Page 93 of Nixon’s Promise

“Yeah. I’m fine. What’s going on there?” she returned, feigning cheerfulness.

Absolutely, something was wrong.

“Babe, am I putting too much on you? You gotta tell me. I’m used—”

“What? No. Everything is fine. I’m home, Zack and Mandy are home. Everything’s good. Did you get the last text messages I sent?”

“Yeah, more exit routes. We’ve mapped out the suggestions they’re sending back and forth. The problem is, they’re all over the map.”

Nixon glanced down at the map spread out on the table in his hotel room. It was a mess of red lines charting the routes McKenna had forwarded. The team couldn’t even narrow down a city block. Some paths started from South 7th Street, others were blocks down at South 12th. The only thing the directions had in common was Market Street.

“All of the proposed exits start on Market,” Nixon started.

“Found it,” McKenna cut in. “Look at the proposed streets. They’ve skipped the southbound one-ways. All of the routes start on Market and travel north.”

“Goddamn brilliant,” Weston said from beside Nixon. “We need a map of the city with traffic directions.”

Nixon pulled up a Google map on his laptop as he mentally berated himself for being so careless. The team should’ve taken the one-way streets into account. Instead, they’d been more concerned with the marathon closures.

“Ronan McCabe,” Chasin blurted. “Arrested in South Boston four months ago. He’s a Captain in the Connolly gang. His charges are: racketeering, gambling, and tax evasion.”

“And Shea’s affiliation to the gang?” Jameson asked.

“Street soldier. Hold on,” McKenna answered. “James Shea’s a Southie, too. Moved to Philadelphia about ten years ago.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Alec started pacing. “Can you run Miller again?”

“What am I looking for?” McKenna asked.

“Where was he born?” he responded to McKenna, then turned to the room. “When I first started at DHS and started working under Miller, he mentioned being a kid in Dorchester Heights and celebrating Evacuation Day.”

“Don Miller was born in South Boston General. He graduated from Winfield Scott Boys School in Dorchester Heights. After that he attended Dartmouth College in New Hampshire.”

“There’s the connection,” Weston announced. “Don Miller’s on the take.”

“Guys.”

“Fuck. Ronan McCabe is under DHS protection,” Alec told Nixon.

Our man is ready to be moved. Fuck. “Where are they keeping him?”

“Fuck if I know. I’m in Cyber and Security. Homeland Security Investigations and ICE handle organized crime and transnational trafficking. After capture, the detainee is kept in a safehouse while the investigation is underway. Those are—”

“Guys!” McKenna interrupted again.

“Are any of those locations in Philly?”

“Depending on the case and level of security needed, most prisoners are held in black, offsite locations. And they change regularly. The investigators on the case and their direct chain of command would be the only ones in the know.”

“Guys!”

“What?” Nixon snapped. Realizing his mistake, he quickly corrected himself. “Sorry, McKenna, do you have something to add?”

“We have a problem. Shea just received a text message. I quote, “ready to roll.” Shea answered, again, I quote, “we’re set leaving now.” I already notified Holden to be ready to move,” McKenna announced.

“Motherfucker,” Nixon exploded.

He looked around the room at his men. All of them had matching scowls. The stench of failure was damn near stifling. A taste none of the men would surrender to. They were close, getting closer by the minute. However, without the black site Ronan McCabe was being held at, nor where the Connelly gang had planted the bomb, they were dead in the water.