Thanks to Xenitha, max2013, zenfrodo, Caranath for the reviews. Onward!
The first batch of false passports were finished just as the deadline assigned by the client was about to expire. Frank fidgeted, his nerves truly on edge, as Bob went over them with a fine-tooth comb, the man's eyes scanning each page three or four times before moving on to the next, until finally closed the booklet and placed on the table. For the past two weeks, he had been watching over Frank's shoulder as the books began taking shape, reminding Frank almost continually of the value of the job to the business, and the need for care in the creation of the documents. Frank went back to the apartment each night with a pounding headache and cramped hands.
And, surprisingly, a burning need to talk to his brother.
Decompressing each night at the dining room with Vickers and Malone was useful. Talking with the agents about Kara's end of the investigation felt good – both took his suggestions seriously, and Vickers had access to technology Frank had only dreamed about until that point – but running through the day's events with them wasn't the same as talking with someone he didn't have to explain his thinking to. It wasn't like he and Joe hadn't ever been apart before. They went to different colleges, had each investigated things on their own or with their father, but for some reason this was different.
Several times a day, Frank found himself carrying on imaginary conversations with his brother. He could hear Joe's voice in his ear commenting on the way he was standing or making cracks about how geeky the whole thing was. I mean, come on 'bro, you're playing with computers at the back of a comic book store. How much more you could this operation possibly be? Several times, he had to stop himself from either laughing or answering back, finding himself shooting scowls at anyone who gave him a questioning look, and finally coming to the realization if this type of investigation was going to be part of his life from now on, he was going to need to find a way to talk to the folks at home at home on a regular basis. But it was something he needed to focus on later.
Because now was the moment of truth.
"So?" At this point, Frank was almost sweating, his fingers curling into tight fists.
Bob kept his eyes on the booklets in his hands, the expression on his face unreadable. "They all like this?"
Frank nodded. "Yeah." He cleared his throat, then kept talking, nerves making the words spill out more quickly than they otherwise would. "I did like I did with the IDs. Made a template and just changed the information when I needed to." He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. "Still don't get why the guy needed passports with five different names." He forced a cocky smile he didn't really feel onto his face. "Must be trying to avoid a lot of women, eh?"
The only response was a glare.
"I know. Stop asking questions." Frank moved his gaze to the floor. "Sorry."
A grunt, then a slapping noise as the document landed on the table. "Don't know why I'm surprised." Contempt shot through the words.
Feelings of panic spiked through Frank, triggering a bolt of adrenalin that made his body want to escape the store at terminal velocity. From the research Malone and Vickers had shared with him, he knew Bob could be ruthless when cornered, even if he hadn't seen much of it personally. Up until now, the man had been genial, treating Frank like a nephew he hadn't seen in a few years, but the stories had been harrowing. Still keeping his head down, he took a deep breath into his lungs, holding it a few seconds before letting it out, and forced his fists to unclench.
"Abso-bloody-lutely perfect." This time the words held a note of pride.
"What?" Frank's eyes shot up, his face betraying the shock he felt at this change in tone.
Bob was grinning. "This'll fool anyone but a real government docs guy. I knew hiring you was a good call."
"What'd I screw up?" Oddly, Frank felt a flash of disappointment. The thought, Those things should fool anyone, flitted across his mind for a moment before he realized what he had been thinking. Man. Too much time in Zack's head. It's not like I need Bob's approval. I need this to be over soon…
"Nothin'," Bob was saying. "The materials aren't quite right. But that ain't your fault. It's what the client brought for us to use. Close enough, but not one hundred percent."
"Close enough for government work?" Frank mumbled, feeling the adrenalin dissipate and leaving him breathless.
Bob laughed and reached over to punch him lightly on the shoulder. "Love your sense of humor, kid. Make sure you hold onto that as you get older. It makes a lot of things easier." A knock sounded at the back door, and Bob straightened up, his face taking on a more business-like expression as he walked over and opened it.
Frank instantly recognized the man who walked in as the one from the passport photos – mid-thirties, blond hair a few shades darker than Joe's, blue eyes more like ice than the sapphire of his brother's. In his jeans, weathered work coat, and faded baseball cap he looked like the perfect mid-west farm boy.
"Who's this?" The scowl on his face matched the tone of his voice. "Where's the merchandise?"
Frank opened his mouth, then closed it again after seeing the look on Bob's face.
Bob gestured to the passports on the table. "It's all right there." He indicated Frank with a nod of his head. "And this is the guy who made them."
The man nodded and reached for the documents. With a start, Frank realized he didn't know the man's real name. It was highly unlikely he'd used it on any of the false passports, and he found himself wondering if he'd even given it to Bob. He made a mental note to try and lift a fingerprint from… something, then mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it before. Finally, the man grunted and tucked the booklets into a pocket sewn into the lining of his coat. From another pocket, he pulled out an envelope that he handed to Bob.
"I need two more. Same price as before."
Bob opened the envelope and rifled through its contents. Sticking up from the stack of bills were two more tiny snapshots. "Not that I'm complaining, but you've overpaid us."
The man was pulling another packet from the back pocket of his jeans. "I need them tomorrow morning at eight."
Frank sucked in a breath. "Those took me…"
"Zack." The tone in Bob's voice said 'Shut up' as clearly as the words would have. "We'll have them for you." He held out a hand to the man who placed the packet in it. "We'll see you tomorrow." When the guy had left, he turned to Frank. "We never turn down a job that pays this well. We've got the templates done. You can do it." He rubbed his chin. "I know you two don't like each other, but I'll call Randy in to help when his classes are over. Between the three of us, we'll do it." He looked at Frank and cocked his head to the side. "All right, hot shot. Get to work."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Have you even called Aunt Tracy this week?"
Kara was halfway down the hall on her way to Randy's room when she heard the raised voices.
Since getting the fake ID, she had taken to hanging out with him in the mornings before his classes. They had been out to bars a few times, and the ID had worked perfectly at each one. If it hadn't been for the passports Frank was working on, she and Vickers would have raided the operation already, but they had all agreed something bigger might be happening now and were taking the chance Bob wouldn't disappear in the middle of it.
She slowed her walk, trying to make out which door it was coming from and the identity of the speakers.
"I'm sorry, why are we having this conversation?" That was Randy, his voice harder to hear.
"Because she's called me three times in the past two days looking for you!" It was Matt's voice.
Kara held her breath. She'd never heard the mild-mannered basketball player raise his voice. To anyone.
"She's your mother, you idiot. The one helping to pay for your college education? I can't believe you."
"Who put the stick up your ass, Matt?" Randy sounded both annoyed and amused.
"You did." There was a thud and an exclamation of surprise.
"What the hell?!" Randy's voice came from the floor.
"I saw the ID, Randy. Does Aunt Tracy know that's what you're doing?"
There were scrabbling noises. "I don't know what..."
"Zack's sister. I saw her..." Kara inched closer to the door, trying to hear more of what was happening. The volume of Matt's voice was dropping, and she was starting to miss words. "… bragging that you had done it."
"Some of us weren't lucky enough to get scholarships. Some of us have to work to get money for college." A note of bitterness overlaid Randy's words.
"I work." Matt's voice had a note of steel in it. "I work hard. I keep my grades up. I go to practice until late at night. I play on the team. I work at Quest Star."
Randy snorted. It was a noise Kara recognized immediately. "Earning minimum wage. I'm getting almost twenty dollars an hour for what I do. And I'm good at it." He laughed without humor. "So, this is new. Me being the successful one? Usually that's your role."
Matt made a noise that sounded like he had been punched in the stomach. "Is that what this is? Which of us is more successful?" His voice sounded breathless. "What does that matter? We're family."
"It matters because you didn't get compared to me the whole time we were growing up." Randy's voice got louder. "I got compared to you. 'Why can't you be more like your cousin?' 'Matt's so good at fill in the blank!'"
A cell phone ring tone sounded from the room.
"Yeah?" Randy paused, listening. "Nah, I'm not doing anything important. I'll be right down." Kara heard the jingling of keys. "Sorry, 'cuz. I'm needed. At work." She heard his footsteps approaching the door and moved two door down, sliding behind the swinging door of the bathroom to hide. Cracking the door open a hair, she watched as Randy stomped out of the room, Matt reaching out to grab his arm.
"Randy!" He stood in the hall, watching the shorter boy walk away, then took a breath. "Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow." He pulled the hood of his team jacket over his head and headed down the hall in the same direction his cousin had gone.
Kara slipped out of the bathroom. Maybe it was time to get Randy out of there. I can talk to him about giving evidence for us. If he's cooperative… She grabbed her cell phone and dialed Vickers's number. "Dad? You got a minute? I'm coming home. It's important."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Frank sprinted down the street, cell phone at his ear. "Come on. Answer. Answer." Finally the phone clicked on. "Bob? It's Zack. I'm sorry. I overslept."
After having spent the entire day and most of the night working on – and finishing – the two new documents, Frank had practically crawled back to the apartment for a few hours sleep. While the new passports weren't quite as polished as the original five, Bob had said they would pass muster. The one positive thing about the day was that Frank had managed to pull a decent fingerprint off the back of one of the pictures before bonding it to the stationery when Bob had gone on a coffee run.
"Hold on." There was the sound of the phone being placed on a surface none too gently. "I don't know who you are, and I sure as hell don't care."
"He's done working for you." Another voice, fainter and vaguely familiar.
"What are you, his lawyer? Look, kid, I have a meeting in a few minutes, so I need you to leave." Through the speaker came a faint thud, a sound like a distant car door slamming shut. "Get out. Now." Bob was practically growling.
There was a beep, and the line went dead. Frank hit the redial button, this time getting sent straight to voicemail. "I'm in the parking lot." He gulped some air, his legs still pumping. "ETA is less than…"
His words were cut off by an ear-shattering noise, like thunder splitting the air, followed immediately by a percussive wave that sent him flying back, his head cracking against the driver's side mirror of the truck behind him. Blackness threatening to engulf him, he fought to stay conscious, trying to lift his arms up to protect his face from the glass that had started splintering off the store's windows.
For a few … seconds? minutes? – he was unsure how much time had elapsed – he sat slumped on the ground against the truck, a wet trickle running down the back of his neck, trying to clear his head. Still dazed, his left hand started sifting through the debris and shards of glass on the ground searching for the cell phone he had been holding until he made out the wail of sirens through the ringing in his ears. Someone had already called emergency services. Which meant he didn't have to; he could go see what had happened and if anyone needed help.
Using the truck as leverage, Frank struggled to his feet, feeling the muscles in his back and ribs complain violently as he forced them to move. He shook his head, trying to focus both his eyes and his thoughts, and stumbled toward what was left of the comic book store. Bob had been in there, waiting for their client with at least one other person, and it was possible some of Quest Star's employees might have come in early as well.
Jesus… Chuck. The owner had a habit of coming in early with coffee and doughnuts for the morning shift. Please, G-d, let him not be here. Throat dry and heart pounding, Frank staggered toward the blown-off door, dust, debris, and shreds of paper everywhere.
He stopped at the entrance, frozen. The store looked like a miniature war zone, small fires burning where the shelves of comics had been, shards of gray plastic tables sticking out of the walls that still stood. The back room was a smoking hole. A brightly colored scrap of cloth – was that an arm sticking out of it? – caught his attention, and he turned toward it, losing his footing as he did.
"No." Frank retched and doubled over, the coffee he had for breakfast coming back up. When his stomach was empty, he straightened, his head spinning, the room tilting.
A hand grabbed him by the shoulder, keeping him from falling on his face and dragging him back outside. People were pouring out of trucks carrying hoses and other pieces of rescue equipment.
"You can't be in here, son. We don't know if the building is structurally..." The words, which were barely understandable through the noise in Frank's head, cut off as the person turned him around. Frank swayed with the movement. The man's mouth formed the words, "Christ, you're bleeding," and he moved his arm so it was now around both of Frank's shoulders. Again, the man's lips moved, this time each word was exaggerated. "Where were you hit?"
Frank stared at him, the roaring in his head getting louder. "I was… meeting someone." He could barely hear his own voice. The words didn't seem to want to leave his mouth. "My boss… Someone else… supposed to… Heard voices… Phone." He turned his head back to the doorway, pointing. "Chuck… I think..."
With his free hand, the firefighter yelled something Frank couldn't understand into the comm at his neck.
"I… think..." Frank blinked a few times. Everything around him was going dark. How long was I on the ground before they got here?,he thought. And how long until...? He could feel the man's arm tightening around his shoulders and knew deep down there was nothing the first responders would let him do, so – grudgingly – he gave in. Feeling as though his muscles had suddenly turned to water, Frank slumped sideways against the man's bulk and let the darkness take him.