38. Cassie
CASSIE
“This is mostly housekeeping stuff,” I said, flipping hurriedly through one of the folders I’d pulled from the filing cabinet. “Purchase orders for the airport, receipts for work on the building, that kind of thing."
I had no idea how much time had passed, but half expecting Martin — or someone else — to barge in at any minute, and my heart raced as I looked through the papers inside the filing cabinet.
“Keep looking,” Hawk said, his eyes on the screen. “I think I’m on to something over here.”
“What is it?” Vigo inspected the fake potted plant near the door like he was trying to determine if it was real.
“Looks like some kind of ground handling paperwork,” Hawk said. “But there’s nothing under Kaprolov.”
“Maybe he’s using the daughter’s name?” Vigo asked. “Volkova?”
“Nope,” Hawk said. “Already checked. Might be listed under a shell company, in which case we’re fucked.”
“We could take pictures,” I suggested, starting on the second drawer of the filing cabinet. “Research it later.”
“There’s a ton of them,” Hawk said.
He didn’t sound at all nervous, but I was definitely on edge. Jagger would keep Martin busy as long as possible, but we didn’t have an infinite amount of time.
“This is interesting,” I said, looking through the first folder in the second drawer. “There are client services packets.”
“What the fuck is a client services packet?” Vigo asked.
I studied the documents in front of me. “Looks like… client preferences. Things they want to have available when they land: food, alcohol, even bottled water and flowers.”
“Flowers?” Hawk looked up. “Why would anyone need flowers at an airport?”
“Beats me,” I said. “Maybe it’s rich person thing. Like they want things to be just right when they’re in the executive lounge.”
“We’re rich and we don’t need things to be just right,” Vigo said, studying Martin’s family photos on a bookshelf against the wall.
I looked up. “You’re rich?”
I knew the Hawks weren’t hurting for money, but it had never occurred to me that they were rich.
He shrugged. “I guess. We’ve stolen a lot of money.”
I scowled. “Maybe don’t say that out loud. Like, ever.”
“Any names on those client services packets?” Hawk asked from the desk.
“Yeah, but none that make sense.” I noticed a date on the paperwork in front of me, then flipped the page. “But there’s something else that might.”
Hawk studied me over the desktop’s monitor. “What?”
“They’re not organized by client name. They’re organized by arrival date.”
Hawk nodded once, like something was clicking into place.
He returned his gaze to the screen, and I flipped frantically through the pages in my hand, looking for the dates bookending the break-in at the house.
A moment later, Hawk broke into my thoughts. “I think I got it. Incoming flight from Dubrovnik the morning of the break-in. Plane was here for less than twenty-four hours before it took off again.”
“Is there a name?” Vigo asked.
“No name.” Hawk looked from me to Vigo and back again. “But there is a tail number.”
“What’s the date on that ground handling paperwork?” I asked.
“November 2nd. Why?”
I shuffled the client services paperwork in front of me. “I’ve got a packet for a Baltic Meridian Group on the same day. There’s a request for something called Beluga Gold.”
“Vodka,” Vigo said. “Expensive Russian vodka.”
“That’s not all. They also requested Acqua Panna bottled water.” I looked at Hawk. “And Sobranie cigarettes.”
“They were here,” Vigo said. “They were fucking here.”
“And now we have a tail number for the plane,” I said.
“Take pictures of everything,” Hawk told me.
He pulled out his phone and started taking pictures of the computer screen, documenting the ground paperwork that included the tail number of Dimitri’s plane.
It only took a couple minutes. When we were done, I returned the folder to the file cabinet and closed it up, then joined Hawk and Vigo by the door.
“I hope Jagger’s okay,” I said.
“Jagger’ll talk circles around that nerd Martin,” Hawk said.
Vigo cracked the door and peered into the hall, then stepped out of the room.
I followed him into the hall with Hawk on my heels.
Hawk had just turned to shut the door behind him when the security guard rounded the corner.
He froze, his gaze dropping from us to the half-open office door behind Hawk.
“Hey!”
Vigo grabbed my hand. “Go, go, go!”
I was surprised I could stay upright running in my heels, but it was amazing what you could do faced with imminent jail time.
Hawk fell into pace behind us, covering our backs as Vigo pulled me toward the exit.
The girl I’d passed earlier walked into the hall and stopped cold, her mouth hanging open as we flew past her.
“Sorry I ignored you earlier!” I called out. “Thank you!”
“Why are you thanking her?” Vigo asked.
“I don’t know! Just for… her work?” I was already out of breath and we hadn’t even left the building.
“Stop them!” the security guard yelled behind us.
I heard the crackle of his radio and his muffled voice as he muttered instructions into it.
Then the glass doors were sliding open, a blast of fresh air hitting me in the face on the way out.
I looked both ways and spotted Jagger a hundred feet from the terminal with Martin, both of them rooted to the asphalt as they spotted us flying out of the building.
“What’s—” Martin started.
Jagger clapped him on the back and started moving away from him. “Thanks for the tour, Martin. The place is great. I’ll definitely keep it in mind.”
Jagger took off at a sprint toward us. “Let’s fucking go!”
We raced for the G-Wagon and tumbled into the car in a chaotic array: Hawk driving this time, me in the passenger seat, Vigo and Jagger in the back.
Vigo whooped as Hawk started the engine and gunned the car in reverse with a screech of tires.
I turned to look out the rear window and spotted Martin standing on the tarmac, barking at two security guards, one of whom was talking into his radio, while two more came after us on foot.
Jagger must have seen it too.
“Shit,” he said. “I think they’re calling ahead to the gate.”
Up ahead, the guard who’d let us into the terminal stepped out of the shack, his radio in his hand. He glanced our way, pressed a button attached to the shack, and a spike strip unfurled in front of the wooden security bar.
“There’s a spike thingy!” I shouted.
“What the fuck is a spike thingy?” Vigo asked.
“Spike strip,” Hawk ground out, his jaw clenched.
Vigo reached for his bat. “I got it.”
“Don’t hurt the guard!” I shrieked.
“Who said anything about hurting the guard?”
Vigo pressed a button on the door and his window retracted with a hum.
We were hurtling toward the guard shack — the spike strip, the wooden arm of the security bar lowered — when Vigo pulled himself onto the edge of the open window, his bat in hand.
“What are you— ”
It was all I managed to get out before he swung at the button on the side of the guard shack.
It collapsed on itself, sinking into the wooden shack as the guard jumped out of the way, the spike strip retracting right before we cruised over it.
Hawk didn’t even slow down as he drove through the wooden arm, still lowered to keep us from leaving.
It splintered in a shower of wood and plastic.
“Sorry about that!” Vigo called back to the guard, now sprawled on the asphalt. “No hard feelings!”
Hawk scowled, eyeing Vigo in the rearview mirror. “No hard feelings?”
“What?” Vigo asked as we sped away from the airport. “It’s called manners. Get some.”