MATCHING RECORDS DETECTED
“About damn time,” I mutter as my fingers fly over the keyboard. Two entries, four hours apart. ATM receipts. “Stupid, Billy. Really stupid.”
Five minutes later, I head for Dax’s office. My boss sits with his back to me, staring out the window—or pretending to. “He’s in Burlington,” I say after I knock twice. “Or was, three hours ago. I caught him withdrawing three hundred from an ATM on the corner of Wilson and Fourth.”
Turning, Dax runs a hand through his dark locks. “Good work. Any sign of the kid?”
“No.” I shove my hands into my pockets and lower my gaze to my well-worn Vans. “And he’s changed vehicles. The ATM camera’s black and white, but it looks like he’s driving a dark-colored sedan. Pattern matching should let me narrow it down, but I can only do so much.”
“Keep trying. The hospital called. His wife is going to live. She’ll be awake in a few hours, and I want to be able to tell her that we found her daughter by then.” With a hiss, Dax pulls off his tinted glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Get back to work, Wren. And…thanks.”
There’s no mistaking his dismissal, and I hurry away as he mutters, “Goddamn migraine. Not now.”
Anxiety tightens in my chest again, and I force down one of my pills with a swig of cold coffee before I turn to my second screen. What I’m about to do…so illegal. But before our client, Misty, went into surgery, she told Dax and Ford that she’d found email messages between her estranged husband and a known sex-trafficking ring operating out of Portland, Maine. If we don’t find the deadbeat soon, he’ll sell their daughter, and none of us will be able to forgive ourselves.
The traffic camera network security in Burlington is a joke, and before the anxiety pill even takes effect, I have a partial plate and footage of the pervert heading north out of town on Route 2.
“Come on, come on. Where’s the girl?” I advance and rewind the footage a dozen times, until finally, I see a shadow moving in the back seat. Not confirmation, but I’ll take any possibility she might be alive as a good sign.
I follow the car—a late model Ford Taurus—until it leaves the city and run some quick calculations in my little notebook. Faster that way, leaving my computers free to try to break in to the state’s EZ Pass system.
It’ll only take the scumbag another two hours to get to the outskirts of Portland—if that’s even where he’s going. After that, we could lose the kid forever.
“Yes!” Pumping my fist as the Turnpike’s network firewall crumbles in the face of my code, I run the partial plate, triumph welling in my chest as it comes back with a match.
“Dax!” I yell and jump up, then curse as I bang my knee on the leg of the desk, snag my ankle, and fall to the floor with a bone-jarringthud. “Dang it. I found him. He got onto the highway at Exit 87B five minutes ago heading east. Average highway speed of sixty-three miles an hour!”
By the time I extricate myself from the tangled mess of wires under my desk, Dax is relaying my info to his friends at the New York FBI office. I hover at the door until he’s done, fiddling with my green pendant—a gift from my brother and one of the ways I deal with my anxiety. The emerald glass warms in my hand, and having something to do with my fingers helps calm my racing heart and eases the tightness in my chest.
“Wren?” Dax raises his head, his brows furrowed as he ends the call.
Taking two steps into his office, I shift from foot to foot. “How long until we know?”
“Not long.” With a sweep of his hand, he invites me to sink into his guest chair, then swivels to his file cabinet. When he sets two glasses and a bottle of scotch on the desk between us, I blow out a breath. I should keep pounding the coffee—just in case, but Dax doesn’t share often, and we’ve been on thin ice since Zion disappeared.
I pour, nudge one of the glasses towards Dax, and flop back against the soft leather. “I think the daughter’s still in the car. But I can’t be sure.”
“If she’s not…”
The scotch burns a trail down my throat, roughening my voice. “I know. We’ll never find her.”
We sit in silence for the next ten minutes until Dax’s phone buzzes on his desk, making both of us jump. The pretty British voice announces, “Ridge calling.” His FBI contact.
He fumbles for the phone, nearly knocking over the bottle of scotch in the process. “Dammit,” he snaps as he closes his fingers around the lump of plastic and glass.
“Ridge,” he says. “Tell me you got him.”
After a brief pause, Dax drops his head against the high back of his ergonomic chair. “Thank God. She’s unharmed?” Another pause. “I’ll be at the hospital in an hour. Bring her there. Her mother will want to see her. There’s an aunt she can stay with until Misty’s recovered enough to go home.”
My fingers find their way to my pendant again, and I stroke the smooth surface until Dax ends the call. “You did it, Wren,” he says. “They pulled him over just north of exit 95. The kid was asleep in the back seat. He’d given her a sedative, but the agents were able to wake her up and confirm she’s not injured. Good job.”
I shudder as the anxiety seeps out of me, almost like a deflating balloon. The meds, scotch, and relief at saving the girl all combine to leave me exhausted. “Th-thanks. I’ll…uh…see you tomorrow.”
For a brief moment, a frown curves Dax’s lips, but then he nods. “I know it’s late. If you want a day off…”
“No. I need to work. I’ll be here.” I rise so fast, I almost knock over the chair. “You need anything before I—”
“No.” His curt dismissal makes me flinch, and I kick myself for offering. The man hates letting anyone help him. Hell, if he could code the way I can, he’d have found the perp himself.
