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On his FaceTime call with Hannah, Reed says, “Okay, put the fucker on now. I want to talk to him, man to man.”
His face covered by a black ski mask, Greg Smith appears. “Hey there, Reed,” he says. “It turns out I’m a whole lot smarter than you and your hacker gave me credit for, huh?”
“Let’s skip the part where you taunt me and cut straight to you convincing me you’ll actually return Hannah to me, safe and sound, if I send you the money. I swear to God, if you touch a hair on her head—”
“If you’re not convinced, then don’t pay me and see what happens,” Greg barks. “I normally like keeping my boxes separate, but I swear to God, I won’t hesitate to slit this bitch’s throat if you don’t follow my instructions.”
“I’ll pay it,” Reed says. “But only if I’m sure, when I press submit on the transfer, Hannah’s alive and in perfect health. I’ll need to see Hannah on FaceTime as I’m pressing the button.”
“I can do that,” Greg replies.
“It’ll take me a day to pull that much cash together,” Reed says. “Give me until—"
“Nope. Payment by midnight West Coast time, or she’s dead.”
I motion to Reed to keep him talking, so he asks a question about logistics. As Greg babbles his answer, I race toward the back of the plane with my laptop. I can’t believe I led this maniac straight to Hannah. True, it seems he got to her by connecting dots I can’t even fathom right now. But the fact remains, I’m the careless idiot who set the wheels in motion for this catastrofuck to happen. And now, God help me, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get Hannah back, alive and well.
Once I’m situated at the back of the plane, I pull out my back-up phone and shoot my main FBI contact a message. Lucky for me, she’s second in command of the whole operation—the Deputy Director with direct access to the Director himself—which means she’s a damned good person to have on speed dial at a time like this.
Me: This is Peter Hennessey. I’ve got a life-or-death emergency requiring your immediate, urgent assistance. Please drop whatever you’re doing and call me at this number.
It’s a ballsy thing to tell someone that high up at the FBI to drop what they’re doing and call you back. But I don’t give a fuck. I saved the country from total catastrophe on her watch, and she’s already told me she owes me one. So, this is how she can repay me.
While awaiting her reply, I click into Google Earth and check out 3-D imagery of Hannah’s location. Looks like a rundown barn or large shed in a rural area that’s about two hours outside of Seattle. Hang in there, baby. Help is on the way.
My phone rings after a minute or two, though it feels a whole lot longer.
“Deputy Director Leach?”
“Identify yourself.”
“Bluebird. Peter Hennessey.” I spit out the code I used to punch in to access the system in DC.
“What’s going on, Peter?”
I tell her everything as succinctly as I can, concluding with, “I’m begging you to please call in whatever favors you can with local law enforcement in Washington state and get them to—"
“Kidnapping is a federal crime,” Deputy Director Leach replies calmly. “Squarely within our jurisdiction and expertise. No local law enforcement needed.”
Relief floods me. “Oh, thank God.”
“Tell me everything you know.”
I babble every detail, big and small, and she tells me to send her everything I’ve got, including Hannah’s location, whatever data I’ve collected on Greg Smith, and links to get into his devices.
“I’m on it. I’ve sent you the pinpoint location already. The rest will take a few minutes.”
“Perfect. I’m sending the location to the head of the Seattle office with instructions to call me right away for instructions. He’ll assemble a team in lightning speed, and we’ll be off to the races. Keep this line free, in case we need to talk to you again.”
“Yes, ma’am. Standing by.”
“Is Reed still talking to him?”
I rise up in my seat enough to peek toward the front of the plane. “Yes.”
“Good. Can you patch me into the cell Reed is using?”
“Yes.”
“Do that and send me a number where we can text Reed while he’s talking. We’ll give him real-time instructions on what to say.”
“Working on that now.”
“Perfect. Okay, my guy in Seattle is calling me on another line. I’ll be in touch.”
When the line goes dead, I race to the front of the plane and sit next to Reed, safely out of frame from his call with Greg. Quickly, I send a text to Reed’s own phone that’s sitting in his lap, telling him to keep an eye out for incoming instructions from the FBI. I gesture to Reed to pick up the phone in his lap, which he does, and after slyly stealing a peek at his screen as Greg continues rambling, Reed flashes me a covert thumbs-up.
