Free Last Track, The by Sam Hilliard

panic, it likely was striking. And it had to be dramatic, because a frightened child would notice nothing less. Mike worked backward over the last hundred yards. Nothing appeared impressive enough to captivate a kid from Brooklyn.
    Ten minutes passed; it was time to move forward. Lisbeth’s status report loomed. Mike filed the question for later, certain the answer would reveal itself in time.
    Returning to the trail, Mike saw that Dagget and the backpack were gone.
    11:17:45 AM
    Gathering the background report the Partner had requested was fraught with complications. Not that the work was beyond his capabilities. Crotty certainly had the necessary access levels. He knew the computer systems and the right people to ask. No, what he lacked was an explanation. A reason that cloaked the request in such insignificance that questions about why he wanted the information would be unnecessary.
    He faced the usual constraints at his day job at the Department of Homeland Security. Even though a National Security Letter opened all the doors and brought instant cooperation from any number of corporations and government agencies, an administrator had to sign off on the request, and that meant a paper trail. Documentation could be deadly; words on a page might boomerang and return later at the worst of moments. Exactly the reason all communication between himself and the Partner was conducted via pay phones, or in person. He refused to give anyone the proof to hang him with later. Crotty knew that when dealing with the bosses, what he said mattered far less than what someone could prove he had said. So he was cautious about what he committed to paper.
    Once he had trusted people at DHS. Well, now he knew better. Crotty thanked Rosen—a former Section Chief with his own motives—for that lesson. Rosen taught him how to make the job work for him, rather than work the job for the check.
    Under Rosen, Crotty’s autonomy far exceeded his stated title: Senior Case Agent. Practically a license to kill, in fact. Technically only Directors could authorize discretionary lethal force—albeit unofficially—and though Rosen had not yet become a Director, rumors said the job was his. Until then, Rosen was building bridges in anticipation of the promotion. He promised Crotty a fast track to the top alongside him. In exchange, Rosen wanted Crotty to penetrate M2.
    For years, the M2 crime syndicate had funneled stolen intellectual property out of the United States and Western Europe to the former Soviet Republics and Asia in exchange for heavy and small arms. The arms were resold and used to bankroll legitimate businesses. Crotty’s direction was simple: figure out who was in M2. Not periphery characters, either. Rosen coveted figureheads; he wanted everything. Convictions, not red tape, he said. Getting results meant getting creative because the organization was so clever.
    A convoluted, almost cell-like structure, it eluded any serious investigation for ages. Year after year, M2 and its subsidiaries prospered, circumventing federal and state authorities as if an invisible hand guided the organization past the reaches of prosecution. Before Crotty, no law enforcement agency had breached M2 any deeper than the first tier.
    Armed with his mandate, the complicated tangle of relationships and laundering fronts slowly unfurled. After eighteen months of night-and-day maneuvers—many of dubious legality—Crotty amassed enough evidence and sources for a substantial sting. He worked to put the bad guys away. He worked for the promotion. He worked like a loyal dog who believed in its master. His findings implicated one high-level M2 member and scores of mid-level operatives dead to rights. Success was so close.
    Then Rosen spiked the operation. Every trace of the M2 case files, photographs, voice recordings, and digital archives were “refiled,” reclassified as “Top Secret.” Rosen barred Crotty legally from reading his own investigation materials.