I slammed to a stop just inside the gates, flying out of my car, only to have someone jump in my way.
Astrid.
A recruit of sorts.
She came to us when her best friend settled down with one of the Henchmen. And promptly insisted we start a free range chicken community on our grounds.
Mom, a strong believer in solar energy and growing a lot of the food we served, had given her the go ahead.
And now we had about twenty-five chickens of all different colors and sizes walking around, eating bugs, chasing people they didn't like.
"Jesus Christ, Chris," Astrid snapped, bending at the waist, coming back up with a massive white chicken with a bright red comb and wattle. "You almost killed Cluck Norris, for God's sake," she hissed, holding the bird to her chest, his legs dangling, as I swear the giant thing gave me the evil eye.
"I'm sorry," I told her, meaning it. I didn't have any pets of my own, but I knew how obsessed she was with her birds. She spent the same amount of time with them--and money spoiling them--as the average parent did with their children. "My boyfriend was kidnapped," I told her, the word rolling easily off my tongue.
"Oh," she said, looking at me with curiosity. Like me, like Ferryn, I thought she had a past, one that made her ambivalent to the idea of relationships. She spent countless hours hanging out with L who was clearly in love with her, and didn't even seem to notice. "Is he worth rescuing?" she asked, sounding dubious.
"I think he is."
"Hm," she said, processing this information. "Well, okay. But don't kill my chickens in the process," she told me, turning, carrying her rooster with her, cooing to him about being a big, brave chick magnet.
Rooster manslaughter avoided, I rushed through the building, making my way to the research room, always a hub of quiet activity, keys clicking, printer murmuring, pieces of paper shuffling.
Almost everyone inside had a pair of over-ear headphones on, music blaring privately to help them focus. Coffee cups and empty energy drink cans littered desktops, filled the trash and recycling bins.
No one even spared me a glance as I moved inside, going toward my preferred desk, the one in the darkest corner facing the wall.
I signed in and began working.
I don't know where the coffee came from, but I found fresh cups at my elbow every few hours as I scoured the dark web, trying to find tendrils of information about Ewan, his current operation, where he might be hanging his cap.
There was a lot of information about his brother's imprisonment and death, and even a fair amount about a dead counterfeiter.
But everything dried up two years before. Presumably, when Finch had left town.
What Ewan did then seemed to be a mystery. There didn't appear to be other counterfeiters in the area. And from what I could tell, Ewan didn't seem like Ewan dabbled in much else save for betting on underground fighters and occasionally getting into the ring himself. But, again, from what I could find out, he hadn't been engaging in any of that unless he was going by a different name.
"Chris, you need to get some sleep," Malcolm's voice called at my side, making me jolt, push back from the desk to turn, and find the office completely cleared out. I had no idea when that had happened, what time it was, even what day it was.
My eyes felt like sandpaper; there was a pounding in my temples, and my nerves felt frazzled from the bottomless coffee cup.
Malcolm, on the other hand, looked somewhat rested and freshly showered.
"It's five a.m.," he told me.
Malcolm, like his father, was an early riser. He liked to get up before the sun, get out in nature, get some exercise.
He didn't, exactly work at Hailstorm. So there was no reason for him to be here this early unless he was here for me, to usher me to bed.
"Thanks," I said, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to rub some moisture back into them. "I just need more coffee," I said, moving to stand, stretching out the kinks in my neck and back.
"There's a whole team here, Chris," he reminded me. "Let them tag in and see what they can find while you get some sleep."
"I can't sleep. He needs me."
"You can't do shit for him if you don't take care of yourself."
"I know where my wall is," I insisted, even though I wasn't sure that I did in this situation. I was obsessive about my work even when the stakes were relatively low on a personal level.
This time, the stakes were high.
"What did the evidence at the crime scene show?" I asked, leading him out of the research room, down the halls that, despite the early hour, were already a buzz of activity. We brushed shoulders with men or women who either had not slept because they were afflicted with nightmares much like I dealt with, or those who were up already because they liked to keep their old military time.
"The big puddle of blood wasn't Finch's. From what Ly can tell, that guy left the room. Likely to deal with his injury. A broken, bloodied piece of glass was found in the bathroom. And after that, there was other, fresh blood in the living room. So we think Finch's injuries when he left the house were minimal. Ly's freak-ass nose picked up on a trace of chloroform. No gunshots in the house. The car had been parked in the garage which is why you guys didn't see anything amiss."
"So you think they were there when I dropped him off," I concluded as we went into the kitchen.
I made a beeline for the coffee machine, feeling Malc's disapproval like a weight on the shoulders that refused to be shrugged away.
"Best guess, yeah. There were footprints on the dust there. Guess Finch never went in the garage to clean it out."
"He's not exactly the scouring the floors type," I told him, smelling the cup of coffee brewing.
"Everyone concluded he was knocked out with the chloroform, bound, and locked up in the trunk."
"Did your mom have any luck with the traffic cameras in the area?" I asked, knowing they were a particular specialty of hers.
"Nothing to go on, really. By the time they'd have made it to an intersection with a traffic cam, it would be impossible to tell where the cars had come from, so it would be hard to trace."
"Hard is not impossible," I insisted, dropping sugar into my mug, then taking a tentative too-hot sip.
"No. And you know my mom. She won't give up until she finds a little piece of information to go on. But I am trying not to get your hopes up."
"Was there anything else in the house?" I asked.
"Nothing to note. A couple spots of blood we missed at first. Nothing in the bedroom. Guest room was bare."
"What about... wait," I said, brows pulling together. "What do you mean bare?"
"Nothing there. A couple folding tables. Nothing else."
"No ink? Paper? Money?" I asked.
"None of that."
"A massive printing press?" I asked, feeling something start to niggle at the edges of my swirling thoughts.
"Like an old fashioned one? No. I think there was an old printer in a corner. But the normal kind."
The printing press.
That was what this came down to.
That damn press.
The one we almost hadn't gotten.
Because we'd been outbid.
We hadn't thought much about it at the time. There were a lot of uses for printing presses still. Especially the old fashioned ones that had little quirks that newer ones didn't have anymore.