“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Reid asked. He was getting anxious.
“To someone who can help. Here.” He tossed Reid a small silver flip phone—a burner, one that the CIA couldn’t trace unless they knew about it and had the number. “There are a few numbers programmed in there. One’s a secure line to me. Another’s to Mitch.”
Reid blinked. He didn’t know a Mitch. “Who the hell is Mitch?”
Instead of answering, Watson pulled the SUV off the road and into the drive of an auto body shop called the Third Street Garage. He eased the vehicle right into an open garage bay and parked. As soon as he cut the ignition, the garage door rumbled slowly down behind them.
They both climbed out of the car as Reid’s eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. Then the lights flickered on, bright fluorescent bulbs that made dots swim in his vision.
Beside the SUV, in the second garage bay, was a black car, a late eighties model Trans Am. It wasn’t much younger than he was, but the paint job looked glossy and new.
Also in the garage bay with them was a man. He wore dark blue coveralls that barely concealed spattered grease stains. His features were obscured by a tangled mass of brown beard and a red baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, the brim of it discolored with dried sweat. The mechanic slowly wiped his hands on a filthy, oil-stained rag, staring at Reid.
“This is Mitch,” Watson told him. “Mitch is a friend.” He tossed a ring of keys to Reid and gestured to the Trans Am. “It’s an older model, so there’s no GPS. It’s reliable. Mitch has been fixing it up for the last few years. So try not to destroy it.”
“Thanks.” He had been hoping for something more inconspicuous, but he would take what he could get. “What is this place?”
“This? This is a garage, Kent. They fix cars here.”
Reid rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“The agency’s already trying to get eyes and ears on you,” Watson explained. “Any way they can track you, they will. Sometimes in our line of work you need… friends on the outside, so to speak.” He gestured again toward the burly mechanic. “Mitch is a CIA asset, someone I recruited from my days in the National Resources Division. He’s an expert at, uh, ‘vehicle procurement.’ If you need to get somewhere, you call him.”
Reid nodded. He didn’t know that Watson had been in asset collection prior to being a field agent—though, to be fair, he wasn’t even sure that John Watson was his real name.
“Come on, I got some things for you.” Watson popped the trunk and unzipped a black canvas duffel bag.
Reid took a step back, impressed; inside the bag was an array of supplies, including recording devices, a GPS tracking unit, a frequency scanner, and two pistols—a Glock 22, and his backup of choice, the Ruger LC9.
He shook his head in disbelief. “How did you get all this?”
Watson shrugged one shoulder. “Had a bit of help from a mutual friend.”
Reid didn’t have to ask. Bixby. The eccentric CIA engineer who spent most of his waking hours in a subterranean research and development lab beneath Langley.
“You and him go way back, even if you don’t remember it all,” Watson said. “Although he made sure to mention that you still owe him some tests.”
Reid nodded. Bixby was one of the co-inventors of the experimental memory suppressor that had been installed in his head, and the engineer had asked if he could run a few tests on Reid’s head.
He can open my skull if it means getting my girls back. He felt another overwhelming, powerful wave of emotion crash over him, knowing that there were people willing to break the rules, to put themselves in harm’s way to help him—people he could barely remember even having a relationship with. He blinked back the threat of tears that stung his eyes.
“Thank you, John. Really.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve barely begun.” Watson’s phone rang in his pocket. “That’ll be Cartwright. Give me a minute.” He retreated to a corner to take the call, his voice low.
Reid zipped the bag closed and slammed the trunk shut. As he did, the mechanic grunted, making a sound somewhere between clearing his throat and muttering something.
“Did… did you say something?” Reid asked.
“Said sorry. ’Bout your kids.” Mitch’s expression was well hidden behind his grizzled beard and baseball cap, but his voice sounded genuine.
“You know about… them?”
The man nodded. “Already on the news. Their photos, a hotline to call with tips or sightings.”
Reid bit his lip. He hadn’t thought about that, the publicity—and the invariable connection to him. He immediately thought of their Aunt Linda, who lived up in New York. These sorts of things had a way of spreading quickly, and if she heard about it she would be fraught with concern, calling and calling Reid’s phone for information and getting none.
“Got something,” Watson said suddenly. “Thompson’s truck was found at a rest stop seventy miles south of here on I-95. A woman was found dead at the scene. Her throat was cut, car gone, ID taken.”
“So we don’t know who she was?” Reid asked.
“Not yet. But we’re on it. I’ve got a tech on the inside scanning police airwaves and keeping an eye via satellite. As soon as something’s reported, you’ll know about it.”
Reid grunted. Without an ID they wouldn’t be able to find the vehicle. Even though it wasn’t much of a lead, it was still something to go on, and he was anxious to be on the trail. He had the door to the Trans Am open as he asked, “What exit?”
Watson shook his head. “Don’t go down there, Kent. It’ll be crawling with cops, and I’m sure Agent Strickland is en route.”
“I’ll be careful.” He didn’t trust that the police or this rookie agent would find everything that he would. Besides, if Rais was playing this the way Reid thought he would, there could be another clue in the form of a taunt, something meant just for him.
The photo of his girls flashed again across his memory, the one Rais had sent from Maya’s phone, and it reminded him of one last thing. “Here, hang onto this for me.” He handed Watson his personal cell. “Rais has Sara’s number, and I’ve got her phone forwarding to mine. If anything comes through, I want to know about it.”
“Sure. The crime scene is on exit sixty-three. You need anything else?”
“Don’t forget to have Maria call me.” He settled behind the wheel of the sports car and nodded to Watson. “Thank you. For all your help.”
“Not doing it for you,” Watson reminded him somberly. “Doing it for those kids. And Zero? If I’m made, if I’m compromised in any way, if they figure out what I’m doing with you, I’m out. You understand? I can’t afford to get agency blacklisted.”
Reid’s initial kneejerk instinct was a quick swell of anger—this is about my children, and he’s afraid of being blacklisted?—but he stifled it just as fast as it came on. Watson was an unexpected ally in all of this, and the man was sticking his neck out for his girls. Not for him, but for two children he’d only met briefly.
Reid nodded tightly. “I understand.” To the solemn, grunting mechanic he added, “Thanks, Mitch. I appreciate your help.”
Mitch grunted in response and pressed the switch to open the garage bay as Reid climbed into the Trans Am. The interior was all black leather, clean, pleasant smelling. The engine turned over immediately and thrummed under the hood. A 1987 model, his brain told him. 5.0 liter V8 engine. At least two hundred fifty horsepower.
He pulled out of