Domino Effect (2019 Edition)

Frank tried to gage the president’s reaction, but there wasn’t one. Lancaster just stared at him . . . or through him, he wasn’t sure which.
“I thought,” the president finally said, “you stripped her of her creds after the Painted Beauty case?”
“Officially.”
“Goddamn it, Frank, stop beating around the bush.”
“Off the record?”
“You have my word, nothing you say will be held against you or used against you when I fire your ass. How’s that?”
“As good as it gets,” Frank answered. “She stepped out of line during that case, but if she hadn’t we might still have a serial killer on the loose. I had no choice but to fire her. But I exchanged her shield with another. One where she’s off the books and answers to no one but me. I also gave her six months paid-leave to spend with Charlie. Oh, and since we’re still in that protective bubble, I hired those mercs you spoke of after the case in the Keys. They’re a bit reckless, but they’re great agents.”
Lancaster took the fountain pen he’d been doodling with and stabbed the table, imbedding the nib in the hardwood. “Any other improprieties you’d like to mention?”
Frank thought about telling the president he was right; Sin did kill Westfall, but he quickly shunned the idea. “Nope, I think that about covers it,” he said.
“You really think she can find Becca without her kidnappers knowing she’s on their trail?”
“I wouldn’t have mentioned her name, if I didn’t.”
“How?”
Frank shrugged. “We won’t know until we talk to her.”
“Where is she?”
“Well, that’s a problem.”
“How so?”
“She’s gone off the grid since Charlie died.”
Lancaster huffed. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, I know she’s still in New Hampshire, but she won’t return my calls.”
“Send someone up there to bring her back.”
Frank stood. “If I’m not fired, it would be best if I went myself.”
“Why?”
“Because with your budget cuts,” Frank cut his eyes toward the president, “I’m already a few men down. I don’t need anyone on disability, and I might be the only one who has any chance of talking her into coming back. Or,” he mumbled, shaking his head, “at least not getting shot or stabbed for trying.”
“Get her ass back here, Frank. I expect both of you in my office in less than twenty-four hours,” Lancaster said.
“You think your office is a good idea? Until we know for certain about a potential leak, the Oval Office might not be best.”
The president nodded. “Where do you suggest?”
“My office. I’ll brief my secretary. She’ll know what to do.”
Lancaster made a fist, cracking his knuckles. “I’m getting too old for this cloak and dagger bullshit.” Stepping into the elevator, he pulled a card out of his pocket and wrote a number down. Handing it to Frank, he said, “You get O’Malley back here and call me on this number. I’ll play your little game of hide-n-seek if it leads to my daughter being returned safe and sound.”
On the short ride up, Frank glanced at the president as Lancaster studied his own reflection in the elevator’s mirrored-finish.
“Jesus, I look like shit,” Lancaster mumbled.

5
Sin sat in her seat, the last stool at the far end of the bar. Scully’s Lakeside Tavern in Weirs Beach, New Hampshire, had become her sanctuary since Charlie’s death. After cancer claimed his life nine weeks ago, she spent more time in the bar than she did at Charlie’s lake house. The house held too many memories and felt too empty. It smelled of his cologne and held too many ghosts.
This morning had started like every other day since his death; Sin rose at four-thirty, downed a cup of coffee, threw on her sweats, and ran six miles along the rim of Lake Winnipesaukee. No matter what slosh, snow, frozen rain, or other bullshit Mother Nature could spit at her, the view helped calm her spirit. She ran to meet her sensei and trainer, Shamus McDougal, better known as Shea. For three hours, she trained in the martial art of Fu Que, a discipline founded by Shea, a mixture of the classic Asian disciplines, street fighting, and weapons training. The weapons of choice: knives and handguns. It was the last part that originally sparked her interest.
After a grease-filled breakfast of bacon, fried eggs, and hash browns—no such thing as grits in this part of the country—she poured herself a fresh mug of coffee and stripped the plastic bag off the Boston Globe. Reading the morning’s headline, she heard the front door of Scully’s slam open. Shea and one of his men, Skull, dragged someone into the bar. She was used to this type of drama, so upon hearing the commotion, she barely flinched. Among Shea’s many titles, he was the leader of the Outlaws motorcycle gang—or club, depending on who was asking. He had a flair for the dramatic and needed to keep up appearances when someone stepped over the line.
Squinting toward the rays of sunlight streaming through the open door, she could make out the silhouette of a man pinned between them and dragged across the floor. The man wore a suit. Shea’s business is his own, she thought. Stay out of it.
That changed when the door squealed shut and Shea yanked the guy towards her. “My guys found this putz trollin’ around Charlie’s place. He swears he knows you. That true?”
Before looking up, Sin figured it was another attorney trying to cash in on Charlie’s estate. Since his passing, there had been a never-ending procession of them with clients swearing to be one of his relatives. Charlie’s paper trail was thorough, and she quickly disposed of each while threatening to countersue. She glanced to her right, never letting on she recognized the guy in the suit. Looking forward, she pretended to read her paper.
“This prick is brazen,” Skull said through a phlegm-filled laugh from too many years of smoking. “I caught him pickin’ the backdoor lock. What a fuckin’ scumbag.”
She arched her brow and took a slow sip from her mug. “Is that what the FBI has come to,