Stealth Attack Page 4

  Mama’s features hardened as her eyes turned red. “I saw Jonny heading down into the basement. He looked very serious. Was that about Roman?”

  Venice’s breath caught. There was no way Mama could be allowed to know what the team was doing. “I, uh . . .”

  “Don’t you lie to me, Venny. You know I’ll know, and I don’t want to be insulted with a lie.”

  “Then I won’t answer,” Venice said. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Pick the one you’re most comfortable with.”

  “You’re going to sass me at a time like this?”

  “I don’t mean to,” Venice said.

  “Why was Jonny so serious if there’s nothing to worry about? If there’s no reason to assume that he’s not all right? Those were your words.”

  When Mama Alexander wanted information, she was like a dog with a bone. She’d keep gnawing until she got what she wanted.

  Venice settled herself with a sigh. “Digger and Boxers are going to fly down to El Paso to help with the investigation.”

  “There’s an investigation? Oh, my God.”

  Venice held out her hands to stop the panic. “No, no, no. Not like that. We’re concerned that the police aren’t going to take the disappearance seriously. They’re going to assume that they just ran off to be teenagers.”

  “They?”

  “Roman is with a girl. At least we think that. They’re both . . . Both of them failed to report back on the field trip.” She didn’t want to utter the word missing.

  “So, Jonny is gonna spend all the time and money to take his plane down to Texas just in case something is bad?” Mama’s jaw had set. “That don’t make no sense, and you know it, Venny.”

  Venice had no words.

  “You look here, Venice Alexander.” Mama pronounced her name as if it were the city in Italy. She’d never bought into the “Ven-EE-chay” affectation. “I don’t know what you all do back here behind your closed doors and security guards, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. But I see the bruises on Jonny when he comes back from trips. I see them on Gail, too, and that giant bag of scary they travel with.” Boxers and Mama had never gotten along very well. Neither had he and Venice, for that matter.

  Mama continued, “I suspect that you cross legal lines and bring violence to people. I won’t ask you to confirm that, and please let me believe that you only hurt people who need to be hurt.”

  Venice prayed that her poker face was holding fast.

  “If something has happened to Roman. If, God forbid. . .” Mama’s voice broke. She brought her hand to her eyes and struggled through the moment. Her shoulders settled and her hand came down. “If that’s the case, I’m depending on you to make sure that awful things are done to anybody who lays a hand on that boy.”

  Venice wasn’t prepared for the flood of emotion that erupted from her own soul. She dropped her face into her hands and let the tears flow. “Oh, Mama, I’m so frightened.”

  Mama placed a hand on Venice’s knee. “Hey.”

  Venice looked up, surprised to see Mama fully recovered from her own emotional break. In fact, her eyes were stony.

  Mama stood. “You don’t have time for that,” she said. “No tears. No anger. You get to work doing what you do and bring our boy back.”

  Mama left the Cave and never looked back.

  Chapter Four

  Jonathan and Boxers were airborne in record time, less than two hours after the news had broken in Fisherman’s Cove. The Beechcraft Hawker 800 executive jet resided at Manassas Regional Airport in Prince William County, Virginia, in a hangar leased to a fictitious company that Jonathan owned for the specific purpose of being untraceable. A maintenance team retired from the 160th Special Operations Air Regiment doubled as a security team, taking care not only of the aircraft and physical plant but also the munitions that were stored there. The TSA administrator would fall over dead if she knew what kind of cargo the Hawker carried.

  One of the benefits of hiring former Special Forces soldiers and operators was their appreciation of the importance of keeping secrets. As for nosy neighbors at the airport, Jonathan wasn’t terribly concerned. The closest operation to his own possessed a lot of unmarked white aircraft with meaningless tail numbers. It tried to be low-key, but as far as Jonathan was concerned, they might as well have painted the CIA shield on the vertical stabilizers.

  Bottom line: this corner of the Manassas fixed-base operation was as safe a neighborhood as any airplane could find.

  Boxers drove the airplane while Jonathan sat in the copilot seat. In a nightmare scenario, Jonathan knew enough to get the jet on the ground, so long as the autopilot was on and the control tower had someone on hand who could talk him down.

  Once airborne, Jonathan placed a call to Fisherman’s Cove Police Chief Doug Kramer. Doug and Digger had grown up together, and Doug felt like part of the family. “Where the hell are you calling from?” Kramer asked. “You sound like you’re in the middle of a highway.”

  “We’re airborne,” Jonathan said. “On our way to El Paso.” The chief listened while Jonathan filled him in on the details of Roman’s disappearance.

  “You probably already know this,” Kramer said, “but you’re not going to get a lot of interest from boots on the ground in El Paso. Teenagers stepping off together—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jonathan said. He didn’t need to hear the resistance another time. “That’s why we’re headed down there.”

  “What do you expect to accomplish?”

  “We’re going to help the police with the investigation they’re not going to want to do.”

  “How?” Kramer asked. “On whose authority? Does Texas have some kind of reciprocity agreement with Virginia private investigators?”

  “I have no idea,” Jonathan said. “And you know me well enough to know how little I care.”

  “You’re only half of that equation, Dig. I imagine they’re going to care a lot.”

  “That’s where you come in,” Jonathan said. “We’re hoping that you can call someone. You know, chief-to-chief. Explain a little of what we’re trying to accomplish and maybe get them in the mood to cooperate with us.”

  “I can try,” Kramer said. “I’ll be happy to make the call, but just so you know, I don’t have any connections down there.”

  Boxers asked, “Is Thor still attached to that BORTAC task force?”

  “Good question,” Jonathan said.

  Kramer laughed. “So, you guys are on a first name basis with the God of Thunder?”

  “He’s a DEA agent we’ve worked with a couple of times,” Jonathan explained. “Real name is Harry Dawkins. Tell you what. I’ll reach out to Harry and see if we can scare up the police chief’s name. Get back to you in ten, fifteen minutes?”

  “It’s your phone bill.”

  “Rog,” Jonathan said. He clicked off, then scrolled through his contacts list till he landed on Dawkins’s number.

  The call connected on the third ring. Over the speaker, Dawkins’s distinctive voice answered with “Miss me?”

  “Like a genital rash,” Jonathan replied.

  “Is Big Guy with you?”

  “I never leave home without him.”

  “How ya doin’, Big Guy?”

  “Livin’ the dream.”

  “What can I do for you?” Dawkins asked.

  “Are you still resting your head at night in El Paso?”

  “I’m still in the drug business, Dig. Gotta be where the action is.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Boxers snapped.

  “Whoa, Big Guy’s cranky,” Dawkins teased. “Stake out a goat for him to stalk and eat.” As a jokester, Dawkins showed a lot more courage from afar than he did from close in. “But yes, it means yes.”

  “Good,” Jonathan said. “You remember Venice, right?”

  “Mother Hen? How could I forget?” Venice detested her radio handle, but Jonathan refused to change it.
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  “Okay, well, we got a bit of scary news,” Jonathan said. “Her thirteen-year-old—almost fourteen now—was on a field trip in your fair city—”

  “Who the hell brings kids to El Paso for a field trip?”

  “Don’t get me started. There’s some thing going on at UTEP. Anyway, he’s gone missing.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah,” Jonathan said. “We’re winging our way down there on the theory that we’re not going to get a lot of love from the local flatfeet.”

  “EPPD has a lot of good folks,” Dawkins said.

  “I’m not questioning their professionalism,” Jonathan said. “I just don’t think this is going to be high on the list.”

  “You think—what’s his name?”

  “Roman Pennington,” Jonathan said. “Probably goes by Roman Alexander, though. Long story.”

  “Are you thinking Roman’s disappearance has something to do with your . . . shall we say interaction with the cartels?”

  “That’s the fear.”

  “And you can’t clue the EPPD into the concern because you can’t afford to be identified as the guy who blew up Mexico.”

  “We weren’t alone, as I recall,” Boxers said.

  “I’m proud to have been part of the effort,” Dawkins said. A while ago, Dawkins first met Jonathan and the team while naked and being tortured south of the border. A bit of violence followed in that adventure. “How can I help?”

  Jonathan explained how he wanted Doug Kramer to soften the opposition in advance of their arrival. “Do you have any connections?”

  “I know one of the assistant chiefs,” Dawkins said. “His name is Chester Gill. Good guy. He’s my liaison with the department. This is a bit out of his line.”

  “I just need a name,” Jonathan explained. “Doug’s going to do a kissy-kissy cop call and see what he can work out. We just want more access than they’d likely give to other outsiders.”

  “All right,” Dawkins agreed. He shared the assistant chief’s phone number, and Jonathan wrote it down.

  Dawkins said, “While you’re contacting your chief buddy, I’ll give Chester a call myself and tell him to expect to hear from . . . Kramer, right?”

  “Doug Kramer.”

  “Hey, listen, guys I hope all this works out. I’m praying for the best.”

  “Much appreciated, Harry.” Jonathan clicked off. “Hey, Big Guy, how long before we touch down?”

  * * *

  The El Paso police were going to need a current picture of Roman. And Venice couldn’t find one.

  Couldn’t find a picture of her only child. What kind of mother was she?

  School photos were optional to the kids these days, and, of course, Roman wanted nothing to do with any of that. Thus, the most recent formal portrait she had of him was two years old, and he’d grown into encroaching manhood since then. Back then, he wore his hair cropped close, with a part cut in by the barber. Now, he sported an Afro, and his face was shadowed by wispy sideburns and a poor impersonation of a goatee—really, just hairs on his lip and chin, but they were important to him.

  But there were no pictures.

  Venice hacked into his Facebook account and found that it had not been updated in ages.

  Facebook is for old people.

  How many times had she heard that from him?

  She knew that there was a grab bag of other social media options that were more popular among kids these days, but she had neither the time nor the desire to chase down those rabbit holes and reverse engineer Roman’s credentials. For now, all she needed was a picture.

  A simple picture.

  Luke Eadie. Friends were always snapping pictures of each other. Maybe Luke would have a current shot that he could share. She dialed his number into the landline at her command chair and waited.

  “Hello?” The voice sounded young. Tentative. He didn’t know who he was talking to.

  “Hi, this is Mrs. Alexander,” Venice said. “Roman’s mother. Is this Luke?”

  “Is Roman okay?”

  “We hope so. We haven’t been able to find him yet. I’m sorry for calling so late. Can you tell me what happened? What you know?”

  “I don’t know anything. Just that he disappeared with Ciara Kelly.”

  “Did he say anything about where he might be going?”

  “No, he was real secretive. I knew he was up to something, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  “Any detail could help. Anything at all.”

  Luke hesitated, a sure adolescent sign that he owned information that he didn’t want to share.

  “I’m his mother, Luke.” Venice heard the crack in her voice. “He’s my only son and he’s missing.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Luke said. Sounds of movement, some muffled voices. Thirty seconds later, his voice returned, but barely above a whisper. “Are you still there?”

  “What do you need to tell me, Luke?”

  “Ciara Kelly is a troublemaker, Mrs. Alexander. I think she’s got a thing for Roman, and he’s really changed. He doesn’t hang with anybody else anymore, and she’s mean.”

  “Are you saying you think Ciara might have hurt Roman?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. I think she talked him into sneaking away. On the bus riding from the airport I think they were planning something. Just from the way they were keeping to themselves and ignoring everybody else. Plus . . .” He fell silent.

  “This is important, Luke.”

  “Well, he had a swimsuit in his backpack. I saw it when he opened it.”

  “Why is that important?” Venice asked.

  Luke cleared his throat. “Well, first of all, the hotel doesn’t have a pool. But more than that, I wondered why he had it in his backpack instead of in his duffel bag with all his other stuff.”

  Venice thought she saw where he was going in is logic, but she wanted to hear him say it. “Why did that seem important?”

  “I guess maybe it didn’t until after they didn’t show back up,” Luke said. “But looking back, I think they had a plan. You see, we knew that our rooms wouldn’t be ready yet. They told us that we’d put our bags in the lobby and then we could go and look at stuff around town.”

  “Alone?” Venice heard the shock in her own tone.

  “Well, with a buddy, you know? Roman was supposed to be my buddy, but, well, Ciara happened.”

  “They were buddies, then?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you tell Dr. Washington?”

  Silence.

  “Luke?”

  “I don’t want to the one to get him in trouble. Roman never would have done something like this before Ciara. It’s really all her.”

  Venice prayed that one day she might understand the priorities of young people. “I’m not looking for anyone to get in trouble, Luke. You can keep this just between us. I won’t tell Dr. Washington.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” She’d sure as heck tell Digger, though. “Hey, listen. Do you have a recent picture of Roman?”

  “I think so. Do you want one of Ciara, too?”

  * * *

  Luke Eadie sent three pictures in total. One showed Roman laughing at something that wasn’t obvious from the framing of the photo. Another showed Roman standing with Ciara. They were both wearing bathing suits, Roman in knee-length blue board shorts and Ciara in a bikini that Venice would never have allowed if she’d had a daughter. It was no wonder that Roman was distracted by her. Long dark hair, an infectious smile, and an adult’s body. Did her parents not understand the risks that outfits like that posed for young girls? It was all part of the sexualization of young people that Venice did not understand.

  The third picture was the one that would be most useful to her. Facial recognition software worked best when features were flaccid. This third shot caught Roman in a pensive pose, perhaps paying attention in class. This was the one she would load into the software purloined from the National Security Agency.


  As she scanned the photo into the system, she turned back to the kids’ phones. Both had turned off their tracking feature, but she figured that the way boys and girls lived on their phones these days, there had to be some bit of useful data in there. The swimsuit in the backpack was important, she knew. Maybe they’d done an internet search for the best places to go swimming in El Paso. A different hotel, maybe?

  As she scrolled through Roman’s hacked account, she found nothing that seemed important. She switched to Ciara’s account.

  Wait. Could it really be that simple? Could she already have seen the clue she needed?

  Ciara’s call to Roman’s phone was the second most recent number dialed. The most recent number was an El Paso area code.

  “Oh, please, please, please,” she whispered absently as she entered the number into her computer. The phone was registered to Luis Alvarez, and she got his home address. He had a police record, but the charges were all related to theft, the most recent being five years ago. No hint of violence.

  Luis Alvarez was the divorced father of two daughters, both of whom were enrolled in San Pedro Catholic School. His credit score hovered at 643, which meant he wasn’t the best money manager. He lived in the Sam Houston Mobile Home Park, where he was current on his rent.

  “Come on,” Venice urged her machine. “Give me something useful.”

  How about work history? That was a little harder to dig into because it meant accessing files that typically were guarded by more advanced security and encryption devices. Enter the NSA once again.

  A while back, Venice had fallen in love with an extraordinarily talented hacker who was employed by the Puzzle Palace at Fort Meade, Maryland. He understood some of what the covert side of Security Solutions was into, and he bought into the importance of the mission, holding hope that he would one day become part of the team. In one of the most tragic moments of Venice’s life, Derek Halstrom died while trying to save her from attackers.

  But the toys he brought all remained.

  Luis Alvarez had worked a number of menial jobs over the years, mostly as a store clerk. His terms of employment averaged out to be about two years, so that indicated to Venice that he must have been trustworthy, at least to a point.