Michael adjusted his position on the round seat. “I’m here to cash in on our arrangement.”
“And what arrangement is that?”
“The one that,” Michael drew a Glock 22 and placed the weapon on the table, muzzle pointing at the man across from him, “has allowed you to stay in business all these years.”
At the sight of the pistol, Sasha sat straighter. “There’s,” his voice hitched, “no need for violence here.”
“Isn’t there?”
“We’re both gentlemen.”
“One of us is, Sasha. And he’s not opposed to using violence to get what he wants.”
The scanner stopped, and a printer spat out a sheet of paper.
Michael plucked the sheet from the machine’s tray and nodded at what he saw. “This is good work.”
Sasha flashed an uneasy smile. “I’m the best on the East Coast.”
“Well,” Michael chucked the paper across the table, “I’m sold. Sign me up. How long will it take to get me a passport?”
“I have,” Sasha claimed the sheet, “this one to finish up and one other—”
Michael gripped the Glock.
Sasha swallowed. “I suppose I could move you to the front of the line.”
“Terrific. But only if it’s not too much trouble.”
The man removed his goggles and cleared his workspace. “It’s no trouble at all. If you’d like to alter your appearance,” he gestured behind him, “there’s a room back there.”
Michael slid off the stool and holstered his pistol.
“Would you like me to arrange a destination for you as well?”
The armed man squinted at his host. “Please do. I’m thinking somewhere warm.”
“Somewhere that doesn’t have an extradition agreement with the United States?”
“That’s why I came to you, Sasha. You’re smart. In fact,” Michael smiled, “I hear you’re the...best on the East Coast.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 9
He Had a Gun
6:16 A.M. (LOCAL TIME)
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
After having called her husband around midnight and filled him in on what she had discovered about Faith’s disappearance, Devlin clicked off five minutes later. Her eyelids drooping, still in her street clothes, she had crawled into bed at a nearby hotel. Randall had his own room down the hall.
Five hours later, she had opened her eyes, took a quick shower, put on fresh clothes from her duffle bag, and met her partner downstairs for a hasty breakfast.
For the last thirty minutes, the twosome had been knocking on doors at Faith’s apartment and asking residents if they had seen or heard anything on the night of the kidnapping.
“Thank you, sir.” Devlin held out a business card. “Please...”
A man in a blue robe and white socks took the contact information.
“...call me if you remember anything.”
Covering a yawn, he nodded while closing the door.
Randall moseyed toward the next apartment on the third-floor hall and rapped knuckles on the door. “Oh-for-five now.” He gave Devlin the once-over, spying black casual pants, an off-white shirt, and an unbuttoned blue jean shirt that covered her firearm. “Where’d you get the fresh clothes?”
She faced him. “I always keep a spare change in my duffle bag.”
“You’ve already changed once...aboard the plane. How many spares do you have in that thing, anyway?” He glanced down at his attire, the same attire from yesterday. “I’m on day number two. And that includes my skivvies.”
“You really should keep a ‘go bag’ in your car.”
“I do.” He turned toward the apartment and knocked again. “And it is in my car...at home...as in my home in New Orleans.”
She recalled how she had whisked him away from the cemetery. “Sorry about the short notice.” A beat. “If you want them, I have a pair of baggy shorts that could double as boxers.”
He rolled his head her way.
Seeing the look on his face, she lifted a shoulder. “They’re just shorts.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll go ‘commando’ first.”
The door opened, and a fifty-five-year-old woman in a black pantsuit and low heels, brief bag in hand, stood in the doorway.
Devlin flashed her credentials. “We’re with the U.S. Marshals Service, ma’am. I’m Jessica Devlin and this is,” she motioned, “Noah Randall.”
The woman eyed the agents. “Have I done something wrong?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all. We’d just like to ask you a few questions...about an incident that occurred here a few days ago.”
“You must mean that poor woman who was kidnapped.”
“Yes, Ms.,” Devlin paused.
“Belinda. My first name’s Belinda.”
“Thank you, Belinda. And you’re right. We’d like to ask you a few questions about that kidnapping.”
The woman spied her watch. “I...I was just on my way to work, but I suppose I have a few minutes.” Her focus went from one agent to the other. “I’ve already spoken with the police and told them everything I know. I’m not sure how else I can help.”
For the next few minutes, Devlin asked questions, and Belinda provided answers, the same answers she had already given to the Seattle P.D.
“There’s one last thing that,” her phone ringing, “I’d like to show...” Devlin eyed the screen. “I’m sorry. I should take this.” She stepped away.
Randall held up the photo the apartment’s assistant manager had printed out, an image of the man in the black suit and sunglasses. “Have you ever seen this man around here before, Belinda?”
She set her bag on the floor and took the paper. “It’s a little grainy, but...I believe I have.”
He arched his brows. “Are you sure?”
“In fact,” biting her lower lip, she looked away, “it was the same night,” before gesturing down the hall, “that that woman was abducted.” Belinda shook her head at Faith’s apartment door. “It’s a shame. I didn’t know her, but she did help me carry some groceries up from my car one time...saved me a trip up and down the stairs on a night when I was dead on my feet.”
Storing in his mind another Faith Mahoney personality trait, Kindhearted, Randall smiled and motioned toward the photo. “You—”
Devlin: “How the hell did that happen?”
He tossed his partner a look and saw her with a hand to her forehead before he faced the tenant again. “You
