Chapter 12
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Houston
“We’ll do this once and do it right, okay?” Flint said. “Develop the complete information first. Then present it to Fisher in the best way possible.”
“Agreed. What’s the plan?”
“Go to Illinois. Track down the adoption records. Get current identities and location information. I’ll handle a few loose ends today and reconnect with you tonight.”
“You sure about splitting up? Those tactical teams are still out there,” Drake cautioned.
Flint had been thinking about security all morning. Military contractors didn’t give up after one failed operation. They’d regroup. Better planning. Different approach.
“If they’re monitoring us, they’ll expect me to stay local and continue the Fisher investigation.”
And if he were being watched, going in the opposite direction might cause enough confusion to buy them some time.
“Maybe,” Drake said dubiously.
His concerns were valid. Mount Warren was a small town. Which meant limited law enforcement and fewer witnesses. If the Kentucky tactical team wanted a second shot, rural Texas would be ideal hunting ground.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take precautions,” Flint said.
“What kind of precautions?”
“Same ones you’ll be taking.” Flint walked to his gun safe. “Backup weapon. Extra ammunition. Encrypted communications via secure satellite phone. GPS tracker.”
The safe was built into the wall of his home office. It was concealed behind a framed photograph of the Houston skyline. He entered the combination and the steel door swung open. He scanned his collection of weapons and tactical gear. Everything was organized exactly as he’d placed it.
He pulled out his backup pistol and a spare magazine.
“Body armor?”
Flint grinned. “That’s a bit extreme for the job. But sure. Why not? Concealed vest. Light enough for comfort. Effective against small arms fire.”
“What about the truck?” Drake asked.
Flint’s Ram 1500 wasn’t armored, but it was reliable and fast. More importantly, it wasn’t the vehicle the tactical team had seen in Kentucky. Still, he didn’t want them targeting his personal vehicle, either.
“I’ll take a rental. Something anonymous. Pay cash.”
“Good thinking. I’ll do the same. What about communications?”
“Check in every two hours. If you don’t hear from me, assume something’s wrong.”
Drake was quiet for a moment. “Maybe we should stick together.”
“We need you to work the Illinois angle. This job is already difficult enough. We can’t let the trail get any colder,” Flint replied. “And we don’t want them to find the kids before we do.”
“True. But if those guys grab you, the kids won’t be helped either.”
Flint understood Drake’s concern. He wasn’t wrong. There absolutely was danger ahead. For both of them. For half a moment, he considered changing his plan.
Marilyn Baker’s murder had been unsolved for thirty-two years. Would a few more weeks really matter?
He shook his head quickly to reject the suggestion. He’d found a cooperative law enforcement officer who’d been first on the scene where Marilyn Baker died. Which meant Sheriff Milliken was Flint’s best chance to solve his mother’s murder.
Milliken was willing to talk now, but he could change his mind. Or be ordered to let the case languish while pressing matters took priority.
No. Flint would forge ahead. Some opportunities didn’t come twice.
Flint said, “Engage well-placed paranoia. Trust no one. Assume everyone’s watching.”
“Roger that. I’ll work with Gaspar until I hear from you,” Drake replied. “We may need additional resources.”
“Jason Fisher will be more than happy to pay for whatever we need, trust me,” Flint said. “Get whatever you need, and I’ll worry about the cost later.”
Drake paused. “You realize what this means?”
“Lizzy Pace was a hero. She saved three children and died protecting them,” Flint said. “What more do we need to know?”
“Twenty-four years ago, someone ordered the Fisher house torched intending to kill everyone inside. Most likely an arsonist. The conspiracy had serious resources and a very long reach,” Drake replied. “The family thought the kids and Lizzy were dead. Why’d they let it go?”
Flint had been thinking the same thing. Yesterday’s Kentucky ambush proved someone was still actively protecting those secrets. Which suggested the original conspiracy was still operational.
“Whoever ordered the fire might still be alive. Still powerful. Still dangerous,” Drake said. “And now they may know we’re close to finding the Fisher children.”
“They failed and they’re likely to escalate. When we find one of the missing kids, we’ll need to move fast,” Flint said. “Before the opposition can regroup to stop us.”
“Or eliminate us completely.”
“That too,” Flint checked his watch. Houston’s traffic patterns would have shifted from early commuters to a steady flow of rush hour. “I’ll call you from the road. Keep Gaspar working. And watch your back.”
Drake said, “Copy that. You, too.”
Flint hung up. Three names, written in Lizzy Pace’s handwriting, on shelter intake forms.
The Fisher children survived the fire. Lizzy Pace had saved them and protected them until cancer, and a heavy bus, finished the job the arsonist started.
Now someone was willing to deploy military contractors to keep the kids concealed.
But the Fishers were out there somewhere. Foster families. Adoptive parents. New names and new lives.
Jason Fisher deserved to know his siblings had survived.
Lizzy Pace deserved a medal for saving them.
Outside, Houston was waking up. Early commuters heading to work. Normal people living normal lives.
The sky had shifted from gray to pale blue. It was streaked with thin clouds that caught the early light. Traffic sounds grew steadier. The city shook off sleep and prepared for another day. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and a garbage truck rumbled down a parallel street.
Somewhere out there, tactical teams were planning their next move. Corporate resources being reallocated. Better equipment. Better planning.
Let them come.
The truth was surely worth the risk.