“Coming right up, Amy.” The bartender’s response, calling the patron by name, didn’t surprise Flash. Kernville was a small town, after all.
“Now, Flash, I want to know all about Houston,” Amy said. Resting an elbow on the bar and flinging a sandaled foot over her knee, the bright young woman waited, ogling Flash with expectation.
Flash chatted about her marvelous city, its sights and attractions, its progressive mayor and inclusive community, and even the oil barons. Then she listened to Amy praise Southern California, its beauty, and laid-back lifestyle. Flash had barely finished her refreshed beer by the time the propositions began.
“Where are you staying?” the young woman asked. “I’ve got the cutest little cabin on the edge of town. Do you have time to drop by and see it?”
Although pleased by Amy’s attention, Flash shook her head, amusement flitting along her smile. “Thank you, really, Amy, but I’m seeing someone.”
“Back in Houston, you mean?” Like today’s fire, this chick wasn’t giving up easily. Plopping her chin into her palm, supported by an elbow on the bar, Amy batted her lashes at Flash. “She doesn’t have to know. You look so amazing, so strong and protective, so lean and muscular. I really like your tattoo, and wantto see if you have another one, maybe somewhere more private.” She bit her bottom lip and wiggled her brows as invitation flashed in her azure eyes.
Flash sighed, smiled, and answered with respect in her tone. “You’re a lovely woman, and your offer is most tempting. However, even if my girlfriend never finds out, I’ll know, and I’m not about to cheat on her.”
Disappointment dimmed the shine on Amy’s face. She sat back and shrugged. “Your loss, and you can’t blame a gal for trying. Anyway, I do admire what you do and am truly grateful for you guys saving our town. If you’re going to be around a while longer and change your mind …” She lifted a hopeful glance to Flash. “You know where to find me.”
Flash figured it would take several more days before the fire was completely out, but Amy didn’t need to know. The girl seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t Athena. Nobody in the world compared to Assistant Special Agent in Charge Athena Bouvier.
Chapter 3
Houston, the next evening
“Agents Ice, Hernandez, I want eyes and ears in that room right now,” ordered Assistant Agent in Charge Athena Bouvier of Houston’s FBI Field Office. With her long brunette strands clipped up above the collar of her sleek, summer-weight navy suit jacket, Athena commanded her operation from the back of a van parked on the street in front of a high-rise office building.
“Copy that,” ex-Marine Travis Ice replied sharply. He slipped a slender com headset over his dark blond hair and adjusted the microphone around his trim beard. The darker-complexioned Samuel Hernandez picked up a compact black case containing their surveillance gear. Both men were built like linebackers for the Texans, only with guns, badges, body armor, and incident cams instead of pads.
“And be ready to breach on my mark—not before.” In case the piercing look in her hazel eyes wasn’t enough, Athena emphasized her directive with a pointed finger, nail polished in Dior Classic Rouge. “SWAT has the office covered from across the street, and our coordination must be precise.”
“Got it, boss,” Hernandez confirmed, and the two capable agents exited the van, leaving Athena with her right-hand tech specialist, John Paulson.
“Don’t worry, ASAC Bouvier,” he said calmly from his wheelchair, secured to the van floor at the electronics monitoring station. “I gave them a top-of-the-line endoscopy camera on a semi-rigid, 16 foot wire, equipped withBluetooth 5.0. It’s got an 800-foot range, and the fifth floor isn’t half that from here, so we’ll get a clean feed.”
Athena nodded. She trusted the veteran agent who’d been with the bureau longer than she had—even taken a bullet in the line of duty that put him in that chair—and if he said the equipment was sufficient, it was.
Having wrapped up the Los Diamantes task force over a month prior, she’d been engaging in routine, daily pop-up operations, while still grappling with the emotional toll of losing an agent. Tonight, it was Zhang Fú’s abduction, the third cryptocurrency kidnapping of the summer, only this time they’d gotten lucky when a cleaning lady spotted two men forcing him into his office after hours and called 911. The supposition was that the Chinese-American investment broker was snatched from the parking garage when he left work for the day. Traffic cameras showed his vehicle leaving with the driver’s face obscured. An hour later, the video went down. The first officers on the scene found Zhang’s car parked back in its place. The sweepers were going over it now.
“Can you give us what’s happening outside while we wait?” Athena asked. Every second counted in incidents like this. In the previous two, one victim escaped penniless, but alive; the second hadn’t been so lucky. While the bureau hadn’t determined if the same crew had carried out all three short-term kidnappings, it was likely. They were organized, efficient, and professional. The victim who died had expired of multiple injuries after being transported to a hospital, and ASAC McCulloch, who headed that case, suspected the victim refused to give over the information required for the criminals to access his crypto account, resulting in excessive torture. This time, FBI agents had arrived with the kidnappers still there, and Athena intended to have them in custody tonight.
“Sure.” Paulson pushed a button and turned a knob. Three monitors lit up, one with a shot of the outside of the office building, one of FBI and SWAT vehicles blocking off the street, and another of the hostage negotiator, who had arrived about the same time they did. The Houston Police Department was also on scene.
Gail Sweeney, a trained psychologist and experienced hostage negotiator, covered her phone and turned toward a man in a suit standing beside her. “I finally got someone to answer.”
Athena leaned in close to scrutinize the screen, the warm, spicy scent of Paulson’s aftershave filling her nostrils, her three-inch heels making a delicate tap against the van floor, the fine fabric of her skirt a soft whisper against her skin.
“Hello. This is Gail with the FBI. Who am I speaking with?”
“I want all y’all to back up and get out of here,” a man’s voice demanded from the other end of the call.
“Sweeney’s been trying to get someone to answer Zhang’s office phone for five minutes now,” Paulson supplied. “Seems someone finally did.”
“I can make that happen as soon as we know Mr. Zhang is all right,” Gail replied in an even, calm manner. “What’s your name?”
“You don’t need to know my name,” he snapped. Athena detected a distinct West Texas twang in his words, rather than Houston’s more common Southern drawl or Tex-Mex border varieties. This assailant hadn’t spent his entire life in Houston.
“All right, that’s fine. Can I call you Jack?” Gail asked. “Is it OK if I call you Jack?”
“I s’pose,” he grumbled.
“Jack, before I can order the police cars and SWAT vehicles to move away, I need to know that Mr. Zhang is alive. Could you put him on the phone, please?”
