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Justice at Dawn

By Valerie Massey Goree

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1
The child seated across the aisle from Agent Cooper Callahan gripped the armrest and squeezed her eyes shut as the plane descended. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Cooper tapped her hand and passed the unaccompanied minor an unused napkin. He’d chatted with her briefly during the flight from Miami and learned she was being met by her grandmother. But there’d been no hint of anxiety. Until now. “Hey, kiddo, what’s wrong?”
Ten-year-old Monica shook her head and sniffed into the napkin. “I want to go home.”
“It’s too late for that now, young lady. You’d best discuss your desire with your family.”
The plane bumped down, engine roaring, and they taxied along the runway.
“Welcome to San Diego. Local time is ten twenty-five. Sunny, sixty-two the expected high. You may now turn on your electronic devices.” The flight attendant concluded his instructions with reminders to stay seated until safely at the gate.
Like most of the other passengers, Cooper activated his cell phone, and then checked his work related email messages.
One received his full attention. Another rookie agent to train, his intake interview scheduled for noon. One of the perks of his job. As chief instructor in the trainee program for the International Retrieval Organization, he got to mold—
The kid whimpered and hugged the purple heart-shaped pillow she’d received as an early Valentine’s Day gift to her chest, rocking in the seat.
With twelve years under his belt as an IRO operative, Cooper knew better than to ignore signs of distress. But what could he do? Monica wore the requisite ID tag and attendants had checked on her periodically. Legit. Keep an eye on her until safe with her grandmother. Yeah, that much he could do.
He shoved his phone into his pocket. Details of the trainee provided in the email could wait.
An attendant boarded when the door opened and escorted Monica off the plane. Seated in the fourth row, it didn’t take long for Cooper to exit. He hurried up the ramp onto the concourse and headed toward the baggage claim area although he’d only brought a carry-on. Among the throng, he spied the attendant with a distinctive auburn braid and the kid by her side. So far, so good. Monica still held her pillow close, head down, brown curls hiding her face, shuffling steps. Not good.
Cooper positioned himself three yards behind the pair and followed them to the greeting area. They approached a short, middle-aged woman with spiked blonde hair. The grandmother? Yeah. Who knew grandmas could be so hip? Monica melted into her arms, sobbing and laughing.
Partially satisfied the kid was OK, he remained alert. Years of experience told him something was not quite right. Although he believed Monica was with family, or at least someone she knew, she remained tense and on edge. Eyes darting, mouth grim. Arms tight around her middle.
At the luggage carrousel, Cooper scanned the crowd from his six-foot-five advantage. One guy stood out because he wore a heavy navy jacket—too much coat for the mild February temperatures. The baseball cap low over his brow would keep his face shielded from any video monitor.
The man of average height and build sidled closer, stepping behind a group of teens with their feet resting on the conveyor belt frame. Dangerous, but not Cooper’s concern.
A shrill beep sounded and bags tumbled onto the belt. Passengers surged forward.
Cooper kept watch on the man who only had eyes for Monica and her grandmother. Not much Cooper could do unless the guy acted. Couldn’t very well attack him for wearing a winter coat.
By now, Cooper had maneuvered near Monica.
She pointed. “My suitcase is coming, Grams. It’s the green one with a yellow bow on the handle.”
Almost as tall as her grandmother, Monica clung to the woman’s arm.
“Please let go, child. I need both hands to grab your bag.”
Monica released her hold, and Grams pushed through the people.
Bad move.
The man in navy slipped his arms around Monica’s waist and hauled her backward.
But Cooper was ready. He, in turn, threw his forearm around the guy’s neck, and squeezed.
Spluttering and choking, the assailant released Monica, and attempted to free himself.
“Don’t bother, chump. You’re not going anywhere.” Cooper now held the guy in a bear hug, almost gagging on the strong tobacco smell from his clothes. He dragged him to the luggage carts and dumped him in one.
“Security, I have a suspicious package for you.”
Thirty minutes later, after debriefing with authorities, Cooper strolled out of the airport. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address for IRO headquarters. The fee for a taxi ride was cheaper than paying for parking at the airport’s short-term lot.
The email regarding the new trainee provided few details. A full report would be waiting on his desk. Bowen Boudine, boss of the San Diego office, conducted all initial interviews and background checks, talked with references, and collected detailed educational and work histories. Cooper would provide on-the-job-training, and assess the rookie’s skills and personality. Get to the nitty-gritty of who the person really was beyond answers to application questions.
Facts available at this point: Female, twenty-six years old, and a marksman. Or should that be markswoman? Interesting.
The cab slowed, stopped. Cooper paid the driver, unfolded himself from the backseat, and carried his duffle bag to the door. He used his key, and once inside the foyer, waved at the camera tracking his movements.
However, the security door remained closed. What was going on? Usually someone manned the inside lock twenty-four, seven. He knocked, and finally the door clicked open.
Inside the office, a slew of people waited. They applauded as he entered.
“What’s going on? It’s not my birthday.”
“We’re celebrating anyway.” Jay Vashon, a new agent who’d recently completed the training course, slapped Cooper on the back. “Come.” He led him to a computer and punched a couple of keys.
Bowen joined the group of agents. “It’s all over social media. You’re a hero.”
Cooper’s take-down of the guy in navy played before his eyes, video from various cell phones, no doubt.
One witness said, “This tall dude came out of nowhere and picked up the man like he weighed nothing.”
Another voice. “Yeah, then he dumped him in a cart, all folded in half, like.”
Cooper ignored the rest of the comments and walked through his comrades toward his office in the rear.
“Wait, Cooper, give us details,” said Bowen.
In as few words as possible, he explained his interaction with Monica and his unease regarding the situation. “Turns out her parents had recently gone through an ugly divorce, mother has sole custody. Her dad called her right as she bordered the plane and told her he’d be waiting for her, and if she told anyone, he’d kill her grandmother.” Cooper adjusted his tie. Why was everyone looking at him? “Anyway, Monica is safe, her dad was arrested. And now, can I get back to work?”
He escaped to his office, stashed his bag behind his desk and sank into the chair. Whew. Peace, at last. Not that he didn’t like or appreciate his coworkers, but he certainly preferred to slide under the radar. Do his job with no fanfare or praise.
Eating pretzels from the plane, Cooper studied the rookie’s folder. Kitty Claire Briggs, born in Virginia, California high school, college degree in Kinesiology. Only one job listed, stunt double in Los Angeles. Cooper did a double-take. Yup, he’d read it right.
Kitty had left that job two years ago. Gaps in a work history could be problematic. Although she’d passed Bowen’s investigation, Cooper would check, if for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity.
He returned to her headshot. Short, black hair. Pleasant almost mischievous smile. . .
A knock on his door.
And prompt. Good sign.
He closed the folder, stood and said, “Come in.”
Hand extended, he smiled.
In walked Kitty Claire Briggs.
Cooper knew his smile disappeared as his mouth gaped.
He was expecting an African American woman. But three features threw him—her exceptional height, her sparkling gray eyes, and her bald head.


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