Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (37 page)

He and Kim parked alongside the road, arriving in time to see several members of the SWAT team gearing up to pull the downed deputies out.  Aside from body armor and riot shields, they had the backup support of their snipers.  So far Rob Johns, or whoever the hell he was, had made no further attempts to fire his weapon.  There was speculation that he had a limited amount of ammo, but everyone knew it was foolish to make assumptions.

Well, almost everyone.  Apparently the deputy who’d gone after Harding hadn’t thought the whole thing through.

Locating Kathleen in the throng, Clay pushed past some Charleston PD officers who asked him for ID, leaving Kim to flash her badge and smooth things over.  He simply didn’t have the wherewithal to tolerate needless distractions.

A short man – early forties, with ruthlessly tamed dark hair and an FBI raid jacket over a very expensively tailored suit – looked up at Kathleen, exuding irritation. 

“Your opinion is of no consequence.  You should not be on this case, let alone part of the decision making process,” Clay heard the man say.  “There’s no way for you to maintain your objectivity, Detective.” 

“Look,” Kathleen was going toe to toe, refusing to back down at all.  She obviously had her Irish up, a condition that Clay recognized from working with Kim.  “My cousin’s little boy is in that house –”

“Exactly my point.” The agent talked right over her protests.  “You
assume
you have a family member in imminent peril, which makes your judgment questionable at best.  I’d like to remind you that we have no viable proof the child is in there, and yet you’ve created an atmosphere of extreme urgency which has caused a local uniform to get himself shot.”

Kathleen’s fair skin turned red at the unjustified accusation.  Clay knew this man’s type, knew exactly what he was up to, and given the asshole factor concluded he was the man Kim had spoken of earlier.  The fact that an officer had been shot – two officers, in fact – meant that the ugliness quotient had ratcheted up to damaging levels.  Anytime a law enforcement official or innocent bystander was wounded or killed in the course of a tactical situation, everyone’s first and immediate question was
who screwed up? 

Clearly, this man – Special Agent in Charge Beall – was already pointing fingers to pass the blame.

“Detective Murphy hasn’t done anything in her handling of the situation that wasn’t carried out with the utmost professionalism, and she has proceeded as both her lieutenant and I have instructed.”

The older man frowned at Clay as he spoke.  “And who the hell are you?” 

“Agent Clay Copeland.  I’m with the Investigative Support Unit.”  He reached into his pocket, produced ID.  “I’ve been working with the Bentonville sheriff’s department on their investigation, which has spilled over into Detective Murphy’s kidnapping.”   

No way was he going to give this guy any indication that he had a personal interest in the case.  He was just the kind of man to use that against Clay, to ignore every piece of advice he had to offer.  And technically, the man was the highest ranking official on the scene, so like it or not that put him in charge. 

“So you believe Detective Murphy’s assertion that the boy’s in there and still alive?  That we need to approach this as if it were a hostage situation?”

“Yes, I do.”

Beall motioned to the van behind him, which held a boatload of taxpayer dollars in the form of expensive equipment.  “We have a parabolic microphone that suggests otherwise.  Other than the sound of our gunman moving around, we’ve been unable to detect any signs of a hostage.  How do we know this isn’t simply some old farmer who thinks he’s defending his property?  It would have been prudent to follow protocol and make your presence known from the outset.  This situation might have turned out peacefully.”

Clay took a breath and tried to hold onto his patience.  “You haven’t heard any sounds of anyone else in the house, because in all likelihood he has the child drugged.  And I believe Agent O’Connell already filled you in on the situation, and the fact that Deputy Harding was shot during a routine canvass as part of his department’s investigation.  This residence is supposed to be empty.  Both the farm and the truck that we positively identified as the getaway vehicle for the abduction – and which is currently parked in the barn, I might add – are the property of an elderly woman who supposedly now resides in Atlanta.”

“With a grandson,” Kathleen interjected.  “Who we’re currently checking out.”

Beall sent the detective a glare, and Clay continued as if he hadn’t noticed.  “We have reason to believe that the man inside the house assumed the elderly woman – Alma Walker’s – identity as part of his plan to kidnap the child.  We have reason to believe that this is a dangerous, unstable individual who is
part of a long-standing human trafficking operation.  We have reason to believe that just yesterday he killed his partner in cold blood.  So no, sir, this isn’t some farmer defending his property.”

“Okay.”  A little of the bite had gone out of the older man’s attitude at the calm authority in Clay’s voice.  “So I guess we need to try to establish some kind of dialogue.  Any idea what kind of demands we’ll be looking at to make this end the way we want it to?”

Clay shook his head and stuffed his hands into his pockets, afraid Agent Beall would notice them shaking.  “Aside from retribution and a free ticket out of here, I’m afraid I don’t have enough information about our abductor to make any viable comments at this time.”  Once Clay heard some of the negotiator’s dialogue with the man –
if
he was willing to talk – he might have a better idea.  “I do know, however, that this is a man who’s on the edge.  And the fact that we showed up when we did, essentially trapping him, is going to make that edge he’s on even slipperier.  Most hostage-takers go into their situation expecting the police to show up. It gives them a forum to air their grievances.  We took this guy by surprise, and he’s not going to like it.  I think that we should approach the situation with as little show of force as possible, because he’s likely to strike back, hard and fast.”

Agent Beall nodded.  “Okay, Agent Copeland.  You just earned a spot next to the negotiator.  He’s going to need backup if this thing drags out.”

Clay hesitated.  Because he knew that wasn’t a good idea.  Not only was he completely biased and in fact wanted nothing more than for that son of a bitch to die and die hard – and that sort of emotion was completely contrary to setting up a productive dialogue with a hostage-taker – but also because the bastard clearly knew who he was and what Max meant to him.

But how to broach that subject without Beall ordering him off the scene? 

Clay cleared his throat, sweat trickling down his back.  It ran cold, despite the relentless heat.

“With all due respect, sir, that’s a position I’d rather not take.  The last time I tried to negotiate a little boy died.  I’ll be happy to advise, but I can’t talk to the offender.”

Beall’s raised eyebrows suggested his opinion of Clay had just tanked. But he was prevented from commenting on that fact by the appearance of a member of the Charleston PD’s SWAT team. 

“Our men are ready to move in,” he said, staring at Beall as if he dared him to stop them.  “Webster, the negotiator, hasn’t been able to pull up a land line, and so far the HT seems either unwilling or unable to call the cell number we posted to get him to communicate.  He’s going to use the bullhorn to tell him we’re only moving in to get the deputies some medical attention.”

Clay tensed.  It was a horrible situation.  They needed to get those deputies out of there, but he felt that anything they did to upset this man’s perceived balance of power was going to put Max in further danger.  “Offer him a trade,” he said suddenly, surprising the others into looking his direction.  Surprising himself.  “Right now, those injured deputies are his leverage.  You go in there and take them out, however peaceably, and he might perceive that as loss of control.  We need to offer him something in return.”

“How do we know what to offer,” Kathleen asked, “when he won’t even talk to us?”

“Offer me.”

A chorus of shocked protests erupted, as Clay had known it would. But dammit he had to try
something. 
Him walking into that house as a voluntary hostage would not only give him a chance to assess the situation from the inside, but also create a heightened sense of power for Rob Johns.  He’d have a federal agent in the doubly vulnerable position of hostage and man who wanted to protect his child.  Johns’ need for control would be safely un-assailed, and Clay would have a better chance of influencing him.

Beall held up a hand to silence everyone’s comments.  “You’re not seriously suggesting that I allow an unarmed federal agent to walk into a crisis situation with a
n unstable offender, who has already shown no compunction about shooting cops.”

Clay held the other man’s gaze.  “Yes sir.  I am.”

Beall expelled a short burst of disbelieving air.  “You just said you didn’t want to negotiate with the man, but you’re willing to let him hold a gun on you?” 

Clay tried to get Beall to see the logic of his suggestion.  Or maybe it wasn’t logical.  Hell, he didn’t know.  And he was too desperate right now to figure it out.  “As a negotiator and a hostage-taker, Johns and I are on relatively equal footing.  However, put me in the position of hostage and Johns suddenly becomes the one in control.  He’s the type personality who’ll be less dangerous if he feels less threatened.  He’ll feel less threatened if he has both me and the child as leverage.”

And Clay could get close enough to him to snap the other man’s neck.

“Do you have any idea what kind of precedent that would set, Agent Copeland?  Word gets out that I let something like that go down, and every hostage-taking psychotic in the country would be demanding a federal agent for every civilian they release.”

“Sir.  You realize that every situation is different.  If you would just –”

Beall shook his head, body language dismissive, and turned his attention to the SWAT team member at his side.  “Get your men ready to get those deputies out of there.  Tell your negotiator to get on the bull horn and let the HT know you’re coming, and that he’d better hold his fire.”

Frustrated, Clay stepped forward and got large, looming directly over the other agent.  “Sir, I really think this would go much more smoothly if we offer the exchange I suggested.”

“Duly noted,” Beall said dryly.  “Now why don’t you and Detective Murphy step behind that line over there, and I’ll let you know if I need your opinion again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

INSIDE
the farmhouse that had become her own personal hell, Casey listened to the sound of the bullhorn.  She couldn’t make out most of the words – something about
deputies
and
fire –
but what the man said didn’t really matter.

What mattered was that he was
here.

Someone had finally come for her.

Or maybe he’d come for the little boy who was currently lying across her lap.

Whatever.  It didn’t matter.  As long as he – they, whoever the heck was out there – got her
out.

She was so giddy that she started to weep.

Shifting the kid’s head off her thigh until it lay on the cool bathroom tile, she shimmied out from under him.  She couldn’t stand fully, because she was handcuffed to an old, rusty pipe under the sink, but she twisted and strained and almost wrenched her shoulder from its socket in an attempt to see through the narrow window. 

There were trees – not up next to the house, but close enough to distinguish their leaves – and she knew from the time she’d stood on the edge of the tub that there was a roof almost directly beneath the window.  It wasn’t large, maybe five feet wide at most, and she guessed it covered some kind of stoop. 

Very quietly, Casey pulled on the handcuff to test its hold.  The blond man had told her that if he heard her make one sound he’d shoot her in the head.  And she had no doubt that he would actually do it.  After all, he’d already…

No.
  Don’t think about that now.  Right now she just had to think about getting out of there.  About sleeping in her own bed.  Playing Chutes and Ladders with her sister.

She even wanted to smell those stupid funnel cakes.

Shaking, tears streaming down her face from so much hope, Casey sat back down on the floor next to the boy.  He was a cute little guy – all freckles and shaggy dark hair – and she bet he had a mom and dad somewhere who were really worried.

She lifted his head again, settling his soft cheek against her lap.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, stroking an unruly lock of hair off his forehead.  “The good guys are out there now, and they’re going to help us.”  

CLAY
was losing it.

Losing.  It.

In typical SNAFU fashion, someone had let it slip that he had a personal involvement with the child inside, and now Beall was even
less
inclined to listen to anything he had to say.  In the field, the behavioral side of the Bureau lacked the authority to dictate how tactical situations were handled, serving only in an advisory capacity.  They could suggest, and recommend, but in the end it was out of their hands.  And when they had a personal stake in the case that could be construed as clouding their judgment – well, they might as well not even bother.