For the next five minutes, Black paced around the Phoenix Foundation and awaited Blunt’s call. With everyone gone, Black sat down at Alex’s terminal and entered his password. Then he opened up the program that tracked their cell phones. Hawk’s and Alex’s were listed as offline.
Black’s phone buzzed. He quickly swiped it open and answered the call from Blunt.
“What’d you find out?” Black asked.
“Neither one of them are answering for me,” Blunt said. “And even more troubling is the fact that I called Mallory Kauffman to see if she could determine Alex’s location from pinging her number off the cell phone towers.”
“No dice?”
“Nothing. Alex’s phone was last activated about a half hour ago near A Hand Up’s office, which means she was there. But nothing since.”
“What’s your gut telling you?” Black asked.
“Get to New York and find out what’s going on.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
“If something changes and I hear from them, I’ll call you,” Blunt said.
“I’ll do likewise.”
Black grabbed the duffle bag tucked in the back of the filing cabinet next to his desk. He had everything he needed, including enough weapons and ammo to engage in a standoff with gunmen for a couple of hours, not that he anticipated getting into a protracted gunfight. But it was always best to be prepared for anything.
Five minutes later, he roared out of the parking lot and headed for New York.
* * *
THE DRIVE WAS MONOTONOUS, though devoid of the usual traffic jam along that 250-mile stretch of interstate. Black’s car hummed along, the tires bumping rhythmically as he pushed the speed limit while the Bee Gees’ greatest hits album pumped through the stereo system. During his trip, he called Alex and Hawk multiple times only to get sent straight to voicemail.
Once Black reached the city, he found a parking spot along the same street as A Hand Up’s offices and hunkered down for a stakeout. He ventured outside only to get a cup of coffee to combat the frigid February temperatures. By New York’s standards, this city block was relatively dead, a fact that could be attributed to the weather. The most exciting activity he witnessed were shivering dog walkers hurrying along the sidewalk and the occasional police car racing by with sirens blaring.
Black took a power nap and awoke to find the street stiller than ever. But by 7:30 a.m., that started to change. And just before 8:00 a.m., Milton Reese entered the office building housing A Hand Up.
An hour later, Black straightened his tie, grabbed his briefcase, and strode into the charity’s lobby. A woman with a headset on greeted him with a warm smile.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m here to meet with Mr. Reese.”
“And you are?”
“Arty Winchester from YCS.”
“YCS?”
“Your Computing Solutions,” Black said. “I had an appointment to speak with Mr. Reese regarding your organization’s software.”
The receptionist furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry, but I’m not seeing that on his calendar.”
“Well, I spoke with him last week to confirm.”
“Just have a seat,” she said. “He started an important conference call a few minutes ago, but I’ll try to get a message to him when I get a chance and see if he wants you to stick around or reschedule.”
“Sure thing,” Black said before settling into one of the chairs in the lobby.
After five minutes, he asked the receptionist where the restroom was and then sauntered off toward it. He stopped at the end of the hallway before glancing over his shoulder to see if the woman was still looking. She wasn’t, so he darted to the right down another short corridor of offices.
Black jiggled the knob of a door with opaque glass, but it didn’t budge. He tried another that was solid wood. Unable to open that door either, he pulled out his pick set and popped open the lock, revealing a storage area. Just as he was about to go inside, he heard footsteps coming in his direction and stopped.
A man with a furrowed brow rounded the corner and halted the moment he made eye contact with Black.
“What are you doing down here?” the man demanded.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Black said. “I was searching for the restroom, and I got turned around. Is it this way?”
“Who are you?”
“Arty Winchester from YCS. I had an appointment this morning with Mr. Reese.”
The man shook his head. “I’m Milton Reese, but I didn’t have any appointments this morning.”
Black shrugged. “I don’t know. Corporate set it up. Maybe someone made a mistake somewhere.”
“Or maybe you aren’t who you say you are,” Reese said with a growl.
“Hey, man, it’s cool. Just chill out,” Black said as he closed the door.
Reese looked over his shoulder before striding closer to Black and pulling out a gun.
Black threw his hands in the air. “Whoa, whoa. No need for that. If you don’t want me to handle your computer problems, feel free to shop around and have someone else do it. I’m just making a sales call that came at your request.”
Reese glared at Black. “Get in that room right now.”
“What are you doing?” Black asked as he moved toward the door.
“Just shut up and get in there.”
Black complied, keeping one of his hands raised while the other turned the knob. He backed inside to a storage room that was neatly organized with computer servers on one side and shelving units packed with office supplies on the other.
“What are you going to do to me?” Black asked, trying to act like he thought a normal civilian would in such a circumstance. “I will walk out that front door right now and never tell a soul about what just happened.”
“Let me see your phone,” Reese asked as he held out his hand. “Slowly, slowly.”
Black reached into his pocket and fished out the device, handing it to Reese. “What are you going to do to me now?”
Reese’s eyes darted back and forth. Black noticed sweat beading up on his captor’s forehead as
