Chapter 3
"Michael!"
"Fi, get the car!"
She turned and ran back to where she parked next to Sam's car. By the time she unlocked it, got in and started it up, Michael was at the curb waiting for her to do a u-turn. He threw open the door and she took off before he had it closed.
"Who were those people?"
"I don't know, Fi. Don't lose them."
"I won't." The determination in her voice caused Michael to glance over at her, because he didn't expect to hear the fierceness in her voice.
Fiona and Sam started out as adversaries when he first arrived in Miami. When Sam was in between rich Miami women, he needed a place to stay and Michael let him camp out at the loft for a week. Fiona had been waiting, to his surprise. She and Sam were ready to tear each other's heads off, but once they began working together on Michael's projects, they'd gained a working respect for each other, and a friendship developed. So now Sam was in trouble, and she was willing to break every traffic law to rescue him.
Unfortunately, their quarry was good at evasion. An ill-timed semi blocked their way, and by the time it moved, the van was gone. Fiona's hands beat on the steering wheel as she let out a growl. "We lost him, Michael!"
"No, we haven't. Remember that tracker I installed on Sam's phone a couple of weeks ago for that job?"
"Yes?"
Michael turned to her and smiled as he held up his phone in his hands. A small map with a red blip appeared on the screen. "It's still working."
Fiona's smile matched his own. "As Sam would say, 'alrighty then'. Let's track it!" She took off on a red light, narrowly missed getting hit, and followed Michael's directions. They soon found themselves at the Miami airport, circling around to the cargo plane hangars. Several planes were going in and out of the area, and one of them could easily have been the one on which the kidnappers intended to steal away their friend. A guard at the gate stopped them.
"I'm sorry, folks, you can't come in here. Restricted area. The airport entrance is that way."
"We're not here to take a flight. We're looking for a black panel van that may have come in here a little while ago," Michael said as he held up his CIA badge. It was nice to see it finally came in handy. "We have reason to suspect that there are terrorists in that van, and we need to stop them before they take off. God only knows what they'll do then, crash into one of the high rises downtown...you don't wanna be responsible for that, do you?"
"Uh, no, no sir!" He pressed the button to lift the gate. "Go on in, sir!"
"Do you know which hangar they went to?"
"Y-yes. 14B, over there on the left."
"Thanks. Fi, punch it."
As they drove away, the guard yelled, "But I think they already went to the runway!"
Fiona drove like a crazy woman to the hangar and found the door open, but no airplane inside. They got out, staring at it. Michael scanned the area, not knowing which of the planes Sam could be on. He held up the phone, looking for the tracking signal. It was stopped, right where they were. With a dejected sigh, he slipped the phone into his pocket.
"Fi, they must have dropped his phone here somewhere."
"No, Michael, just the tracker." She held up the small device. "I found it on the hangar floor."
"Why didn't they bother just leaving his phone behind?"
She shook her head as she watched a small cargo plane lift off the runway into the sky. Behind her sunglasses, her eyes watered. She whispered. "What if Sam was on that one?"
"It's okay, we'll find out which plane he's on and its destination, and go from there. Come on, Fi. We've got work to do."
Fraser and Ray watched the couple from their hiding place behind some crates. Whoever they were, they were sincerely concerned about Finley. He was good. He managed to work his way into the hearts and minds of innocent people in Miami, becoming more than just acquaintances. Fraser could see it in the woman's body language. He was glad they didn't have to tangle with her. She was petite but muscular, and the hard edge to her lips told him that she was not one to be trifled with. Fi, as the man Michael called her, flipped her hair behind her shoulders with an angry snap as she got into the little blue car. He rode shotgun, staring at the empty hangar with a hard set to his face, as his fingers played with the tracker that Foster had taken out of Finley's phone. Apparently, they wanted the phone for evidence, but the tracker would only cause problems if the couple homed in on it.
"Frase, let's go. We've gotta get our stuff and hop the next plane back to Chicago. Although, if it were up to me, we'd hang out for awhile, catch some sun, try out the bars and the babes..."
"Ray, we have a job to do. We need to go to Finley's apartment and search it. Remember?"
"Oh yeah. Then can we take a break, enjoy a little of Miami before we hit a red eye?"
Fraser looked at his friend and felt sorry for him. The only reason he agreed to do this job was because of the allure of the warmth, the beaches, and the culture. Now he would be denied. Fraser sighed. "Alright, Ray. We'll leave tonight, unless we find something that needs to be delivered to the CSIS immediately."
"Great! We get this wrapped up, and then I'll try to book us on the last flight out."
Finley lived in a very nondescript building that was a motel with long-term rental options. Fraser went to the front desk to find out which room was Finley's, while Ray stopped and chatted with a woman who came out of her apartment in a skimpy suit and a towel. She was heading for the pool that was situated in the courtyard of the u-shaped building.
"Excuse me, ma'am." Fraser addressed the elderly woman behind the desk. She looked like she could be someone's kindly old grandmother.
She smiled. "Hello, what can I do for you?"
"I was wondering if you could tell me which apartment Mr. Charles Finley lives in."
"Charles Finley? Sounds like a fella who should be staying in someplace posh, not here."
Fraser smiled. "Perhaps he goes by the name of Sam Axe?"
"Oh, yes, Sammy!" Her tone turned affectionate and her smile widened. "He's such a nice boy! Quiet, friendly, and he behaves himself too. No wild parties. He keeps strange hours sometimes, but he pays his rent on time and he's no trouble at all." She smiled. "Sometimes he even brings me my soap magazines when the new ones come out. He's such a sweetheart!"
"Yes, that would be Sam," Fraser said with a smile. "So, tell me, ma'am, which one is his apartment?"
"It's number 12, over there." She pointed to near where Ray stood talking to the woman. "But I haven't seen him at all today. No, wait, he came by for his fishing gear this morning, but I haven't seen him since."
"Thank you kindly, ma'am." He turned away and put his hand on the door.
"You're not the Feds, are you? He said he was done workin' for them."
"No, we're not Feds." Fraser left the office before she could ask any more questions. He passed Ray and the woman and approached the door with the keys that Finley gave them. "Ray...Ray...Ray!"
"What!"
Fraser inclined his head toward the door. "We have work to do."
"Oh, yeah. Sorry, gotta run." Ray grinned at the woman. "Enjoy that pool for me, will ya?"
"Any time, baby." She grinned, waved, and turned toward the inviting looking water.
Ray sighed deeply and approached the door that Fraser opened. "I had some magic goin' on there, Frase, and you screwed it up."
Fraser gave him a stern look. "We have a room to search. Duty calls."
"Yeah, thanks for reminding me." Ray entered after Fraser and closed the door behind him.
It looked like any typical motel room with a kitchenette and the bathroom toward the back. Another door between the two led outside. Ray turned to the kitchenette to begin his search, and Fraser started with the bathroom. Inside the medicine cabinet he found the routine things: toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor that didn't look like it got a lot of use, a few bottles, aspirin and vitamins and other medications. Cologne. Deodorant. Nothing out of the ordinary. A comb sat on the sink near the soap dispenser. Fresh towels hung from the rack, which made sense. Finley spent the night in the Beacon and only came back for his fishing gear and to change clothes. A closet next to the bathroom yielded neatly hung hawaiian shirts of all colors and patterns, white linen pants, khakis and a pair of jeans. To one side a dry cleaner's bag contained a couple of suits. He checked the pockets and found nothing, then looked in the sneakers and a couple pairs of shoes that were lined up neatly on the closet floor. Fraser left the dirty laundry for last and came up empty there as well.
Their intel said that Finley had been in the military, special ops. When Fraser opened the top dresser drawer, he knew it had to be true. The closet was organized, but the perfect folds in the undershirts and boxer shorts, and the way the socks were laid out all were a dead giveaway. The man may have liked to dress casually, but he was still military precise, a man after Fraser's own heart.
Inside the night stand he found a paperback novel, a pair of glasses, and a small photo album. He flipped through the pages and saw photographs of Finley with his friends Michael and Fiona, and an older woman who bore a slight resemblance to Michael. Other than the items in the bathroom, closet and dresser, these were the only personal items Finley had in the room.
"This guy is careful," Ray said as he came out of the kitchenette. In his hand he held a small stack of folders. "Found these attached to the underside of a drawer."
"What are they?"
"Looks like he was investigating someone named Anson. We should take these along. Your CSIS buddies might want this info. Did you find anything, Frase?"
"No. Only this." He held up the photo album. "Look at these pictures, Ray. Either this man has firmly entrenched himself undercover in Miami, or he is not the man the CSIS is looking for."
"What. They're just pictures, Frase." Ray flipped through it quicker than Fraser did.
"Just take a closer look at the faces and some of the more candid shots of Finley. He's a good man, Ray. He didn't do what they said he did."
"Yeah, you got this from some pictures. Fraser, sometimes you're flaky, but this time, you're over the top. Come on! Let's bag all this up, grab our gear, and get out of here. Our plane leaves in six hours. There's still some time to have fun!"
Fraser locked up the room and noticed the maid cart outside a room two doors down. He approached it, looked down at the plastic bag containing the trash from the rooms, and slipped it out of the bin as he walked past. He held it so that the maid didn't see he'd taken it.
"What are you going to do with that, dumpster dive?"
"Yes, Ray." Fraser gave him the keys to the van.
"Okay, just promise me you won't do any tasting, okay? Please?" Ray glanced at him over his sunglasses as he got into the van.
"Scout's honor!"
Inside the larger bag he found smaller bags that must have come from the garbage cans in each room. As Ray drove them back to their hotel to check out, Fraser sought the bag that could only have come from Finley's room. It wasn't difficult. The other two inside contained things that only a woman would dispose of, which left one bag. Fraser tossed the others in back and exposed the more intimate details of Charles Finley's life.
"Ah, a receipt from Carlito's, but he shredded it by hand." Fraser found the pieces and put them together in his lap. "Looks like he paid off his tab the other day," Fraser remarked. "He used up a can of shaving cream yesterday. It appears that he had it for a long time. The bottom is slightly rusty. A used razor. Hmmm, nothing really of note here. The man chews a lot of gum." He pulled out a rosy colored wad and sniffed it.
"Fraser, no! You promised, no licking, no tasting!"
"I never said anything about smelling." He sniffed again. "Cinnamon. It's cinnamon gum."
"Oh yeah, that's gonna crack this case wide open." Ray parked the van in a space in front of the hotel. "Let's pack and get out of here. I wanna have some fun before we leave."
Michael and Fiona left the hangar and went straight to the CIA offices. He knew they could use the resources there to find the manifests of every cargo plane that left Miami that day, unless they were black ops, and if those were being watched by the agency, he could find information on them as well, with his clearance.
After logging into a computer, Michael called up the manifest records. Fiona watched over his shoulder, scanning along with him, hoping to pick up on something Michael might miss. They reached the end and scrolled back up to the top slowly.
"I think I found something, Fi." Michael pointed to the screen. "This one here says 'Expedited Delivery Service' hired this plane to take undisclosed cargo to Chicago O'Hare. There is no company by that name."
"Who would want to take Sam to Chicago, and why?"
"I don't know. But we're going to find out. Fi, let's go home and pack for cold weather. We're going to Chicago."
"We'll never catch up to them. They've had too much of a head start."
"But we've got CIA resources in Chicago who can help. I guess it wasn't all that bad that I got back into their good graces." He gave her a thin smile, and she responded with one of her own as she stroked the back of his head. "Let's go."
With time against them, they hurried to pack and Michael called in a favor to one of Sam's friends who owned a private jet. He filed a hasty flight plan, and by the time they arrived he was set with a takeoff time. Michael and Fiona had barely enough time to board, and the plane moved toward the runway.
Once they were in the air, Fiona spoke. "Michael, Sam was working on something..."
"I know, he was looking into Anson for me."
"Yes. Do you think maybe this has something to do with him?" That thought made her shiver. Because of Anson, she turned herself in to the FBI rather than sacrifice Michael to that monster and let himself be used by him. She spent months in prison, and she never thought she would see Michael again. But he got her out, and he was so afraid of losing her again that he married her. The scars of that time were still fresh, so she prayed that Sam would not fall under Anson's thumb. It was a very hellish place to be.
"I wouldn't be a bit surprised if Anson's got him, trying to get to me. Right now, I don't know. We just have too little to go on." He opened his laptop and started checking on possible leads. He sent Pearce an e-mail to let her know what they were doing, and asked if she could give him any information. She replied that she would look into it on her end and let him know.
"I hope we're right, that they're taking Sam to Chicago. Otherwise, it'll be like finding a needle in a haystack. He could be anywhere by now."
"It still might be like finding a needle in a haystack if he's somewhere in Chicago."
"Well," Fiona shrugged. "It narrows it down a bit."
"True." Michael went back to his work on the computer.
Sam woke up when the airplane wheels touched the runway with a thud. He was glad that whoever took him bothered to put on his seatbelt. With his hands cuffed and digging into his back, he was unable to hold himself in his seat. The engines roared as they reversed and slowed down the plane. Sam looked out the window. With all the places he'd been to in his career, he figured it was likely that he would recognize the airport, and he was right. Chicago? What do these people want with me in Chicago? Someone at his right shoulder leaned over him and slammed down the window shade. Another man walked up the aisle and closed all the others. They obviously didn't want him to know where he was. But they were too late. Not that it did him any good, when he was trapped on an airplane and handcuffed. His options for escape were pretty slim.
"Who are you people?" He asked the husky dark haired man who wore a dark blue suit and held onto the seat as they cruised to their destination.
"Just be quiet. There'll be plenty of time for you to talk later, Finley."
Finley. They think I'm Chuck Finley! Sam held in a laugh. He never thought his alias would get him into trouble like this, but obviously it finally caught up with him. Whether it was his own government or another, Sam would have to bide his time for the answer. In the meantime, he would go with whatever they demanded he do, look for a way out, and then take it.
The airplane stopped and the engines whined as they slowly shut down. Dark Suit Guy snapped a blindfold over Sam's eyes and tied it tightly behind his head.
"Hey, you mind loosening that up a bit? I'd like to keep the circulation in my head."
Dark Suit Guy sighed and grumbled under his breath. Sam thought it sounded like French, but he wasn't sure. The blindfold loosened just enough for him to see a sliver of light if he looked down, but nothing else. Dark Suit Guy unsnapped his seatbelt, grabbed his right arm, and pulled him up to stand.
"Jeez, you don't have to be so rough! Just tell me you want me to get up!"
"Move." He yanked Sam into the aisle and gave him a small push.
Without his hands to use for balance, Sam stumbled forward into the ample gut of Dark Suit Guy's companion.
"Hey, be careful. We don't want the guy beat up before it's time."
Sam regained his equilibrium and the man took his elbow.
"Come on, let's go." His voice was calmer than Dark Suit Guy's, and Sam instantly recognized the good cop, bad cop tactic playing out. He wasn't falling for it.
"Where are you taking me?"
Good Guy answered him. "Not to worry, Mr. Finley. We'll take good care of you, as long as you cooperate. I don't want to have to sic my partner on you. He loves to eat spies for lunch."
When they reached the stairs, a blast of icy cold air hit his bare arms and legs. "Ohhhh." Sam's breath exploded out of his chest as if he'd just been dunked into icy water, and his entire body shook from the cold.
"Hang on, Mr. Finley, we'll have you someplace warm soon. I promise. Come along."
Sam's feet touched the tarmac and the guy hurried him toward a waiting vehicle. He gently shoved him inside and sat between him and the door. Dark Suit Guy got in on the other side, the doors slammed, and they were off to somewhere. He slowly warmed up wedged between them as they rode through the streets of Chicago's suburbs. Sam wasn't familiar with the city, but he could at least keep track of the number of times they turned. Unfortunately, it didn't help much once they got on a freeway. It took them into the city, and after that, it was difficult to pay attention to all the changes in direction.
They finally stopped and his handlers got Sam out of the SUV. From the echo, he assumed they were in a parking structure. They walked twenty paces and entered an elevator that took them higher and higher. Eventually, it stopped, they got out, and turned right. He heard a keypad combination being pressed, a door lock clicked, and they pushed him forward.
"Sit here."
Sam used his leg to find the chair and sat. Temporarily, they removed the cuffs and locked his wrists into separate restraints attached to the chair arms, and then the blindfold came off. The light in the room was muted, but he still blinked until his eyes adjusted. The place was very sparsely furnished with a metal table and two metal armchairs, and there were no windows.
"Nice place ya got here," he said with a sarcastic tone.
"Just stay here, Finley. We'll be back."
Dark Suit Guy and his sidekick, Light Suit Guy, left the room. A woman came in not long after, dressed in a dark suit with subtle pinstripes. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a very unflattering style, and the ends curled under at her collar.
Light Suit Guy came back, and she cocked her head toward Sam. The man unlocked one of the cuffs, then the other, and said, "Get up."
Dark Suit Guy returned at that moment and stood near the door, his large physical presence daring Sam to try to make a break for it.
"What do you want from me?"
"Empty out your pockets, Mr. Finley," the woman said with little emotion.
"You've got the wrong guy."
She only stared at him, her eyes unbelieving.
With a sigh, Sam did as he was told. He didn't have much to pull out. He tossed his wallet on the table in front of him, a money clip with a few bucks in it, his phone, and some sticks of gum. His keys were missing. "My keys." He patted his pocket where he knew he always kept them.
"Don't worry about your keys. Is this everything?"
"Uh, yeah, sort of." He pulled out a few coins and laid them on the table, along with a pocket knife and lock picking tools. "Okay, that's it."
"Thank you for being so cooperative. You may be seated again." The woman rifled through the things he set on the table. She seemed to be very interested in his wallet and his phone.
Sam watched as she opened the wallet and examined the few things inside. He kept his drivers license in there along with an ATM card, a couple of credit cards that he used only for business, and a few business cards. She handed the wallet to Light Suit Guy. "Check out the transactions on these."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you have a warrant to do that? This is America, lady, and there are laws about looking at peoples' credit card statements and bank accounts without a court order." Not that his team ever let that stop them, but he was trying to make a point in his case.
"Right now, Mr. Finley, where you're sitting is considered Canadian soil. We can do whatever we want."
Sam knew better than that, but he decided not to press it. He watched as she touched the screen on his phone and looked through his address book. Then she flipped through some of the photos he kept on it, and a few other personal things. Sam hoped that in the process of looking fruitlessly for whatever she wanted, she would discover that he wasn't really Chuck Finley. Then maybe this whole thing would be straightened out and he could go home.
Sam studied her, thinking that she looked familiar. Then he remembered: it was the woman he met at the bar, the one he shared drinks with, the one who probably paid for the room at the Beacon and left him high and dry. She must have been wearing a long haired wig back then, because except for the hair, he was certain that it was the same woman.
"Was it good for you," he asked with a smart-aleck expression as he waited for her to look at him.
Her lips parted slightly as she tore her attention away from the phone. "You remember."
"Of course. I just wish I knew what happened after the drinks at the bar." He turned on a charming smile. "I hope I didn't miss anything good."
"Don't worry. Nothing happened." She replied tartly and stood. "I have to say, you've covered your tracks quite well, Mr. Finley. Or is it okay if I call you Charles?"
"I'm not Charles Finley. That's just an alias."
"Oh please, don't play games with us! This Sam Axe is a good cover. It's permeated everything you do, apparently. Your ID, credit cards, all have your alias on them. Your phone is a wealth of information about your alter ego. Very clever, Charles."
"It's not a cover. It's who I am." Sam knew it could be dangerous to reveal his true identity, but it was a gamble he had to take. His life was an open book on his phone, they had the information staring them in the face, but they refused to believe it was true.
"We'll be back." She nodded to the guys in the suits and they handcuffed Sam to the chair again, then followed her out the door. It closed solidly.
"Great. Now what?" He glanced up at the ceiling. "I wonder if they got Mike and Fi too."
Sam was left alone so long, he had no idea how much time had passed. When they took his things, they also stripped off his watch, so he couldn't tell what time it was. There were no windows to look out of, so he couldn't see the change in light. Realizing he would probably be there for awhile before anyone returned, he decided to try to get some sleep. It was a little cool in the room, but that wouldn't matter. He was no stranger to sleeping in extreme conditions, including sitting up and tied to a chair. He simply let out a few breaths, relaxed, and let his head fall to his chest. In no time at all, he was asleep.
Michael looked out the window and saw the Sears tower on the left. Their pilot was taking them over the lake before swinging around to a final approach and landing at O'Hare airport. After that, Michael had no idea where they would go. He had no clues to go on and Chicago was a big city. But not all hope was lost, because he had the signature of the internal GPS on Sam's phone. The tracker had been installed for a longer distance. But if they got close enough, he might be able to pick up a signal from Sam's phone and locate him that way. As long as they didn't dump it somewhere and move him to a different location.
The pilot parked the jet away from the terminal. Fiona went ahead of Michael carrying a small suitcase, and he retrieved his along with a suit bag that contained more formal clothing if they needed it. They trotted down the stairs and shivered against the cold, even though they both wore winter jackets. Fiona put a wool beret on her head and gloves on her hands.
"Well, where to now, Michael?"
"That plane over there." He indicated it with his chin. "That's the one that brought Sam here. I recognize the tail numbers."
"Let's go check it out!"
"Fi, be careful!" Michael fell into step with her. As they neared it, he noticed that there were no crew members around. The door was open, which meant they were either inside or nearby. He dropped his luggage on the tarmac and she did the same. Then he cautiously climbed the steps and went inside.
There were three rows of seats two on two, and a wall that separated them from the cargo area. He and Fiona checked the area with the seats for any sign that Sam had been there. They were just about ready to give up, but then Fiona found something wedged in between a seat and its back. She pulled it out, held it up, and smiled. "Sam was here. It's his favorite gum."
"At least we know he's here in Chicago, but where?"
A throat cleared, and they turned toward it. "What are you people doing here?" A man wearing captain's stripes glared at them.
"Oh, I'm sorry! We thought this was our plane!" Michael spoke in a heavy southern accent. "Come on, Lula, looks like we goofed! It's gotta be 'round here somewheres!"
Fiona giggled and snapped the gum that she hastily unwrapped and chewed on when the captain interrupted them. She followed Michael out of the plane, stopping long enough to run her hand over the man's jacket front and give him a sultry look. "I love a man in uniform."
"Lula! You stop flirtin' with that guy, or I'll..."
"Comin', Homer! Sheesh, he's so jealous!" She giggled. "Byebye, honey!" She waggled her fingers at him and hurried down the stairs, leaving him staring after her longingly.
"That was too close. Let's get a car and see if we can figure out where Sam is."
After renting a car, they drove into the city and spent the first day driving up and down the streets, trying to locate the signal from Sam's phone. If the battery died, they would be out of luck. Time was ticking away, and they were on a wild goose chase.