Full Disclosure (A Nice Guys Novel Book 2) Read online

  “All on your own time?” Connors seemed impressed. Or that could have been shock. Mitch had no way to know.

  “Yep, pretty much,” Mitch responded and closed his eyes.

  “But I didn’t see any possible connections or theories?” Ding, ding, ding, Connors was finally on his page.

  “Correct.”

  “Hmmm,” Connors mused and sat back in his seat. “I didn’t find any either. There are no patterns, nothing in the profiles, and each incident is executed with precision. The Greyson kid escaping the car is the first mistake I’ve seen. It’s such a large one that I question if his case is related,” Connors said. Mitch turned his head and stared at his partner.

  “You’ve got nothing to add?” Connors asked.

  “I do. The Greyson kid fits the profile from the standpoint that he’s a pretty good guy. He didn’t leave that coffee shop on his own free will, no matter what the Secret Service says. And besides, at some point, there’ll always be a mistake. It’s why I kept digging. This is the only break we were ever going to get; these people are too good.”

  “I understand that, and I can even agree, but we play nice with each other in DC. You shouldn’t have just walked out of the meetings,” Connors lectured.

  “Forget the fucking meeting, man. That was so two hours ago. There’s a reason I’m not in Washington. Now, concentrate on what’s important. Keep focused on what you read in the case files. The sooner you’re fully on my page, the faster this will go.” He gritted his teeth, stopping the rest of the words threatening to spill out. Fuck! What was up with these people? After a minute, he started repeating out loud what he remembered about the cases.

  “We have eight individual crimes. Each different with the exception of Greyson and Justice Bennett. Those both included bombs—different styles I think, but still bombs. One car accident. One home invasion. One pilot error. One blood poisoning. One gunshot. One hit and run. Two bombs. Absolutely zero witnesses, which is incredibly hard to believe.” Connors lifted a finger to halt Mitch’s words.

  “But clearly you’ve pounded the pavement searching. I focused on Kreed Sinacola’s report on the justice’s bombing. He’s thorough, but that bomb was homegrown. It was made in America so to speak. I’m supposing you have him heading to Kentucky?” Connors asked and Mitch scowled. Dammit, he was good.

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “We’re supposed to be a team. I need to know the decisions you’re making. The FBI has more than qualified…” Mitch cut Connors off.

  “Then they can take a look too, and I’m absolutely certain they already have.” Mitch adjusted his seat, getting more comfortable in the leather recliner. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours on the flight from Texas to Washington, and he was determined to take advantage of their luxury ride to Kentucky to get a little shut-eye.

  “You don’t work well with others. It’s in your file,” Connors shot back. Mitch didn’t respond because it really just depended who those others were.

  “Let’s talk possibilities,” Connors continued.

  “It’s more than likely organized,” Mitch responded. He closed his eyes and relaxed his head against the headrest.

  “I may disagree. Organization means multiples, and no one’s talking, and someone always talks when it’s organized.” Mitch had thought that very same thing.

  “It’s more than one person. No one person is that skilled to pull off all those different accidents. It’s organized, even if it’s a small unit.”

  “Okay, I can see that. It’s also well-trained. Military, law enforcement…” Connors trailed off.

  “Or YouTube. Seriously, you can learn anything on the internet. And it’s hate-driven,” Mitch added.

  “Not necessarily. Could be psychosis, probably not, but I’ve called in a behavioral analyst, Dr. York, to review the case. Have you heard of her?” Mitch ignored that. He had learned quickly with Connors not to engage, he would go on for hours talking about nothing but theories if Mitch fed his random thoughts.

  “There’s a message and meaning in these deaths. It’s hate-related,” Mitch said, still not looking at Connors. “They don’t want recognition or fame; they’re doing a service to the world.”

  “There are bigger ways to make that statement, not one by one isolated cases,” Connors shot back.

  “Individual deaths hide under the radar, much like the distance between each incident helps keep it hidden. They aren’t picking the highest profile gay men, but high enough that they make the local news for their deaths.”

  “Colt Michaels is a very high profile gay man,” Connors retorted, and Mitch slowly turned his head toward the guy.

  “I thought you read the cases. Colt wasn’t out yet. It was his now husband, Jace Montgomery, they targeted. That was his rental car they tampered with.”

  “The husband doesn’t make sense,” Connors argued.

  “Each case has had the victim recently in the local news for some reason. Jace Montgomery had appeared on ESPN before the accident occurred. Tony Johnson had just sold his software company to Apple for an ungodly amount of money reported all over the cable news networks. Justice Bennett had just been given the trial over racial profiling. And on, and on, and on. They weren’t necessarily on national news, but they were each featured in the news,” Mitch explained.

  “I don’t remember reading that in the case information,” Connors said, and Mitch totally thought he was covering his mistake.

  “It’s there, you just didn’t retain it,” Mitch shot back.

  “I don’t miss things.” Connors stared at him in defiance now. Great, boy wonder had an ego.

  “You missed that,” Mitch scoffed, meeting his stare and cocking a brow. The expected turbulence hit at that moment, jolting the plane. Another big bump caused the wound-up-tight Tyler Connors to barely save his laptop before the computer hit the cabin floor. Honestly, Mitch was impressed with the guy’s reflexes until another strong jolt hit, bouncing Mitch out of his seat.

  “Damn,” Connors swore, clutching his laptop.

  “We’re getting a little air turbulence. Please remain seated, with your seat belts fastened,” the pilot announced rather calmly.

  “Shit, this sucks,” Connors declared, and Mitch took a good long look at his temporary partner. He was turning green with all the rocking they were doing. Shit, he had a hurler on his hands, motion sickness at its finest. As quickly as he could, he grabbed the laptop while reaching for the vomit bag. To Connors credit, he didn’t hurl until he got the bag open, but the heaving never stopped.

  Unfortunately for Connors, the turbulence continued for the rest of the trip. The violent storm raged over eastern Kentucky, causing them to circle the airport, waiting for their turn to land. He stayed sick the entire time, and finally confessed under a shroud of bad vomit breath, that he never flew well. It hadn’t taken long for Mitch’s initial pity to turn to irritation. How could Connors be an FBI agent and not be able to ride in an airplane? Mitch spent half his life flying from one assignment to the next.

  By the time they landed, the severe weather threat had ended, but the rain was falling in sheets. Traveling in a private jet had a much different landing and exiting routine than a commercial airline, and Mitch didn’t even have his ball cap to keep him from getting soaked. All he could do was hunker down and let the rain pound him until he was met with an umbrella carried by a driver.

  Connors moved slower, not exiting the plane until Mitch was already tucked in tight inside the passenger seat. Mitch hadn’t thought to mention to the driver that there were two of them. He watched as Connors took each step in the pouring rain as the driver scurried to get his wet umbrella from the backseat. Connors was already around to Mitch’s side of the car, soaking wet, motioning him to the backseat.

  When Mitch figured out Connors planned to come to his door, he hurriedly locked the car door before Connors could get it open and let the rain inside. After a minute of the guy standing firm, d
ripping wet and staring down at him, Mitch lowered the window about an inch or so.

  “I have motion sickness. I need the front seat,” Connors yelled above the pounding rain. Mitch didn’t ride in the backseat, but he was also sick of watching the guy throw up and whining that little moan he made every time something came up. Shit!

  He looked over at the driver. “Who are you in this deal? Who do you work for?”

  “I was hired to drive you two to the police impound yard and wherever else you needed to go,” the driver answered.

  “Change of plans. You’re in the backseat. I’m driving.”

  “Nah, man. This is my personal car,” the driver started to argue, but Mitch gave him no choice as he reached past the driver to open his door for him as he scooted over the center console to avoid getting back out into the heavy rainfall.

  “It’ll be fine. I’m a deputy US marshal.” Like that meant anything to this situation, but he pushed against the guy’s hip as Connors got into the passenger seat. On a frustrated string of cuss words, the driver got in the backseat, and seconds later, Mitch sat behind the wheel.

  “Don’t fuck up my car,” the driver said irritably.

  “Where am I going?” Mitch asked, looking back in the rearview mirror. His phone began a series of vibrations, finally getting enough signal to catch up on everything he’d missed while in the air. Mitch ignored them as he put the car in drive. The driver leaned forward, pointing to the center of the dashboard.

  “The address is programmed in there. Hit the volume on the right. I keep it turned down.” Mitch focused on driving, and Connors began working the GPS.

  “No, man, your other right.” The driver said as Connors started pushing the wrong buttons. “Damn, man, you recalculated the trip.”

  “He’s FBI, they don’t make enough to afford nice cars like these,” Mitch tossed out, laughing as Connors grunted and leaned his head back against the headrest, holding his stomach, clearly still recuperating.

  “I’ll just tell you where to go. Take a right at the entrance of the airport,” the driver said. Using the back of Mitch’s seat, he pulled himself forward and began reworking the address into the GPS. Mitch laughed again when he caught the very clear what the hell look he gave Connors as he sat back.

  Luckily, the rain let up the farther they got out of town. Mitch pulled into the police impound, right up to the front of the chain link fence, and parked. He got out, surveyed the yard, and recognized Kreed’s booted feet sticking out from under what looked to be a severely burned shell of a small car located inside a single car garage.

  Mitch never looked back at Connors as he went through the steps of showing his badge and gaining entrance into the secured facility. From what Mitch could see, it was an incredible escape by the Greyson kid. That reality hardened Mitch’s resolve. He hunched down by Kreed’s boots, everything else forgotten. Kreed shoved himself out from under the mangled car, dirt and soot covering his clothing. He held Mitch’s same intense look and didn’t waste time on greetings.

  “It’s a well-constructed vehicle IED. No clear trigger visible, except there had to be a trigger from underneath and it was set purposefully for one death. It’s wired for a remote detonation. The size and placement are foreign styles. I saw this in Iraq and Afghanistan. We don’t do it like this in the United States. We fill our shit up for anyone to see. It’s a completely different style than Bennett’s. Whoever did this is well-trained,” Kreed said, picking up a rag and trying to wipe the dirt from his hands.

  “The kid got out of the car and far enough away that just some shrapnel hit him,” Mitch said, taking in everything Kreed told him.

  “It’s designed to send pieces flying. It would be near impossible to identify who was inside once it blew.” Kreed got to his feet and Mitch stood with him. They both just stared at the car.

  “What went wrong? If it was designed to kill him, then the detonation didn’t respond on time… Or they thought he was already dead? Sometimes I’ve wondered if they were allowed to live on purpose to tell the story. But he was beaten badly. There’s no reason he’s alive right now,” Mitch spoke, thinking over the scenarios as he went.

  “The guy who did this would wanna stick around, see the explosion,” Kreed replied.

  “But the kid was too high profile. They’d know we’d be looking,” Connors spoke from behind him. Mitch hadn’t even heard him walk up and had no idea how much he’d heard.

  “Then maybe it’s an inside job. Maybe this is agency-related,” Kreed added, ignoring Connors altogether and staring at Mitch. Through all the discussion they’d had on this case, never once had Mitch truly accepted this could be a political game, let alone an agency insider gone rogue. As he let the possibility resonate, Connors jumped in.

  “Not even on the radar. You better have all your ducks in a row before you start pointing your fingers at one of them.” Mitch listened and knew Kreed too well. He didn’t play well between the divisions, something they had in common. Instead of firing off a smart-ass remark like he knew his friend wanted to do, Kreed stuck his greasy, dirty hand out to Connors, introducing himself. Lost in thought, Connors took the bait and shook Kreed’s hand, almost immediately realizing his mistake.

  “Kreed Sinacola, nice to meet you,” his buddy finally let go of Connors’s hand. All Connors could do was stand there looking down at his oil- and soot-stained hand.

  “Really?” Connors asked, still looking at his hand.

  “In the justice’s case, he could have lived through his if it hadn’t been a direct hit. This one right here should have killed anyone who was in range. This car was placed in that field for a reason,” Kreed continued, staring back at the car. Connors walked away, looking for something to clean his hand. “I can’t see how it’s not organized, by multiple people. They are too well-trained and diverse. They have international experience. Probably US ex-military. If not military, then some sort of special technical training. These people are pissed off at something. There’s the National United Association. I know for sure ex-military joins that group.”

  “Yeah, but they aren’t violent,” Connors chimed in, holding his hand out away from his body. Mitch tried not to laugh at the rumpled, wet, and now soiled agent. This had to be killing him.

  “It’s only a matter of time until a splinter-group forms. You got the League of Freedom, New Resistance Party, Keywest United, every one of them draws ex-military, and they’re packed with resigned law enforcement. I also can’t see how you can discount an agency insider.” Kreed had apparently been here awhile, his mind already going ninety to nothing.

  “At this point, we can’t discount anything,” Mitch said before Connors could speak.

  “I’m gonna write this up in an official report. I’ll get Ellen to send it to you within the next few hours. What’s your plan of attack?” Kreed asked, his focus back on Mitch.

  “Maybe someone saw something. They had to drive through town to get out to that field,” Mitch reasoned. “The car was stolen from the owner of the field it blew in. He reported the car stolen about thirty minutes before he heard the explosion on the other side of his property. That was around midnight, right?” Mitch asked Connors.

  “Correct. Local police have put together a list of possible people of interest,” Connors answered.

  “Aaron Stuart’s pulled together a more targeted organized hate groups list for me. I got it late Friday night. He’s pulled all the registered members who were military-related and government-related. He stayed with groups that had memberships of under a hundred people. My gut says it’s four or five people max, probably off the radar. It’s planned, executed, and never mentioned again, but someone has to be leading the pack. They don’t want fame from this. They’re doing this for a different reason. We can interview, but they aren’t here anymore. I guarantee it,” Mitch said as they left the stall.

  “For the first time, I agree with you, Knox, but I don’t like Aaron Stuart being involved. You need to disc
uss these things with me. He’s under investigation…” Connors started again, but Kreed cut him off.

  “I bet he never played team sports as a child,” Kreed hooked a thumb in Connors’s direction as they headed toward the restrooms on the side of the building.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Mitch gave Kreed a knuckle-bump as they kept in perfect stride.

  “You know, Knox? I’ve had enough of all the disrespect. I’m a graduate of Harvard Law. I’m in charge of this case. I’ll have someone on my team narrow this down. Stuart’s out. Period. End of discussion. I’m not comfortable with him,” Connors called out from a couple of steps behind them. Mitch glanced back at him as he opened the door to the bathroom. Connors still held his hand awkwardly in front of his body to keep the grime from touching anything else.

  “What’s his problem with Stuart?” Kreed inclined his head toward the FBI agent.

  “Who could really know? You know how the feds are. All I know is what Stuart’s told me. He was apparently involved in some questionable activity in college. He broke into the FBI security system as a fraternity prank. Since then, they watch him, but they fucking hired his ass to find their breaches. So it’s like give him a job, but never forgive him for what he’s done.” Mitch let the door shut as Connors approached.

  “So he’s that badass then?” Kreed asked, washing his hands.

  “Oh yeah, but right now he’s using his power for good, not evil.” Mitch looked up, catching Kreed’s disbelieving stare reflected in the mirror, and gave him a wink.

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “Online. We play State of Decay together sometimes. I kick his ass and then he manipulates the system and cheats, but I still win,” Mitch said, leaning back against the sink next to Kreed while he dried his hands. Connors finally caught up and came through the door.

  “I’d stick with him, Knox. This is some serious explosives. We need all the help we can get. Have you been to the site?” Kreed asked.

  “No. We were headed there next.” He glanced over at Connors and got a nod from the guy.