dead.”
Hutch didn’t need time to digest that speech. “That last part is the only thing we need to discuss-or not discuss. The rest is all fact, not investigative work.”
Casey nodded, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Then, she angled her head toward Hutch. “I need to speak to my client. But, hypothetically, if I asked you to check someone out and see if they were on the FBI’s radar for some criminal act, or because of some criminal act, could you?”
“You’re not sure if this someone is an offender or a victim-hypothetically.”
“Right.”
“I could check our system, sure. If there’s a federal crime involved, the BU would be as eager to solve it as you are.”
“Then let me get Amanda’s permission. I’m sure she’ll jump at the offer. This isn’t the kind of case she wants to keep under wraps. The sooner we find Paul, the better chance that Justin, her baby, will make it-assuming Paul’s a healthy donor match. But from what I understand, the odds are good.”
“I take it Amanda’s not a match?”
“She’s not eligible to be tested for health reasons,” Casey replied carefully.
“Got it.” Hutch studied Casey’s face, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Go ahead and call your client. You won’t get any sleep until you do. And, for what I have in mind, you need your sleep to recoup your strength.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ryan turned off the headlights as he slowed the van to a crawl, then pulled onto a deserted stretch of the Shinnecock Bay shoreline, just around the bend from the marina.
Marc was peering through his night-vision binoculars. “No one’s around,” he announced.
“What a surprise.” Ryan grinned. “It’s after 1:00 a.m. on a December night. Who wouldn’t be basking on the beach?”
“I wasn’t looking for sunbathers, smart-ass. I was looking for pot-smoking kids and anyone else who might want a dark, deserted spot to do their thing.”
“The idea of kids smoking up or drug dealers doing business here-that I get. But you’d have to be really desperate to choose this spot to hop in the backseat and get laid. On the other hand, hormones do trump atmosphere when you’re a teenager.”
“Yup.” Marc put down the binoculars. “You take Gecko. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot. Although, like I said in the van, I doubt I’ll need you. This is a one-story shack, not an office complex. You won’t have to get access to the roof and feed Gecko down. I’ll just jimmy my way in, unscrew a return and put the little critter in.”
“Uh…”
“I know. No one touches Gecko but you.”
“True. But it’s not just that. I need to find a good location to plant my black box. It will pick up Gecko’s video and audio feeds, encrypt them and route them over the internet using a secure tunnel between the black box and the Forensic Instincts firewall.”
“Fine, whatever. Let’s just get moving.”
They climbed out of the van, both dressed in black, Marc with a fanny pack of tools, Ryan with Gecko. Staying low, they made their way toward Morano’s cabin.
Abruptly, Marc came to a dead halt.
“Wait,” he whispered, stretching his arm across Ryan to block him from proceeding.
Ryan obeyed, his head snapping around in surprise. “What is it?”
“Someone’s coming.” A pause. “A truck.”
Ryan didn’t question Marc’s keen sense of hearing. No one on the team did. These were the moments when Marc was pure Navy SEAL.
“Is it headed in this direction?” Ryan asked in a low tone.
“Yeah. Listen. You’ll hear the diesel engine in a minute.”
A few moments later, Ryan heard precisely what Marc had described-the low roar of a diesel engine. The two of them crouched low to the ground as the headlights of a pickup truck drew closer to where they hid.
It stopped diagonally across the street from Morano’s office, and the driver cut the motor.
“What the hell…?” Ryan muttered. “Why is someone here? We know Morano’s not in the office. He’s home. We checked, and saw him walking around his apartment. Those high-tech binoculars of yours don’t lie. So who’s here and why?”
“It’s two ‘who’s,’” Marc identified. “I can see by the movement in the truck. As for why, we’re about to find out.”
Two shadowy figures emerged from the pickup truck and walked rapidly but stiltedly toward Morano’s shack. “They’re both carrying something,” Marc added in a low voice. “Something heavy enough to be weighing them down. Maybe this is a drop-off of some kind?”
“I wish Gecko and the black box were already in place,” Ryan said in frustration. “Then we’d know what they’re up to.”
“We’ll figure it out. If they leave Morano’s office without whatever their cargo is, we’ll find it when we get inside and see what it is.”
They fell silent and waited.
One of the men put down whatever he was carrying and hunched over the front door, concentrating. The other made his way around the back of the cabin.
“We can assume that Morano wasn’t expecting them,” Marc noted. “Since the guy out front is picking the lock. This wasn’t prearranged.” Marc gave a knowing grunt as the door opened and the man went inside. “Like I said, a piece of cake. A friggin’ baby could get into that dump.” A puzzled pause. “What’s the other guy doing? There’s no back door.”
“Maybe he’s climbing in a window?” Ryan suggested. “There must be at least one of those, or Morano would suffocate.”
“Yeah, there are. Two windows. But it doesn’t make sense. Even if he planned on jimmying one of them open, why bother now, especially lugging a heavy load? His partner could just whistle, letting him know he was in. Then the other guy could come around front, get inside ASAP and drop off whatever it is they came here to leave.”
As Marc spoke, the second man reappeared, walking slowly around the perimeter of the shack. He was leaning forward, taking a few steps at a time, and sprinkling something from whatever it was he’d carried over.
“Gasoline,” Marc diagnosed instantly. “He’s pouring it all around the shack.”
“I smell it.” Ryan stifled a cough. “Shit, they’re going to torch the place. What are we supposed to do?”
As he spoke, the first guy came running out of the cabin. Simultaneously, a light began flickering inside.
“He already lit something inside-probably a stack of paper or a pile of rags. That dump is a walking fire hazard.” Marc grabbed Ryan’s arm. “It’s too late to do anything. That shack is gonna go up like a forest fire. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He tightened his grip, as he felt Ryan make an instinctive move to stand up and run. “No. Stay down. They’re taking off at the same time as we are. They’ll see us. Time to show me what you’ve got. Run like a duck.”
As he spoke, the shack ignited. Just the way Marc said, it erupted like a volcano, flames shooting skyward, wood burning like paper.
Ryan saw the two offenders race for their pickup truck.
He pivoted and followed Marc’s lead, pausing only long enough to get a glimpse of what was involved. Marc remained squatting, and used his thigh muscles to take long strides away from the impending explosion.
Ryan followed suit, staying low to the ground and directly behind Marc.
They reached the van just as the pickup truck sped by. The diesel blocked out any other sound, and the two men didn’t even glance out the window, much less see Marc or Ryan.
Ryan crept around to the driver’s side, and Marc half rose, staring at the back of the truck, trying to make out the grime-covered license plate. He could barely catch one number and one letter, it was so dark. Ironically, the thing that helped him see was the eerie light burning from behind them as the cabin burned to the ground.
