“On the surface, this abduction has the hallmarks of either a child predator or a trafficking ring. Possibly both,” I tell her. “The organization of the abduction as well as its audaciousness… this is somebody who knew her schedule and wanted her bad enough to risk taking her in public in broad daylight. This wasn’t impulsive. This wasn’t some random pervert who saw her on the street and decided to snatch her up on a whim. This was thoroughly planned and executed to perfection.”
Astra pauses and looks through the windshield at the building in front of us. She finally turns back to me, her expression grim.
“And if this is some trafficking ring, the possibility of not just finding her, but rescuing her, is incredibly slim,” she says.
“The odds aren’t on our side.”
“All we can do is keep working the case,” she says. “Maybe somebody we talk to can give us something that leads us to this trafficking ring.”
“That’s best-case scenario, yeah.”
“But not likely.”
I frown and shake my head. “Not likely.”
“That all that’s bothering you? We’ve faced long odds before, but you seem even grimmer than usual. What else is up?”
“Just thinking about this hearing. DeClerk is trying to end my career, and I’d be lying if I said having that hanging over my head isn’t messing with me.”
“It’s not going to come to that. Barlow and Church won’t let that happen.”
“Katherine Hedlund sits in the Senate, too, and she’s none too pleased with how our case in Atlanta turned out. I mean, she told me to back off, but we neutered one of her biggest donors. There’s a possibility that Barlow and Church won’t be able to stop that train that’s barreling down on me,” I tell her, then pause for a moment and shake my head. “I’ve spent my whole career doing the work and doing my best to keep the stink of politics off me, but… here I am anyway.”
“I don’t think it’s possible to keep that stink off you. It’s just the nature of the beast in the Bureau these days. It’s an inherently political arena, and I think it’s always been that way. But I really don’t think Church is going to let them can you. After all, we make her look too good for her to allow that,” Astra says with a grin.
“I hope you’re right. But it’s still possible my career is going to get tanked because of other people’s political agendas,” I say, my voice thick with derision. “All the good we’ve done and all the lives we’ve saved don’t mean a damn thing because somebody decides we’re roadblocks to them moving up the ladder. It’s disgusting. It’s disheartening.”
“I hear you. But all we can do is our job. Everything else is going to work out how it’s going to work out. We’re just cogs in the machine, and there’s nothing we can do except keep moving forward and doing our jobs the best we can.”
“Yeah. I know. It’s just tough to swallow.”
“I know it is. And I wish I could say or do something that would change that fact. But I can’t. And neither can you. So, get your head on straight, let’s get into that building, and let’s see if we can find a missing girl, because that’s all we can control right now.”
The dark cloud that has been following me around since I arrived in DC doesn’t dissipate, but I know she’s right. My sour mood after my first hearing hasn’t improved one bit. It’s coloring my attitude and making me feel a lot more nihilistic than usual. It’s made me feel more pessimistic and has me asking, if only to myself, what the point of everything is if the good we’re doing can be undone by somebody’s political whim and agenda.
I’m forced to remind myself that Astra is right, though, and to get my head on straight. The job is all that matters. We’re saving lives. That’s what’s most important. It’s the point of what we’re doing, and next to that, the Machiavellian agendas of ambitious and greedy people don’t matter. All we can do is keep doing what we’re doing until we’re not allowed to do it anymore. All we can do is try to find Ashley Barlow, then let the chips fall as they may after that.
“Thanks, Astra,” I say.
“Anytime.”
We climb out of the SUV and cross the parking lot; I pull open the smoked glass door emblazoned with the Executive Solutions logo, letting Astra go in ahead of me. We step into a lobby that’s so blindingly white I feel like I need to put on a pair of shades. Everything around us is sleek and modern, and the amount of chrome everywhere makes me feel like we just stepped onto the bridge of a starship.
A giant monitor dominates the wall to our left playing a video of Lieb Tal outlining his company’s mission statement on one half of the screen while a slideshow showing Executive Solutions employees training, some of them from their service days, all smiling and hanging out together, plays on the other half. It’s like they’re trying to give what is inherently a violent business where death is an all-too-real possibility every single day a sleek, futuristic vibe that wouldn’t be out of place in Silicon Valley. It’s a really odd juxtaposition, but whatever, I guess.
The wall to our right is filled with photos of the company’s executives. The photo array is flanked by an American flag on one side and DC’s flag on the other. Half a dozen chairs are arranged around a pair of low coffee tables, and tucked away in the corner is a coffee service station. A twenty-something woman with copper-colored hair and dark eyes sits behind a chest-high desk across the room from us, watching.
“Good afternoon and welcome to Executive Solutions,” she says with a wide, bright smile. “What can we do to help you today?”
We walk over to the counter and quickly badge her. “Unit Chief Wilder and SSA Russo. We need to speak with Lieb Tal.”
“Is he expecting you?” she asks.
“I’m sure he is.”
“May I ask what this is in regard to?”
“It’s a personal matter,” I say. “He’ll understand.”
She looks uncertain, but quickly taps out a message on her keyboard. A moment later, we hear a chime as a response comes in from what I assume is the company’s internal messaging system. The woman reads Tal’s reply on her computer screen, then turns to us.
“He’s right in the middle of firearms qualifications,” she says. “But he said you can join him in the observation room.”
“Terrific.”
She pushes a button, and a door behind and to the right of her desk opens. We follow the woman’s directions through the labyrinthine corridors, passing offices as well as what look like classrooms. An observation window set into a wall to our left shows off an impressive training facility in the belly of the building, and we witness groups of men and women engaged in military-style workouts and self-defense training.
We take a right and follow another long corridor that ends at a steel door. Astra holds it open, and I follow her in to find Lieb Tal standing at a window overlooking an indoor shooting range. All eight lanes are filled with men and women in black tactical pants and black polo-shirts bearing the company crest on the left breast, safety goggles, and headphones, firing a variety of sidearms at paper targets.
“I apologize for not being able to meet with you somewhere a little more suitable,” he says, his voice faintly dusted with the accent of his Israeli heritage.
Nearly six inches taller than me, Lieb’s black polo shirt is stretched taut across the hard planes of his chest and stomach. The sleeves of his shirt strain around biceps that seem as big around as my thighs. He’s even better looking in person than in his picture, and he seems to be the living embodiment of that tired, old romance cliché—tall, dark, and handsome. Doing my best to ignore Astra’s smirk, I clear my throat and adopt my most professional face.
“No apologies necessary, Mr. Tal. This is as good a place as any to have a chat,” I reply. “I’m Unit Chief—”
“Blake Wilder,” he says as he turns to us. “And you are SSA Astra Russo, Chief Wilder’s longtime right hand. I do my homework, and your reputations precede you.”
Astra grins. “Some might say I’m her better half.”
