner had sicced the cops on Bandit. The arresting officer’s name was familiar, Frank Maraca. Years ago, Maraca’s wife had gotten sick, and several officers had subbed for him so Maraca could be with her at the hospital. He had been one of those officers, and hoped Maraca would remember him.

He called around to his cop friends and finally got Maraca’s number. He placed a call, and Maraca’s voice mail picked up.

“This is Frank. I’m busy right now. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

“Hey, Frank. This is a voice from the past, Jon Lancaster. I’m working a case in Tampa, and need to pick your brain. Call me when you get this. Later, man.”

The hotel’s business center was behind the front desk. It was empty, and he keyed the door and entered with his laptop tucked under his arm. The room contained a PC, and a printer. He powered up the printer, and connected his laptop through the hotel Wi-Fi. Then, he made copies of Nicki’s list. Her class had hit a home run, and he needed to share the information with Beth.

As he left the business center, he got a series of texts from his buddies in Key West. They had sent him photographs they’d taken while out snorkeling earlier in the day. There was also a message. Weather is here, wish you were beautiful.

“You bastards,” he said.

Behind the hotel was a smoking area. He went there and sat on an empty bench. He’d smoked as a cop before deciding it was slowing him down and he had to quit. But he still had the occasional craving, and he filled his lungs with secondhand smoke.

It felt good, and he slowly exhaled.

He looked through his buddies’ photographs. They had gone snorkeling at Fort Zachary Taylor beach on the southernmost tip of Key West, and the photos showed a school of dolphins playing offshore. It was here that the Atlantic Ocean met the Gulf of Mexico, and he’d always believed that the waters had a special power, and could soothe the most troubled soul. Closing his eyes, he imagined he was floating, with the sun burning his face. He could hear the gulls and the sounds of breaking waves but not cell phones or the annoying beeps of electronic devices summoning their owners to do their bidding. He was free of the constraints of modern life, and had never felt happier.

He opened his eyes. His cell phone was calling him.

“Hello?”

“Jon! This is Frank Maraca. How are you doing, my friend?”

“I’m good. How have you been? How’s your wife?”

“She’s doing great, thanks for asking. We’re celebrating our anniversary next week and going to Bimini. Your message said you needed my help. I’m here for you.”

“I’m in Tampa working a case, and the name Charlie Bandit came up. Does that ring any bells?”

“I’ve got a knot on the bridge of my nose because of that piece of shit. Bandit played possum after I arrested him. Then, he coldcocked me, and split my nose open.”

“How well do you remember his arrest?”

“Like it was yesterday.”

“The witness who called in the robbery was named Gloria Joiner. Do you know if she testified against Bandit at his trial?”

“She did. Bandit pleaded innocent, claimed the police framed him. Luckily, Joiner saw the whole thing. She was the prosecution’s star witness.”

He found himself nodding. One by one, the pieces of the puzzle were falling in place, the picture getting a little clearer. Like Audrey Sipos in Gainesville, Gloria Joiner had helped stop a crime, then helped put the perpetrator behind bars. He felt himself growing excited, and stood up from the bench.

“Were you there at Bandit’s sentencing?” he asked.

“After he broke my nose? You bet I was.”

“Where did they send him?”

“Raiford,” Maraca said.

All roads continued to lead to Raiford.

“I don’t mean to pry, but what’s this about?” Maraca asked.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the women disappearing around Florida during the last month,” he said. “Gloria Joiner was the first victim, and I think a gang of ex-cons that did time out of Raiford is responsible.”

“She was? Jesus, how did I not see her name in the paper?”

“You were probably busy. Do you know if Bandit is still in the joint?”

“I haven’t kept tabs on him. I’m sitting in front of my computer. Want me to go on the DOC offender site, and run him down?”

“That would be great.”

Maraca hummed as he did the search. “Nothing comes up.”

“Try Charles instead of Charlie.”

“Gotcha. You were right — Bandit’s file is staring me in the face. He got his sentence reduced and was paroled a few months ago. Could he have been responsible for Joiner’s abduction?”

He nearly said yes, but stopped himself. If Bandit had wanted revenge, he would have murdered Joiner. That was how criminals enacted payback against people who crossed them. But Joiner had been kidnapped, which took planning. It was not the kind of crime that scum like Bandit were known for.

It didn’t add up. And until it did, he had to keep digging.

“Maybe,” he said. “Thanks for the assist.”

“Happy to help,” Maraca said.

He ended the connection and called Daniels. He had promised to share whatever leads he came across, and be a team player.

Her voice mail picked up.

“Call me when you get this,” he said.

Chapter 20

The ringtone on Daniels’s cell phone was a police siren. Police sirens were meant to instill fear in criminals, while telling victims that help was on the way. Her niece had given it to her as a present, and she’d fallen in love with it.

She put down her infrared binoculars to stare at the cell phone’s screen. It was Jon. She didn’t want to talk to him right now, and let voice mail pick up.

She raised the binoculars to her face and continued her surveillance. She was parked in front of Dino’s Pizza and Subs, where a sign proclaimed EVERY DAY IS TWO FOR One! Barely Legal, the adult club where Dexter Hudson was hiding out, was next door.

The club was a dive. But that didn’t stop the locals from dropping by to stare at the naked ladies, and the parking lot was filled with dirty pickups and beaters. She had conducted busts inside of strip clubs before. Based upon what she’d learned from those investigations, strip clubs were money-losing propositions, the markup on watered-down drinks not large enough to cover the overhead. The real money came from peddling drugs and prostitution, which made the clubs nothing more than fronts.

But she wasn’t there to make a drug bust, or stop the club’s owner from pimping. She was there to arrest Dexter Hudson, and she’d brought her team to do the job.

She’d split the agents into two teams. The first team’s job was to drive around the club, and count the exits. When the bust went down, she would have an agent guarding each exit in case Dexter tried to run.

The other team was inside the club, looking for Dexter. She’d decided to ignore Jon’s warning, and had sent them in. She’d been inside strip clubs, and they were as dark as caves. Her team wasn’t going to be made.

Her cell phone beeped. She dialed into voice mail and punched in her password. Jon’s voice greeted her. “Call me when you get this.”

She erased the message and lowered her phone.

Did Jon really have something? Or was he itching to join the bust, and creating an excuse to get a call back? Having Jon join her team was a risk. He’d promised not to hurt Dexter, only she knew that was a lie. If Jon got his hands on Dexter, there was no telling what he’d do.

She resumed her surveillance. A group of back-slapping guys went into the club. They were feeling no pain and laughing hoarsely. She gazed at each of their faces through her binoculars. None of them resembled Dexter.

The first team pulled into the lot and parked. Special Agent Gary Safko got out, and rapped his knuckles on the passenger window of her vehicle. Safko was a rookie, and a little too cocky for her taste. She unlocked the doors, and he got in.

“How many exits did you find?” Daniels asked.

“We found two exits in the rear of the club,” Safko said. “Both feed into the parking lot. If our suspect has a car parked in back, he might escape.”

“He’s one man. You should be able to stop him.”

“Not if we wait on the street.”

“Why would you wait on the street?”

“There are surveillance cameras on the roof and motion detector lights. If we get too close to the building, someone inside the club might spot us, and alert him.”

Safko was starting to annoy her. Where there was a will, there was a way.

“You outnumber him three to one,” Daniels said. “When the bust goes down, your team will cover the exits. If Dexter makes a run for it, take him down.”

“You want us to shoot to kill?”

“No. Shoot to wound. I need to question him.”

Safko didn’t seem happy with her decision. She looked sideways at him.

“Is this not to your liking?” she asked.

He wilted beneath her stare. “It sounds risky.”

“How so?”

“You said that this guy is wanted for two homicides, and was recently released from prison. He might come out with guns blazing.”

“That’s highly unlikely. If Dexter runs, it will be because he’s scared, and people like that rarely shoot it out,” she said. “If he tries to escape, wait until he’s close to his car, and is getting his keys out. It will be enough distraction for you to subdue him.”

Safko swallowed hard. “That will work.”

The remark angered her, and she wondered if Safko would have made these comments if he’d been talking to a male superior instead of her.

“Didn’t they teach you anything at Quantico?” she snapped.

The second team came out of the strip club ten minutes later, and strolled down the sidewalk to the sandwich shop. Two members of the team went inside to get something to eat, while the third member got into Daniels’s car to give her an update. His name was Otto West, and like her, he was a runner, with a lean body that looked good in clothes. There was lipstick smeared on the collar of his shirt, and he reeked of cheap perfume.

“Sampling the merchandise?” Daniels asked.

“I got made inside the club,” he said, embarrassed.

“For the love of Christ. How did that happen?”

“I let one of the girls drag me to a VIP room for a lap dance. I wanted to check out the back to see where Dexter might be hiding. I sat down on a couch, and she shut the door and then parked herself in my lap, and started kissing my neck. Before I knew it, she was running her hands over my body like she was frisking me. She found my gun, and said, ‘You’re a cop.’ I said, ‘Aren’t cops allowed to have fun?’ and she told me that I had to leave.”

“Do you think she was prepped?”

“It sure felt that way. I was in a strip club a few weeks ago, and there was no touching. I’m guessing Barely Legal got raided, and the management told the dancers to check out the customers, and ask them if they’re cops.”

“You go to strip clubs often?”

“Actually, I avoid them. It was a bachelor party.”

“Do you think Dexter’s hiding inside the club?”

“I do. When the girl was taking me to the VIP room, we passed a door with a sign that said, STAY OUT. It made me think Dexter was in there, so I played drunk, and banged the door with my shoulder. The girl got mad, and told me to cut it out.”

“What was security like inside the club?”

“A bouncer at the door, two more inside.”

The other members of West’s team came out of the sandwich shop holding bags of food. West lowered his window, and was handed a large cup of coffee and several packets of sugar.

“I’m sorry, I should have asked if you wanted anything,” he said.

“But you didn’t,” Daniels said.

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

West fixed his coffee. He was starting to fade, and he smothered a yawn. She wanted to chew him out, but bit her lip. That was the problem with the agents on her team. Being in the FBI was just a job to them. Their passions lay elsewhere, either with their families or the hobbies they pursued on the weekends. They didn’t love their work, or derive the same satisfaction from making a bust that she did.

She realized that she missed Jon. Jon loved his work, and his level of energy was amazing. While in the military he’d been trained to stay up for days at a time, while still having enough energy to run over mountainous terrain with a rifle strapped to his back. There was no yawning in Jon’s world, his passion undiminished.

If anyone could go inside that club and root Dexter out, it was him. But could she keep him under control? Could she rein in Jon’s primal impulses, and prevent him from harming Dexter once he found him?

“I need some privacy,” she said.

“Want a coffee?” West asked. “On me.”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks for offering.”

Daniels waited until West was gone before calling Jon back. He picked up on the first ring, his breath tinged with excitement.

“Lay it on me,” she said.

“Nicki and her class helped me make another connection with our case,” he said.

“I need you to hold that thought, and hear me out,” she said.

The connection went silent, and she wondered if he was still there.

“Jon?”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“I’m at Barely Legal with my team, and we think that Dexter is hiding inside the club near the VIP rooms. I want you to go in there, and smoke him out.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Hold on. There’s a caveat. To make sure that you don’t hurt Dexter, I’m going to accompany you inside the club. With me so far?”

“I’m with you.”

“If you harm one hair on Dexter’s head, I’ll arrest you on the spot. I mean that, Jon. I need Dexter Hudson intact. That’s the deal. If you agree, say yes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Good. Get your ass up here.”

Chapter 21

Florida was strange. The wealth was centered around the cities and their airports. The farther away you drove from these locations, the poorer and more downtrodden the landscape became. It was the land of haves, and have-nots.

He sped up US 19, his heart pounding in his chest. Beth, being an FBI agent, had thought she could smoke out Dexter on her own, and had discovered that she was out of her element. It happened to the best law enforcement agents when they conducted investigations in the Sunshine State. The rules were different here.

Barely Legal’s neon street sign wasn’t working, and he passed the club. The automated voice on his cell phone told him to make a U-turn and head back. He didn’t like it when robots gave him instructions, but he begrudgingly turned his car around.

He pulled into the parking lot of Dino’s and did a double take. Beth stood in front of the establishment, wearing ripped jeans and a tank top, her hair brushed back, her face painted with lipstick and mascara. She looked like the kind of babe you saw riding on the back of a motorcycle with her boyfriend, tough and alluring. He got out and approached her. Several clever lines came to mind, all of which he shelved.

“Got here as fast as I could. Nice outfit,” he said.

She eyed him warily. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Not at all. You’ll fit right in. Where’s your team?”

“They’ve split up. One team is covering the back of the club, the other is parked by the main entrance, covering the front. Are you carrying?”

“Of course I’m carrying.”

“You need to lose your weapon. One of my agents got made by a dancer. She ran her hands over him, and found his gun.”

“We’re going into the club unarmed? That’s not wise.”

“I’ve got a gun in my purse. We’re good.”

“So I’ll be unarmed, and you won’t be.”

“I’ve got your back, Jon. You’ll be safe.”

He wanted to disagree, but arguing with Beth was a waste of time. He went to his vehicle, popped the trunk, and put his weapons into the large plastic bin where he kept his firearms and ammo. He was carrying a gun around his ankle, another in his pocket, and a third tucked away in his pants pocket. She stood behind him, shielding his actions from any patrons inside the sandwich shop. When he was finished disarming himself, they walked together down the sidewalk toward the club.

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “What kind of women patronize strip clubs? That’s a new one to me.”

“Women who like to watch other women get naked,” he said. “I once dated a woman that liked going to strip clubs. She claimed that watching the dancers take off their clothes made her horny.”

“Lovely.”

They entered the club’s property and crossed the parking lot. Every space was taken, the vehicles filled with rowdy guys drinking beer and getting stoned. One of the vehicles contained Beth’s team, although it was difficult to determine which one.

He stopped by the front door. The walls of the club were vibrating, the pounding music coming from within shaking the building.

“We should be arm in arm. Otherwise, some drunk will get the wrong idea, and start hitting on you,” he suggested.

“I can take care of myself,” she said.

He gave her a look that said please, do it my way, just this once. Her eyes narrowed, and he braced himself for a tongue-lashing. The moment passed, and she slipped her arm through his, pressing her body against him.

“Lead the way,” she said.

“I’ll need to buy you a drink once we’re inside. What’s your pleasure?”

“Glass of chardonnay. Something from California, if they have it.”

He realized she was making a joke. She didn’t do that enough, and it caught him by surprise. Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Jack and coke,” she said. “Now, let’s bust this asshole.”

The club was jumping, the dancers performing naked gymnastics on an elevated stage to the accompaniment of rap music. The patrons were throwing money on the stage, wanting to see the girls bend over. It was a mean crowd.

He went to the bar and yelled out his order. As a cop, he’d dealt with strippers, and had discovered that most of them were financially burdened single moms trying to make ends meet. They didn’t like the work, but it paid the bills.

Two drinks set him back twenty bucks. Beth had found a booth, and he slipped in. They drank and watched a few dances. Knowing that one of her team had been made had turned them both cautious, and they didn’t want to arouse suspicion.

He scanned the room. The patrons around the bar were three deep, all male. Based upon his experience, patrons of adult nightclubs fell into three categories. Young single guys were usually pretty vocal, while lonely old men were silent, their eyes fixed upon a particular dancer whom they believed they would “save” by night’s end. Then there were the married men clutching wads of bills, often with a twenty or fifty showing.

“Any sign of Dexter?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“One of my agents said there’s a door on the way to the VIP rooms with a sign telling people to stay out. We need to check that room out.”

Dexter knew what Lancaster looked like, which was a problem. That wasn’t true for Beth, who would be a stranger.

“Do you mind drawing him out?” he asked.

“What do you have in mind?” she said.

He explained his plan. Beth would be the beard, and he’d be her backup. It had a degree of risk, yet she immediately agreed.

They slid out of the booth. Beth unclasped her purse in case she needed to draw her weapon. The club’s DJ was having issues with his equipment, and the music suddenly died. Up on stage, the dancers jerked like puppets having their strings pulled in the wrong direction. The boorish patrons grew uneasy without the wall of noise.

A narrow hallway led to the VIP rooms. He lifted his drink so it was partially hiding his face, just in case there was a surveillance camera in the ceiling. They stopped at the door with the warning sign. Daniels stood in front of him and knocked.

“Anybody home?” she said loudly, slurring her words.

He’d suggested that she pretend to be drunk to help sell the play. The door swung in, and a bald guy with circular piercings in both ears glared at her.

“Can’t you read?” he said. “This room is off-limits.”

“I left my cell phone in the ladies’ room. Was it turned in?” she asked.

“No.”

She pointed past him into the room. “That cell phone on the table looks like mine.”

Confused, the bald guy spun around. She seized the opportunity and stuck her head into the room to have a look around. She pulled back as the bald guy turned.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said. “That’s a pack of butts.”

“Sorry. Guess I’ve had too much to drink.”

The bald guy pointed at Lancaster. “Make him take you home, he got you drunk,” he said, and slammed the door in their faces.

They went outside to talk. A pair of souped-up cars on US 19 blew past the club at warp speed. Daniels waited until they were gone before speaking.

“I think Dexter’s blown out of here,” she said. “There was a folded-up cot leaning against a wall, and a hot plate sitting in a cardboard box. One of his biker buddies must have tipped him off, so he split.”

“If he ran, one of the girls probably knows where he went,” he said.

“You mean one of the dancers.”

“That’s right. They usually know the score. I’ll get one of them to take me to a VIP room, slip her some money, and see what I can find out.”

“You think you can get a girl to open up?”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. Did you see the girls up on the stage? None of them looked very happy. A couple of hundred bucks should do the trick.”

“I can put it into my expenses, and get you paid back.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m flush these days.”

“I’ll be next door at the sandwich shop.”

He went back inside the club. The DJ had gotten his equipment working, and a hip-hop number called “I Luv Dem Strippers” by 2 Chainz and Nicki Minaj rocked the house. A seat at the bar opened up, and he grabbed it and ordered a beer. From his wallet he removed five hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them on the bar.

Then, he waited.

The money was the bait. The bartenders would see it, and one of them would communicate to the dancers that they had a “live” one. The dancers worked in rotation, and the next girl up would come down off the stage, and get up close to him. She’d start flirting, and convince him to follow her to a VIP room, where she’d offer to exchange sexual favors for some, if not all, of his money. If he wasn’t careful, she’d slip a pill into his beer, and he’d be running to the toilet before she fulfilled her end of the bargain.

It took only a minute until he was proven right. A dancer wearing a pink G-string walked down a short flight of steps next to the bar, and soon was standing next to him.

“My name’s Chanty,” she said. “Buy me a drink?”

He sized Chanty up. Everything about her was fake: fake tits, fake hair, fake smile. Her pupils were dilated, and she was flying high — probably on Ecstasy, or maybe cocaine. In his experience, people who were high did nothing but lie.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Let me guess. You’re the bashful type. I can fix that.”

He ignored her and drank his beer. Another dancer on stage caught his eye. She was young, and had a hint of innocence. Inked across her tummy was an Outlaws skull and crossbones tattoo. The tattoo was fresh, the dead skin still flaking.

“You know her?” he asked, pointing.

“Maybe,” Chanty said.

He took a hundred off the bar, tore it in half, and gave her one of the pieces.

“I want to meet her. Make it happen, and I’ll give you the other half.”

Chanty made a face. “Why’d you do that? Bill’s no good torn in half.”

“Sure it is. Just scotch-tape it back together, and take it to the bank.”

“Bullshit. They won’t take it.”

He asked one of the bartenders to settle the argument.

“I get bills taped together every day,” the bartender said. “They’re good.”

Clutching the torn half in her hand, Chanty returned to the stage, and whispered in the young dancer’s ear. The dancer smiled mischievously, and together they came down off the stage and made a beeline to where he sat. He handed Chanty the other half.

“Thanks,” he said.

The young dancer smiled at him. Up close, the years fell off her face, and he didn’t think she was more than seventeen. That meant she was dancing illegally, and could get in a world of trouble if caught.

“I’m Echo,” she said. “I hear you want to meet me.”

“I do,” he said.

“It’s so noisy in here. Let’s go someplace quiet.”

As he followed Echo to the VIP rooms, Daniels texted him, asking if he’d made any progress. He texted her back a thumbs-up emoji.

“Your wife checking up on you?” Echo asked.

“Just someone from work,” he said.

He sat down on a red leather couch, and she crawled into his lap. Her hands were lightning fast as she frisked him.

“Whatever happened to foreplay?” he asked with a grin.

“Got to check for guns. House rules. You’re not a cop, are you?”

“Do I look like a cop to you?”

“No, you look like Santa Claus.”

Echo unbuttoned his shirt and started to rub his big, round belly. She was surprised at how hard his stomach was, and gently poked at it like a kid testing the air inside a balloon. Knowing she was underage made him uncomfortable, and he pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, revealing his detective’s badge pinned to the inside. Her smile vanished.

“Shit. I guess you’re not Santa Claus,” she said. “You going to bust me?”

“Let me ask the questions. How old are you? And don’t lie to me.”

“Seventeen.”

“Where are you from?”

“Atlanta.”

He pointed at the scabbing tattoo on her stomach. “What’s the story here?”

“My boyfriend made me get it.”

“You didn’t want a tattoo?”

“I thought it was ugly. Made me look like a whore.”

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. It was not uncommon for bikers to make their girls get a tattoo so that they could take possession of them. Echo had gotten the tattoo, but she hadn’t liked it, and that said a lot.

“Is your boyfriend a biker?” he asked.

She nodded, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“What’s his name?”

“Dexter. He threatened to hurt me and my baby if I disobeyed him.”

“Does Dexter have a droopy mustache and sideburns?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“I do. Would you like to get away from Dexter? I can help you do that.”

Her face turned to stone. Seventeen, raising a child, forced to strip to make ends meet, her life filled with broken promises. She had no good reason to believe anything he said.

“Can I show you something?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I guess.”

He opened the gallery app on his cell phone, and clicked on an album of photographs taken at Amber Glen Ranch, a rehabilitative facility outside of Nashville. It was here that Team Adam sent victims of kidnapping and sexual assault so they could heal their damaged psyches and reconnect with the world. The therapy included working in gardens, doing chores on the farm, and caring for horses.

He scrolled through the collection. “See the girl riding the horse? Her name is Stacy Lynn. She was kidnapped when she was fourteen, and kept in a cellar. Her captor raped her every day. I rescued her a year ago, and arranged for her to go live on a ranch. A team of therapists are helping her get better.”

One photo showed Stacy Lynn picking tomatoes. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and looked like a normal teenager. When he came to the last photo, he stopped. It was of the two of them, holding a basket of tomatoes that Stacy Lynn had picked. He’d gone to see her while chasing down a lead in Nashville, and been thrilled at how well she was doing.

Echo stared longingly at the photo, then gazed at him. The suspicion in her face had evaporated. “Can my baby and I live in this place?”

“I can arrange that. But you’ve got to help me find Dexter.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes, it’s a promise. All I have to do is make a phone call.”

It was a big decision, and Echo thought about it long and hard.

“Dexter’s down in Saint Petersburg, getting ready to kidnap a woman,” she said. “He told me the other night before he left, said he’d kill me if I talked.”

“Does Dexter live with you?”

“Yeah. I share an apartment with another dancer. Dexter decided to move in, and threw my roommate out. Couple of nights ago he got drunk, and told me how he was part of a gang that was kidnapping women. He even showed me a video of the women. I think they were being kept somewhere.”

He sat up straight on the couch. “How did they look?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The women — were they healthy?”

“They looked okay. None of them looked beat up, or anything.”

“Did you meet any other members of his gang?”

“His buddies came over a few times. Their names were Skyler and Logan.”

It was a small world. Echo had known his brother, and she’d also known Skyler Seeley, the man he’d shot twice in the back outside the Jayhawk Motel who’d later died.

“What did Dexter tell you about the job in Saint Petersburg?” he asked.

“Dexter said he was meeting up with a guy named Jake Williams, who he’d known in prison. They were going to track this woman down, and kidnap her. Dexter said this woman had an unlisted address and unlisted phone numbers, but that didn’t matter, because he could still find her.”

“Did he say how?”

“Dexter said he could find people just by having their email address.”

Lancaster knew a great deal about cyberstalking through his work with Team Adam, and was not aware of any method of finding a person solely through their email address. It simply wasn’t possible, and he guessed Echo had misunderstood what Dexter had said to her. The door opened, and a mean-looking bouncer stuck his head in.

“Time’s up,” the bouncer said. “Get back to work.”

The bouncer glared at them and slammed the door. Echo started to tremble, and she looked like she might start crying again. “That’s Marcus. He’s one of Dexter’s biker friends. Always checking up on me. I’ve got to go.”

She climbed off his lap, and went to the door. The Outlaws did not tolerate disloyalty and liked to say that while God forgives, Outlaws don’t. He knew that he’d placed Echo in danger.

“When do you get off work?” he asked.

“Couple of hours,” she said.

“Give me your address, and I’ll pick you up. You’re not safe around here.”

Echo gave him her address. The look on her face said she didn’t think she would ever see him again. They both returned to the club. She climbed onstage and started dancing with the other girls. He tried to make eye contact, but she wouldn’t look at him.

He made sure he wasn’t being followed before going outside. The temperature had dropped and made his skin tingle.

He felt elated. Echo had shared two important pieces of information. The victims were still alive, and Dexter was preparing to abduct another woman with a new partner. He knew enough about the gang’s motives to believe that he could figure out the new victim’s identity, and stop Dexter and his partner in the act.

He walked down the sidewalk toward the sandwich shop. Beth was going to be happy with his progress. She’d been working the investigation for a month, and the emotional wear and tear was showing. She needed to take a vacation after it was wrapped up, and he knew a perfect spot in the Keys that he planned to recommend.

Dino’s lot had a single car parked in it. His. Beth and her team were gone.

He checked his phone to see if she’d left him a message. There were none.

The owner of the sandwich shop was cleaning up. He banged on the window, and the owner unlocked the front door. “We’re closed.”

“There were three cars parked in your lot. Did you see them leave?”

“Yeah, about ten minutes ago,” the owner said.

Furious, he got in his car and called her. Beth and her team were backing him up, and could have at least given him the courtesy of a text message saying they were pulling out. Her voice mail picked up.

“Where the hell are you?” he asked.

Chapter 22

The message had said to come alone.

Daniels saw the exit signs for Tampa International Airport and flipped on her blinker. The expressway was quiet, and she’d spent the drive wondering what she was about to walk into. To be forewarned was to be forearmed. To be in the dark was to be helpless.

There were two dedicated lanes leading into the airport. She stayed in the right-hand lane and reduced her speed. At the exit for cargo, she got off and drove up to the gate. The female security guard was all business, and didn’t seem impressed by her credentials. Handing them back, the guard said, “You been here before?”

“First time,” Daniels replied.

She emerged from her booth and knelt down next to the driver’s window. “This is a big place, and it’s easy to get lost. Here’s what you need to do.”

Daniels memorized the guard’s instructions and thanked her. The gate was raised, and she entered the cargo area, drove around several buildings, and crossed an empty tarmac to an unmarked hangar. A Gulfstream G550 private jet was parked in front and was being serviced by a maintenance crew. A handsome pilot stood a few yards away, talking on his cell phone. The FBI owned a fleet of G550s, which were housed at Dulles International Airport and were at the disposal of the bureau’s directors.

She parked and got out. She expected someone to greet her, and explain what was going on, but there was no one. She didn’t think the pilot or maintenance people knew the score, so she climbed up the portable stairs and stepped into the small aircraft.

The interior was plush, with facing leather chairs and HDTVs on the walls, as well as computers built into several small desks. The G550s were often used as command centers in remote areas, and had every modern convenience.

“Anybody home?” she said.

“Back here,” a familiar voice replied.

She followed the voice to the rear of the plane. Joe Hacker sat by himself in the last row. His eyes were ringed from lack of sleep, and gray stubble dotted his chin. The remains of a meal sat on a plastic tray in the seat beside him. He acknowledged her with a weary nod and pointed at the empty seat across from his.

Daniels sat down. “Hello, J. T.”

“Hello, Beth.” He sounded exhausted. “How’s the investigation going?”

“I think we’re close to apprehending one of the members of the gang. I was at a stakeout when I got your message. Is something wrong?”

“You and I have a problem.”

“We do?”

“Yes, and his name is Jon Lancaster.”

Daniels stiffened. She wanted to think she’d been keeping Lancaster on a short leash, and was conducting her investigation by the book.

“I learned about an incident involving Lancaster that took place outside the Jayhawk Motel in Tampa,” Hacker said. “Do you know what I’m referring to?”

Learned from who? she nearly asked.

“You mean the shooting,” she said instead.

“Correct. According to the report I was given, a man named Dexter Hudson shot and killed Lancaster’s brother outside the Jayhawk last night. Lancaster chased Hudson, and fired his handgun into a moving vehicle. The driver of the vehicle later turned up dead. Does this sound right?”

She nodded stiffly. She had typed up a report of the shooting with the intention of including it in her final report when the investigation was complete. For J. T. to have this information meant that a member of her team had secretly made a copy off her computer and emailed it to him. She had been betrayed.

But by whom? Was it Gary or Otto? Or had another member stuck the knife in her back? It really didn’t matter. J. T. had the report, and she needed to deal with it.

“I also got my hands on the police report,” Hacker said. “The Tampa police don’t have a problem with Lancaster, and aren’t going to charge him with shooting the driver. Well, I do have a problem, and so should you.”

“He was chasing down a suspect,” she said defensively.

Hacker grew in his seat. “He fired his gun in the middle of a busy street, and put innocent lives at risk. He could have missed and hit a bystander.”

“But he didn’t,” she said.

“You think this is correct behavior?”

“The Tampa police didn’t have a problem with Jon’s actions, and neither do I.”

“You’re missing the point,” he said.

“Which is what?”

“He’s a liability. Or are you too blinded by your feelings to see that?”

The words stung like a slap in the face. She counted to three, and collected her thoughts before replying. “Jon is helping move the investigation forward. We were spinning our wheels until he showed up,” she said.

“But what if this happens again?” Hacker said. “What if Lancaster shoots his gun, and an innocent person gets wounded or killed? If the media finds out that he’s assisting the FBI, we could both lose our jobs, not to mention the shit storm it would create.”

“That’s a lot of ifs,” she said.

Hacker was not used to being challenged. His face turned red, and he started coughing. She hurried into the rear of the plane and found a bottled water.

He downed the water in one long gulp. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

There were times when she wished she’d never been promoted to run a division within the FBI. If she’d learned anything, it was that the higher she rose in the bureau, the more the job centered around good PR, while battling crime took a back seat. “How long have we known each other?” he asked.

“Since I graduated from the academy,” she said.

“Do you feel you know me pretty well?”

“Yes, J. T., I do.”

“Then read my mind. What am I thinking?”

“You want me to cut Jon loose.”

“That’s right. Think you’re up to it?”

“I’ll do whatever you feel is best.”

“Good answer. Wrap things up with him tonight. After that, there will be no more communications. If you wish to see him when the case is over, that’s your call. But if I find out that you’re talking to him while the investigation is proceeding, I’ll ask for your resignation. Am I making myself clear?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Please don’t disappoint me, Beth.”

He sounded just like her father, who had been a domineering asshole. It made her want to strangle him, and she rose from her seat.

“I’ll try not to,” she said.

“One last thing. You are not to enact any payback within your team.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”

“You know what I’m talking about. The agent who shared your report with me wasn’t being vindictive. He was simply doing what was best for your team.”

Hacker had just narrowed the list of suspects to the other male agents on her team. She would find out which one was responsible, and have a word with him.

“No payback. Got it, sir,” she said.

“Glad we’re on the same page. Good night, Beth.”

Back in her car, Daniels pulled out her phone. Jon had called, and left a voice message. She had bruised his feelings when they were dating, and she could only imagine what this new development would do to their relationship.

As she called him back, she realized her hand was trembling.

Chapter 23

“I’m sorry,” he heard Beth say.

His face was burning up. Beth had just explained why he was being yanked off the investigation. Like so many government law enforcement agencies he’d dealt with, the FBI was placing its own well-being above the people it was sworn to protect.

He decided not to go down without a fight.

“But I’m about to crack this thing wide open,” he protested.

Beth’s sharp intake of breath sounded like a gun going off. He knew her hot buttons. Nothing would have made her happier than breaking this case wide open.

“The victims are still alive,” he added.

“Who told you that?” she asked.

“A dancer named Echo. I spoke with her in a VIP room at the club. She’s Dexter’s girlfriend. Dexter showed her a video of the victims. They’re still alive.”

“Does she know where they’re being kept?”

“No. Echo told me that Dexter has a new partner, and is about to abduct a woman in Saint Petersburg. I thought we might bust them together.”

The connection went silent. He was sitting in his car in the parking lot of Ashton Oaks Apartments in New Port Richey, waiting for Echo to come home. Echo and her baby were not safe here, and he needed to move them tonight.

“I can’t talk to you anymore,” she said. “For all I know, my cell phone may be bugged. The bureau’s done that before.”

“To you?”

“Not to me, but it’s happened to other agents they put under the microscope. If an agent gets in hot water, the bureau will monitor their cell phone calls, and also read their emails and text messages. My boss gave me permission to talk to you a final time. If I do it again, and he finds out, I’m history.”

He punched the wheel in anger. This was not right, and they both knew it. A Prius with a damaged bumper drove into the complex and parked by the entrance to one of the apartments, a building three stories tall with window AC units. Echo jumped out and glanced furtively over her shoulder before hurrying inside. She was dressed in torn jeans and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and looked scared.

“My services are needed. I have to run,” he said.

“Where are you?” Daniels asked.

“At an apartment complex in New Port Richey. The dancer I was telling you about just came home. I promised to move her and her baby to a safe location.”

“Is she in danger?”

“I think so. A bouncer at the club caught us talking. He’s a friend of Dexter’s, and a member of the Outlaws.”

“I wish I was there to help you.”

But she wasn’t here, and that bothered him. The rules and regulations that FBI agents were sworn to uphold often proved to be the chains that held them down, and sometimes prevented them from bringing bad people to justice.

“Do you remember what I said about the Outlaws calling themselves one percenters?” he asked.

“I remember.”

“Well, you and I are part of a different one percent. We belong to the one percent that has sworn to fight evil. We’re the last line of defense against the monsters that make our lives miserable. It’s why you joined the FBI, and why I’m sitting in this parking lot instead of in a bar, drinking a beer and taking in a basketball game.”

She exhaled into the phone. “I know that, Jon. It’s why I’m attracted to you.”

“And it’s why I’m attracted to you. So get over here.”

“I can’t. Let me rephrase that. I can, but my boss will find out, and I’ll get fired. What good am I if I lose my job?”

She had a point. His window was open, and in the distance he heard cars drag racing on US 19, which seemed a common occurrence in these parts. He opened his door and put one foot out.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “I’ll figure out a way to feed you information without jeopardizing your job.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure out something.”

He grabbed a ball cap off the passenger seat and slipped it on. Then he got out, popped the trunk, removed a SIG SAUER P365 from the plastic bin where he kept his guns, and tucked it behind his belt buckle. Closing the trunk, he began to walk toward the apartment’s front entrance.

“Are you still there?” Beth asked, sounding worried.

“I’m here,” he replied.

“Be safe.”

“I’ll try.”

The elevator was on the blink. As he trotted up the stairs, he called Echo on his cell phone. She answered without saying a word. A baby cried in the background.

“This is Jon,” he said. “I’m coming up the stairs. What’s your apartment number?”

“You’re here?” she said, sounding surprised.

“Damn straight, I’m here. You need to leave soon. What’s the number?”

“Apartment 303. When you come out of the stairs, go left. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He took the stairs two at a time. At the third-floor landing he went left, and saw a shaft of light streaming out of a partially open door at the end of the hallway, which he ran toward. The floor was concrete, and his footsteps sounded like cannons going off. As he neared the door, it opened fully, and Echo greeted him with her baby in her arms. He was tiny, maybe six months old, with a head of black curls and dark, unblinking eyes. Seeing a stranger approach, he buried his head into his mother’s bosom.

Lancaster followed Echo into the apartment. Another woman sat on the floor in front of the TV, looking strung out, and he guessed she took care of the baby while Echo stripped at the club. The woman was a train wreck, with rotted teeth and sallow eyes, but he supposed it was better than leaving the kid alone.

Echo grabbed his wrist with her free hand, and pulled him toward the bedroom.

“We need to get out of here,” he said.

“Don’t you want to see the video of the girls?” she asked.

“You have it?”

“It’s on a private channel on YouTube. I’ll show you.”

The bedroom had a futon and a desk with a computer. A pile of dirty men’s clothes — Dexter’s, he assumed — lay heaped in a corner. Echo handed him her baby and got on the computer’s keyboard, which she handled like a pro. The computer had a separate hard drive that made a whirring sound as the screen came to life. YouTube allowed users to create private channels where unlisted videos could be shared with people who knew the link. The private channel that Echo pulled up had a large library. Based upon the titles, it appeared to be the property of the Outlaws motorcycle gang.

The kid gave him a mean stare, which he ignored. Bike Week had just finished in Daytona Beach, and the recent videos were of gang members attending the event. Echo scrolled down to an untitled video posted eight days earlier and clicked on it. The video started to play. Clutching the baby to his chest, he leaned in and peered at the screen.

It was in black and white, and was taken from a camera perched high above its subjects, possibly a ceiling mount. It showed the interior of a spacious kitchen with an island in its center. The kitchen had two sinks, two ovens, and an assortment of pots and pans dangling from metal hooks.

A small army of women were busy fixing a meal. Several diced vegetables on cutting boards, while others cut meat into bite-size chunks. Still others added the meat and vegetables into pots simmering on the stove. There was also a cleanup crew, which washed and dried dishes and mopped the floor.

There were eleven women in all. They wore identical aprons and facial expressions that reminded him of prison inmates, all hope extinguished from their faces.

He searched the group, looking for Skye Tanner, whose face he had memorized from the photograph that Team Adam had sent him. She didn’t appear to be in the group. Then it clicked. The video had been taken before Skye’s abduction. But that didn’t make sense — Skye was the eleventh victim, and there were eleven women in the video. So who was the extra woman? The baby started to cry, and he passed him back to his mother.

“How did you find out about this video?” he asked.

“Dexter got drunk, and he showed it to me one night,” she said. “He told me that if I didn’t behave, I’d end up with the women in the video.”

“You mean you’d end up a slave.”

“That’s right. One of the girls was my friend.”

“You know one of the women in the video?”

“Yeah. Her name is Lexi. She used to dance in the club, and we got to be friends. One night, she didn’t show up for work. The other girls figured she’d gone to another club, but when Dexter showed me the video, I knew otherwise.”

That explained the eleventh woman in the video.

“Did you tell anyone about what happened to Lexi?” he asked.

Echo shook her head. It angered him, and he gave her a reproachful look.

“I didn’t want Dexter to hurt me. Or my baby,” she explained.

He had heard enough. They went into the next room, and Echo grabbed a paper bag off the dining room table that he guessed contained the things she wanted to take. As they moved to leave, the strung-out woman by the TV began to shriek.

“What’s her problem?” he asked.

“I’m all she’s got,” Echo said.

No further explanation was forthcoming. But he could assume. The woman was an addict, and without Echo paying her to babysit the kid, her income would dry up, along with her ability to score the drugs that kept her going. He crossed the room and shoved money into her face.

“Take it,” he said.

The woman fell silent. She held the bills up to the light, checking to see if they were real. Her face filled with bliss.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered.

He returned to where Echo stood holding her baby and her paper bag. The apartment window was open, and outside he heard the roar of a convoy of motorcycles entering the apartment parking lot.

“Stay behind me, and do exactly as I tell you,” he said.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

He opened the door and stuck his head into the hallway. It was empty, which he found surprising. The smart move for the bikers would have been to send members of their gang into the apartment building before making the ruckus outside. He would have been hard pressed to defeat a gang of men in close quarters, especially with Echo and her baby nearby. But the bikers hadn’t done that, which told him that they were amateurs.

He had dealt with their ilk before, and knew what to do. As he walked down the hallway toward the stairwell, he drew the SIG. Outside, the motorcycles were revving their engines, the bikers waiting for him. It reminded him of lions roaring at the zoo.

Reaching the stairwell, he glanced at Echo, who was trembling in fear.

“Say the word Hooyah!” he said.

She stared at him, not understanding.

“It’s a battle cry, and will give you courage,” he explained.

“Hooyah,” she whispered.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Hooyah!” she said, much louder this time.

“There you go. Hooyah!”

Fear was contagious, and had cost more than one brave soldier his life. He gave her his best smile, and she found the courage to smile back. Pointing the SIG at the ceiling, he headed down the stairs.

Chapter 24

It was like a scene out of the old biker movie Easy Rider.

The bikers were in the parking lot, racing their hogs in a circle, making it all but impossible for Lancaster to get to his car and escape with Echo and her baby. In a way, it was a smart move, since they weren’t breaking any laws, except disturbing the peace.

Lancaster stood at the apartment building’s entrance, watching through a crack in the door. He put the gang’s number at fourteen, although that was just a guess, since they were moving too fast to accurately count. It was a big number, and it gave him pause.

“What are we going to do?” Echo asked, her voice trembling.

“Maybe we should call an Uber,” he suggested.

She looked ready to cry. They had run out of options. Even if he had decided to shoot them, his SIG had only ten bullets, which would have left four bikers for him to deal with. He could hold his own in a fight, but Echo and her baby were a handicap.

Without a word, Echo started to walk past him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m going to go talk to them,” she said.

“That won’t work. They’re animals.”

“Do you have a better idea in mind?”

Out in the parking lot, one of the bikers had popped a wheelie, and was driving on his back wheel, grandstanding for his friends. He drove a hundred feet, brought the front wheel down, then spun around, and raced the bike back the same way he’d just come while doing another wheelie. It was illegal to drive a bicycle without a helmet in Florida, but not a motorcycle, and the biker’s long hair flapped in the wind.

The rest of the gang stopped to watch. It looked like fun, and a second member popped a wheelie and rode alongside his friend on one wheel. It wasn’t long before the rest of the gang joined in, and rode back and forth on one wheel.

It was grandstanding, and it changed his opinion of them. Either they were drunk, high, or just plain stupid, and because of this, they didn’t feel threatened. That was a huge mistake. During his training to become a SEAL, his rigorous schedule had included classes called evolutions. Only when he passed the necessary tests could he evolve to the next level. One of his first classes had taught readiness, and how a SEAL could never let his guard down, no matter what the situation. The bikers had let their guard down, and the first rule of warfare was never to do that.

“Hide behind me,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” Echo asked.

“Just do as I tell you. Okay?”

“Are we going out?”

“Yes, we’re going out. On the count of three. One, two, three.”

Holding the SIG at his side, he marched out of the apartment building with Echo right behind him. His steps were fast and deliberate as he went down the brick path. The outside lighting was poor, and he didn’t think the bikers would see his sidearm right away.

Reaching the end of the path, he halted. One of the bikers roared past on one wheel, and flipped him the bird. It was the wild man who’d greeted him and Daniels at the clubhouse in Saint Petersburg. He tried to remember the guy’s name.

Dirty Pete.

He lifted the SIG and aimed at Dirty Pete’s rear tire. He squeezed the trigger, and the tire exploded, sending shards of rubber into the air. The motorcycle flipped backward, and landed atop Dirty Pete, pinning him to the pavement.

Lancaster stepped into the parking lot. The rest of the gang was still showboating. As they swerved to avoid hitting him, he shot out their rear tires. It was like shooting ducks in a barrel, and their bikes either flipped in the air, or spun wildly out of control.

The carnage was intense. One bike crashed into a parked car, and sent the driver airborne, his arms flapping like a bird. Another bike skidded across the pavement, and took out several other bikes before crashing, its driver howling that his leg was broken. Not one bike stayed upright. The four bikers who did not get their tires shot out had their own problems. Two crashed into other riders who were lying on the pavement, while the other two smacked into each other and caused a pileup. No one escaped unscathed.

Echo hovered beside him. He put his arm protectively around her shoulder, and led her to his vehicle. Her baby hadn’t made a sound. Great kid.

“Oh no,” she said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three bikers walking toward them. One had blood on his face, while the other two were limping. Some guys just never learned.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

When they were within striking range, he lunged at them. It was a tactical move, and got the desired reaction. The bloodied biker jumped backward, while one of the limpers halted. Only one of the bikers kept coming forward.

Lancaster feigned throwing a punch, but kicked the biker in the groin instead. The man doubled over in pain, leaving his chin open for a knee, which snapped his head back. He crumpled to the pavement in an inglorious heap and did not move.

The second limper knew karate, and took a little longer to subdue. He managed to get a roundhouse kick in, and Lancaster briefly saw stars, before sweeping the biker’s legs out from under him, taking him down. As his vision cleared, he heard a stream of curses, and spun around to find Echo spraying a can of Mace into the face of the bloodied biker, who appeared to be blinded. She emptied the can, and he stumbled away, screaming in agony.

She tossed the empty can away, then picked up her paper bag.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Her baby still hadn’t made a sound.

With Echo acting as copilot, he drove east on State Road 54 and eventually got onto the Suncoast Parkway. A few miles later the parkway ended, and he merged onto the Veterans Expressway, and headed south toward Tampa.

Echo rode shotgun and sang to her baby. Instead of caving under pressure, she had shown character. Although her future was uncertain, he knew she’d come out okay.

“What’s your son’s name?” he asked.

“Hector. We named him after his daddy,” she said.

He wanted to ask the father’s status, but knew that was none of his business.

“ICE took my boyfriend away six months ago,” she said, as if reading his mind. “He’s living in Mexico, trying to figure out a way to come back to Florida, and be with us.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“My boyfriend is smart. He’ll figure out a way. Where are you taking us?”

“To a hotel near the Sarasota airport. Once I have you and your baby in a room, I’ll connect with my people at Team Adam, and have them send a private plane to fly you to the horse farm in Tennessee that I told you about earlier tonight. You’ll be safe there.”

The Veterans Expressway had an express lane that ran for most of its length. He wasn’t keen on using it and paying the additional toll, but did so anyway, wanting to concentrate more on talking to Echo than maneuvering his car in the heavy traffic.

“I want to ask you some questions about Lexi,” he said. “Are you okay with that?”

Echo rocked her baby in her arms. “Sure.”

“You said that Dexter kidnapped Lexi. Why do you think he picked her?”

“I asked myself that same question,” she said. “Why take Lexi, and not one of the other dancers, or me? I think it was because Lexi was alone. She didn’t have any family or a boyfriend. When she didn’t show up for work, no one missed her.”

“Except you.”

“Yeah. Lexi babysat for me a few times. She was nice.”

“Was Lexi the first girl to be kidnapped? Or were there others?”

“I think there were others.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I heard stories about other dancers disappearing. The girls were like Lexi, and didn’t have anyone in their life, so no one reported it.”

It was a common refrain when people went missing. A victim without family or friends would disappear, and soon be forgotten. And the sad part was, it happened every day.

They did not speak for the rest of the way. He went on to Spotify and played a list of favorite Jimmy Buffett songs that he’d compiled and shared with other subscribers. Echo seemed to enjoy the music, and he caught her softly singing along.

Before reaching their destination, they drove across a four-mile-long bridge called the Sunshine Skyway. It was so long that it stretched over three counties, and Echo pressed her face to her window, oohing and aahing at the spectacular view.

The Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport serviced national and international flights. Expedia showed eight nearby hotels, and he chose the Knights Inn because the rooms were accessible from the street. After pulling into the hotel, he parked by the front entrance and killed the engine. He handed her the keys.

“I’m going inside and booking you a room,” he explained. “I want you to lock the doors when I get out. If someone suspicious gets near the car, beep the horn.”

“Okay.” She hesitated. “I don’t have money for a room.”

“I’ve got it covered. Did you eat earlier?”

“No. I brought formula for my son.”

“But nothing for yourself. I’ll get you something. Back in a few.”

He started to get out, and she grabbed his wrist.

“I’m frightened,” she said.

“Don’t be. I’m going to get you and your boy out of here. You’ll get to start your life over, and not worry about the past.”

She flashed a hopeful smile. It quickly faded, the reality of her situation creeping in, and erasing hope. He tousled her son’s hair, then hopped out of the car and closed the door behind him. No sooner was it shut than he heard the doors click.

Inside the hotel’s brightly lit registration office, he found a clean-cut night manager who looked like he’d played football in college and, when the pros hadn’t come calling, decided to go into hospitality management. His eyes were cold and unfriendly.

“Can I help you?” he asked stiffly.

His radar went on full alert. He took a Team Adam card from his wallet and placed it on the counter. With his fingertips, he slid the card across the marble counter, and waited a beat so the night manager could read what it said.

“My name is Jon Lancaster, and I work with Team Adam, which is affiliated with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children,” he said. “There is a young lady sitting in my car who was nearly a victim of an abduction earlier tonight. There will be a private plane coming to the Sarasota airport to get her out of here. In the meantime, I need to book a room for her. Do you think you can help me out?”

The night manager stared at the card. “Is this legit?”

“Feel free to call the 1-800 number,” he said. “The operator will put you through to a hotline. Whoever answers will verify who I am.”

“Hold on.”

The night manager punched the number into his cell phone. Lancaster stepped back from the counter and waited. Forty million people around the world were victims of human trafficking. Many of the victims were young women, who were sold into slavery. No country was immune to the problem, not even the United States of America.

There were seven global organizations dedicated to stopping this problem. These organizations spent a large portion of their budgets educating the airline and hospitality industry on how to spot traffickers, since hotel and airline people came in contact with traffickers and their victims on a regular basis.

When a person in the airline or hospitality industry spotted a customer they believed was engaged in human trafficking, it was hoped they would call a toll-free number, and report their suspicions. To help facilitate this, the airline industry distributed pamphlets to its employees, as did the hotel industry.

This pamphlet spelled out telltale signs of trafficking. A teenage girl traveling with an older male was one sign. A lack of luggage was another, and the girl’s inability to communicate with the people around her. The male paying in cash for airline tickets or a hotel room was another giveaway.

Not every hotel got these pamphlets. But those hotels situated near airports that serviced international flights always got the pamphlets, because more often than not, traffickers on international flights made layovers with their victims.

No doubt, the night manager at the Knights Inn had read the pamphlet. Seeing Lancaster pull in, he had become suspicious when he’d spotted Echo in the passenger seat. She was seventeen, and Lancaster was forty, and that was a red flag.

“Good evening, this is Eric Richmond, the night manager at the Knights Inn at the Sarasota International Airport,” he said into his cell phone. “I have a man named Jon Lancaster wishing to book a room for an underage girl into my hotel. Can you please verify that Lancaster is a member of your organization? Yes, I’ll hold.”

Richmond rested the phone in the crook of his neck. “You better be who you say you are,” he said to his guest.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” Lancaster replied.

“Do you know how many times customers have said that?”

“Too many, I guess. But I’m not one of them.”

“What is Team Adam? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a group of retired law enforcement agents that work missing persons cases. Mostly CIA, Secret Service, FBI, and ex-cops.”

“Which are you?”

“Ex-cop.”

Richmond looked at his guest’s protruding belly and scowled. His call was put through, and he started asking questions. The NCMEC ran a twenty-four-hour hotline, and there was always a knowledgeable person working the phones. Richmond’s attitude changed. Hanging up, he said, “You check out with flying colors. My apologies.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“There you go. How do you want to pay?”

“All my money’s tied up in cash,” he said.

Richmond laughed and got on his computer. “Do you have a preference on the room?”

“First floor. I’m going to sit outside in my car to make sure she’s safe.”

“Got it. I’ll put your friend in room 16L. It’s at the end of the building. You can park your vehicle right in front of the door.”

“That works. I’m also going to sit in my car with a shotgun in my lap. Just in case these guys who are after her tailed us.”

Richmond blew out his cheeks. “These sound like bad people.”

“That would be an understatement.”

“My brother-in-law is a cop. If I call him, he’ll be here in two minutes.”

“I may take you up on that.”

“How will I recognize these guys if they show up?”

“They’ll be riding motorcycles.”

Lancaster got Echo and her son situated in their room before again asking Echo if she was hungry. She said she was, and he bought bags of chips and nuts from a vending machine, plus a bottled water, and brought them to the room before explaining what came next.

“I’m going to put a call into Team Adam, and request a private jet come to the Sarasota Airport to fly you and your son to Nashville. Depending upon which airline has an available plane, this can take anywhere between three and six hours. In the meantime, I want you to stay in your room, and chill out.”

“I’m not sleepy,” Echo said.

“Then watch a movie on cable. You need to relax, and take your mind off things. I’m going to park my car in front of your room, and stand guard. If you need anything, or just want to talk, open the blinds to your window, and I’ll come running.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, she visibly relaxed. He thought he understood. She had expected that he wanted to have sex, because that was what Dexter had done, and probably other men who had offered to help her. Sleep with me, and I’ll help you. That was how the deal went.

But that wasn’t his deal. Never had been, never would be. Echo was pretty and had a great figure, and saying he didn’t find her attractive would have been a lie. But that didn’t mean he was going to take advantage of her during a time of weakness.

She knew this, and it made her feel safe. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for saving me and my baby,” she said.

“You’re welcome. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

He went outside and moved his vehicle into the parking space in front of her door. Then he got out and opened the trunk and removed the Mossberg 590 Shockwave pump-action shotgun that he kept with his other firearms. With a pistol grip and antijam elevator, the 590 Shockwave was a nasty weapon at close range, and many states prohibited its sale. Luckily, Florida wasn’t one of them.

He got behind the wheel and laid the shotgun across his lap. He left the engine running so he could listen to his Jimmy Buffett playlist on Spotify without draining the car’s battery. Then he called the restricted Team Adam number on his cell phone and heard an operator pick up.

“This is Claudia. Who am I speaking with?” the operator asked.

“This is Jon Lancaster, code name Margaritaville.”

“Good evening, Margaritaville. What can I do for you?”

“I have an emergency transport request for a seventeen-year-old female and her six-month-old baby son, to be transported to the farm in Nashville. They are currently staying at a motel near the Sarasota-Bradenton International Airport. The girl and her son are in imminent danger, and need to be moved tonight.”

“Understood. Hold the line.”

The operator put him on hold, and silence filled his ear. A motorcycle blew past the motel, followed by another, and he got out of his car holding the shotgun to his waist and the cell phone stuck between his shoulder and his neck. The two bikes faded into the night, and only when he felt sure they were gone did he get back in.

The operator returned. “Still there?”

“You bet. What have you got for me?”

“The kind folks at Delta Private Jets have stepped up to the plate. They have a Hawker 800 at the Fort Lauderdale Airport and have called one of their pilots to fly to Sarasota, and transport the girl and her son to Nashville, where a private car will take them to the farm. I’ll text when the plane departs Fort Lauderdale, and give you its estimated landing time in Sarasota.”

“That works. Thanks for the assist.”

He ended the call. Delta Private Jets was a subsidiary of Delta Air Lines, and had a fleet of seventy small jets that were used throughout the Southeast. The company had transported more of his rescues than any other airline, always for free. It was why he tried to fly their parent company whenever possible.

He killed time listening to music. He knew every line to every Jimmy Buffett song, and he sang along while tapping his fingers against the wheel. The light in Echo’s room went off, and he guessed she was trying to get some sleep. Echo was a decent girl, and from what he could tell, not horribly damaged by what life had dealt her. With some help, she and her son just might get their lives back to normal.

Echo was lucky, and had caught a break. But what about the enslaved women he’d seen on the YouTube video in Echo’s apartment? Were they going to be able to one day resume their lives? Or would they forever be locked away, forced to cook and clean, and do their owners’ bidding?

Next to murder, there was no greater crime than human trafficking, and thinking about their situation made him angry. They’d done nothing to deserve such a horrible fate, and had become prey to their captors, who were monsters.

He wanted to help them. If he put his mind to it, he just might be able to figure out where they were being held. He shut off the music, deep in thought.

The video had shown the women in a well-equipped kitchen, with multiple sinks, two refrigerators, and enough pots and pans for a small army. He put the room’s size at two hundred square feet, which made it larger than a kitchen in an ordinary house. It made him think that the women were being held in a building where a large kitchen was necessary.

Kitchens were expensive, and he estimated that the one in the video had cost $100,000 or more to build. Were the women in an abandoned hotel, or an empty school? He didn’t know the answer, but he did know this: the size of the kitchen indicated that it was a large facility, which he guessed had extensive sleeping quarters for the women, and probably their captors.

To keep such a facility going cost money. Money to pay the rent, the taxes, the power, and the grocery bill. It was an expensive proposition, and he wondered where the funds were coming from.

Not Dexter Hudson. Dexter was fresh out of prison, and was alternating between living in the back room of a strip club and shacking up with Echo. The rest of Dexter’s gang was also recently released from prison, and didn’t have the means to support such an enterprise. Which meant someone else was funding it.

He thought he knew who that was, but needed to be certain. He climbed out of his car and laid the shotgun on his seat. Going to the door to Echo’s room, he rapped gently. He saw the lights come on through the window, and the door cracked an inch.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I need to ask you a question.”

Her eyes were half-closed, and her hair was a sleepy mess.

“Sure,” she said.

“You said that other dancers at the club have disappeared. When did they disappear? Was this in the past few weeks, months, or years?”

“Last couple of years,” she said.

“You’re sure about this.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. The private jet will be here in a few hours. Go back to sleep.”

She closed the door, and he got back into his vehicle. Echo had answered his question and solved the riddle. Dancers at Echo’s club had been disappearing long before Dexter and his fellow ex-cons had gotten released from prison, and he had to believe that the Outlaws motorcycle gang was behind it. The Outlaws had the financial means to fund such an operation, and were also the types of soulless individuals who would kidnap women and later sell them into slavery. The kitchen he’d seen in the YouTube video was part of their operation, and Dexter was using it to house his victims.

It was a joint operation between the bikers and Dexter’s gang of ex-cons.

The door to the front office opened, and Richmond came outside. In his hand was a steaming Styrofoam cup. Lancaster lowered his window.

“I thought you might need this,” the night manager said.

It was coffee, strong and black. He took a sip and smiled.

“You have no idea how good that tastes,” he said.