'Oh these memories,
They keep on following,
But now is the time
To see what we can find.'
"Mountain Song" ~ Little Chief
"A mathlete?"
"That's what it says in the personal section of his file."
Wordy flips through it. "This has to be bogus. Someone's idea of a practical joke."
"A CI on the inside of the gang compiled it from her research," Leah points out.
"What did she do, find it in a yearbook?"
Leah pins him with a shrewd look. "If you'll read the file all the way through, Wordy, I mean he's a mathlete now. They have those teams for adults too, you know."
Wordy sighs and ponders whether it's too early in the morning for a glass of bourbon—or if he can sneak it down before his wife notices. He's not supposed to be on alcohol with this new round of meds.
"Like I said." He hands the folder back to Leah and taps it. "Practical joke."
Leah's eyes spark with mischief. A look she learned from Spike. "Why don't you hand him some trigonometry and find out?"
Wordy resists throwing his cinnamon roll at her. Barely. Only because this is all he's getting for breakfast and it has to last if today is as long as yesterday.
Shelley, Sophie, and the kids finally went home at supper. Wordy and Leah slept on cots in the breakroom, which did not sit well with his already tired body. Holleran called at five am to say he and Cho landed in Pennsylvania and were on route to the team.
Who are currently in hospital waiting for Spike to get out of a round of poison tests.
Wordy waits until Leah turns the corner, out of sight, before leaning his head on the two way mirror. Before closing his eyes. Before relaxing the muscles in his arms and letting them tremor. He puts so much effort into holding them in throughout the day that sometimes all he can do is find a private moment to quietly fall apart.
The cafeteria cinnamon roll is good, fresh, but he barely tastes it.
Emotions are unreliable. He's not sure whether he should feel relieved at Spike's rescue or delirious at the fact Ed is still missing. That the van got spooked by the sudden appearance of Dean and Hartford and drove away.
At least they hadn't shot Spike too, like Rook Delancy. Small mercies.
The trail is cold, even with the newly opened investigation into the offshore account that they now know was a bribe from somewhere...someone, in a bid to stop searching for the missing agents. Holleran and Cho found the paint van, abandoned thanks to Spike's bullets in the back left tire, but no sign of Tattoo or Ed.
Now, this man at an interrogation room table at the SRU is their only chance of finding Ed. This mathlete, supposedly.
Wordy startles at Leah's sudden reappearance. She's holding out a cup of green tea and an orange bottle. She shakes it to grab his eye.
He takes the tea in both hands but flips a brow at the pills. "Thanks, Leah. None of those for me today."
"You need to stay sharp, Kevin. We're the only thing standing between our team and not one but two federal governments. Possibly more."
Wordy sighs. "Has anyone ever told you how wise you are?"
Leah lights up when he takes the pills from her. "Not often enough. For you, I'll make an exception."
Her smile is radiant in the low lit room, and it's hard to imagine, with the gratitude running through him, the days when they all hated her. This officer who replaced Lew.
Now, he'd walk a tightrope blindfolded if she asked him to. She's phenomenal.
Wordy throws two white tablets back, washing them down with honey sweetened tea. "You're sure he's not playing us?"
Leah shrugs. "I'm telling you, Wordy—that's him. That's the guy Jules and I talked to at the house, posing as the husband."
Wordy watches the man behind the glass, how he sits without fidgeting. Resignation in his dull brown eyes. A hideous patch of bruises ring his neck, like a collar.
"He just walked himself right up to a police officer on the street," says Leah. "Said he would talk and rat out his partners if we promised to protect him."
"Someone tried to strangle him."
Leah nods. "And recently too. You taking it?"
An image comes to mind, of his phone call with Sam and the sounds of emergency room doctors shouting over top of each other in the background. The shrill alarm and 'Code Orange' being repeated over the loud speaker is burned into Wordy's brain.
Sam's description of Spike, unresponsive and drowning in his own blood, is one that still gives Wordy shivers if he dwells on it too long. He can't even imagine what they're going through.
Wordy steels himself. "Yeah, I got it. Keep me posted."
"Copy that."
He sets the tea down and doesn't even bother with the file folder. Doesn't need it. Not only does he have most of it memorized, there are bigger fish to fry than this man's seedy past.
There's too much at stake—this has to count.
"Larry Peters." Wordy closes the door behind him and sits down. Larry doesn't so much as grimace. "That's an awfully normal name for such a colourful guy."
Larry glances at the mirror. Then Wordy's hands, which he slides off the table to sit in his lap and out of sight.
"You're a mathlete?" Wordy pushes. "I'll admit, that's a new cover story, even for us here at Guns 'n Gangs."
Larry sighs. "It's not a cover. I'm trying to go clean now, and I've always been good with numbers. I'm also a freelance accountant. Totally legit, you can look it up."
"That's right." Wordy smiles, devoid of any humour. "You used to be book keeper for Paul Bullard's operation. Lost your employer and your crew when we busted them a few years back."
Larry looks Wordy in the eye for the next part, convincing him of its veracity. "And that day was a wake up call. I knew the gangs would get me killed one day. Saw that bust as a second chance offering and ran with it."
"Until this week."
Larry's face does a twist like Wordy just forced him to eat something exceptionally disgusting. "Yes. I'm a…friend of Rook's. Old pals who used to work the streets together, you know?"
"Sure." Wordy studies the lilt around Larry's eyes. "Rook called you about a job. He wanted you to break into a house that had been vacated when the couple who owned it won big. Pose as the husband and keep the cops busy when they got your call about a gun and came running."
"And I did that, my part. But he…he called me yesterday." Larry's voice shakes. "Rook said his partner wasn't doing what they planned. Then I heard he'd been killed."
Wordy can't hide his open mouthed surprise at this news. "Rook was just shot at one am this morning, not even six hours ago—how did you know that?"
"News underground passes much faster than in your world." There's an ominous ring in Larry's tone.
"You know what I find funny?" Wordy laughs, also without a shred of humour. "It's crazy, really. You remember the day we busted Paul Bullard's hotshots? Your bosses?"
Larry nods, eyes narrowed.
Wordy leans forward. It places him not quite in Larry's personal space but just brushing it enough to be discomfiting. "There was a cop killed on that case."
"McCoy," Larry blurts. And immediately pales.
"McCoy, yes! Look at you with the good memory." Wordy's smile has all the warmth and appeal of a shark's. "It left another officer, a good friend of mine, in a lot of pain. He had to plan a funeral and help the man's daughter all in one week. And do you know what?"
Larry has enough sense to say nothing.
Now Wordy bursts the bubble, his face dropping and his eyes boring into the man before him. "That's the exact same officer Rook brutally abducted. We just got him back. By a thread. He was poisoned, Larry. Poisoned."
Larry's sweating. Finally. "I didn't know, man. I swear! Look, whoever Rook got mixed up with is no joke, okay? They tried to murder me last night outside the bar."
He bares his neck, like Wordy can't already see his lurid bruises under the fluorescent lights.
"Did you know about the plan to abduct two police officers in broad daylight?" Wordy's voice is very soft.
Larry responds to it, sitting straighter in the chair. His handcuffs clink together. "Yes."
Wordy's eyes flash. "Do you know why they've taken my friends?"
"That, I have no idea about." Larry's eyes shine. Earnest enough that Wordy believes him. "I just want to stay alive, officer. Money was tight, you know? I got paid and that was it. Once the lady cops left my…the house…I snuck out the back."
"Just like that?"
Larry raises a hand in the air as if he's in court. "Just like that."
Wordy sits back and Larry breathes a not-so-subtle sigh of relief.
"Rook knew the plan," Wordy realizes. "That's why our tattooed suspect shot him. Tying up loose ends so he couldn't be identified or tracked."
"The bee guy?"
A muscle works in Wordy's jaw. "What do you know?"
Larry truly hesitates for the first time. He swallows, a loud sound in the otherwise silent room. "It's all just stuff I noticed. Capiche?"
What little patience Wordy possesses begins to fray. "Just tell me, Larry."
"I heard the tattooed guy on the phone, the day he showed up at my house with payment. Half up front, half once I finished the con. They never did pay me the rest…"
"Larry," Wordy snaps.
"Okay, okay!" Larry looks at him with a nauseated brand of fear. "He was dressed, like, super well. And he spoke Arabic, alright?"
"Arabic?" Wordy is lost for a beat. He thinks this over, trying to eliminate any bias. "Our men on the ground described the man as white. Very much Caucasian."
"Yeah, sure, but it was Arabic. I used to live in an apartment next to some Saudi grad students. The language sounded exactly like that."
"Did they tell you the rest of the plan after this?"
Larry's eyes shift around, as if these men can hear him even in Canada, in a nearly sound proof room. "Something about a ride."
"A ride?" Wordy scoffs. "Do better."
"A ride like a-a plane ride!"
Wordy goes cold. "Plane? As in…they're going to ship two respected officers out of the country?"
"That was the idea. They had to make a deadline, the plane's departure date. Only Rook was worried because one fought too much. Kept trying to escape and it almost worked a couple of times. They decided to put him down."
'Put him down.' The words are careless, with the tone of someone talking about a dog and not a kind man. About Spike. It slaps the face of human decency.
All at once, Wordy stands. The pieces shift against each other in Wordy's mind, not fully connecting but close enough that he thrums with the energy of it.
"Thanks, Larry. Someone will be in to process you."
"You'll protect me, yes?" Larry calls after Wordy's hasty exit. "That was the deal!"
"And unlike you," says Wordy, "We keep our agreements. Good luck."
He closes the door on Larry's loud demands and protests. They mute suddenly with the sound dampening walls.
Arabic! Wordy paces the length of the viewing room. Bee tattoo, Caucasian as they come, and apparently he—and probably his bribing employers—speak Arabic.
How are they supposed to find or compete with that?
The door to the viewing room flings open and Leah tumbles in like she ran the whole way here. She's vibrating with excitement, eyes blown. He's never seen her this hyped.
"We've got him!" she pants.
Wordy stares at her. "Got who?"
"Dean!"
"Uh, technically Greg and the others have Dean in the States—"
"No!" Leah holds up her phone. "Dean managed to capture a flash photo of the van driver when it sped past them, the very first ever. A full face view! I ran it through the international database."
Wordy catches some of the whirlwind. His hands don't disappoint, a blur of spastic motion and hope. "And? Who is he?"
Leah thrusts an enlarged photo and a clipped piece of paper at Wordy. "You're not going to believe it if I just tell you."
She waits while Wordy reads through the sparse docket. Their bee necked subject comes to life as a real person, a basic profile, a past history, an actual social security number.
A name.
Wordy's brain overheats like a computer. It takes a second to shut down and reboot, and even then not all the way. Shock doesn't even begin to describe it. If this is true, they were played before they even stepped foot out the door.
There's nothing for a few heartbeats except a blank kind of awe.
"This has to be a mistake," Wordy finally concludes.
Leah grins. "It's not. I ran his real name three times and placed a few calls, to be sure."
Wordy looks over at her, slack jawed. "Phone this in to the FBI."
"Way ahead of you, chief."
"Then call it in to Greg and the others. Now."
AN: I realized about halfway through this chapter that hospital code colours aren't the same in the US as in Canada! Hopefully I did my homework enough to make it believable.
