“Courtney is pretty perceptive; I don’t think she’d be too surprised.” When Tony didn’t answer, Brent continued, “Do you want to call for a jet to come and get us in the morning, or should I?”

“I already have. It’ll be waiting by 10:00 AM.” Throwing back the rest of the small bottle, Tony said, “She can be as perceptive as she wants. I don’t want you confirming anything. Confidentiality—hell, I pay you enough to at least expect that.”

Brent’s shoulders fell—so much for brotherly love. “Yeah, Tony, you pay me. Without a doubt, within the last twelve hours—hell, twenty years, I’ve fuck’n earned it!”

Tony threw the empty bottle on the bar. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“Wait!”—Brent faced his best friend’s dark eyes—it was now or never—“That early retirement—firing—whatever you want to call it—it’s still on the table, and you should know, I’m seriously considering it. I know too much shit to keep saving your ass.”

“You know too much shit to ever consider walking away. It’s not an option.” Tony turned toward one of the bedrooms. Before he shut the door he added, “I’m not accepting your offer. Good night.”

It was after midnight when the knock came to the door. It took multiple raps before anyone from within the suite budged. Brent was the first to make it to the door. He’d spent most of the day with federal officers. It didn’t take a genius to figure that the two men in dark suits were among those ranks.

“We’re looking for Anthony Rawlings.”

Before Brent could answer, Tony came up behind him. “I’m Anthony Rawlings. What the hell do you want at this time of night?”

The two officers displayed their badges and credentials. “Mr. Rawlings, may we enter?”

The last thing Tony wanted was a discussion with the FBI held in the hotel’s hallway. He and Brent took a step back allowing the agents to enter the suite.

Tony’s anger temporarily faded into concern. “Is this regarding Claire? Do you have new information?”

“There’s more information.” The men in dark suits went on to explain the threats upon Tony’s life have been verified and confirmed. The information Ms. Nichols disclosed was only the beginning. The Bureau believes it’s in everyone’s best interest to get Tony home, safe and sound, where his security team can keep him from harm.

They also explained that Tony’s activity could be currently monitored by the perpetrator and insisted Brent remain in Boston. They emphasized that in the morning Brent needed to go to the FBI office and complete legal documents regarding this transfer. Of course, then Brent and Tony would be able to meet up in Iowa tomorrow after Brent finished all the legalities.

Tony considered their concerns. Looking toward Brent, he shrugged. Honestly, he wanted to be home. It made more sense than sleeping in a hotel room. “Give me a minute to gather my things.”

As he left with the agents, Tony told Brent, “I’ll talk with you more when you get back to Iowa. Come straight to the house once you land.”

Brent agreed and watched as Tony left with the two plain-clothed agents. The feeling of foreboding lingered in Brent’s mind. He considered calling Courtney, but it was nearly 2:00 AM. She didn’t need to lose sleep just because his mind was racing. Finally, Brent fell into a restless sleep.

A mere four hours later, Brent rolled toward the vibrating phone echoing on the hard surface of the night stand. Before he could answer the call, his attention went to the loud pounding on the suite door.

Pulling on his slacks, he read the unknown number, rejected the call and pushed the phone into his pocket. In a still sleep deprived haze, Brent made his way toward the loud banging. This time, when he opened the door, Brent recognized at least one of the agents. “Agent Jackson, couldn’t you wait until I came to the office this morning?”

“So, Mr. Simmons, you were planning on coming to the FBI office today?”

“Yes, that’s what I was told.”

“And, what about Mr. Rawlings? Was he planning on coming too?”

Brent stepped back and allowed the two men entry. “He would, but now—”

“Now”—Agent Jackson completed Brent’s sentence—“Now your client is gone, disappearing in the middle of the night?”

“No.” Brent shut the door. “Well, yes—because he left with your agents.” When the FBI remained silent and exchanged quizzical looks, Brent added, “The men from your office who came here last night. He left with them.”

“I assure you, we didn’t send agents here last night.”

“What?” Brent ran his hands through his bed-messed hair, struggling with the new information. Could Claire’s threat have been real? Did someone take Tony?

“Mr. Simmons”—Brent focused as he attempted to subdue his impending fear—“A plane left Boston airspace, a private plane, contracted by one Anthony Rawlings. That same plane made an emergency landing in the Appalachian Mountains approximately an hour ago. No survivors were found.”

Brent collapsed onto the sofa. “As in dead?” The words hurt exiting his lips. Yes, there were times he hated Tony for what he’d done or said—that didn’t change the fact—the controlling asshole was his best friend.

“No, sir, as in missing. The plane was empty. A FBI forensics’ team is investigating. So far, no signs of struggle or injury have been found and”—Agent Jackson emphasized—“no signs of anyone.”

“But...the FBI took him. I saw their credentials and badges.”

“Do you remember the names of these agents?”

Brent shook his head. “No, it was late. Jesus... I didn’t really look. I assumed it was legitimate. I don’t remember.”

“Mr. Simmons, the FBI didn’t come here last night.”

“What does this mean?”

“For right now, it means you’re coming back with us to the Bureau. We’re going to review hotel footage and discuss your late night visitors.”

Sitting in the familiar office of SAC of the San Francisco FBI, Agent Baldwin listened attentively to his supervisor. “Anthony Rawlings was in FBI custody. Now he isn’t.”

“I’m sorry...what do you mean he isn’t?”

“Due to persuasion from unnamed political sources, Agent Easton, SAC in Boston, was unable to keep him detained.”

Harry’s blood boiled. “So, sir...” Although, well engrained, the title left a bad taste on his tongue. “You’re saying—he did it again? Anthony Rawlings played his political cards, flashed a little money, and got himself out of FBI custody?”

“Agent, despite the Deputy Director’s request, you clearly aren’t interested in pursuing your career in the service of—”

“I apologize. Sir, please go on. Claire Nichols. Where is she?”

“The last direct communication was from Geneva, Switzerland. That was over a week ago. We have local field agents who’ve confirmed her departure from Switzerland.”

“She left..? Where did she go?”

“This is a briefing son—I inform; you listen. Agent Baldwin, you seem to have forgotten the protocol. If you choose to honor the Deputy Director’s request and assist in this ongoing investigation—your duty is to say, Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. If that duty is too difficult for you to fulfill, I’ll gladly inform our director, and your duties can be reassigned.”

Harry bit his tongue. Working undercover had a way of removing the bureau formalities from an agent’s vocabulary. Harry had enough problems with his future in the service of the FBI; he didn’t need to add insubordination to the list. Sitting taller, Harry said, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll do whatever the bureau wants me to do.”