Free Convicted by Aleatha Romig

nodded, “Yes! It’s one of those throw away phones. Why would an agent have one of those? Or why would he use it?”
    “Exactly—why indeed? While we may not be able to answer why with 100% certainty, but I can, with 100% certainty, say he isn’t texting the bureau.”
    “Here it is!”
    Brent and Jackson turned toward Number Two, who exclaimed, “At exactly 01:36:59 the nearest tower received and forwarded a text message!” He continued to type, then he added, “It originated from a disposable phone, purchased at a convenience store on the east side of Boston, from the coordinates of the hotel.”
    “And it went to..?” Jackson asked.
    Number Two exhaled. “Another disposable phone, purchased at the same store, same time, with cash.”
    “Can you see the text receiver’s location?”
    “Give me a minute.”
    Brent sat back and lifted his cup again, trying to locate any remnants of coffee lingering in the depths of Styrofoam. He marveled at the FBI’s resources. Their impressive and intrusive technology gave him confidence they’d soon learn more about these fake agents. That both soothed and worried Brent. Despite the fact, he repeatedly told the story of the late night visit, each time emphasizing Tony’s surprise and agitation, they actually alluded to the possibility Tony arranged for the fake visit and his own disappearance.
    As the two agents talked, Number Two typed and typed, and Brent’s thoughts went back to last night in the suite. He recalled Tony’s declaration, saying that he didn’t believe the FBI and feared Claire had been coerced to leave the country. Brent wanted to believe his friend. He wanted to believe that the Tony of 2010 was gone; nevertheless, the fact he once existed, lingered in Brent’s thoughts.
    He knew Claire’s theory on why Tony chose her all those years ago—a lifelong vendetta having to do with their grandfathers. Regardless of the reason, in 2010 Tony risked everything—money, appearance, everything , to kidnap and have Claire Nichols. To the outsider, it didn’t make sense. Anthony Rawlings was incredibly wealthy and not bad looking. No one would believe he’d jeopardize all he’d worked to accomplish, to kidnap a woman from Atlanta, Georgia. As Brent’s thoughts came together, he felt the rush of understanding. Suddenly, the picture made sense. It was like watching cards fall just right to close an inside straight. If Tony had been willing to bet everything to take Claire—then surely he’d be willing to gamble it all—again, if he believed she needed rescued.
    Closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, Brent allowed his thoughts to volley. One minute, he worried someone dangerous had taken Tony—the someone Claire told the FBI about. The next minute, he believed Tony arranged the escape, in an effort to find Claire on his own. If that were the case, his friend and his boss—Anthony Rawlings—was now a fugitive. If that were the case, Brent couldn’t have been prouder!
    With the sleep deprived pounding behind Brent’s closed eyes, he made a decision. He wouldn’t quit, and he hadn’t been fired; however, without a doubt—he wasn’t getting paid enough to put up with this shit! He deserved a raise, and if Tony weren’t around, then damn, that was something Brent could facilitate on his own! This shit deserved more money!
     

     
    Catherine answered the door to the estate, knowing who’d be on the other side. Large iron gates greatly reduced the odds of surprise visitors. When Marcus Evergreen checked in, security informed him that Mr. Rawlings wasn’t home. He asked to come up to the estate anyway. Without Anton home, Catherine reasoned, she was the one to handle whatever the prosecutor wanted to discuss.
    “Hello, Mr. Evergreen, please come in.”
    “Ms. London, I wanted to come out here personally. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion?”
    Leading him into the sitting room, Catherine answered, “I don’t mind; however, I’m not sure