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She clicked on the picture and gasped. Matheson sat on a folding chair, his hands presumably cuffed behind his back, his ankle shackled with a heavy chain looped around a thick pipe. A black blindfold covered his eyes and the left corner of his lip was bloody and swollen.
It was a perfect re-enactment of the photo the kidnappers had sent to Abraham Morcos years ago.
“Carson,” she called, clicking the mouse so the picture filled the monitor. She needed him to see this immediately.
***
“The sheriff brought me up to speed—” Carson slid to a stop and gave a low whistle when he saw the picture. “Is that the guy who disappeared?”
“Phillip Matheson, hostage. Presumed alive. Let’s hope the video confirms it.”
The panic he’d heard in her voice when the calls had come in was gone. He had the distinct impression he was watching the aloof expertise that earned her the ‘queen’ moniker.
Over her shoulder he watched the twenty or so seconds of video play out. The guy’s chest rose and fell in steady breaths but that was the only movement. The camera angle didn’t change and there was no sound.
“What do you need?”
“Location, location, location. I’m hoping you can tell me where this is. It has to be close.” She patted the space beside her on the couch. “I’m trying to unravel the message within the picture.”
“You think there’s a code embedded in the picture?”
“No, that would be too easy. Everything is staged just like the fiasco in Yemen, but the tight time frame means Matheson is close,” she insisted.
“Did you send this up the line?”
As if on cue, a little forward arrow appeared beside the message thread. “Mr. FBI just did it.”
“That’s creepy.”
“More than a little. It’s going to be a real pain in the ass erasing my cyber footprints when this is over.”
Assuming that comment didn’t require any reply from him, he focused on the picture instead.
“Sheriff Cochran said the ransom note was in a foreign language.”
“Russian,” she answered, scrolling to the top of the email. “Just like this one. Requesting an audience with the queen in exchange for Matheson’s release.”
“Can I zoom in?”
“Go to town.” She nudged a mouse his way.
“Tell me what you can about the Yemen rescue.”
“Recovery,” she corrected, pointing at the picture. “It was that, exactly that. Only the Morcos heir was the hostage rather than a U.S. citizen.”
“Was the ransom the same?” He was trying to read the manufacturer’s stamp on the pipe.
“Not even close.” He heard the soft rasp as she tugged her pendant across the chain. “That time the kidnappers asked for an obscene amount of money and a specific cache of surface to air missiles. Everyone, Abe included, assumed the kidnappers were trying to break into the black market trade. All of the intel pointed unerringly to a small group of bold and desperate young Russians trying to impress a boss.”
“Where did you find him?”
“He was in a warehouse near the docks, looking just like that. Geez, even the blow to the mouth is the same.” She leaned closer, her leg rubbing against his. “Where’s Sumter?”
“Everywhere.” He promised himself there would be time later to address the attraction arcing like a live wire between them. “They supply most of the industrial iron work across the state.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Less than helpful.” He reset the picture to normal, looking for the next area he wanted to study. “Charleston does serious container business if you think the kidnapper is trying to mimic the Yemen situation.”
