Page 16 of Deceive Me
Turning to King, he stalked over, leaving Fionn to pick up the asshole—or leave him where he was. Fine with him either way.
King knelt in the circle of Gary’s equipment. One hand held a digital camera with a telephoto lens attached. The other held a cell phone he’d switched on. “Take a look,” he said, passing the cell to Deacon.
The e-mail app was open on the screen to Sent Messages. Only one e-mail was on the list.
“Sent ten minutes ago,” King confirmed. “Looks like a Dropbox location.”
“Can you empty it before they access?”
“Checking now,” Saint assured him, staring down at his own phone, tapping frantically.
Deacon held his breath. Saint was the techie in the group; if anyone could do anything about the images, it was him. But long minutes passed until finally Saint shook his head. “No go. Anything he uploaded has already been downloaded and deleted,” he confirmed unnecessarily. Then, “Damn it.” More tapping. “Now the account’s gone.”
From behind them, a gruff laugh sounded. It cut off abruptly when Deacon jerked around to stare down at their captive, now back on his knees.
“You think this is funny?” he asked.
“N-no.” A heavy swallow, followed by a wince as the simple movement obviously sent pain rippling through his already swelling jaw. “They’re smart, though.”
“Who’re ‘they’?” Fionn asked with a slight kick to the man’s shin. Or not so slight, given the grunt that escaped their captive.
“I’m not stupid enough to have the answer to that question,” the man said. “You think I want to know? Shit, all I’m looking for is some quick money; nothing else. I don’t know who it comes from, and I don’t care.”
“Well, at least you’re smart about one thing,” Deacon agreed. He nodded to Fionn. “Make sure he’s not hiding anything else, Irish.”
Fionn drew his knife like he’d been given permission to play with his favorite toy, grinning sadistically down at the man on the ground. The last ounce of arrogance melted into blubbering pleas for mercy and promises to spill his guts. Deacon left Fionn to it and turned back to King and Saint. Once Irish was finished with the guy, he’d be trailing piss as he ran so far, so fast, he wouldn’t even remember the money he’d been paid until it was far too late to retrieve it.
“Whatcha got?”
Saint glanced up from the two phones he now held. “I can’t get anywhere else with this without pulling the SIM card. I’ll need the equipment I’ve got back at the house. I might be able to find a trace of the download then. I can start on Douchebag’s bank information too. No doubt he’s got an off-shore account where the money was wired. Won’t take more than a few minutes to find out. It’s tracing the deposit that will be difficult.”
Deacon grunted his agreement. Mansa wasn’t a pirate king for nothing—the man knew how to hide anything to do with money; otherwise he’d no longer have any. “Anything else, King?”
The other man didn’t bother glancing up from the bag he rummaged through. “Other than the license info, no. He really is an idiot if he knows anything more and made it so easy to find his identity. But then there’s also the fact that he had the sniper rifle, as well as this”—he pulled a handgun from the bag, ejected the cartridge, checked the chamber—“and never used either, so he’s not all that experienced with being hunted. My bet is on him telling the truth, such as it is.”
The cries of pain behind them, occasionally interrupted by Fionn’s threatening voice, continued unabated. “We’ll know soon enough.”
Neither King nor Saint seemed to have a problem with that, a point in both their favors. And the rest of the team’s. Deacon was used to working outside the law when he was in the field with GFS, mostly in third-world countries where the law was more about who could pay a bribe than who was in the right. On home soil, they rarely went to such lengths, but Mansa would have no such scruples. They had to be as willing as their enemy to push the boundaries if they wanted to stay one step ahead. That Dain’s men wouldn’t fight him on that was a good sign.
When King had everything packed back up, Deacon sent the two men to find their new friend’s vehicle. Maybe a clue would pop up there. In the meantime, he tapped his earbud twice and settled onto a nearby rock. He’d check in with Dain while Fionn finished up.
7
“What if—”
“Dain said no.” King kept his gaze on Sydney as she played at a kitchen set toward the middle of the preschool classroom, but his words were enough to shut Elliot down.
Frustration kicked at the restraint she was trying to show. She had to watch more than her cussing in a roomful of three- and four-year-olds. Still, a hint of impatience leeched through. “To me taking the night shift?”
“To any changes you suggest,” King told her. The closed expression on his face gave nothing away, not even a hint of curiosity about Dain’s order. But they both knew it didn’t really matter if he understood or agreed; he’d still follow Dain’s command.
“But—”
“Anything. Period.”
Damn it, why couldn’t Dain understand?
Because he cares about you and isn’t about to use you to bait a madman?
