Didn't even ask for a lawyer. " Kessler took a slow drag from his cigar, though his expression wasn't quite as celebratory. He was staring at the amber liquid in his glass, replaying the raid in his mind. Something was gnawing at the back of his brain. "He wasn't shaking, Garrett," Kessler muttered, leaning forward. What?
Hayes. He wasn't shaking. Did you look at his eyes? Kessler tapped the side of his own head. When we breached the door, he didn't jump.
When you got in his face, he didn't lean back. He just looked at us. Like he was sizing us up. Like he was taking inventory. Riggins waved a hand dismissively.
He was in shock, Tommy. People freeze. You're overthinking it. He's a mechanic. What's he going to do?
Hit us with a wrench? We have the badge. We own this town. Maybe. Kessler said, pulling out his phone.
But I don't like loose ends. I'm going to run a deep background on him, beyond the state level. Let's make sure this guy doesn't have an uncle who's a federal judge or some crap. Kessler logged into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) database through his secure mobile terminal. He typed in Edmund Hayes's name, date of birth, and social security number, expecting to see the usual array of minor traffic tickets or a completely blank slate.
The screen loaded for 5 seconds, 10 seconds. Then the background of the application turned completely red. A heavy bold text box appeared in the center of the screen. Restricted file. Department of Defense clearance Tier One required.
This inquiry has been logged. Cease immediately. Kessler felt the blood drain from his face. The cigar almost slipped from his fingers. Garrett, he whispered.
Riggins looked up, annoyed. What? Kessler turned the phone around. State PD doesn't get DOD blocks. The FBI gets DOD blocks.
What the hell did we just rob? While Kessler was staring at the red screen of death on his phone, Edmund Hayes was sitting in total darkness in his living room. The glow of a heavily encrypted ruggedized laptop illuminating his face. Edmund wasn't just a mechanic. 20 years ago, he was a tier one operator for the first Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta, commonly known as Delta Force or Combat Applications Group, CAG.
But Edmund wasn't just a door kicker. For the last six years of his military career, he was a commander within JSOC, Joint Special Operations Command, specializing in irregular warfare, intelligence gathering, and psychological operations. He had dismantled terror cells from the inside out in places that didn't exist on standard maps. He knew how to destroy a man's life without ever touching him. Edmund didn't dial the local police internal affairs department.
He dialed a satellite relay number that routed through three different countries before ringing in a secure bunker in Fort Liberty, North Carolina. The line clicked. "Talk to me. " A gruff voice answered. It was Cole, Edmond's former intelligence chief, who now worked as a senior civilian contractor for the Department of Defense. "Cole, it's Art. " "Well, damn.
I thought you were dead or worse, playing golf. " Cole chuckled. "What do you need, boss? " "I need a footprint on two Fulton County detectives, Garrett Riggins and Thomas Kessler. I need their financials, their burner phones, their GPS history for the last six months, and the private addresses of their offshore or hidden safe-deposit boxes. They hit my shop tonight under color of law. The line went dead silent.
The amusement instantly vanished from Cole's voice. They hit you? They stole from you? 250,000 cash. Cole let out a long slow whistle.
These boys just strapped themselves to a bomb and don't even know the fuse is lit. Give me 2 hours, I'll give you the keys to their entire existence. By 3:00 a.m. the psychological warfare began. Riggins was sound asleep in his sprawling gated suburban home. A house he easily paid for with his cut of illicit seizures.
He awoke suddenly to a strange sound. It wasn't a crash. It was a digital beep. He sat up in bed, instantly alert, reaching for the Glock 19 on his nightstand. He listened intently.
It was his home security system. But the alarm wasn't blaring. The keypad in the hallway was emitting the soft rhythmic chime indicating the system had been voluntarily disarmed. Riggins crept out of his bedroom sweeping the hallway with his weapon. The house was pitch black.
He moved down the stairs, adrenaline pounding in his ears. He checked the front door, locked. He checked the back patio, locked. He walked into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light. There, sitting perfectly in the dead center of his pristine granite kitchen island, was a single unfired 5.56 mm rifle cartridge.
Beneath the brass casing was a folded piece of paper. Riggins's hands trembled as he kept his gun raised, scanning the empty kitchen. Seeing no one, he slowly reached out and unfolded the paper. Written in perfect block-lettered handwriting were four words. "I want it back. " Simultaneously, across town in a high-rise downtown condo, Thomas Kessler was wide awake, sweating through his shirt.