Cold Red Page 2

  The idiot would be useful. They had video filming the backseat and a hidden mic, in case Johnathan felt the need to confess over the next six hours. Drives got monotonous. Lot’s of opportunity to spill the beans.

  Finley expected nothing but a demand for legal representation from the woman. She had that feel to her. Smart. Strategic. He wondered how she found herself hooked up with the Southern Iron Cross. A lot of angry white males. A good portion of them with issues stemming back to their military stints. A bigger portion of them with little Pepe symbols on their social media platforms.

  Something was off about the woman’s involvement, and he’d probably never find out what it was that was making the back of his neck itch.

  Predatory.

  This woman was in hunt mode. Like a leopard pacing the herd, looking for the slow or the weak. Ready to pounce and take what she wanted. His internal warning system was lit up, and he wished they had a cage separating the front seat from the back of this car.

  Finley watched as his driving partner, Patty Mulvaney climbed in and slung her seatbelt into place. He’d never heard of her before. She was trying too hard to look bad-ass. It meant she was wet behind the ears. Not only was Finley playing the chauffeur; but apparently, he was babysitting, too.

  When SWAT moved the barricade out of the road, Finley steered the car past the groups of neighbors that had gathered to see the excitement. Down the road, onto the highway, and off they went.

  Johnathan didn’t seem like he was going to stop his crying any time soon. Finley itched to put on the radio to drown him out, but he couldn’t do that. There was an off chance that Johnathan would mumble a confession about the case under his breath. They’d need that on tape. It would take Finley down another notch if command couldn’t hear a confession because Finley had U2 thumping over the speakers. A mistake like that would land Finley in the mailroom, and he could live out his tenure sorting envelopes.

  Mulvaney, sat with her phone in hand. “You check the weather?” she asked under her breath.

  “I saw a storm coming in, but it looked like it would stay west of us.”

  “Not any more. It’s going to cross our path right about the time we’re passing through the mountains.”

  “I wonder why they rerouted us last minute like that with a storm cell pushing through,” Finley said, powering his seat back a little to make room for his legs. Mulvaney had driven in, and while they were about the same height, she had short legs holding up a long torso.

  “I’ll send a text. I doubt they’ll do anything about it, though. They didn’t want us on major highways.”

  Finley glanced up at his rearview mirror. The woman had her head down, but from her posture, he could tell she was listening intently. Why would she care about their route?

  Zelda Fitzgerald. That sounded like a bad alias. But Finley also knew a guy named Henry Harrison Ford. William Henry Harrison? Henry Ford the car guy? Harrison Ford the actor? Who knew? The name just “sounded right” to the guy’s mom. Could be the same here. Zelda’s mom could have remembered studying F. Scott and Zelda in her high school lit class and when she married a Fitzgerald the name seemed to fit.

  This woman didn’t look like a Zelda.

  Zelda’s should be exotic. Dark. Maybe a little like an Amazon warrior.

  This woman seemed strong, but she wasn’t an Amazon. She was more like a kid who’d grown up in a rough neighborhood and applied her smarts to staying alive in the streets. She did seem smart. When he first approached her in the car he could see the gears in her mind spinning. He could see her cunning, despite the after effects of the flash bang. She actually seemed functional during the breach. Military training? Multiple arrest history?

  Finley wished he’d been given a chance to read through her file. But files were need-to-know, and Finley was here as a taxi service. He had nothing to do with the case.

  Mulvaney’s phone buzzed. “Do not alter planned route,” she read.

  “Think there are tire chains in the trunk?” Finley asked, picking up the speed now that he was outside of town limits.

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  * * *

  Johnathan finally shut up.

  Finley couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not, now that the car was perfectly silent, save the sleep-inducing drone of the engine and the ping, ping, ping of the ice crystals hitting the windshield. He checked the clock readout, they were only two hours into their drive, but he and Mulvaney had already done the leg from DC to middle of nowhere West Virginia that morning. This time, without the radio for distraction, Finley was doing math problems in his head to stay awake. He could see Mulvaney’s eyes fluttering shut.

  “Coffee,” he said.

  “Bathroom,” she replied, pulling her phone from her pants’ leg pocket and fiddling with map apps. “I already preprogrammed a place to stop. This says we’re only ten miles out. Take the next exit you come to. There’s a gas station with the bathrooms on the side. We can take the prisoners in, and then there’s a McDonald’s on the way back to the highway. I could use some protein and caffeine. And maybe a large order of fries to help pass the time.”

  “Alright,” Finley said as Mulvaney texted their stops to command.

  “We’re making pretty good time,” Mulvaney said as she peeked at the speed gauge. “Probably a good idea to stop for a few minutes. You’re not exactly driving the speed limit.”

  Great. All Finley needed was for that to go into her report. He’d drive half way, then he’d let Mulvaney finish. If she was new to the force, she’d still be making a name for herself and not batting away infamy like he was.

  If she pulled in early no one would care. Might even clap her on the back.

  The road they turned on to was bottom of the list when it came to filling potholes or whacking down overgrowth. Litter wove through the weeds on either side of the road. It had the feel of a ghost town.

  Finley had been watching his rearview mirror. They hadn’t been followed. Something about that didn’t sit right with him. The Johnathan-guy was about to be charged with a laundry list of crimes not the least of which was providing material support for domestic terrorism. He was facing life in a super-max. If Finley were an anti-government militia head honcho, like this Johnathan guy was supposed to be, he’d expect his team to rally to his aid. Fight for his protection. After all, since Johnathan was being pocketed away, no reason to believe he wouldn’t try to get a reprieve of sorts by selling his buddies out, Finley thought.

  Though, the people in charge of this takedown must not be too worried about it or there would be a lot more support as they passed through this desolate part of the country.

  Reaching up to shift the rearview mirror, Finley wanted to get another look at Johnathan. He had a dog-hair covered blanket tied around his neck like an idiot. His eyes were splotchy-red and tear-stained.

  In interrogation, he’d melt like a pile of shit in the sun.

  The Southern Iron Cross leaders must know that.

  Yeah, something about this set up didn’t read right.

  Here was another question Finley would like answered: Zelda wasn’t top of the food chain, but the SWAT team had waited for her to arrive at the house for a reason.

  What was that reason?

  Why were these two the focus and nobody else?

  He moved the mirror to take in Zelda.

  Zelda’s reflection stared right back at him. The same calculating look in her eye. If he had been guessing, he would have reversed the roles. He’d say this was the leader, and Johnathan was there to polish her shoes.

  Finley clicked on his turn signal. Mulvaney would have to take Zelda into the bathroom. He hoped his colleague was up to the task. He could see that even with Zelda cuffed and shackled, things could go very badly very quickly. As they pulled into the lot, Finley decided he’d have to intervene.

  He parked their car next to the bathrooms and let the engine idle while Mulvaney went to get the keys. She opene
d the women’s room door and made sure it was clear.

  “Put the doorstop in place,” Finley said.

  Mulvaney shot him a look but did as she was told. He outranked her, no matter what she thought of him.

  Finley moved around to the side of the car and helped Zelda out. He had a grip on her arm and on her waistband and was ready to body slam her if she made a single stupid move. He turned her to face the car, kicked her legs as wide as the shackles would allow, so she couldn’t swipe his feet from under him, then reached around and unbutton and unzipped her tactical pants, pushing the waistband down to her hips.

  He expected her to complain, but she kept her mouth shut. Anything she said could and would be used against her in the court of law; it wouldn’t bode well for her to look non-compliant. But too, she could say that the male special agent had touched her inappropriately and if her lawyer got hold of the interior videos, it would indeed look that way. Finley pulled at her arm to get her shuffling in her sock feet toward the restroom. “She can get her pants down on her own. Keep your distance. And keep your weapon on her,” he said.

  Mulvaney sent him a stink eye. “She’s shackled. What’s she going to do to get away? You’re seriously not going to uncuff her to pee? What if she can’t get her pants down? It’s not as easy for a woman as a man.”

  Something about Mulvaney’s advocacy struck Finley as odd.

  Maybe it was women’s solidarity.

  Maybe he had no idea how hard it was for a woman to take a piss.

  Either way, Finley didn’t care. “She can pee in her pants then. She stays cuffed.”

  Finley didn’t like the look in Mulvaney’s eye, like he was a moron of the first order. But he was right about this. Zelda was cunning, and she meant to make a break for it. He knew it in his gut.

  For some reason back at the house the SWAT guy had thought to take her boots and belt from her and had thrown them in the trunk. Must have been instinct. Good man. That could all have played out very badly. Zelda had been prepared what with a cuff key taped to her belt and the survival kit: cash, razors, compass, water purification tablets, in the heel of one boot under her insole. A wire saw, a fire starter, and Vaseline soaked cotton balls coiled into the other heel. Those things would have given her a damned good chance at survival if she made her escape into the thick forest that covered these mountains. With this storm coming in, she could just vanish, all tracks disappearing beneath the ice and snow.

  Of course, given her role in the militia, this might just be some prepper crap that they did at a meeting one night to feel bad ass.

  It could be she didn’t have the skills and just did the whole role-playing thing. A colony of ants cosplaying soldier – weekend warriors who were too damned chickenshit to sign on the line, carry a rifle into a real battle, and fight for Uncle Sam. Finley tried those thoughts on as Mulvaney followed Zelda into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind her.

  Nope.

  Zelda wasn’t a wannabe.

  That felt wrong.

  Finley moved to stand with his back to the side of the convenience store. There he could give Zelda some privacy, watch Johnathan in the car, and warn anyone off if they came this way. He could also jump forward and take control of the situation if Zelda came sprinting out of there. Finley realized that he was primed for just that. Expected it.

  Zelda was probably one of the disenchanted and disenfranchised who’d had her brain rattled around in her skull a few times more than a human should, over in the sandbox.

  She had skills. She also had muscle and brain.

  Finley would be glad when they moved back into the land of the living.

  This wilderness leg of their drive felt risky.

  Chapter Three

  Anna

  Mulvaney pulled open the McDonald’s bag and stuck her head in, sniffing the aroma like an addict sniffs glue. She came up with a groan and a little smile on her face, then extended the bag out to Finley.

  He shook his head, no.

  The hot greased-salt smells filled the car, making Anna’s mouth water. Her already empty stomach gurgled with acid, preparing to digest something delicious. With her arms constrained behind her back, Anna knew she wasn’t going to be given anything to eat.

  Anna couldn’t decide if Mulvaney was being self-centered buying those fries and eating them in front of everyone or if she was just a bitch.

  She was betting on bitch.

  Anna looked over to see Johnathan’s reaction. He had his head down, shaking it side to side. His peculiar movements reminded Anna of videos she’d watched in her abnormal psych class at VMI of animals in deep distress.

  Back at the gas station, Johnathan had refused to get out of the car to use the bathroom. Anna had hissed at him that if he planned to piss in the backseat of this car where she was sitting, she would kick the living shit out of him. He’d get pulled out of the car at FBI headquarters with his bones pulverized. “And you know, Johnny-boy,” (Johnathan despised being called Johnny-boy) “the FBI won’t do a damned thing to me. They’ll be too busy thanking me for paying you back for ruining their damned car.”

  Johnathan had looked over at her, teeth chattering. It had gotten cold in the car quickly after their stop, especially since Mulvaney had left her door wide open. The engine was off, and hence no heat. Finley had taken the keys into the latrine with him. That was a smart tactical move on his part, but it seriously frustrated Anna’s plans to slip her cuffs from her back to her front, slide into the driver’s seat and take off.

  So here they were with Finley back behind the wheel, driving.

  Driving.

  Driving.

  Johnathan was moaning with his eyes squeezed up tight. He sounded badly constipated.

  With all his bravado and strong talk, he was just a mirage. Anna had known this since the very first time she shook hands with him at the Zoric family’s party over in Bratislava Slovakia.

  Anna had learned how to read handshakes early on in her military career, the people who watched your six out on patrol, the one’s you couldn’t trust to watch your drink while you went to the latrine at a bar, who would stab you in the back to climb up another rung, and who would throw you over their shoulder and drag your ass back to the base in a tight spot.

  It was all about survival.

  As she clasped the hand of a stranger and looked them in the eyes, Anna slowed down and paid attention. That moment. That intimate moment of connection, she’d read like tea leaves in a gypsy’s cup.

  It told her how to sort and categorize.

  Johnathan was sorted into the house of scum buckets who played a good charade. When he wasn’t under arrest, he was handsome and charismatic in a smoke and mirrors kind of way. A sheep in wolf’s clothing.

  He saw his chance to get in with the money. So much money. Johnathan practically salivated as he wandered around the family mansion built with the millions flowing into and back out of the Zorics’ pockets from Russian oligarchs. Anna could never understand why people listened to him. And when he offered his services, she was surprised the Zoric family took him seriously. She was even more surprised that the Zorics sent him to West Virginia of all places to play with the militia and accomplish something.

  Anna had no idea what that something was, but the Zorics sent her to keep an eye on him. They introduced her as Zelda Fitzgerald. Yeah, that was kind of hard to pull off. People would hear her name and squint at her. She thought it must be some kind of private family joke. Maybe.

  The Zorics weren’t big into explaining things.

  But they were big on strategy. Like the Russian’s, they played the long game.

  The Zorics were testing her. That was Anna’s big conclusion after months here in West Virginia.

  Anna’s job was to earn their confidence.

  She was in a long game, too.

  If she earned the family’s trust on this assignment, she hoped to head back into their fold in Slovakia where her real mission lay. She was going
to figure out the who, what, and how of the technology that was interrupting the U.S. military satellite communications in Syria and Iraq. These communications attacks destroyed drones and imperiled missions, caused confusion, and sometimes even deaths.

  Anna’s team at the Asymmetric Warfare Group was pretty sure the attacks had originated from one of the Zorics’ computers, and that’s how she got pulled into the picture. The AWG needed someone who could speak the computer lingo – both in Slovak and English.

  She was going to understand how the attacks were perpetrated and stop them.

  She was going to protect American troops that were endangered.

  Six hours strapped down tight in the back seat of a car? It was worth every muscle wrenching, cramp-filled moment to stay in character and stay in the game.

  But there was a new danger.

  It was possible, now that she was arrested by the FBI, that Anna might never be embraced into the Zorics’ fold.

  That was unacceptable.

  On the surface, it looked like she’d failed. She needed a way to get things back on track.

  * * *

  The SUV crawled up the side of the mountain, farther and farther away from anything to do with mankind.

  The snow was falling like an overzealous stagehand at an amateur theater with box of confetti to distribute; each handful flung down at them in spasms.

  Quickly, everything was coated in a thick crust. The shades of white, and grey were as monotonous as the rumble of the engine as they powered up the incline.

  Each time the tires gripped and spun, Anna’s stomach clenched. She leaned forward so she could read the clock on the dash. Even at this crawl, they must be making some headway. They’d been on the road almost three hours. Surely, they hadn’t reached the halfway point, but each twist and turn in the road brought them closer.