through the door into the warehouse.
It wasn’t necessary to map out their strategy beforehand. They were both experienced military men who knew how to secure a building. Nolan went toward the right. Coltrane went left.
The warehouse was poorly lit with only a few bare bulbs. Through the smoke, Nolan saw an array of wooden crates, none of them stacked higher than his waist. Robby Jessop batted at the smoke and fired blindly. The woman had curled up on the concrete floor beside a desk.
“Who the hell are you?” Jessop yelled. “What do you want?”
Hiding behind crates, Nolan got within ten feet of Jessop before he made his move. It would have been tidier to zap him with the stun gun, but he wanted Jessop to be coherent and able to talk. That was the whole point.
When Jessop turned away from him, Nolan moved fast. He delivered a rabbit punch to the kidneys, tore the weapon from Jessop’s hands and knocked him face down onto the concrete. When he had Jessop’s wrists secured, he pulled him up and marched him through the warehouse.
“Don’t hurt me,” Jessop wailed. “I can pay. Just don’t hurt me.”
He was a coward. Good. He’d be too scared to hold out.
It had already been agreed that Coltrane would take the lead in the interrogation. His specialty was infiltration into enemy situations. Not only did he know what questions to ask, but he was smooth enough to convince Jessop to trust him.
Nolan wasn’t so glib, and his physical appearance was anything but charming. He didn’t frighten little children, not anymore. But the facial reconstruction after his injuries had been extensive. He looked like a man who had been to hell and carried the scars.
While Cavanaugh kept watch over the six guards, Nolan brought Jessop around to the other side of his Caddy and shoved him down on his butt. “Don’t move.”
“I’m telling you,” Jessop whined, “let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”
Nolan traded places with Coltrane, taking custody of the woman in the tight red dress. He pushed his goggles up on his forehead and looked down at her. “You got a name?”
“Becky Joy.” She glared up at him. Her eyes were red from the smoke bomb. “I have nothing to do with this guy. He was just a date.”
“Take the woman,” Jessop offered. “She’s yours.”
Angrily, she reacted. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to say who I belong to.”
“Settle down.” Nolan clamped his fingers around her wiry upper arm. “You won’t be hurt.”
Coltrane circled Jessop, who was sitting cross-legged in the dirt with his wrists fastened behind his back. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His shoulders shuddered as he gasped for breath. Jessop wasn’t fat or skinny; he was as soft as a lump of pink clay. His formerly pristine white shirt was smudged and spattered with tiny drops of blood from a cut at the corner of his mouth.
In a calm voice, Coltrane lulled the defense contractor into a state of cooperation as he talked about the business of supplying weaponry for America and its allies in Iraq and Afghanistan. Without accusing, he hinted that maybe Jessop sold some of his guns to insurgents or warlords. And maybe, just maybe, there was a connection with the opium trade. “But mostly,” Coltrane said, “you’re providing supplies for our troops. You’re a patriot.”
“That’s right.” Jessop licked at the blood in the corner of his mouth. “You’re military, aren’t you?”
“What was your first clue?”
“The way you boys stormed into the warehouse. You’ve been trained. I can tell.”
Disgusted, Nolan looked away. This marshmallow knew nothing about the military, except that he could make money selling guns. Coltrane’s gentle approach was trying his patience.
“There was a guy in Iraq you might have known,” Coltrane said. “Wes Bradley.”
“Sure. He was one of my contacts.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Maybe six months ago,” Jessop said. “Why? Are you looking for him? Is he the guy you’re after?”
“Could be,” Coltrane said.
Wes Bradley had been one of their primary suspects for the attacks on Governor Lockhart until they discovered that he’d been dead for over two years. Someone else was using his identity.
After Bart’s abduction, they tested blood that supposedly belonged to Bradley and found a DNA match in the military database for Victor Bellows, Bart’s son. But there was a problem with this identification. Victor had been stationed in Iraq and had been MIA for four years.
“I’ll talk,” Jessop said. “What do you want to know about Bradley?”
“Describe him.”
“Over six feet, thinning brown hair. Not a bad looking guy but he has those crazy eyes. Know what I mean? Those pale blue eyes that seem to stare right through you.”
Coltrane produced a high school photo of Victor Bellows. “Is this Wes Bradley?”
Jessop nodded. “He’s older now, but that’s him.”
It was confirmation. Victor Bellows—Bart’s only son—was involved in his father’s abduction. Either Victor was the kidnapper or he knew who was holding his father.
“I’ve got another question,” Coltrane said. “Do you know Bart Bellows?”
“I’ve heard the name.” Jessop’s manner shifted. He was edgy, not eager to talk about Bart. “He’s a billionaire, right?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Coltrane said. “We’re not here to enforce the law. But if you don’t cooperate, we’ll tell the CIA and Homeland Security about the weapons you’re holding in this warehouse.”
“If I talk, what do I get?”
Coltrane glanced over his shoulder at Nolan. “What can we offer?”
Nolan took out his cell phone. He had Omar Harris on speed dial. “As soon as I make this call, the CIA closes in. They’ll confiscate your weapons, but that shouldn’t be a problem for a patriot like you. These guns won’t end up in the hands of insurgents or thugs. All I can give you is fifteen minutes head start before I make the call.”
Jessop’s eyes darted. “That’s not much.”
“Take it or leave it.”
His mouth quivered. “There’s something big going down. It has to do with a case Bellows investigated in Afghanistan. It’s going to happen soon.”
“When?” Coltrane demanded.
“The next couple of weeks. Washington, D.C., is the location.”
Nolan felt a dark chill. Tess and his son lived
