Chapter 3 - They Had My Son
My son’s name was Ryan.
Twenty-two years old.
Engineering student.
Too smart for my jokes.
Too stubborn to admit when he needed help.
And according to the photograph on my phone, someone had followed him into the parking garage beneath his apartment building.
I called.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
Claire saw my face.
“Ryan?”
I showed her.
She went white.
Marcus grabbed his phone.
“Don’t call police yet.”
I stared at him.
“You have three seconds to explain why.”
“If these people are who I think they are, police communication may be compromised.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“That answer is getting old.”
He typed rapidly.
“Ryan has a tracker?”
“No.”
“Phone sharing?”
“Family location.”
Claire already had hers open.
“He’s at his apartment.”
“Or his phone is.”
I grabbed my keys.
Marcus blocked me.
“Think.”
“That’s my son.”
“And driving straight into an ambush helps him how?”
I wanted to move him physically.
Then training took over.
Breathe.
Assess.
Information first.
I called Ryan’s roommate.
He answered immediately.
“Mr. Mercer?”
“Where’s Ryan?”
“At work, I think.”
“What time does he finish?”
“Ten.”
The wall clock read 10:31.
“Has he called?”
“No.”
“What parking garage does he use?”
“South deck.”
Exactly where the photograph appeared to have been taken.
“Lock your door.”
“Why?”
“Do it.”
I hung up.
Claire was already grabbing her coat.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“He’s my son too.”
“You stay here.”
“No.”
Marcus interrupted.
“Neither of you stays.”
I looked at him.
“The garage is compromised. So is the house.”
He nodded toward my locker.
“We take the journal and move.”
I opened the steel cabinet.
Marcus tensed.
Inside were uniforms, boots, envelopes, Emily’s old drawings, medals, and six black notebooks.
I pulled them out.
The journal was third from the bottom.
Marcus reached.
I pulled it back.
“You don’t touch anything until Ryan is safe.”
He nodded.
Fair.
We left the garage together.
Marcus drove.
I didn’t trust him.
But he knew the enemy.
That made him temporarily useful.
Claire sat in back.
Nobody spoke for the first five minutes.
Then she said, “Ethan.”
“No.”
“I need you to understand—”
“Not now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I never wanted—”
“Claire.”
She stopped.
I watched traffic.
Marcus glanced at me.
“You still do that.”
“What?”
“Count exits.”
“I count threats.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
The South Deck appeared ahead.
Marcus parked across the street.
“Stay here.”
I got out.
He followed.
Claire did too.
I turned.
“Claire.”
“I’m not sitting in a car while my son is missing.”
There was no time to argue.
We entered.
Concrete.
Fluorescent lights.
Rows of vehicles.
I listened.
Footsteps.
Distant engine.
Elevator hum.
Nothing unusual.
Ryan’s car sat on level three.
Driver’s door unlocked.
Phone on the seat.
Claire whispered, “Oh God.”
I checked around the vehicle.
No blood.
No signs of struggle.
Then I saw paper under the windshield wiper.
A white envelope.
MERCER.
I put on gloves from the emergency kit in my truck keychain.
Opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Ryan.
Sitting in a chair.
Unhurt.
Eyes angry.
Behind him, gray concrete.
On the back:
BRING THE JOURNAL.
MIDNIGHT.
OLD HAWTHORNE MILL.
COME ALONE.
Claire whispered, “We call the police.”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
I turned on him.
“I’m done with secrets.”
“If you call local police, there’s a possibility the kidnappers learn immediately.”
“Then federal.”
Marcus hesitated.
That told me everything.
“Who are you protecting?”
“No one.”
“Bull.”
He looked around the garage.
“Ethan, the person behind this served at levels above me.”
“How high?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It did fifteen years ago.”
“Name.”
Marcus stayed silent.
I grabbed his coat.
“Name.”
“General Thomas Creed.”
My hand loosened.
Creed.
Three-star general.
Retired.
Regular television commentator.
Defense consultant.
Former commander of our regional task force.
The man who had personally pinned a medal on my chest.
Marcus continued.
“He coordinated the convoy.”
“You stole money for him?”
“I moved it.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No. I believed it was being redirected to an intelligence operation.”
“Eighteen million in cash?”
“Things were different.”
“Crime wasn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“What changed?”
“Two weeks after the convoy, I saw three civilians murdered because they knew where the money went.”
Claire whispered, “By Creed?”
“I never saw him give the order.”
“But you believe he did.”
“Yes.”
“Then why fake your death?”
“Because the alternative was real death.”
I looked at Ryan’s photograph.
“And now my son pays for your cowardice.”
Marcus didn’t argue.
Midnight was seventy-eight minutes away.
Old Hawthorne Mill sat fourteen miles outside town.
Abandoned textile facility.
Bad sightlines.
Multiple entrances.
Exactly where someone might choose an exchange.
I called one person.
Gabriel Torres.
Former teammate.
Retired Army Ranger.
Now ran a private security company.
He answered on the second ring.
“Mercer.”
“I need help.”
His tone changed instantly.
“Where?”
I told him.
He asked no unnecessary questions.
“Twenty minutes.”
That was why I called Gabe.
Marcus shook his head.
“They said alone.”
“I’m going alone.”
“Then why Torres?”
“Because there’s a difference between arriving alone and being alone.”
For the first time that night, Marcus smiled.
Small.
Approving.
I hated that I still cared.
We returned to his SUV.
Claire sat beside me now.
After several minutes she said, “Did you mean what you said?”
“What?”
“In the garage.”
I knew.
About killing.
About Afghanistan.
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“I exaggerated.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“There aren’t forty-seven ways?”
“I never counted.”
She almost laughed.
Almost.
It was the first familiar thing between us in months.
Then her face broke again.
“Ethan, I thought I was protecting you.”
“I believe you believed that.”
“That’s not forgiveness.”
“No.”
She nodded.
Fair.
“I never slept with Derek.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“I let him believe the relationship was moving there. I kissed him. I stayed at his place sometimes. But I slept in the guest room.”
“Why would he accept that?”
“He thought I was traumatized.”
“You were.”
“I still am.”
I looked out the window.
“Why tell me now?”
“Because you deserve at least one truth tonight.”
Marcus drove silently.
My phone vibrated.
Another message.
MIDNIGHT.
NO POLICE.
Then:
BRING VALE TOO.
Marcus saw it.
His expression changed.
“They know I’m alive.”
“They’ve known since the garage.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You don’t understand.”
“What?”
“They weren’t supposed to know who was helping Claire.”
Before I could answer, Gabe called.
“I’m outside Hawthorne.”
“What do you see?”
“Two vehicles. Maybe three. Thermal shows at least six people.”
“Ryan?”
“Possible single seated heat signature in main building.”
“Armed?”
“Several.”
I closed my eyes.
Not good.
Gabe added, “Ethan, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“One vehicle is government.”
“What agency?”
“Plates come back Department of Defense.”
Marcus whispered a curse.
I looked at the clock.
11:42.
Eighteen minutes.
“Gabe, send me positions.”
“Already did.”
A map appeared.
Entrances.
Windows.
Likely shooters.
I studied it.
Then Marcus spoke quietly.
“The journal has something you haven’t read.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Page 147.”
I opened the notebook.
Found the page.
My handwriting.
June 18, 2010.
Convoy delayed.
Vale argued with Creed.
Unknown civilian present.
I remembered writing it.
Below that sentence was a name.
A name I hadn’t recognized fifteen years ago.
Now I did.
Claire leaned closer.
Her hand covered her mouth.
May you like
Because the mysterious civilian at the stolen-money convoy was Derek Kane’s father.
And according to my notes, he had been the man carrying the cash.
