himself,” Ringo stated, bringing them up-to-date on his findings. “ Ashwin Patel has been a U.S. citizen from the age of two, plus he practiced Hindu.”
“That could have been a cover,” Caine insisted.
“The manager said some little shit came in and mailed the package, paying for it in cash.” Ringo set aside the baggie with the cash in it for the Emergency Response Team to take back to Quantico for fingerprinting. “It’s all on the tape, which has been rewound for us.”
Caine inserted the old cassette tape into a compatible player, and they all watched with baited breath.
“That’s the kid,” said Ringo .
“Christ,” Caine exclaimed. “What is he, like fifteen years old?”
The little shit, Jackson determined. The boy was probably too young even to be in their system.
Despite the cool thermostat setting in the sound room, Caine had sweat stains under his arm pits. “How the hell are we going to find a kid that young?”
“Learner’s permit if we’re lucky,” Jackson drawled. He thought to himself that the mastermind behind the attack was pretty damn clever.
As Caine queried their facial recognition software, Jackson studied the boy’s every nuance. Unlike the man pretending to be Pedro, he made no attempt to disguise his face. He smiled at the cashier, paid seven fifty in cash, and left. He’s not the bomber, Jackson realized. In deference to Caine’s worsening mood, he said, instead, “The kid has no idea what’s in the box.”
“Yeah, I think someone paid him to send it,” Ringo agreed.
Ignoring both of his subordinates, Caine snatched up the report coming in from NCIC. “Patel comes up clean,” he relayed, stating what they’d already guessed.
The UPS driver was not a suspect. The kid who mailed the box knew nothing, was nobody, as their facial recognition system attested when it flashed NO MATCH.
SSA Caine wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “We’ve got nothing,” he admitted, looking stunned. “They bombed our fucking safe house, and we don’t have a fucking lead!”
“ERT might come up with something,” Ringo offered.
The Emergency Response Team was analyzing what was left of the bomb.
“Why don’t we ask our asset if he recognizes any of our suspects,” Jackson suggested.
Caine glared at him. “Of course we’re going to ask him.” He started printing off the picture of the unidentified youth. “You two make yourselves useful,” he said, thrusting the photo at Ringo . “Go canvas the neighborhood and be quick about it. Then we’ll go after our client.”
On his way to the exit, Jackson stopped and backtracked. “Did you say our client, sir?”
“That’s what I said, Rookie.” Caine sounded smug.
“How are we supposed to find her?” Jackson had assumed—and been glad about it—that Eryn McClellan was as good as gone.
Caine sent him a small, superior smile. “I’m tracking her,” he admitted.
Ringo had also circled back. “How?” he demanded.
“Bought the dog a special collar last week. Looks just like the old one but it has a SIM card which gives us the dog’s global positioning. You can buy them at any pet store.” Turning to his open laptop, Caine tapped a key and displayed a map with a neon dot blinking at its center. “They’re 125 miles southwest of here, outside of a town called Elkton.”
Jackson looked from the neon dot to Caine’s satisfied smirk and arrived at a startling conclusion. “You knew her father would come for her.”
“Suspected,” Caine corrected. “What I knew was if he came for his daughter, he’d also take the dog.”
“Yes, but why would we want to take her back?” It didn’t make sense to Jackson.
Caine flushed with anger. “We’re the Counterterrorism Division, Maddox,” he said through clenched teeth. “If we’re going to find
“That could have been a cover,” Caine insisted.
“The manager said some little shit came in and mailed the package, paying for it in cash.” Ringo set aside the baggie with the cash in it for the Emergency Response Team to take back to Quantico for fingerprinting. “It’s all on the tape, which has been rewound for us.”
Caine inserted the old cassette tape into a compatible player, and they all watched with baited breath.
“That’s the kid,” said Ringo .
“Christ,” Caine exclaimed. “What is he, like fifteen years old?”
The little shit, Jackson determined. The boy was probably too young even to be in their system.
Despite the cool thermostat setting in the sound room, Caine had sweat stains under his arm pits. “How the hell are we going to find a kid that young?”
“Learner’s permit if we’re lucky,” Jackson drawled. He thought to himself that the mastermind behind the attack was pretty damn clever.
As Caine queried their facial recognition software, Jackson studied the boy’s every nuance. Unlike the man pretending to be Pedro, he made no attempt to disguise his face. He smiled at the cashier, paid seven fifty in cash, and left. He’s not the bomber, Jackson realized. In deference to Caine’s worsening mood, he said, instead, “The kid has no idea what’s in the box.”
“Yeah, I think someone paid him to send it,” Ringo agreed.
Ignoring both of his subordinates, Caine snatched up the report coming in from NCIC. “Patel comes up clean,” he relayed, stating what they’d already guessed.
The UPS driver was not a suspect. The kid who mailed the box knew nothing, was nobody, as their facial recognition system attested when it flashed NO MATCH.
SSA Caine wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “We’ve got nothing,” he admitted, looking stunned. “They bombed our fucking safe house, and we don’t have a fucking lead!”
“ERT might come up with something,” Ringo offered.
The Emergency Response Team was analyzing what was left of the bomb.
“Why don’t we ask our asset if he recognizes any of our suspects,” Jackson suggested.
Caine glared at him. “Of course we’re going to ask him.” He started printing off the picture of the unidentified youth. “You two make yourselves useful,” he said, thrusting the photo at Ringo . “Go canvas the neighborhood and be quick about it. Then we’ll go after our client.”
On his way to the exit, Jackson stopped and backtracked. “Did you say our client, sir?”
“That’s what I said, Rookie.” Caine sounded smug.
“How are we supposed to find her?” Jackson had assumed—and been glad about it—that Eryn McClellan was as good as gone.
Caine sent him a small, superior smile. “I’m tracking her,” he admitted.
Ringo had also circled back. “How?” he demanded.
“Bought the dog a special collar last week. Looks just like the old one but it has a SIM card which gives us the dog’s global positioning. You can buy them at any pet store.” Turning to his open laptop, Caine tapped a key and displayed a map with a neon dot blinking at its center. “They’re 125 miles southwest of here, outside of a town called Elkton.”
Jackson looked from the neon dot to Caine’s satisfied smirk and arrived at a startling conclusion. “You knew her father would come for her.”
“Suspected,” Caine corrected. “What I knew was if he came for his daughter, he’d also take the dog.”
“Yes, but why would we want to take her back?” It didn’t make sense to Jackson.
Caine flushed with anger. “We’re the Counterterrorism Division, Maddox,” he said through clenched teeth. “If we’re going to find
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