“What was it you said the FBI stood for?” he asked. “In that article in Time magazine?”

He was referring to an article written about me after I chased down a serial killer in Maine who the FBI—against my protestations—claimed was already dead.

“Umm—”

“I believe you said it stands for Fruitdicks, Backstabbers, and Impersonators.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

It was.

Verbatim.

“Good luck, Mr. Prescott,” Mangrove said.

The line went dead.

I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to stick his neck out for me. If he did help me get into Bolivia, he would be on the hook for whatever I did down there. At this point I wasn’t positive what actions I might need to take to rescue Gina, though I’m fairly certain it was going to take some level of mayhem. Mayhem that Charles Mangrove wanted no part of. So yeah, I couldn’t blame him. Just the same, I did make a mental notation in his folder.

Lacy, who had been listening to my side of the conversation, said, “That didn’t sound like it went very well.”

“It did not.”

There was another call I needed to make, and I dialed one of my few remaining contacts at the Philadelphia Police Department.

Mike Gallow.

“Prescott,” he answered on the third ring. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m like Jon Snow,” I said. “They keep trying, but I keep coming back.”

He laughed.

I asked quickly about his wife and son, then I said, “I need a favor.”

“Carmen is married now. Two kids.” He paused for a half second, then added, “Though, come to think about it, she might be into it.”

When I was thirty and working contract cases with the Philly PD, Gallow and I had investigated the murder of a college student during Occupy Wall Street in Philadelphia. During the month-long investigation, I’d had a brief fling with Mike’s sister. But she’d been a little too crazy, even for me.

I chuckled and said, “Not exactly the favor I’m looking for.”

“All right. What’s the ask?”

“Can you track down a satellite phone number for me? I need the owner and last known coordinates, if you can swing it.”

“Why?”

I told him about Gina.

When I was finished, Gallow said, “I don’t know all that much about satellite phones, but I’ll see what I can do. Give me the digits.”

I did.

He said it would take him a couple of days—three, tops—then he’d get back to me.

I’d just hung up with him when another call came in. It was a 202 area code. Washington, DC.

I answered.

“This is Paul Garret,” the caller said. “You sent me a message on Twitter with this number. What’s happened to Gina?”

“This is Thomas Prescott.”

“Prescott? Oh, right, from South Africa.”

I skipped the pleasantries. “Gina has been abducted.”