Chapter 8
EIGHT
Tank hated visiting prisoners.It was a toss-up between his adamance that the sterile hardness of the cells was too good for the scum he was usually here to see and the shame of knowing that for most of his life, ending up in a place like this was the inevitable ending.
Even though that wasn’t his life anymore, he couldn’t help but see ghosts from his past in the faces of the men sentenced here as he and Marshall passed portions of the exercise yard on their way into the parking lot.
They’d been mostly silent on the short drive from the airport, both of them content to spend the drive caught up in their thoughts. Or, in Marshall’s case, obsessively reading news briefs and the intel passed along by Joey and Steven, the two computer geniuses employed by Black Tower.
He took a few steps out of the rental truck, enjoying the ability to stretch his long legs out. He checked his phone as they walked. A new text from Kaylie stopped him in his tracks. The text was short, only a handful of words. Too short to read into, but he didn’t like the feeling it gave him. Kaylie never wanted time off. She wouldn’t even take the days off he tried insisting she take.
“Hold up,” he said to Marshall. He tried calling Kaylie, but there was no answer. So he dialed Joey.
“That was quick, even for you guys.”
He ignored Joey’s flippant greeting. He hesitated, wondering if he should apologize for the interruption. He even debated hanging up. Instead, he forced out the truth against the anxiety that always came with asking. “I need a favor.” What he wouldn’t give to be charming like Jackson, or earnest and convincing like Ryder.
“Anything you need, Tank. You know that.”
He knew how Joey would respond, but he relaxed hearing it nonetheless.
“It’s Kaylie. I… I think she’s in trouble.” His throat grated painfully over the words. “Can you find everything on her for me?”
“What kind of trouble?”
He glanced up at Marshall, waiting a few steps away. The hints of his impatience were hidden, but Tank recognized the flutter of his friend’s fingers in his pocket. Marshall’s eyes darted around the open area in front of the prison, searching for nonexistent threats.
“Just a hunch,” he said, unable to explain the feeling in his gut that there was more to Kaylie’s story than she was saying. “We’re headed inside now.”
“I’m on it. Get what we need from this guy, okay?”
Tank nodded sharply as he pulled the phone away from his ear. Whatever was going on with Kaylie would have to wait. He and Marshall were here on a mission. Which brought them here, to this nondescript block building with a maroon, arched entry.
On its own, it looked more like a high school gym entrance than a prison. But Tank knew what was beyond this building. The open yard had walkways like spokes from the center to each of the cell blocks, and a double fence with barbed wire surrounded the entire property of Coleman Medium Security Federal Correctional Institution.
Tank would much rather the man they were visiting was wasting away, watching his back at every moment over in one of FCI Coleman’s maximum security prisons. But as long as he wasn’t walking free, it counted as a win for Black Tower. And of course, for Hannah Stone, the feisty reporter who had wormed her way into their family after witnessing the assassination and uncovering the corruption at Marshand Chemical and the EPA.
“Normal strategy?” Marshall asked as they reached the double doors.
Tank nodded. Theirs was a pretty effective strategy, all things considered. Marshall would do the talking, and Tank would essentially stare the man down and scare him into complying. Tank knew he looked ticked off on a good day, so when he was trying to look intimidating? Well, people would do just about anything to get his attention off them.
He and Marshall faked their names on the paperwork, and with a knowing glance from the guard, they were in. Their connections at the FBI had already cleared the way for their little chat.
A guard in a navy-blue uniform led them down the windowless hallway to a small, also windowless, room. Waiting inside, chained by his wrists to a metal table with a thick metal loop in the center, was today’s mission.
Damien Strickland looked like death warmed over. Apparently, even the medium security prison was a bit rough for the multi-millionaire. He’d been denied bail and deemed a flight risk, which made Tank’s normally stoic heart almost sing with satisfaction. The man had poisoned thousands of citizens in Florida trying to cover up the spill that threatened their water supply. He was greedy scum, but he didn’t even hold a candle to the monsters he was going to help them find.
Strickland had been arrested a few months earlier for a slew of charges related to his role in the cover-up of the spill at his former company, Marshand Chemical Group. What Black Tower was still trying to figure out was the real motive behind the cover-up and how the Syndicate was involved. There wasn’t a doubt in their minds that the Syndicate had been involved, based on how the cover-up was intertwined with the assassination of President Waters.
Damien’s shaggy brown hair hung over his forehead in greasy strands, as if he hadn’t bothered washing it in weeks. He looked a far cry from the polished man they’d watched be arrested on national television. Of course, Tank might have called in a few favors to make sure Damien’s time here in FCI Coleman wasn’t especially hospitable.
His eyes lingered on a fading bruise under Strickland’s left eye. There was a dull satisfaction that his friends had kept their end of the bargain, and a hint of regret that he hadn’t been able to deliver a similar blow himself.
“Who are you?” Damien spat at them. “You can’t be here. I get a lawyer!”
Tank took up his position against the wall, his eyes trained on Damien.
Marshall clicked his tongue. “Ah, ah, ah. That’s where you’re wrong. You only get a lawyer if we are officers of the law. Are we officers of the law?” he directed the question at Tank.
With painstaking slowness, Tank shook his head, letting all of the disdain and anger he felt toward this man seep into expression.
The little color that had remained on Strickland’s face drained. “Guards!”
“They’re not going to help you,” Marshall said coolly. “We’re just here to ask you a few questions. You might have the media and the feds convinced that your only motive was hitting the numbers you needed for the 3rd quarter, but we both know that isn’t true, is it?”
Damien glared at Marshall. “You don’t know anything.”
Marshall was unaffected. “We know more than you think. But that’s okay. We’re going to let you tell us. Otherwise, my friend here will encourage you as needed.”
Tank shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders back as Damien’s gaze slid back to him.
“You think I’m scared of you? You’re nothing compared to them.”
Tank growled in irritation. It sounded way too similar to what Darkshade, the Ukrainian assassin, had told them before someone had blown his head off from 200 yards away on the tarmac. He was terrified of someone he called Saltykova–a dead end Tank and Joey had been trying to unravel for months.
Was Strickland afraid of the same person? He hadn’t said “her” but maybe it was the same.
Marshall was on the same page. “Who are they? Why do they care about a chemical spill in Florida?”
Damien scoffed. “You’re thinking too small. And that’s why you’ll never win.”
Tank’s jaw clenched at the man’s challenge. Black Tower would win. They had to.
The Syndicate had been taking and abusing power for too long. Hurting innocent people in their quest for… for what? That was the question that never left him. They were always reacting, one step behind. Because for all the time Black Tower spent fighting the Syndicate, it was like cutting one head off a hydra. They had to figure out the end game and put an end to it.
Questions burned in his chest, but Tank didn’t move a muscle. He trusted Marshall unequivocally. His partner was a former Army Intelligence Officer and an expert in human psychology. Sometimes, it was like he was reading your mind and a little freaky. But he knew just what to say to convince someone to sway their decision one way or the other.
Tank was glad Marshall used those powers for the good guys, because he would never want to be sitting across the table as an adversary of Marshall Kelley. Which is exactly where Strickland’s greedy decisions had brought him.
“I bet the Syndicate wasn’t too happy about your little accident over in Lecanto. National coverage…” Marshall clicked his tongue and gave his head a shake. A flicker of fear betrayed Strickland’s efforts to appear tough and unfazed.
Tank knew Marshall had seen it too when he kept pressing.
“Is that who left you that little present? Someone the Syndicate sent in here to show their disappointment?”
Strickland’s eyes widened. He swore under his breath. “It was a hurricane. What was I supposed to do?”
“Maybe you’re right,” Marshall’s tone changed and he leaned back from the table. “The Syndicate doesn’t care at all about you. In fact, I bet it’s just a matter of time before they remember they have a liability sitting here, waiting to betray them. You were just a pawn in their little game, weren’t you?”
A hint of madness gleamed in Strickland’s eyes under the fluorescent lights. “You’re wrong! They need me.”
“Liar,” Marshall said, sounding bored.
Strickland shook his head, his eyes falling to the table. His voice grew quiet. “No. They need me. They don’t know how. It’s too volatile. I’m safe. I’m safe.”
It was as though Strickland had completely forgotten they were there, and he was trying to convince himself. Tank watched, his body still as he waited for Marshall’s next move.
“They don’t need you. They figured out how to make it themselves,” Marshall bluffed. Tank would bet a year’s salary on Marshall’s poker face though.
Strickland’s eyes jerked up to him, panic flaring within them. “No! There’s no way. Derulo said it had never been done. I’m the key. I have to be!”
A silent celebration waged within Tank’s chest, completely hidden beneath a calm facade. Derulo was a name they knew far too well. Patrick Derulo was the CEO of QuinTech Missiles and long suspected of being one of the Syndicate’s upper echelon members.
Marshall kept the disinterested tone, adding a slight shrug as he replied, “I don’t know what to tell you, Damien. They figured it out, and you’re nothing but a security risk now. In fact, I’m pretty sure there are some new inmates arriving later today. Isn’t that what the guards said?” Marshall posed the question to Tank.
He nodded once, knowing Marshall’s game well. “Max security transfers,” he embellished.
Damien’s face paled even further. “I’ll tell you everything. Just get me out of here!”
“We don’t need you either, Damien,” Marshall replied as he stood from the stainless steel table. His tone was cool, with the barest hint of pity lacing it. “We just wanted to see your face one more time before you’re forgotten here to die.” He took two steps toward the door.
Desperation rose from Strickland in waves as he tugged uselessly against the restraints. “It’s Citadel. They’re the key to everything. They don’t know I heard them, but Derulo and Collins are working together to make sure Citadel is in position.”
Marshall stopped, turning halfway around, offering Strickland only his profile. “Position for what?”
“Get me out and I’ll tell you!” Strickland was begging now, his fear completely overtaking him, but he was still negotiating. Ever the CEO, clamoring for control, even when he was shackled to a table.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Marshall said. With a tip of his head to Tank, he knocked on the glass, signaling the guards that the meeting was over.
“You’ll never stop them,” Damien said again. “They’re too close. If they’ve got my compound and the contract, everything moves forward. It’s too late,” he said, his voice now resigned. He almost sounded apologetic. But Tank knew the only thing Damien was sorry for was that he’d been replaced. Even if that was a total lie he’d been fed. “It’s too late,” the prisoner repeated to himself.
Tank bit back the reply he wanted to give and followed Marshall out of the room in silence.
It was never too late. Not as long as he was still breathing.