Chapter 5 - The Trap is Set
Gareth walked into the office a moment later, holding Lauren’s sleek rosewood-cased iPhone. The screen was lit up with notifications from messaging apps and missed calls.
“She tried to call someone two minutes before we pulled into the driveway,” Gareth noted, handing the phone to me. “A burner number. Not registered in state.”
I took the phone, my fingers swiping across the screen. I opened the messaging app. The conversation thread was encrypted, but the most recent text message sat bold and unhidden on the display:
“Michael found out. At the hospital. I’m running to the ferry terminal. Meet me at the boathouse in Westport in one hour. Bring the bearer bonds.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. A co-conspirator. Lauren wasn't acting alone. Someone was helping her siphon the millions and orchestrate her exit.
“Detective Vance,” I said, holding out the phone. “Do you see this?”
Vance leaned in, reading the screen carefully. A slow, determined smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Well, Mr. Barnes. It looks like your wife is walking right into her own trap.”
“Can we intercept her?” I asked urgently.
“Better than that,” Vance said, pulling his own radio from his belt. “We don’t just intercept her. We let her make the call. Gareth, can you spoof her phone number and send a reply?”
Gareth’s eyes lit up with tactical enthusiasm. “Give me three minutes. I can route her outgoing signal through a relay tower in Westport. Whoever is waiting for her at that boathouse won't know the difference until we kick the door in.”
“Do it,” I commanded.
While Gareth worked furiously at the terminal, cloning Lauren’s device and locking down the encrypted chat channel, I stood by the window, staring out at the snow-covered lawn. Every second that ticked by felt like an eternity. My daughter was lying in a hospital bed in agonizing pain, wrapped in bandages, while the monsters responsible for it were running scared across my home state.
“Got it,” Gareth announced a few moments later, spinning the laptop around. “I sent a reply from her phone saying: ‘Traffic is heavy on I-95. Meet me at the old lighthouse slip in Westport in thirty minutes. Bring the cash.’ The burner number just replied: ‘Understood. See you there.’”
Detective Vance immediately keyed his shoulder mic. “All units, this is Detective Vance, badge 408. We have a felony fugitive pursuit in progress. Suspect heading toward Westport coastal docks, Route 13. Set up a hard containment perimeter around the old lighthouse slip. Approach with extreme caution. Suspect may be armed.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said, grabbing my heavy wool overcoat from the chair.
“Mr. Barnes, legally—” Vance started to object.
“Detective,” I cut him off, my voice brooking zero argument. “That is my home, my money, and my daughter who was tortured in that house. I am not sitting here waiting for a phone call. I am going to see the end of this.”
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Vance looked at me for a long moment, recognized the unyielding steel in my eyes, and nodded once. “Fine. Stay in my vehicle, and stay behind the tactical line. Understood?”
“Understood.”
