Crawford sprinted to the white truck, snapped the padlock with bolt cutters, and threw open the rolling door. Inside, shivering, bound with zip ties among crates of champagne, was an eight-year-old girl. “We got her,” Crawford yelled. Blake heard it.
A violent surge of adrenaline ripped through him. He elbowed the scarred mercenary in the face, sending him stumbling. Federal agents tackled the man to the asphalt. Davies tried to run up the jet stairs.
Crawford grabbed him by the collar and slammed him onto the tarmac, handcuffing him. Ten minutes later, the engines died. Paramedics wrapped Lily in a thermal blanket. Blake knelt on the wet tarmac, holding his daughter, crying.
He stood, walked past the arrested men, and stopped in front of Ellie. “Agent Crawford told me what you did. You understood the cipher. ”
“I study historical linguistics,” Ellie said softly.
“You have terrible handwriting, Mr. Blake. ”
He laughed, breathless. “I owe you my life.
I owe you my daughter’s life. Tomorrow morning I’m paying off your student loans. Then I’m offering you a job. I need people who can see the truth hidden in plain sight.
We’re going to dismantle the networks men like Davies used to ruin this country. Are you in? ”
Ellie looked at the crumpled napkin still in her hand. She thought of the double shifts, the endless struggle, the corrupt men who thought they could buy anything.
She looked back at the billionaire. “I’m in. ”