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Pride wells up inside me. We raised a brave kid.
“So, I bit him.” The little guy makes a face, chomps his teeth, and sounds a lot like Elmer Fudd. “Now scuwwy away, little cockwoach. Hide and remain ver-wy quiet. Don’t come out until a policeman says it’s safe.”
“Mikey, you did real good, son.” Suds wipes his eyes, turns toward me, and kisses my forehead.
“You watch him closely, y’hear?” His steely gaze is one I recognize well.
“Where’re you going?” Cupping his cheek, I try to stop him, but his normally soft eyes have turned ice-cold.
“To find the bastards whodared touch my family.”
Taking a deep breath, I bob my head. “Do it.”
Chapter 20
Suds
Not remembering the last time I slept, I settle for bad vending machine coffee. Outside, I leave the scent of hospital antiseptics and breathe in the cold, fresh air. My feet slide on the icy sidewalk while I pace and attempt to unravel the tangled cobwebs. What do Stanley Steamer, a finger, Russians, and drones have in common? The elusive answer crystallizes as the caffeine kicks in. Everything revolves around Vincent’s damn warehouse.
Needing an objective opinion, I call Detective O’Brien and suggest his wife, Dr. Jones, join our discussion. Colin was the only one who told me Griner was under investigation. He’s also high up on JTTF’s food chain, so I presume he’s privy to more details.
After bragging about my son’s remarkable escape, I move the conversation to why he was kidnapped in the first place. “What can you tell me about the missing drones?”
The cop clears his throat. “Already, I’ve said more than I should. Perhaps, if you could tell me where you stashed a certain missing FBI agent, we could share more intel?”
My fists clench at the mere mention of the dirty Fed. “Honestly, I have no idea where he’s at and even if I did, I’m not feeling inclined to help the guy. The bastard tried to kill me.”
“Are you sure it was him that shot at you?” A kung-fu master, he’s able to keep his emotions under control. Even so, he heaves out a heavy sigh, and I understand his hesitation. Who wants to think one of their own has turned traitor?
“Talk to Slate, he was with me.”Shit. The last time I spoke with my pal, he had a tie-wrapped Russian in the back of his SUV.Was he arrested? And if so, did he make bail?
My mind jumps ahead, while Colin’s winds down. “Getting permission from the director may take some time. As soon as we’re cleared, I’ll text you.”
“Thanks, I owe you.” Done with one call, I jump in the SUV and make another, happily surprise Slate picks up.
Dispensing with pleasantries, my friend, and sometimes boss, starts up mid-conversation. “Grayson Patten is meeting with the President and the Secretary of State as we speak. The man we stashed in the SUV spilled his guts. He claims the Russians are holding Griner’s wife and child hostage.”
“Oh boy, I know what that feels like.” Okay, I may feel sorry for the little shit, but the FBI has protocols, and being a senior agent, he should’ve followed them. My mind spirals down a dark hole until Slate’s next question brings me back.
“So, what did you do with him, Sebastian?” The tone sounds a mite angry, and I’m relieved I don’t have to lie.
“Frankie has him.” After rolling down my window to pay the parking fee, I aim my empty cup at a trash bin, and score two points.
“The hitman?” My buddy’s voice squeaks up an octave and I hold back a snicker because I’ve never known him to be blindsided before.
“Fuck. Do you know how to get in touch with him?”
“Sam does. She cat-sits for him.”
“Figures. See what you can do.” When dead air signals the end of our call, I ping my wife at the hospital and bring her up to speed.
“Shouldn’t we let my uncle Vinny clean up his own mess?” My spouse has been through hell, and I can’t blame her for wanting it finished, but I need to do this my way.
“I hear you babe, but first we ought to ask Frankie to release Griner, if he’s still alive.”
Samantha laughs quietly and moves her mouth closer to the mic. “Not his style. Too many witnesses. So long as I insist politely and continue with our feline arrangements, he’ll return him.”
“Mrs. Sutcliff, hitman-whisperer. I must admit, it has a certain appeal.” As I chortle, the air goes dead.
