Stolen

Chapter 1

"Miss Hathaway? Could you come here for a moment, please?"

The young blonde nervously scooted back her chair and made her way to the office where her employer, Byron Treadwell, was meeting with a client she'd seen several times before. A bit timidly, she peered around the corner.

"Yes, Mister Treadwell?"

"Doctor Faulkner tells me that he contacted you three days ago and made a rather large deposit to his investment account."

"Yes, that's right, I remember," replied the blonde.

Her employer tapped the open file impatiently. "But the figure you documented here is fifty thousand dollars less than his actual deposit."

She looked at the file in disbelief. "I...I don't understand, sir."

"Where did the money go, Miss Hathaway?" Faulkner demanded.

"I don't know!" she insisted. "I didn't do this!"

"Silence!" Faulkner yelled as the other man moved swiftly behind her to close the office door. He then produced a syringe from his breast pocket.

"No!" Hathaway screamed, sensing what was about to happen.

"You will tell me what happened to my missing money, Miss Hathaway!"

Then Faulkner thrust the syringe deep into the blonde's right shoulder as Treadwell gripped her arms tightly to prevent her escape. Her eyes grew wide for a moment, then her body went limp in his arms.

"You know what to do with her," Treadwell growled.

Faulkner nodded, and the two men half-carried, half-dragged the young woman to Faulkner's car.

*******

It was barely ten in the morning. There were almost no cars in the shopping mall parking lot as Jim Phelps brought his car to a stop and got out. He walked to a side entrance and watched as the automatic door opened.

Jim walked into a dimly-lit room containing a dozen or so arcade games. Nearby, a young man in a black leather jacket was trying his luck at one of them. Jim walked up beside him.

"It's amazing at the skill and concentration that's required by one of these," Jim observed aloud.

The man recognized the codespeak but didn't look up from his task. "It takes a lot of practice to get the high scores," he responded. "I've played almost every game in here, but that one over there is my favorite."

He nodded to a dark blue machine nestled in the corner, just as his machine said Game Over.  "Why don't you check out my scores?"

Jim nodded to the young man and walked over to the machine. He reached under the console and located the familiar black box. Setting it atop a nearby table, he allowed the device to scan his thumbprint and then lifted the lid. He entered the code, inserted the disc, and watched carefully as it began to play.

Chapter 2

"Good morning, Jim.  This is Rachel Hathaway, an unassuming administrative assistant at an investment banking firm in a rural suburb of Denver, Colorado."

The girl smiled back at Jim from the still photograph on the video screen. She was pretty enough, with her long, straight blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, but there was nothing especially glamorous about her.  She looked to be in her early twenties.

Jim snapped back to attention as the voice continued.

"Five days ago, Rachel left her place of employment and disappeared, and nobody has heard from her since.  Despite a brief but intense investigation, the police have not been able to uncover any clues as to what might have happened to her."

There was a brief pause, and Jim was expecting the voice to explain how Rachel's disappearance was connected to something of far-reaching political significance.  But that's not what happened.

"Jim, the Secretary specifically requested the help of you and your team in locating Rachel Hathaway.  For you see, Rachel is his daughter.  For obvious reasons, this relationship has been kept low-key, and as far as we know, none of Rachel's frequent contacts are aware of it."

Jim was flabbergasted.  He had known and worked with the Secretary for over twenty years.  He never knew the man even had a daughter.

"Because there are virtually no clues in this case, it is not known whether or not Rachel's disappearance is connected to her relationship to the Secretary.  But, obviously, this cannot be ruled out.  Your mission, Jim - which the Secretary asks that you accept - is to find out what happened to Rachel Hathaway, to bring to justice those responsible, and circumvent any hostile political agendas that may be connected to her disappearance."

As the voice droned on with the usual disclaimer about disavowal, Jim's mind was racing.  That was it?  he thought.  No person of interest?  No background information?  No theory?  The Secretary usually gave him more to work with than this.  How were they ever going to pull this off?

Then, suddenly, Jim sobered.  That was all the Secretary gave them because that was all he knew, and he didn't take the time to dig further because he wanted to get the mission to Jim and the team as soon as possible.  It would be up to them to do the legwork.

It would not be easy, Jim knew, but the Secretary had requested them specifically, so he knew what he had to do.  Besides, Jim thought ruefully, if it were my daughter, I'd want the best team I could find out there looking for her.

Pleased that the Secretary thought.of them that way, Jim finally realized that the disc had already self-destructed and smoke was curling up a nearby pole.  Hastily, he dashed outside before anyone realized what was going on.

Chapter 3

"For this mission, our team was specifically requested by the Secretary himself," began Jim when the team gathered for their customary briefing.

Max's lips curled into a wide grin.  "Well, I'm glad he's pleased with our work," he responded.  "I always knew we had the best team in the IMF."

The other team members smiled their agreement, and Jim nodded.  "I agree with you, Max, but we'll have our work cut out for us this time."

He punched a few keys on his keyboard.  "Meet the Secretary's daughter, Rachel Hathaway."

"His daughter?" Nicholas said incredulously.  "Did we even know he had a daughter?"

"I didn't before three hours ago," replied Jim, "and I've known the man for a long time.  Apparently nobody else knew, either.  My understanding is that she and the Secretary intentionally kept the relationship secret."

"So what's our mission, Jim?" Shannon asked.

"Rachel is missing.  She disappeared five days ago after leaving work and hasn't been seen or heard from since."  Jim sighed.  "Our job is to find her."

"What do we know about her disappearance?"  Grant inquired.

"Basically, what I just told you."

There was silence in the room for a long moment.  Then Max spoke.  "You're kidding, right?"

Jim sighed.  "I wish I were.  The police came up empty.  We have no clues. All we know is that she works at an investment banking firm outside of Denver, Colorado called Main Street Investments."

Jim shot a look at Grant, who began punching buttons on his laptop.  "Main Street Investments.  Owned and operated by one Byron Treadwell.  No obvious red flags here.  It's been in business for nearly ten years."  Grant looked up at Jim.  "Of course, I won't be able to access any information about their clientele without someone on the inside."

"Well, since the only employee besides Mister Treadwell is now missing," Jim answered, "it looks like he's going to have to hire a temp.  Shannon, you'll report to work in the morning."  Shannon smiled and nodded.

"Grant, you'll be going in, too.  It seems all this police activity has attracted attention from the Financial Regulatory Authority.  Main Street Investments is due for an audit."

"Right, Jim," he replied.

"What about us, Jim?" Nicholas asked quietly.

"We can't guarantee that Rachel's disappearance is work-related," Jim replied, "and we know next to nothing about her personal life, other than the fact that she lives alone.  You and Max will check out her condo and look for any clues you can find - people she knows, places she frequents - and do any follow-up work necessary."

Jim paused briefly, then continued.  "I'll be meeting with the Secretary this evening to find out if there's anything else he knows that might help our mission."

Jim looked at his teammates.  "I think it's best, at least for now, that we keep Rachel's relationship with the Secretary a secret.  Even so, we can't ignore the possibility that whoever took her knows about it and perhaps did so for that reason.  Because there's so little that we do know, every possible lead should be investigated thoroughly."

Chapter 4

Shannon sighed as she pulled into the parking lot of Main Street Investments.  She wasn't sure what she expected from the place where the Secretary's daughter worked - perhaps more bells and whistles.  What she found was an ordinary-looking, dull brown office building with the name of the business in tiny letters on a marquee sign out front, and no room for more than two or three cars to park.

Shannon got out of the car, adjusted her navy blue business suit, and walked inside, her heels clicking with each step.

Inside, things were just as underwhelming.

At the sound of her knock, a wiry man, not much taller than Shannon, who looked to be in his early thirties, answered the door.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm Shannon Macintosh," she answered with a wide smile as she extended her hand.  "The temp agency sent me.  I'm looking for Mister Treadwell."

"Ah, yes," he responded, pushing his black-rimmed glasses back onto his nose as if he'd just remembered.  "Please come in."

Seemingly distracted, he turned away, without accepting her handshake, and Shannon followed him back to what she perceived to be her office.

It was a tiny room, with a tiny desk that was piled at least a foot high with multiple stacks of files.

"Needed help long?" Shannon quipped when she saw the backlog.

"Ah, well, the last girl left abruptly almost a week ago.  She didn't say why; she just took off one day and never came back.  Left all of this undone."

Treadwell looked toward Shannon but didn't meet her eyes.  "I trust you know a bit about investment banking, or else the agency wouldn't have sent you.  Nothing to it, really.  Just keep regular contact with the customers, make sure they're happy with their portfolios, and update their files when necessary."

As Shannon neared the desk, she noticed the conspicuous absence of a desktop computer.  "Is there a computer?" she asked.

Treadwell looked toward her incredulously. "Of course, there's a computer, Miss Macintosh," he replied dryly.

He disappeared into an adjoining room for a moment, then returned with what was obviously a laptop computer case.

"I can't just leave this lying around,"

Treadwell sighed impatiently.  "This is where you'll log into the client accounts.  You will input their deposits and the system will track their portfolios.  I will give you the password for the laptop.  At the end of each day, you will return the laptop to me and I will keep it locked up in my office."

"Yes, sir." Shannon did her best to smile brightly, but her effort was lost on her new employer.  "So...what do I do with these files?"  she asked, pointing to the stacks of files on Rachel Hathaway's old desk.

Again, Treadwell sighed impatiently, and when he addressed her, it was as if he were talking to a small child.  "Call them up and find out if they want to make any changes to their accounts.  The software program will do the rest."

Then, he wrote down the password to the laptop and left her to her work, with no further explanation.

*******

A few hours later, Byron Treadwell exited his office.

"How's it going, Miss Macintosh?" he inquired.

"Pretty good," she replied, more breezily than she felt.  "I've called a few clients and I've figured out how to enter their information into the computer program."

"Good," Treadwell replied succinctly, as he  locked up his office.  "I have a meeting.  I'll be back by four to retrieve your computer.  Then you'll be dismissed for today."

Then, without a further word, he disappeared out the front door.

As soon as he left, Shannon keyed her communicator.  "Jim."

Jim glanced at his watch, then picked up the communicator in surprise, not expecting to hear from Shannon for another couple of hours.  "Shannon, how's it going?" he asked, as Grant listened in.

"Treadwell stepped out to attend some type of meeting and left me here.  He said he'd be back by four."

"What are your thoughts on Treadwell?"

"He's very strange," Shannon replied.  "There's something off about him.  I can't figure out if he's rude or just distracted.  Rachel's office is extremely disorganized."

"She certainly left in a hurry," mused Jim, "whatever the circumstances."

"How are the files kept, Shannon?"  Grant asked quickly.

"There is a paper file for each account," answered Shannon, "and the changes are written down in there.  But apparently there's a master spreadsheet on Treadwell's computer.  I have a laptop on which I am to record the changes to the accounts, but Treadwell insists on locking it up in his office at the end of the day."

"Treadwell will have to give his auditor access to his desktop," Grant said excitedly, "Hopefully I can compare his records to the paper files and make sure everything adds up."

"Did you find anything interesting in Rachel's desk?"

"No, Jim.  Not so much as a scrap of paper with her handwriting on it.  Someone cleaned everything out."

"Yes, and I think Treadwell knows more than he's letting on,"  Jim agreed.  "Max and Nicholas are on their way to Rachel's condo now, Shannon. We'll see you in a few hours."

Chapter 5

Max pulled the white utility van in front of Rachel's condo.  He thrust the gearshift into park as Nicholas reached beside him and grasped a clipboard and pen.  Wordlessly, they exited the vehicle and walked toward the front door.

As predicted, the agents caught sight of a young, thin man approaching them at a rapid clip.

"Excuse me," he greeted tersely, as if trying to be polite but failing somewhat.  "Who are you and what is your business here?"

"Health inspectors," Nicholas replied smoothly, flashing his trademark grin and an ID badge.

The man scowled.  "Well, I'm the super here," he retorted.  "No one goes in or out without getting through me "

"Well, I'm sure you'd be glad to cooperate with the Department of Health, now, wouldn't you?" Nicholas asked, casting a glance at Max, who was fingering the knockout dart gun in the pocket of his navy blue coveralls they'd brought in case they ran into opposition.

The super looked closely at Nicholas' ID badge again, then cleared his throat noisily.

"Yes.  Yes, of course," he replied nervously, as he whipped out a key and unlocked the door.  "Help yourself.  Do you mind to lock up when you're done?"

"Not a problem," Max mumbled.

"Thank you," smiled Nicholas cordially.

Once the super had gone, Max traded glances with Nicholas, who smiled and raised one eyebrow.  Max blew out his breath in a whooshing sound and led the way inside.

"You check here, and I'll see what's upstairs," Nicholas suggested.

"Right," came Max's reply.

Nicholas slapped his buddy's back affectionately and dashed upstairs.

Rachel's condo was simply and sparsely furnished.  As Nicholas entered her bedroom - feeling vaguely uncomfortable at violating the privacy of someone he didn't even know - he saw a heavily stocked bookshelf.  A smile touched his eyes as he perused the titles.

"Good taste," he murmured.

Nicholas glanced around the room and was surprised by how plain the furnishings were.  There was nothing to clue him in on any aspect of her personality - not even any photographs of family or friends hanging on the walls.  Nicholas wondered absently if she had any friends, and surmised that she was either never home or spent all of her time here, curled up with a good book. He suspected the latter.

He frowned.  There were no personal papers lying around, as he had hoped.  Realizing that he'd learned a few things about Rachel but otherwise had no luck, Nicholas raced back downstairs at a medium clip.  Max was standing in the living room, his eyes focused on something small in his hand.

"Well, I came up empty," Nicholas announced, stopping beside his friend.  "What did you find?"

"Just this," Max replied.  In his hand was a yellow matchbook from a place called The Golden Stallion.  Written on the inside, in decidedly female script, was the name "Kiki."

"Kiki?" read Nicholas, smirking at Max.

"Sounds interesting," Max answered, grinning back at his friend.  "What do you say we go clubbing tonight, pal?"

"Oh, Max, you never were my type," Nicholas deadpanned, rolling his eyes.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Max urged, slapping his friend's back playfully, and the two agents exited the condo.

*******

"So what did you find out about Rachel Hathaway?"  Jim asked when his agents returned.

"Not much," Max admitted.  "Her condo is barely furnished and the walls are nearly bare."

"No photographs, no letters, nothing personal at all," continued Nicholas, "and it seems intentional.  She does have quite a few novels, mostly early American and classics."

"That jives with the lack of information I've been able to find out about her," Grant chimed in.

"Yes, and also with what the Secretary told me last night," Jim added.  "In spite of the obvious precautions about their relationship, Rachel remains very close to her parents.  They talked on the phone every day without exception right up until the day she disappeared, but neither the Secretary nor his wife could name a single one of Rachel's friends - male or female.  For all they knew, she went to work and home and that was it.  She never talked about having any issues at work or otherwise, and they feel sure that she would have.  That's why her sudden disappearance doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, and neither does this," Max put in, taking the yellow matchbook from his pocket and showing it to the others.

"The Golden Stallion," Grant mused.  A quick search revealed nothing extraordinary about the nightclub, and no data at all about the mysterious "Kiki."

"Looks like you all will just have to go check it out," smiled Jim.  He looked at his watch.  "Shannon should be checking in within the next hour."

Chapter 6

At just after four, Shannon advised the team that she was on her way back to base camp.  Upon arrival, she told the others about Treadwell's bizarre behavior.

"He got back to the office a few minutes before four," she reported.  "At precisely four o'clock he was looming over my shoulder, pressuring me to hurry up and save my data.  Then he practically snatched the laptop out of my hands and threw me out the door."  She shuddered.  "So strange."

"He's sure behaving like a man with something to hide," mused Jim.  "Maybe tomorrow we'd better tail him  and find out where he rushes off to at four p.m. every day."

"In the meantime, Nicholas and I are going to check out The Golden Stallion," Max grinned, emerging from a side room wearing navy dress pants and a silk shirt.  "Hopefully, we'll find Kiki."

*******

The neon lights of The Golden Stallion were visible a good half mile before the two agents pulled into the parking lot.  Max killed the lights and switched off the engine.  As he reached for the door handle, Nicholas caught his arm.

"Wait, Max," he hissed.

Max startled for a moment, then followed his partner's gaze to a side entrance.  A muscular, bald man stood sentry outside the door, watching as a steady line of people filed by him and into the club.

"I'll bet there's something very illegal going on in there," Nicholas whispered, though no one could hear him outside the sedan.

"I'll bet you're right," Max agreed.  He looked at Nicholas.  "Why don't you go find Kiki," he suggested.  "I'll keep a watch here, and try to find out who's coming to the party."

"Are you sure, pal?" Nicholas questioned, half-teasingly.  "Kiki sounds more like your type."

"Maybe." Max's lips curled into a sideways grin.  "But so is Muscles over there."

"Good point," Nicholas concurred.  "But don't push your luck, all right?"

"Hey, I'll be careful," Max said in mock protest as he reached for a tiny video camera disguised as a lapel pin.  "I'm just going to collect some pictures."

Nicholas slapped his friend's shoulder playfully and then went inside.

******

Nicholas walked up to the bar and smiled at the pretty dark-skinned lady with the long, black curls who was preparing the drinks.  She smiled back at him.

"What'll it be, handsome?"

"I'll take a scotch," Nicholas answered, "but I'm looking for Kiki."

The pretty brunette's smile faded for just a moment as she poured the drink, but then it returned just as quickly.

"Who's asking?" she questioned slyly, as she set the drink in front of him.

Nicholas took a long drink of his scotch, taking his time before answering her question.  "Let's just say I'm a friend of Rachel's," he finally replied.

The woman studied him for a moment.  "Did her father send you?" she asked suddenly.

Nicholas flinched slightly at the question, and then cursed to himself.  It had been a test, to gauge his recognition, and he knew it.  He hoped he hadn't unwittingly placed Rachel - or the Secretary - at risk.

Nicholas wasn't quite sure how to answer the question, but ultimately decided to go with his gut.  "In a matter of speaking, yes," he replied.

"Why should I trust you?" she asked pointedly.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow.  "Why should I trust you?"  he countered.

She smiled, tilting her head sideways. "Touche, handsome," she responded.  "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

Nicholas was aware of only the slightest bit of trepidation as the bartender advised her coworker she was taking a break and then led him outside.  There was something in those smoky brown eyes of hers - something genuine.  Trusting her was easy, even for someone used to mistrust and deception.

"My name is Keisha," she began softly once they were outside the club.  "Kiki just works better here.  I've known Rachel since high school, and we were roommates in college."

She stopped walking and turned to look Nicholas dead in the eyes, and for the first time he saw her facade crack slightly.  "Rachel doesn't have many friends - I know them all - and virtually nobody knows who her father is."  A pause.  "That means she's missing, isn't she?"

Cutting straight to the chase.  Nicholas liked that about her.

"We believe so," he found himself admitting, wondering if his team would approve of the information he was sharing so easily with this stranger.  "We found a matchbook with the club's name and yours at her condo.  It was all we had to go on."

"Here's my car," Keisha said suddenly, tilting her head forward to indicate a shiny red sports car.  "Can we talk in there?"

Again, a look of hesitance crossed the skeptical agent's face.  Was he being set up?  he couldn't help but wonder.

Keisha saw the look.  "You don't trust me," she observed quietly.

Nicholas looked apologetic, but Keisha shrugged.  "I don't blame you.  We can talk in your car if you'd rather."

Nicholas half-forced a smile.  "It's okay," he said quickly.  He waited as Keisha unlocked the doors, then he climbed into the passenger seat.  From the way the car was parked, he could see Max standing guard at the club's side entrance.  Nicholas smiled to himself.  Just collecting some pictures, huh?

Once the car doors were closed, Keisha began to speak.

"Rachel and I usually meet here a couple times a week, just to talk," she stated. "I've been bartending here for a couple of months, keeping an eye on the extracurricular activities."

Keisha nodded toward the side entrance.  "I'm actually an undercover field agent with the FBI, and that is what we believe to be an illegal gambling ring.  We're trying to find out who's running the show before we shut it down."

Nicholas' head was spinning with all of this new information, but at the same time he was wondering what all of this had to do with Rachel.

As if reading his mind, Keisha continued.  "One of the frequent visitors is none other than Rachel's creep of a boss."

"Treadwell?" Nicholas said, raising his eyebrows.

"The same," Keisha replied.  "The last time I saw Rachel, we were drinking martinis when he showed up and saw her here.  He didn't look pleased - almost as if he were afraid she would figure out why he was here.  At any rate, he told her that they had a meeting the next day with some high profile client and she'd better be sober for it."

Keisha paused, and a hint of sadness crossed her face.  "Rachel was frightened.  She'd shared with me some weeks ago that she suspected Treadwell was doing something questionable, and she wondered then if she was about to be thrown under the bus.  I begged her not to go in the next day, to call in sick or something, but it's never been her style to run and hide.  That was the last time I saw her."

Nicholas felt a pang of empathy twinge in his gut.  "I'm sorry," he said sincerely.  "Has Treadwell been here since then?"

"Every night that I have been," she answered.  Then something caught her eye.  "Matter of fact," she added, whispering as if someone else was listening, "that's him now."

Nicholas watched as a thin, wiry man walked toward Max, showed him what appeared to be a business card, and was granted entrance into the club.

"Do you think he could have done something to Rachel?" Nicholas asked.

Keisha shook her head.  "He's a mouse," she replied.  "I doubt he'd be capable of doing anything on his own.  But I believe he knows what happened to her."

Keisha paused briefly, realizing she had no idea who she had just spent the last fifteen minutes talking to. "Look, Mister....?"

"Nicholas," he smiled.

"Nicholas," she confirmed, returning his smile briefly before it faded again, "I'm not going to ask questions because I know that Rachel's father often has some rather unorthodox ways of getting his work done.  But if you can help find my friend, I'd appreciate it."

"That's what we plan to do," Nicholas assured her.

Keisha glanced at her watch.  "I'd better get back inside.  If you need anything else, you know where to find me."

The two agents got out of her car, and Keisha turned to go back inside.  Then, briefly, she turned around again.

"See you soon, handsome," she winked, and disappeared into the club.

Chapter 7

Nicholas climbed into the agents' car and waited for a few more moments.  Finally, he saw Max walk across the parking lot and climb into the driver's seat.

"Just going to take some pictures, eh?" he teased, relieved that Max hadn't met with any trouble.

Max grinned.  "I convinced Muscles that the boss had sent me to give him a break," he explained.  "So I was in charge of checking ID's at the door.  Guess what's going on in there?"

"Illegal gambling?"  Nicholas ventured.

Max looked stunned.  "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," Nicholas answered vaguely.

"Well, you nailed that one, but you'll never guess who one of the visitors turned out to be."

"Byron Treadwell?"  Nicholas responded, unable to stifle a grin at Max's crestfallen expression.  "Sorry to steal your thunder, Max.  It seems Kiki was my type, after all."

"You sly devil," Max quipped.  "Well, at any rate, I did manage to get one bit of information you don't have."

"And what's that?"

"A photo of the entry ID," Max said triumphantly, "in case we want to invite ourselves to the party."

"Good work, Max," Nicholas praised.

Max slapped his friend's shoulder and started the car.  "Let's get back to headquarters and let the others know what we found."

*******

Back at base camp, Nicholas and Max reported their findings to the other three agents.

"So Treadwell is a gambler," Shannon mused.

"Yes, it would appear so," Jim replied, "which makes me wonder where he gets his money."

"Well, if he's skimming it from client accounts," Grant vowed, his jaw set, "I'll find out."

"I just don't trust that man," Shannon said in disgust.

"Nor do I," Nicholas agreed, "but Keisha is convinced that someone else is involved with Rachel's disappearance."

"I think so, too," Jim answered, with a glance toward Shannon, "but I also agree that he knows more than he's telling."  He smiled faintly at Nicholas and Max.  "While Grant and Shannon keep an eye on Treadwell at work, maybe you two can check out what's going on at home."

*******

The next morning, Shannon was already hard at work when there came a knock at the front door.  Treadwell noiselessly walked to the door, peered through the peephole, and then opened it.

"May I help you?" he asked, in a voice that sounded tired.  Or bored.  Grant wasn't sure which.

"Tommy Dershwin," Grant replied, his voice choppy, as he reached out to shake Treadwell's hand.  At first, Treadwell did not reciprocate, but Grant kept his hand in position and remained silent until he reluctantly did so.

"I'm with the Financial Regulatory Authority," Grant continued, flashing an ID badge.  "I need to take a look at your records."

"An audit?"  Treadwell cried incredulously.  "Nobody told me about this!"

"Well, sometimes it happens that way, sir," Grant smirked.  Then his smile faded somewhat as he saw that Treadwell was still in the way of his entering the office.  "May I come in, Mister...?"

"Treadwell.  Byron Treadwell.  And, yes, of course."

Treadwell stepped aside to let Grant enter.  Grant walked into Shannon office, smiled, and extended his hand.  "You must be Rachel Hathaway."

Shannon pasted a dumb look on her face, and Grant saw Treadwell's face flush.  "Um, no, this is Shannon Macintosh.  Ms. Hathaway is no longer employed here."

"Oh?"  Grant asked, pretending to make notes on a clipboard.  "I trust the personnel files are in order, then?"

"Yes, of course," Treadwell replied, recovering quickly, as he led Grant to his office.

"I will need to see not only your paper files, but all of the electronic files on both computers," Grant advised.  "You will need to remain on the premises but you are not allowed to remain in the room with me."

"But Miss Macintosh needs access to the paper files and the laptop to do her work," Treadwell protested.

"I can look at the laptop while she takes her lunch break," Grant replied coolly.  "I can look at the paper files as long as she's not busy with them."

Satisfied, Treadwell retreated to the lounge while Grant went into his office and closed the door.  Shannon deliberately got up to go to the restroom.

"Max," she whispered into her communicator once the door was closed, "Grant is in position, and I've got Treadwell in sight."

"Right," Max responded, as he and Nicholas emerged from the white utility van parked in front of the address Grant had given them earlier.  "Nicholas and I are about to check out his place now.  Stand by."

Max expertly wielded his lockpicks while Nicholas kept watch, and in seconds they were inside.  Quickly but meticulously they riffled through Treadwell's personal effects.  It was not difficult; at first, there did not appear to be an item out of place.

For that reason, the large, brown object protruding precariously from the top shelf of the closet in Treadwell's bedroom caught Max's eye almost instantly.  He reached up, grasped it, and pulled it down.  It was a book.

Max opened the front cover.

"Nicholas!" he called.

Almost instantly came the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs two at a time, and then Nicholas was beside him.  "What'd you find?"

"It's a ledger," Max said softly, as he flipped through the pages, which were covered with names and dollar amounts.

"Obviously for Main Street Investments," Nicholas observed, "but I'll bet the figures don't match what's in the computers."

"Any sign of Rachel?"  Max asked.

"No.  Nothing at all, except this."

"Then I'd say let's get out of here.  We need to make some copies of this and get it back here before Treadwell misses it."

Within two minutes, the two agents were headed back to base camp, ledger in tow.

Chapter 8

Grant entered Byron Treadwell’s office and closed the door behind him.  The desktop computer was on and the password had been entered, so all of the information was at Grant’s fingertips.  Rather than take the time to look at it, Grant took a floppy diskette out of his briefcase and stuck it in the disk drive.  Then he punched a few buttons and waited for the floppy disk to do its work while he looked through Rachel Hathaway’s personnel file to see if he noticed any red flags.  There were none.

Soon, the disk contained every file on Treadwell’s hard drive.  Hastily, Grant marked it, then he printed off one or two pages of the account summary, exited the office, and let Treadwell know that he was finished with the desktop.

Shannon took her lunch break in the lounge as Grant closed the door to her office and repeated the procedure with the laptop.  While the diskette was loading, Grant made note of the paper files which were in two separate piles on Shannon’s desk.  One pile had an orange Post-It Note on top of it – Shannon’s unspoken signal that this was the pile she had already been working with.  Grant knew that Shannon had kept copies of the account summary page of each file, so he concentrated his efforts on the smaller pile beside it.

Within the hour, both computer hard drives and all of the account summary sheets from the paper client files had been copied and were safely in Grant’s possession.  He lingered around for another hour or two, pretending to read client files and take notes for effect, until the communicator in his pocket registered a faint beep.  That was Max’s signal that he and Nicholas were safely out of Treadwell’s apartment.

“Well, Mister Treadwell, I think I am finished here,” Grant said, feigning a tired sigh.

“That certainly didn’t take as long as I’d thought,” remarked Treadwell.  “How did we do?”

“Well, everything seems to be in order,” replied Grant vaguely, “but you’ll have my complete report in a week or so.”  Nodding to Shannon, he made his exit.

*******

Later that evening, Grant uploaded the contents of both diskettes into his own laptop and ran them through a special software program.  He spent time studying the account summaries from the paper files and the ledger that Max and Nicholas had found, comparing them to the figures that the program spat out.  The other agents tried to make small talk, knowing that their next move depended upon what Grant was able to glean from Treadwell's information.

Finally, curiosity got the best of Nicholas.  He rose from the sofa and walked over to stand next to Grant.

"Find anything?" he asked.

"Yeah," Grant replied, with a heavy sigh.  "Just like we suspected, our boy Treadwell has been skimming money from some of his wealthiest clients."

"To fund his gambling habit, no doubt," Nicholas observed.

Grant nodded, as the other agents walked over to his computer.  "This software program is designed to pick up discrepancies between the information taken from the laptop and that taken from Treadwell's main computer," he explained.

Grant pushed a few buttons, and the computer flashed up a series of numbers, moving rapidly until only three accounts were visible on-screen.

"These three accounts represent the highest discrepancies between their balances.  Among the three, there is a difference of over eighty thousand dollars."

Jim whistled.

"It seems that Rachel was entering the figures correctly," Grant mused, "but Treadwell was changing them when he uploaded her figures to his desktop."

Grant looked at Max.  "The ledger you found is the true record of what's left in the various accounts," he said, almost sadly.  "Collectively, there's almost two hundred thousand dollars missing."

"So Treadwell is a thief," Max reasoned.  "How does that bring us closer to Rachel?"

"Well, Keisha said that Rachel was scheduled to meet with Treadwell and a high-profile client the day she vanished," Nicholas reminded them.

"What day was that?" Grant asked.

"The seventeenth," Jim advised.

"If the meeting was about a discrepancy in funds, the transaction would have likely taken place on the sixteenth," Grant mused.  He pushed a few buttons, then smirked in satisfaction.

"Here we are," he said triumphantly.  "Doctor William Faulkner.  Rachel recorded a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars, but Treadwell's desktop shows only fifty thousand."

Grant rummaged through the pile of papers until he was grasping Faulkner's account summary.  "This paper also shows fifty thousand, but there are signs it's been changed."  Grant pointed to the evidence that correction liquid had been used in several important places.

"Do you think that's it?"  Shannon asked.

"Its got to be," Grant responded.  "It's the only entry with a discrepancy on the sixteenth, even though Treadwell has apparently been skimming his account for years."

"So Treadwell has been funding his gambling habit with his clients' money," Nicholas mused, beginning to pace.  "He saw Rachel that night at The Golden Stallion and thought she was about to find him out.  So he arranged a meeting with Faulkner, showed him the fake account summary, and blamed Rachel."

"Which means that Faulkner knows what happened to her," Jim agreed, "and finding him is our next move."

Chapter 9

Before turning in for the night, Grant decided to play a hunch.  He pulled the names of several of the top investors into Treadwell's firm, researched their profiles in the IMF database, and then compared their photographs with the video Max had taken the night before at the club.

"They're all here," he stated, his suspicions confirmed.

"All except William Faulkner," Jim amended, looking over the profile that Grant had pulled.

"Maybe he was already there before we arrived," Max suggested.

"Or maybe his role is a lot more important," Nicholas reasoned, following his leader's logic.

"I think you're right, Nicholas," Jim agreed.  "I think Faulkner and Treadwell have some sort of alliance between them, and if we can break it, we'll not only find Rachel, but we'll also put an end to their illegal scheme."

"So what's next, Jim?"  Shannon asked.

Jim nodded to Grant, who opened a device resembling a scanner and retrieved a replica of the identification card Max had photographed the night before.  He handed it to Jim, who looked at it and gave a satisfied nod.  "It's time I invited myself to the game."

*******

The next morning, Treadwell had barely gotten settled in at work when his telephone rang.

"This is Treadwell," he answered flatly.

"Mister Treadwell, it's Dershwin from the Financial Regulatory Authority."

"Ah, yes, Mister Dershwin, how can I help you?"  he responded, nervously loosening his collar.

"I've been looking through the figures that I gathered from your firm yesterday, and I've found some.... discrepancies.  It's probably easily explained, but I do have some additional questions for you.  I can be there this afternoon, if you're able to meet with me."

"This afternoon?"  Treadwell repeated, shaken.

"Yes.  About three o'clock?"

"Okay," Treadwell agreed, and the connection was broken.

Fifteen minutes later, there came a knock at the front door, and Treadwell instructed Shannon to open it.  A tall, distinguished gentleman entered.

"Good morning, miss," Jim Phelps greeted.

"May I help you, sir?"  Shannon smiled.

"I'd like to speak to Byron Treadwell, please.  My name is James Braddock."

Shannon started to summon Treadwell, but he had heard the voices and was now standing in the lobby.  "Mister Braddock," he greeted, giving Jim a flaccid handshake, "I'm Byron Treadwell.  What can I do for you?"

Jim cast a cautionary glance at Shannon.  "I have some personal business to discuss, Mister Treadwell.  Is there someplace private we can talk?"

Treadwell showed Jim to his office and closed the door.

"I know you're a busy man, Mister Treadwell, so I'll get right to the point," Jim began, once the door had closed behind him.  "I'd like an invitation to The Golden Stallion."

Treadwell's face flushed, but he quickly recovered.  "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mister Braddock. We run an investment firm, not a club."

"That's not what William Faulkner said," answered Jim matter-of-factly, not missing the look of recognition on Treadwell's face.

"Mister Faulkner is an investor in my firm, but nothing more," Treadwell rebutted, having regained his composure.

"Oh, I think he's much more than that," Jim smiled.  "You see, Billy and I have several different business ventures together, and when he told me what a lucrative partnership you all had down at the club, well, I was very interested."

Jim reached into the breast pocket of his light grey suitcoat and pulled out the identification Grant had prepared for him.  "Billy already fixed me up an ID card.  When's your next game?"

"Um," Treadwell hesitated, obviously flustered.  "We haven't exactly planned it yet.  We still have some things to discuss.  Do you have a number where I can reach you?"

Jim handed Treadwell a business card as he got up from his chair.  "I'll wait for your call, Mister Treadwell," he smiled.  Then he left the.office, winking at Shannon on the way out.

Treadwell, still in shock, walked to the window, and was even more surprised when he saw Jim get into the car with the man he recognized as Tommy Dershwin.

Treadwell's mind was racing.  What was Faulkner's business partner doing with the auditor from the FRA?  Was Faulkner trying to set him up?

Treadwell, frightened and angry, headed back to his office, slammed the door, and picked up the telephone.

*******

While Grant and Jim were busy with Treadwell, Nicholas was placing a call.

"William Faulkner," came the greeting.

"Ah, Doctor Faulkner.  Nick Mays with the FBI," he responded.  "I'm investigating the disappearance of Rachel Hathaway."

"My apologies, sir, but you must have the wrong person.  I heard about the disappearance on the news, but I'm afraid I don't know Miss Hathaway at all."

"You know she worked for Byron Treadwell."

"Yes, I heard that," he answered, with a slight bit of trepidation.

"Well, we asked him to give us a list of people who might have some more information, and your name was on that list."  Nicholas paused, allowing the tidbit to sink in.  "It seems Miss Hathaway might have had access to your investment records."

"Mister Mays, I had nothing to do with that girl's disappearance."

"That may be true, Doctor Faulkner," replied Nicholas, "but we'd still like to talk to you.  Will you meet us at headquarters at three o'clock today?"

"Um, yes, I'll be there," stammered Faulkner, and hung up the phone before Nicholas could say another word.

Chapter 10

Thirty seconds after Faulkner hung up, his telephone rang again.

"What?!" he barked, still reeling from the previous conversation.

"What the hell is going on, Faulkner?"

"Treadwell!  Haven't I told you not to use this phone?"

"I don't give a damn about the phone!"  Treadwell retorted.  "Are you trying to throw me under the bus?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I've got an auditor who wants to talk to me about numbers that don't add up, and your man Braddock who knows about the setup at the club!"

"What do you mean, 'my man Braddock'?"  barked Faulkner.  "Some FBI investigator just called me saying he got my name from you!"

"Somebody's trying to sabotage us," Treadwell reasoned.  "and it's got to be that girl Hathaway!  I told you to get rid of her permanently!"

"Look, it's not Hathaway," Faulkner disagreed.  "She's in a coma and in a secluded location.  She hasn't talked to anyone."

"Well, I need you to make sure," insisted Treadwell.  "Go eliminate her, permanently this time, and then meet me somewhere, so we can figure out what to do."

"The club?"

"No, not the club, you idiot!  If they're onto us, that's the first place they'll look!  Meet me at the old statue."

"All right.  It'll take me half an hour."

Treadwell grunted in confirmation, then broke the connection abruptly.

When Treadwell emerged from his office, his face was flushed and he was perspiring.  He looked out the window again, and the car that had held Grant and Jim was gone.

"Are you all right, Mister Treadwell?" Shannon asked.

If Treadwell heard her question, he did not respond to it.

"Give me the laptop," he demanded.  Shannon pretended to be shocked, then she quickly logged off and handed him the computer.  "You are dismissed for the day, Miss Macintosh.  I have some urgent personal business to attend to, and I am not sure when I will return.  I will let you know if I need your services tomorrow.  Please wait for my call."

"Hey, thanks, Mister Treadwell, that works for me!"  Shannon responded with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Treadwell hastily locked the laptop in his office, waited for Shannon to exit the office, then locked the door and climbed into his car.

As he sped away, Shannon pushed the button on her communicator.

"Somebody's in an awful rush," she remarked with a smile.

"I've got him, Shannon," responded Grant.  Jim drove as he watched the moving blip from the tracking device Jim had planted on Treadwell's car. "Nicholas?"

"The whole thing's on tape, Grant.  Every last incriminating syllable," Nicholas answered from base camp, where he had been monitoring Treadwell's phone, bugged by Grant the day before.  "Max?"

"I've got Faulkner," Max responded as he stealthily pulled out behind the doctor's sedan from his hiding place near the house.

"Max," Nicholas advised, "I overheard Faulkner say that Rachel is alive and in a coma, but he has orders from Treadwell to kill her. You'll have to deal with them both."

"Thanks, pal.  I'll handle it," came Max's terse reply.

"Watch your back," Nicholas urged, wishing Max had someone with him but knowing he was more than capable of handling things alone.

"Right."

Nicholas ejected the cassette tape that held the recording of the telephone conversation between Treadwell and Faulkner.  "I'll run by the club and hopefully give this to Keisha," he stated.  "We'll meet you later."

*******

Max saw Faulkner's car come to a stop in a wooded area, in front of a small, run-down building that looked like it was once an old barn.  Max watched as Faulkner exited his vehicle, with what was apparently a syringe in his hand.  Max could only speculate what was in the syringe, but he knew that it was most likely lethal.  He couldn't let Faulkner see him.

Max whipped the dart gun from his pocket, aimed quickly, and fired.  The dart hit Faulkner in the side of the neck.  A moment of surprise, and then he crumpled to the ground.

Max approached the doctor, slung him across his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and stuffed him into the backseat of Max's car.  He then swiftly made his way toward the old barn.

It was unlocked.  Max pushed the door open with a creak and went inside.  It was dark; as his eyes got used to the blackness, his eyes fell upon two things.  One was Rachel Hathaway lying unconscious on a makeshift cot.  The other was a large, leather-bound book, not unlike the ledger he and Nicholas had found at Treadwell's place.

Quickly Max checked Rachel's vital signs, and they were as good as could be expected in her condition.  Max scooped her up gently, carried her out of the barn, and carefully placed her into the passenger seat.  Then he returned to retrieve the book, leafing through it as he walked back toward the car.  Then he reached into his pocket for his communicator.

"Guys," he growled, "I've taken care of Faulkner and found Rachel."

"Is she all right?"  Jim asked tensely.

"She's still unconscious, but stable for the moment."

"Good,"  he replied.  "She'll need medical attention soon enough, but bring them both back here for now.  Treadwell is waiting at the old statue, and we should be hearing from Nicholas any second."

"Roger that.  I found something else, too:  the records for the gambling operation at The Golden Stallion.  Financial records, members, everything."

"Excellent work, Max.  I'm sure the FBI will be pleased to receive it.  Stand by for directions."

Chapter 11

Nicholas pulled into the parking lot of The Golden Stallion and immediately caught sight of the shiny red sports car that belonged to Keisha.  She IS here, he thought to himself.  He found that his nerves were tingling with excitement, but he told himself that it was because they were about to wrap up the mission.

He paused to briefly glance at his reflection in the mirror and then went inside.

Behind the bar, Keisha's long, black curls caught his eye immediately.

"Hello there, handsome," she greeted with a wide grin.  "I hoped I'd see you again soon, but this is a nice surprise.  Can I get you a drink?"

Nicholas shook his head, smiling to soften the refusal.  "This is more business than pleasure," he advised, his voice low.  "Have you got a moment?"

Instantly, Keisha turned serious, the field agent within her kicking in.  "Will my shift be ending early?"  she asked.

"I would imagine so," Nicholas replied, matching her tone.

Keisha called to the other bartender.  "Hey, Renee!  I got a situation.  Cover for me, will you?  I'm not sure what time I'll be back."  Then she and Nicholas quickly exited the club.

"What do you have for me?" she asked urgently.

Nicholas reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the cassette tape.  Wordlessly, Keisha led him to her car and unlocked it, and as the two of them sat down she popped the tape into her tape deck and listened.

When the tape was finished, Keisha gave a low whistle.

"So Treadwell and this Doctor William Faulkner are behind both the gambling operation and Rachel's disappearance?"  she asked incredulously.

"Yes."  Nicholas' voice was tense.  "But we have to go.  Do you know where the 'old statue' is?"

"I do," Keisha answered.  "What about Rachel?"

"My team is working on that," Nicholas assured her.  He reached for the door handle.  "Shall I follow you there?"

In response, Keisha started the engine, and Nicholas heard the sound of the doors locking.  "No time," she answered curtly.  "You can fill me in on the way."

Her mocha-brown eyes met his for one more moment - tense, but with a vague twinkle.  "But I'd suggest you'd hold on."

Nicholas braced himself as Keisha stomped the gas and radioed for backup to meet her at the old statue.  After a moment, Nicholas contacted Jim via his communicator to let him know that he and Keisha were on their way.

"Any word from Max?" he added anxiously.

"He's on his way with Faulkner and Rachel.  She's still in a coma, but her condition is stable."

Keisha heaved a sigh of relief that was both audible and visible.  "Thank God for that," she murmured, and Nicholas felt a twinge of empathy at her concern for her friend.  Then, just as quickly, he watched her snap back into work mode.

"Max also found the financial records for the gambling operation at the club," Jim added.

A grateful smile crossed Keisha's face, and Nicholas' fingers gripped the dashboard a little tighter as she excitedly pushed the gas pedal as far as it would go.

*******

Ten minutes later, three carloads of FBI agents and an ambulance swarmed the area surrounding the old statue.  Nicholas jumped out of Keisha's car and dashed off to join his friends.

He watched in awe as she took charge of the situation - ordering her agents to seize Treadwell, who insisted he'd done nothing wrong; grabbing Faulkner from Max's car as he began to wake up and wonder what was happening; and pausing to tenderly stroke Rachel's cheek as the paramedics loaded her stretcher into the ambulance.

Once Faulkner was in custody and Rachel was in the care of the paramedics, Max walked over to stand beside Nicholas, who was leaning up against the car.  Max stood still for a moment and watched him watching Keisha.  Then Max slung an arm around his friend.

"That's Kiki?" he asked incredulously.

"Her name is Keisha," Nicholas smiled in response.

"Who'd have thought?" Max grinned.

Once the excitement had passed, four of the IMF agents silently climbed into the white sedan.  Only Nicholas remained standing outside it, holding the book Max had found inside the old barn.

Keisha walked slowly towards him.  There, in that moment, at the quiet  end of two months' surveillance, her countenance was softer than he'd ever seen it.

"Hey," she greeted, her voice barely audible.

"Hey," Nicholas answered in the same tone, as he handed her the book.  "You might need this."

Keisha opened the book just long enough to see what it was, then she closed it again and smiled.

"Thank you," she said softly.  "And thank your whole team for me.  You helped us catch the bad guys, shut down their operation, and save my best friend.  There's no way we could have done it without you."

Keisha looked at the ground briefly, and then her eyes met his again.

"So I take it this is where you and your friends ride off into the sunset, huh?"

"Something like that," Nicholas replied, a bit sadly.

"Shame.  I was hoping I'd have to drive you back to the club to get your car."  Keisha sighed.  "Maybe we could have shared a drink or two."

"Raincheck?"  Nicholas ventured hopefully, raising an eyebrow.

Keisha's eyes sparkled.  "You mean it?"

Nicholas nodded.  "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Keisha smiled again, the dimples in her cheeks showing.  "Then I'd better let you know where to find me, since my stint as a bartender appears to be over."

Nicholas held on to the ledger while Keisha fished a business card and pen out of her pocket.  She flipped the card over and wrote down a phone number.  Then she shoved the pen back into her pocket with one hand, and with the other she thrust the card into Nicholas' shirt pocket, patting his chest for good measure.  Then, impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

"Take care, handsome," she smiled, taking the ledger from his hands as he stood in stunned silence.  "I'll see you soon."

Then, in a flash, she was gone - across the parking lot, inside the car, racing off toward the evening sun.

Nicholas watched until the red sports car was just a tiny blip on the horizon, then he opened the door to the white sedan and climbed into the seat beside Shannon.  She reached over to squeeze his hand in empathy as Max put the car in gear and headed in the opposite direction.

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Two days later, the four team members arrived at nearly the same time for the customary after-mission debriefing at Jim's condo.  They exchanged greetings upon arrival, and as they entered they were laughing about something Max had said.  But then, they grew quiet as they noticed the profile of a young, blonde woman talking to Jim.

Jim heard them enter, looked up, and smiled as he got to his feet.  The blonde across from him also stood up, and a spark of recognition lit up their faces.

"I'd like for you all to meet Rachel Hathaway," Jim said, as Rachel greeted each of the men with a warm handshake and Shannon with a soft hug.

"I asked Jim to bring me here so that I could thank each of you in person for saving my life," she explained with a smile.  "My father sends his thanks also, and wanted me to let you know that there would be an official commendation placed in each of your personnel files."

"We're just glad you're all right, Rachel," Shannon replied sincerely.

"From what we've learned, Treadwell's operation had been going on for months.  Did we ever figure out why they attacked you now?"  Nicholas wanted to know.

Rachel shrugged.  "I suppose it's as my friend Keisha suggested," she answered softly, oblivious to the slight flush that creeped up Nicholas' neck at the mention of her name.  "Treadwell saw me at the club, thought I was a threat, and hatched a plan to get me out of the way."

"But I still don't understand why they didn't just kill you to begin with," said Grant.

Again, Rachel shrugged.  "Beats me.  I know Treadwell didn't like getting his hands dirty," she answered, "but Faulkner...?" Her voice trailed off.

"From what he's told the investigators so far, he was afraid that someone would find you and make things messy," Jim explained.  "Our understanding is that their original plan was to keep you comatose until he and Treadwell could finish liquidating their assets and leave the country on Faulkner's private plane."

Jim paused, and his voice lowered in pitch.  "They planned to drop you into the Pacific somewhere along the way."

Rachel shuddered, and Shannon placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder in empathy.  "I guess I was incredibly lucky then," she said softly.

"Indeed you were, Rachel," replied Jim with a nod.  "Indeed you were."

The End.

(c) 2016