“Then don't go back to the gate.”
“Why?”
“Because the boarding pass isn't what they wanted.”
I leaned against the wall.
“What did they want?”
Daniel's voice became very quiet.
“They wanted Apollo.”
THE GIRL IN SEAT 18B
Daniel Cross arrived thirty-one minutes later.
He was sixty-two years old, six feet tall, with gray hair and a permanent stiffness in his right knee from an injury he'd received during his federal service.
He had spent twenty-six years investigating organized fraud.
He had also spent eleven years reminding me that I was too stubborn to know when to walk away.
Tonight, he took one look at my face and didn't make the usual joke.
“Where's the girl?”
“San Diego.”
“Where are you?”
“Here.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
I looked at him.
“I don't know.”
Daniel's expression hardened.
“Start from the beginning.”
We sat in a deserted café near baggage claim.
I told him everything.
The reservation.
The boarding passes.
The sudden cancellation.
Vance.
The guards.
Apollo's signal.
The USB drive.
Daniel didn't interrupt once.
When I finished, he asked:
“What was on the USB?”
“I don't know.”
“Where is it?”
“With Apollo.”
He leaned back.
“Then we have a problem.”
I opened my laptop.
“I still have the original booking.”
He examined it.
“Show me.”
I pulled up the itinerary.
Daniel leaned forward.
“My reservation says active.”
“Yes.”
“Apollo's?”
“Active.”
He pointed.
“And yours?”
“Active.”
He looked at me.
“So Vance lied.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Daniel stared at the screen.
“Who booked Apollo's ticket?”
“My sister.”
“Elena?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“Who paid?”
“Elena's employer.”
“Halcyon?”
“Yes.”
Daniel went quiet.
“That's interesting.”
“You know them?”
“I know the name.”
He pulled out his phone.
A few seconds later, he was scrolling through archived reports.
“Halcyon Medical Technologies.”
“Yes.”
“They've had federal contracts.”
“Yes.”
“Medical data.”
“Yes.”
“Secure transportation.”
“Yes.”
Daniel looked up.
“Your sister worked in compliance?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever tell you she found something?”
I thought about it.
“No.”
Then I remembered.
“She told me she was afraid.”
Daniel stopped.
“When?”
“About a month before hospice.”
“What did she say?”
“She said if anything happened, I wasn't supposed to let anyone take Apollo.”
“Did she explain why?”
“No.”
“Did she name anyone?”
“No.”
“Did she give you anything?”
“No.”
Daniel looked at the ceiling.
Then back at me.
“Maybe she did.”
“What?”
“Maybe she gave it to Apollo.”
The realization hit me.
The gray folder.
The USB drive.
Apollo's insistence on keeping it close.
Daniel stood.
“We need to get to San Diego.”
“I'll book the next flight.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“If someone manipulated your reservation here, they can manipulate another one.”
“Then how do we get there?”
“Different route.”
“Drive?”
“Too slow.”
He called someone.
Twenty minutes later, we were on a late commercial flight under different names.
Daniel had contacts everywhere.
He didn't explain how.
I didn't ask.
We arrived in San Diego just after dawn.
Apollo's flight had landed three hours earlier.
She wasn't at baggage claim.
She wasn't at the airline's youth office.
And she wasn't at the hospital listed on her paperwork.
The airline representative smiled apologetically.
“Mr. Mercer, your niece was transferred.”
“To where?”
“I'm not authorized to provide that.”
“I'm her guardian.”
“Your authorization doesn't appear in the current system.”
I stared at her.
“Show me.”
“I can't.”
Daniel stepped forward.
“Who authorized the transfer?”
The woman hesitated.
“Dr. Leonard Pierce.”
Daniel's face changed.
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“Former Halcyon executive.”
The representative became visibly uncomfortable.
Daniel pulled out his phone.
“What's the transportation company?”
“Mercury Patient Logistics.”
Daniel and I looked at each other.
“Where did they take her?”
The woman shook her head.
“I can't disclose it.”
Daniel leaned toward her.
“Then call your supervisor.”
“I already did.”
“Call again.”
She picked up the phone.
While she was talking, Daniel whispered:
“Pierce was connected to a federal investigation.”
“About what?”
“Patient records.”
“Fraud?”
“Something bigger.”
The representative hung up.
“I'm sorry.”
“What did they say?”
“Your niece was transferred under emergency medical authority.”
“Where?”
“Mercury's rehabilitation facility.”
“Address.”
She finally gave it to us.
Daniel wrote it down.
We left.
The facility was thirty miles inland.
A large concrete building surrounded by high fencing.
A security guard met us at the entrance.
“Closed.”
“We're here for Apollo Mercer.”
“I don't know that name.”
Daniel showed him a photograph.
The guard glanced at it.
Then looked away.
Too quickly.
Daniel noticed.
So did I.
“She's here,” I said.
“No.”
“You saw her.”
“No.”
“You looked at her like you knew exactly who she was.”
The guard reached for his radio.
Daniel grabbed my arm.
“Not here.”
We walked away.
At midnight, we returned.
Daniel found a service entrance.
The lock had recently been replaced.
Inside, the facility was dark.
We moved through a corridor lined with medical equipment.
Room after room.
Empty.
Then we found an office.
A printer was still warm.
A document lay on the tray.
I picked it up.
APOLLO MERCER — TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION
The signature at the bottom said:
ELENA MERCER.
My sister.
Dead for three weeks.
I felt sick.
“Forgery,” Daniel said.
“How do you know?”
“Your sister's handwriting.”
He pulled a genuine document from his bag.
“Look.”
Elena's signature crossed the M with a long upward stroke.
The forged signature didn't.
Daniel photographed it.
Then we heard footsteps.
We hid behind a shelving unit.
Two men entered.
One wore an airport operations uniform.