Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
THORNE
My knuckles ache from typing, and my vision is definitely getting worse now that I’m chained to my desk, working exclusively on message board cybercrimes. My readers are not cutting it, and I have a bad feeling that progressive lenses are in my future.
But I will admit not having to handwrite files is a big plus.
I came into the job long after they’d stopped using typewriters, but some of the old guys still tell horror stories about lost paperwork.
We have an IT team who can fix pretty much anything that goes wrong these days.
From random magnets to shit blowing up, nothing is ever completely gone.
Not that I’ve seen that in my career, but I’ve watched enough movies to not let my guard drop.
I do wish working for the FBI cybercrimes division was more like TV though.
People wearing nice designer suits and working in swanky offices, taking down crime boss kingpins.
Hell, they probably had an endless supply of decent coffee too, and being able to swagger into crime scenes with sunglasses and puns?
What a life.
My job had no sunglasses. Or puns.
It’s just a hunched back, carpal tunnel, and failing eyesight.
Which goes along with the fact that I’m also losing my hearing.
So very fun, though that, at the very least, wasn’t job related.
It was an untreated ear infection at sixteen combined with crappy genetics, leading to degenerative hearing loss and vertigo.
I turn my attention back to the screen and scroll through the rest of LeifyMolotov’s messages. I have his name written down: Leif Holloway, and despite having that, I’ve come up with next to nothing about him in my search.
This guy pinged my radar the first time he started commenting on old posts regarding explosives, and when I hit him up, he just asked me straight out if I had any TNT. Like this was a damn Tom and Jerry cartoon. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes.
And what makes it even worse is he was naive enough to accept my yes and my request for a duffel bag full of cash. This entire conversation and how easy it was tells me loud and clear that he definitely hasn’t done anything like this before.
He’s a novice, someone who has no clue how the dark web works.
I gave him every chance to back out, to run far away in the other direction, but it seems the guy is bound and determined to kill Michael.
A Michael he says is a groundhog, but I’m pretty sure that this is most likely code for a man he’s got trapped in some kind of underground bunker or hole.
Criminals like this—killers and monsters—they’re never as clever as they think they are.
I’ve seen the worst of the worst. Something my mind can never forget. Dark web cybercrimes was not where I wanted to retire from, but I ended up having a knack for it, so here I am.
And to make matters worse, I’m on the verge of a forced early retirement, trying to get in one last decent case so I don’t have to be buried with a basic-as-fuck record.
My last solve was a guy trying to buy ground-up elephant fetuses for some kind of magic potion he was convinced he could make.
He was going to take down the Illuminati, he’d said.
We did make an arrest—well, my team made an arrest. I sat on my ass in my office and got the confirmation text when he was brought in.
I’m pretty sure he was sent to a mental health hospital until he could get his life back on track.
The good news was that no one on the web seemed to have what he was asking for because that might have really destroyed my faith in humanity.
Not that the law enforcement system isn’t already doing that for me. Retirement isn’t going to be all bad, really. And being younger than forty means I still have time to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.
I just…need some kind of inspiration.
Tapping my fingers on the desk, I rock back in my chair and stare at the last message from Leif. It’s going to take a while to get all of the background information on him. My job is also not like the movies, where we can pull up any and all information about a suspect with the tap of a button.
The logical thing would be to go tell my supervisor what I’ve set up so he can get one of the undercover agents to meet him and get him to confess to a crime—maybe even tell us where Michael is being hidden—and then have him arrested.
The illogical thing is to beg to put myself undercover because god damn it, this is my case.
I’ve done all the legwork. I’m tired of being banished to my fucking desk.
Pushing to my feet, I start toward the door, then freeze when I remember I’m not wearing my hearing aids.
They’re discreet enough for now that they don’t draw attention.
My hair sits just long enough that they can nestle behind my ears and remain camouflaged.
And the wire that leads into my ear canals is thin enough that it blends in with my skin.
Normally, it wouldn’t bother me to be seen as hard of hearing.
The more I study ASL, the more I feel a sort of longing deep in my chest to involve myself in a community that might actually welcome me.
But any sign of being different here is unwelcome, and it’s yet another reason everyone’s hoping I’ll retire quietly and not inconvenience them by asking for accommodations.
Trying not to think too hard about it all, I slip the hearing aids on, then open the door as they boot up. By the time they’re pinging softly in my ears, I’ve reached my boss’s door. Carlo Russo is a former Navy veteran with a long life story that had him handpicked for the supervisor position.
His door is open, and I can see him sitting at his desk, zoning out on his computer. He’s old-school, been here for ages, so I have half a mind to peek and see if he’s playing something like solitaire on his desktop.
“Got a minute?”
He blinks up, and annoyance flickers across his face before he gestures me inside. “Heading out?”
“In a bit. I have a lead on a possible missing person.”
His brows lift, which is the only invitation I have to continue.
“The person I’ve been speaking to on one of the forums I’ve been monitoring is searching for explosives in order to take out a man named Michael. I have reason to believe he’s got this person hidden somewhere underground.”
When I say it aloud, it does sound a little…ridiculous. If Leif is a serial killer and has a man underground, why does he need explosives to kill him? Though to be fair, most psychopaths have a fetish for killing a particular way, and Leif would not be my first firebug.
“Last name of Michael?”
“I don’t have one.”
“So this missing person…”
“Hasn’t been reported,” I have to admit. “It’s a pretty small town about two hours from Portland.”
I know the town a little too well. I had a stalker case there a couple of years back when I was first diagnosed with my disorder.
The victim had been a Deaf ASL professor, which, at the time, had seemed a little too coincidental.
But Denver had become my ASL teacher and eventually my friend. It wasn’t a hardship to go back there.
“The last few reports that came into their local PD have been for teenagers,” I went on, “but I’m keeping my eye on it.”
He sighs, and his lips purse slightly. “So you have nothing.”
Frustration blooms inside of me. “I have a person heading to a hotel room in a couple days with a duffel bag full of cash who is going to pay me in exchange for explosives.” To kill what he calls a groundhog. But I don’t buy it. Not with the way Leif talks about Michael.
The last conversation we had was Leif saying that Michael had a vendetta against him and had been trying to ruin his life for the last six months. No one talks about ground rodents that way. Never.
I don’t say this to my boss. If I say that Leif is claiming Michael is a groundhog, he’ll tell me to accept it for what it is and move on to something else. But my gut is telling me I’m onto something.
Russo sighs and rocks back in his chair. “I don’t have anyone I can free up right now.”
I do my best not to groan. “I’m free.”
“You know exactly why that’s not going to happen, Logasson.
” He meets my gaze like he’s trying to challenge me.
Like he wants me to defy him. It’s not the first time I’ve felt like he gets off on telling me no.
“Your benefits aren’t going to cover you crashing your car because you had a little fit or whatever behind the wheel. ”
That’s fucking absurd. I’ve been cleared to drive by more than one physician, which is why I haven’t lost my company car.
Yet. And by “little fit,” he means a vertigo spell from the Ménière’s disease, which has been my diagnosis for the last eighteen months, though my ENT says I’ve had it for a lot longer than that.
But the spells don’t last long, and avoiding salt and as much caffeine as I can manage, I’ve reduced the incidents to two, maybe three a month. He’s using the so-called liability excuse against me.
“So you want me to just leave him there?”
He taps the tip of his nose, then points at me. “If he makes any threats, come back and let me know, and I’ll free someone to go check him out.”
And just like that, I’m dismissed.
Disappointment and regret sit heavy in my gut.
The walk back to my office feels like an eternity. There aren’t a lot of agents around at the moment, but the ones who are stare at me like they know I’ve been kicked in the metaphorical balls. I straighten my shoulders and continue walking, refusing to meet any of their stares.
When I get back to my office, I do my best not to slam the door before stalking over and dropping down in my chair. I take a moment to cool off before turning my monitor back on and see a message from Leif.
LeifyMolotov: I can be there Thursday night at nine. Come alone. I have the cash.
That’s four days from today. I could put an end to it now, see if I can befriend him in the chat and get him to open up a little more. Or I can say fuck it and just…go. It’s not like Russo will come looking for me. I work from home most days anyway.
And the little town I’m going to meet him in isn’t too far from me. I know the layout well enough, and it feels a bit like it’s a coincidence that this whole thing is there.
Like it was meant to be.
Like if I’m really going to create a legacy for myself in the handful of weeks I have left with the Bureau, this is my chance to do it.
Screw it. What’s the worst Russo can do? The punishment for disobeying this order would be desk duty, so why not take the risk. After all, what’s the worst that can happen if I go?
I catch a killer?
And hell, if Leif takes me out before we solve the crime, at least I’ll know I gave up my life trying to do something good.
In my car, I scroll through my contacts and pull up one person who has been able to save my ass more than once.
Augusto Matias is the agent who gets things.
He manages bureau rentals all over the country for agents who need a safe house, and if we need any sort of obscure item, Matias is the one who knows how and where to get it.
It rings so many times I think maybe he’s not going to pick up. Then I hear the silence in my ears—the call connecting to the Bluetooth in my hearing aids.
“Logasson,” Matias says.
“I need a favor. An apartment or a little cottage or some shit.” I give him the town location. “Something furnished and out of the way with enough space for me to set up an office.”
“I thought you were out of the field,” he says.
I don’t think he’s going to rat me out. “One last hurrah.”
He snorts and sighs. “You’re in luck. I’ve got a property out there. There was a cold case several decades back in the area, and it got passed to me when the guy who was managing it retired. I’ve been doing the Airbnb thing with it, but it’s vacant right now. Might be a little dusty.”
“I can deal with dusty. Can you scrub the listing until I’m done?”
“Easy. Something big on your plate?”
I frown. “Might be. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for this.”
“Anytime. Check your phone for the door code, and good luck.”
The line goes dead, and silence settles around me again. So, part one of the plan is ready, and part two will happen in a few days, when I walk into a dingy motel room that only hookers ever rent and see whether or not I’m looking evil directly in the eye.