Chapter 26
FBI New York Field Office
Manhattan, New York
Hutch sat at his desk, irked and on edge. He hadn’t been particularly productive all day, not after spending a frustrating, sleepless night—the first since Casey had reinjured herself—back in their bed.
She hadn’t told him a thing. She’d been too wiped out for another interrogation.
Instead, clad in an oversize nightshirt, she’d curled up against him, her face buried in his chest, her sleepy voice murmuring her pleasure at having him beside her.
He wholeheartedly agreed, grateful that she’d healed enough to make this possible.
But even though he’d kissed her until she dozed, then wrapped his arms around her, he was terrified he’d aggravate her inflammation by falling asleep and pressing too close or squeezing too hard.
Not to mention, his noncompliant body was throbbing for hers, uncaring of the fact that a longer wait was on the horizon.
And he was ripping pissed at himself. Dammit, he was in his late thirties, certainly not a kid anymore.
Yet he felt like a horny teenager, desperate for sexual relief from the woman he loved.
By dawn, he couldn’t take it anymore.
He’d gotten up, taken an unpleasantly cold shower, and then called Sophie as he dressed. Fortunately she’d been available to arrive and take care of Casey by six a.m., and could remain with her until her replacement, Brenda Hill, arrived at five p.m. to take over.
Which meant that Hutch was able to get a jump start on the workday and delve further into his investigation for however long it took.
Unfortunately, none of his or SA Barkley and his team’s leads were panning out.
It was as if they were all banging their heads against the wall.
Hutch’s already sour mood was evolving into outright anger.
He was starting to actually envy Forensic Instincts, who were happy to color outside the lines.
Being restricted by using only legal methods was frustrating as hell.
And his questioning session with Casey had only reinforced what he already suspected: he might have curtailed FI, but that didn’t mean they weren’t finding subtle ways to circumvent his orders.
He was just about to get himself a cup of shitty coffee when his cell phone sounded, indicating that a text had come through. He glanced at the unknown number and frowned. Normally, he wiped messages from anonymous sources like this without even sparing them a glance.
Something told him not to do so this time.
He clicked into the message, his eyes narrowing as he read:
We’re gifting the offender in the Shane Walsh murder case to you. You can find him inside hangar #33 at the northwest corner of Teterboro Airport. You already have the 9mm Glock that was the murder weapon. Now you have the killer to go with it.
You’re welcome.
Lips pursed, Hutch reread the text, understanding the meaning behind it. The Bureau hadn’t released any information on the murder weapon. Yet this sender knew what it was and was verifying their legitimacy by supplying it.
Which was proof that this text wasn’t one to ignore.
Teterboro Airport
111 Industrial Avenue
Teterboro, New Jersey
Wednesday, March 22, 10:15 p.m.
Everything was in place.
Hutch had gone through proper channels to make this happen.
He’d made his case to his assistant director in charge, claiming that, while he didn’t have probable cause, there were exigent circumstances to explore the contents of the text.
Technically, the guy inside that hangar could be injured or dying.
He’d gotten the okay. The ADIC would allow Hutch to bring SA Barkley and a two-man SWAT team when they closed in.
The field office’s SWAT coordinator was brought on board, organizing the raid.
In-house research was expediently done on the location in question, only to find that it was indeed a seldom-used maintenance facility.
Now, Hutch’s team waited a few blocks away as the drones they’d flown over the hangar did their job before the team approached.
A good visual was obtained, confirming that there was no ambush in the vicinity.
Also confirmed was that the hangar had two doors—a wide entry/exit door and an emergency door.
That was all the information they needed to move in.
The agents left their black SUV and made their way slowly and carefully down the far side of the runways. Their bulletproof vests were in place and their weapons were loaded, gripped, and ready.
Hangar #33 was a large single-story corrugated metal building in the corner of the airport, its wide, tall doors there to provide easy entry and exit for heavy snow removal equipment.
The team of agents crept forward and surrounded the door.
Hutch signaled Barkley that the two of them should hold back and let the SWAT guys take the lead. Barkley nodded.
SWAT moved forward. One of them removed the hinges, then stepped back to blast the top and bottom of the door.
The door teetered, then crashed to the ground.
“FBI,” one SWAT guy shouted as they both barreled inside, sweeping every section of the room.
It didn’t take long before Hutch heard them call out: “All clear!”
That was Hutch’s cue to act.
He led Barkley inside, pistol raised, and was greeted by concrete floors, equipment from snow plows, dump trucks, and bulldozers, all parked and ready to go.
And in the center of the hangar, sitting atop a pallet containing bags of ice melt was a man—a struggling man whose eyes were wild with fear.
His hands and legs were immobilized with black zip ties, and his mouth was sealed with a piece of duct tape.
He was secured to the pallet with additional zip ties, clearly to prevent him from taking off.
Around his neck was a clear document pouch with papers inside and a Post-it slapped on top of it.
Hutch was there in a heartbeat. He snatched both the Post-it and the pouch, simultaneously glancing over the guy before announcing, “He seems intact, but summon the paramedics.”
With that, he turned his full attention on the Post-it, which read:
Name: Owen Willard. Former employee of Scott Security, assigned by Charles Scott to kill Shane and Caitlin Walsh.
Given the full assignment was never completed, Willard is now on Scott’s hit list. With minor persuasion on your part, he’ll tell all.
Re: the attached papers: a composite of all Scott’s illegal alliances and activities.
Act quickly. Make arrests. Get Caitlin Walsh home.
You don’t know us, but now you owe us.
No signature.
Without pause, Hutch opened the file and skimmed the pages, his mind racing.
Physical evidence that implicated Scott in the most heinous of crimes, carefully organized with names, dates, places, and specifics.
Too precise to be fabricated. Illegally obtained, but handed over freely and anonymously, so legally usable.
Handed over by whom?
This work was beyond FI’s skill set.
So who had engineered this? And why? A vendetta?
Hutch knew he’d probably never get those answers. And right now he didn’t give a damn. He’d take his gift and run with it.
He leaned forward and tore the duct tape from Willard’s mouth.
Offices of the Zermatt Group
West Seventy-Fifth Street, Seventh Floor
Manhattan, New York
Wednesday, March 22, 10:50 p.m.
Aidan ended the call with his on-the-scene Zermatt operative and hung up the phone.
“Hutchinson and his team took Willard,” he announced.
“They put him in their SUV, and transported him to the New York field office. I’d bet the bank that he waived his rights in order to get as lenient a sentence as possible and is spilling his guts to the Bureau as we speak.
And every word will match the details in that file and put another nail in Charles Scott’s coffin. ”
Terri nodded, her brow furrowed as she focused on her computer screen.
“Willard knows that Scott sent a team to kill him, and he’ll do whatever he has to in order to stay alive, and to get Scott’s ass behind bars.
From what Forensic Instincts has told us, Hutchinson is sharp as a tack.
He’ll bring this investigation to a close in record time. ”
“Yup,” Aidan agreed with the sense of satisfaction he always felt when Zermatt’s brand of justice was served. “So that’s a wrap.”
Terri clicked a few final keys on her keyboard, scanned her screen, and then sat back with a broad grin.
“No, this is a wrap,” she corrected him.
“I drilled around Scott Security’s finances, and drained a substantial amount from their illegitimate accounts.
Same for Charles Scott’s personal offshore accounts.
All of those funds have been moved to the Zermatt coffers.
So we’ve now officially been paid for our work. ”
Aidan’s lips curved. “Nice to be handsomely compensated and to break that bastard. He won’t be reporting his losses to law enforcement; I can assure you of that.”
“No, he’ll be vacationing in a supermax prison cell.” Terri folded her arms behind her head.
Aidan picked up the phone again. “Time to advise Marc that they can contact Caitlin Walsh. I’m guessing that, in the blink of an eye, she’ll be coming home to her daughter.”