Before he could respond, SAC William’s phone rang. He held up a finger and walked toward the window to talk.
Harry closed his eyes, laid his head against his pillow, and remembered the whole terrible episode. Behind his closed lids, he saw the driver of the SUV, the one who picked him up at the airport. When he’d first entered the dark vehicle, Harry hadn’t paid the man much attention. He was a driver—the FBI had plenty. It wasn’t until he’d saved Claire’s message and was listening to Rawlings’ that he began to notice the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, periodically watching him; then Harry heard the voicemail from the bureau. Before he asked the driver why they were no longer headed toward the field office, Harry casually removed his gun from his holster.
“Give that to me.” The man’s voice held the slightest of a Lebanese accent. Harry couldn’t remember if he hadn’t noticed the accent before, or if the man hadn’t spoken until that moment.
Harry pointed the gun to the side of the driver’s head and calmly commanded, “Pull the car over, asshole.”
Laughter filled the otherwise silent vehicle. Seemingly undeterred by the threat, the driver tilted his head to the right. Harry glanced toward the passenger seat, half expecting to see someone materialize. No one did. Instead, the driver reached over and pulled down the sun visor. Taped, where the mirror should’ve been, was a picture. Staring at Harry, with big, beautiful, blue eyes and light, blonde hair was Jillian. The picture could’ve come from Facebook or been taken in person. Either way, it didn’t matter—Harry was living his worst nightmare—his Achilles heel—his vulnerability. This asshole was threatening Harry’s four-year-old daughter. Panic erupted in his gut as adrenaline flooded his system.
“Where is she?” Harry growled.
“She’s still with that pretty little ex-wife of yours.”
“How do I know she’s safe?”
“You don’t.” The driver lifted a well-worn stuffed bunny—pink and thread bore. Harry had only seen the bunny once—in person—when he purchased it. At the time, he wasn’t even sure Ilona would give it to their daughter; however, through the years it’d been a reoccurring item in many of Jillian’s pictures. Harry knew, without a doubt, it belonged to her.
Turning the barrel around, Harry willingly handed his gun to the driver. Through the windows, Harry saw that the neighborhood was becoming seedier by the second. He pushed his fear inward and summoned his negotiating voice. “There, you’ve got my gun. Now, tell me what the hell you want?”
The driver didn’t answer. Instead, he spoke into his phone, “Yes, we’re almost there.” “No idea.” “Fuck’n FBI and clueless!”
While the driver was talking, Harry eased his own phone out of his pocket and began to text the bureau while simultaneously turning on his GPS finder.
“No way, asshole! Give me your phone—now!”
When Harry hesitated, the driver tilted his head toward Jillian’s picture. Harry had the training, and he knew the protocol; none of it mattered. He’d activated the GPS but hadn’t had time to complete the text. His life no longer counted; protecting his daughter was Harry’s only thought.
Jillian’s safety and well-being was why Harry had signed away his parental rights, and why he’d only corresponded with Ilona in secret. Jillian had a father—in reality, he was her step-father, but she considered him her dad. One evening, about three years ago, Harry had flown East and met with Ilona and her fiancé. It wasn’t an easy meeting, but Harry knew, without a doubt, the man across the table from him would add more to Jillian’s life than he could. Seeing the gleam in Ilona’s eyes and feeling the ache in the pit of his stomach, Harry knew the man had already done more for his ex-wife than Harry ever had.
The legal arrangement didn’t stop Harry’s interest. He watched his daughter’s childhood from a distance. Each birthday and Christmas, each recital and soccer game—social media was a wonderful thing, and thankfully, Ilona allowed Harry’s voyeurism. After Harry signed the documents surrendering his rights, Jillian’s last name changed. Today it was George, the same as her mother and father’s.
Harry believed his own happiness was inconsequential to Jillian’s safety. Now, the man slowing the SUV near a seemingly abandoned building made all of Harry’s sacrifices worthless. For some reason—Jillian was in danger. In Harry’s opinion, during their short conversation, the driver had even made veiled threats against Ilona.
Harry closed his eyes, laid his head against his pillow, and remembered the whole terrible episode. Behind his closed lids, he saw the driver of the SUV, the one who picked him up at the airport. When he’d first entered the dark vehicle, Harry hadn’t paid the man much attention. He was a driver—the FBI had plenty. It wasn’t until he’d saved Claire’s message and was listening to Rawlings’ that he began to notice the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, periodically watching him; then Harry heard the voicemail from the bureau. Before he asked the driver why they were no longer headed toward the field office, Harry casually removed his gun from his holster.
“Give that to me.” The man’s voice held the slightest of a Lebanese accent. Harry couldn’t remember if he hadn’t noticed the accent before, or if the man hadn’t spoken until that moment.
Harry pointed the gun to the side of the driver’s head and calmly commanded, “Pull the car over, asshole.”
Laughter filled the otherwise silent vehicle. Seemingly undeterred by the threat, the driver tilted his head to the right. Harry glanced toward the passenger seat, half expecting to see someone materialize. No one did. Instead, the driver reached over and pulled down the sun visor. Taped, where the mirror should’ve been, was a picture. Staring at Harry, with big, beautiful, blue eyes and light, blonde hair was Jillian. The picture could’ve come from Facebook or been taken in person. Either way, it didn’t matter—Harry was living his worst nightmare—his Achilles heel—his vulnerability. This asshole was threatening Harry’s four-year-old daughter. Panic erupted in his gut as adrenaline flooded his system.
“Where is she?” Harry growled.
“She’s still with that pretty little ex-wife of yours.”
“How do I know she’s safe?”
“You don’t.” The driver lifted a well-worn stuffed bunny—pink and thread bore. Harry had only seen the bunny once—in person—when he purchased it. At the time, he wasn’t even sure Ilona would give it to their daughter; however, through the years it’d been a reoccurring item in many of Jillian’s pictures. Harry knew, without a doubt, it belonged to her.
Turning the barrel around, Harry willingly handed his gun to the driver. Through the windows, Harry saw that the neighborhood was becoming seedier by the second. He pushed his fear inward and summoned his negotiating voice. “There, you’ve got my gun. Now, tell me what the hell you want?”
The driver didn’t answer. Instead, he spoke into his phone, “Yes, we’re almost there.” “No idea.” “Fuck’n FBI and clueless!”
While the driver was talking, Harry eased his own phone out of his pocket and began to text the bureau while simultaneously turning on his GPS finder.
“No way, asshole! Give me your phone—now!”
When Harry hesitated, the driver tilted his head toward Jillian’s picture. Harry had the training, and he knew the protocol; none of it mattered. He’d activated the GPS but hadn’t had time to complete the text. His life no longer counted; protecting his daughter was Harry’s only thought.
Jillian’s safety and well-being was why Harry had signed away his parental rights, and why he’d only corresponded with Ilona in secret. Jillian had a father—in reality, he was her step-father, but she considered him her dad. One evening, about three years ago, Harry had flown East and met with Ilona and her fiancé. It wasn’t an easy meeting, but Harry knew, without a doubt, the man across the table from him would add more to Jillian’s life than he could. Seeing the gleam in Ilona’s eyes and feeling the ache in the pit of his stomach, Harry knew the man had already done more for his ex-wife than Harry ever had.
The legal arrangement didn’t stop Harry’s interest. He watched his daughter’s childhood from a distance. Each birthday and Christmas, each recital and soccer game—social media was a wonderful thing, and thankfully, Ilona allowed Harry’s voyeurism. After Harry signed the documents surrendering his rights, Jillian’s last name changed. Today it was George, the same as her mother and father’s.
Harry believed his own happiness was inconsequential to Jillian’s safety. Now, the man slowing the SUV near a seemingly abandoned building made all of Harry’s sacrifices worthless. For some reason—Jillian was in danger. In Harry’s opinion, during their short conversation, the driver had even made veiled threats against Ilona.
