Sam
“Okay, we’re out of here.” Waving goodbye to Mikey and his nanny-guard, I race down the stairs, jump in the SUV, and before I can close the door, the tires squeal.
We zoom past haloed streetlamps and a playground where empty swings move, urged on by the wind. While I hold on for my dear life, my partner races down the hill and turns on the windshield wipers. Candy wrappers, tissues, and used paper masks whip across the wet road. Following the map lady, he turns on Fourth Avenue and blasts through red lights. After the back of the car straightens, I buckle up, and glance down at my tablet. The grainy footage shows several vans backing up to a container in a vast sea of huge, stacked metal boxes.
“Fuck. How did we let this happen?” Suds glances over, as if I had a clue but like him, the last I knew, the dolls were off the coast of New Jersey. The DEA probably had the same bad intel because when I called to tell them, they lost their shit.
At the sounds of a scuffle, I bring the video closer to my face. Two shorter men push our bound client into the back of one of the vehicles which disappears.
“Oh my God. They have Dash.”
While my heart races, my grim-faced partner pushes our vehicle’s Bluetooth. “Hands, you with us?”
“Good copy.” Our Patten friend’s voice emits from the speakers.
Picturing him sitting in front of the control panel in Manhattan, I pull comm units from the glove compartment and stick one in my ear. “Can you zoom in more?”
“Sorry Sam. That’s the best I can do. I can add infrared if you like.” A second later, dots of reds and oranges superimpose over the drone’s ghostly green.
When I spot Dash’s heat signature, I hand the other headset over the cupholder and let out the breath I was holding. “He’s still alive.”
“Not for long.” Driving one handedly, Suds sticks the small device in his ear.
The speedometer hovers around eighty, then drops as my husband shifts gears. “Can you connect me to Super Special Agent Young?”
“On it.” Hands’ voice disappears and a few minutes later, it’s replaced by the Fed.
“How the hell did you learn of the switch before we did?” At his accusatory tone, my inner snark rises to the tip of my tongue.
How the hell did a dick rise through the ranks?As much as I’d like to say it out loud, it’s probably best I don’t. “Our undercover detective in Seattle went drinking with the toy company’s nerds and she heard one of them bragging. It took some time, but she was able to track his footprint and find his hack. I called you as soon as I knew.”
“Shit. My guys are all in Perth Amboy. They’re on the way.” At the agent’s admission, my heart sinks.
My hubby, eyes glued to the road, grips the steering wheel. “How long before they reach the docks?”
“At least thirty minutes. Keep your eyes on them but do not engage, understand?”
We neither agree nor disagree with the agent. We won’t stand by and let Dash be killed.
Thankfully, Hands interrupts so we don’t have to lie. “They finished loading and are on the move. Give me a moment and I’ll have Jason plot your best intersection.”
A few seconds later, the map lady breaks the silence. “Redirecting…”
We follow her for fifteen minutes until red taillights appear. The two vans wind through local roads but in the end, we all reconvene on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway.
“Fucking Montclair. This time he went too far.” At Young’s outburst, my ears perk up.
Sebastian hears it, too. “You’ve worked with him before?”
“Yeah, he didn’t tell you?”
“Tell us what?”
“He’s a bounty hunter. He’s trying to catch another million dollars. I told him to back off, but he never listens.”
“Well, don’t that beat all.” While my guy whistles through his teeth, the vehicles we’re following exit the highway. Our headlights off, we trail them through the small town of Smithtown, Long Island.
They stop a block away from a dark creepy warehouse. The drivers enter the long building, but their passengers hang back to retrieve Dash. After dragging him out the back, they push him to his knees and point a gun at his head.
