When her escorts stopped to talk to one of the officers manning a desk at the front of the room, Morgan drifted past the cubicles in a seemingly aimless pattern that was anything but as she zeroed in on the maps with their search grids and notations. No matter that she was here, in the lion’s den, and could be arrested herself at any moment. She wasn’t nervous or afraid. She was hunting her prey—something she shared with these men and women. Only difference was she was going to find him while, despite their superior numbers and technology, they didn’t stand a chance in hell.
She casually leaned against one of the empty cubicles as she continued her reconnaissance. Although the officers had their own laptops and cell phones, each cubicle also had its own landline. It was obvious these guys weren’t fielding random tips from a hotline, so any communications they received would be high-value intel.
She glanced around. No one watching the brunette civilian in the pink coat. It would only take a minute for her to program the phones to forward to hers, allowing her to listen in to any incoming calls. She kept her posture relaxed, bored even, as she reached behind her and eased the phone’s handset off its cradle and punched in the numbers. Twenty-two seconds later it was done.
“This is her?” a woman’s voice cut through the din.
Morgan spun around, her most gracious smile plastered to her face. A petite African-American woman had emerged from the back hallway and was staring at her. Like the other officers, the woman was dressed for field work in utilitarian cargo pants, a gray polo shirt, and windbreaker with the state police logo on it.
It was clear from the way the others glanced up at the sound of her voice that she was in charge. It was equally clear from the woman’s clear, no bullshit gaze as she visually dissected Morgan that she was not going to be an easy mark. Good thing Morgan enjoyed a challenge.
“Corporal Liz Harding.” The woman didn’t extend her hand as she introduced herself. Morgan had the feeling it wasn’t meant as a slight, rather simply a reflection of how many things the State Trooper was juggling right now, day four of the search for three killer fugitives. Manners meant time wasted. Morgan liked that.
“How can I help, Corporal?” She followed Harding to her cubicle at the edge of the maze closest to the wall with the map. Since she still wore her pink wool coat and other young professional accouterments, Morgan decided to stick with that persona. Seemingly helpful while actually on a reconnaissance mission. By the time she left, she’d know exactly where not to waste her time searching for Clint as well as what leads the task force was following.
“Call me Liz,” Harding said absently, her focus on a sheaf of papers, folders, and maps strewn across a cubicle desk. Morgan took the seat beside her.
Even better than her coup with the landline would be a chance to clone Harding’s cell phone, but that would take longer and physical access to the cell, and she didn’t see someone as guarded as Harding leaving her phone unattended. Morgan slid her own phone into her hand concealed within her coat pocket as she considered her options. Maybe she could do something with the laptop? A RAT attack? The remote access Trojan horse would allow her to gain control of the microphone so she could listen in, plant a keystroke logger, and access admin privileged info. She had the software, but she needed the opportunity to use it without interruption.
She forced herself to remain patient and instead focused on the map taped to the wall behind Harding. The cops were building a geographic profile of each of the escapees, but it was obvious they had much more data for Clint than any of the others. Made sense since Western Pennsylvania had been his stalking ground for almost two decades. In fact, a geographic profile was how Lucy had discovered him originally.
Morgan made note of the areas they’d already searched and cleared as well as the presumptive sightings. Not all of the sightings would be true ones, but since she knew Clint and his habits intimately, she could eliminate potential false leads far more easily than the cops could.
As she stared at the map, she was both frustrated and relieved. Frustrated because there was no discernable pattern—and there should have been. Clint was a creature of habit. Relieved because if the cops weren’t close to finding him, she still had a chance to get to him first. Clint behind bars was almost as dangerous as Clint on the loose, so the best solution for everyone, especially Morgan, was Clint dead and buried.
“Can I see some ID?” Harding asked, interrupting Morgan’s fantasies of exactly how she’d end Clint. Her favorite would be to use her well-honed CQC knife. Ironic, since it had been Clint who taught her how to wield a blade with surgical precision.
“Sorry, didn’t know I’d need any.” Morgan kept her voice relaxed.
Harding’s glance was sharp-edged. “I have conflicting reports on your age, Ms. Ames. Do we need to notify a parent or guardian? There’s nothing in the database to verify your identity. ”