That night back in the Hyatt hotel, Corey realized a text message had come in earlier from Elora. It simply said to call when he could. He first decided to contact his partner, Mattingly, knowing it would still be a decent hour back in Vegas. Having an encrypted line with Bill, he felt confident about sharing the good news about the yacht. As expected, he reached him while at home watching a basketball game, but managed to debrief him on his surprisingly early progress in Baltimore.

"Holy shit, Sherlock . . . Looks like you hit pay dirt."

Though impressed, Bill sounded a bit distracted by the TV.

"Yeah, thanx to this food delivery guy, I pegged the location of the Morpheus. But don't let them kid you, pal, Baltimore Harbor is one huge lake, man."

"No doubt." Corey could hear cheering from the TV in Bills living room.

"Could've spent my whole life here, shopping around for yachts. They're everywhere, partner."

"Now I could've told you that, Junior."

"Yeah, well tell me something else . . . How did so many shits back here get these beautiful things. We're in the wrong profession, Bill."

Mattingly suddenly seemed more focused as the TV shut off and he laughed.

"No, we're in the right profession, Corey. Just the wrong side of it, Bud."

"Jesus, man. No kidding."

"So, what do you think these guys are into? The owners of that boat Henley's on?"

"Hard to say, Bill. Business is good these days in all underground markets. Maybe too good."

"Yeah. So listen. What do you want me to tell the chief tomorrow morning? He'll want an update."

"Give it a few more hours. Wait for the afternoon. I may know more about the yacht then. I'm also paying Hopkins a visit tomorrow. Let's see what comes out of that. Maybe in person they'll treat me better."

"Don't hold your breath, partner. Student personal data and all that."

"Still, listen, Bill. If I pose as a donor . . . someone interested in funding their research, they may get a little friendlier. Universities usually have a healthy appetite for grants and donations, big and small."

"True. So wow . . . you really gonna take that tack? Might be risky."

"Got to get my foot in the door. Something's going down in that psych department. Both on the books and possibly off them."

"Off the books? What are you suggesting?"

"Elora tipped me off to something that's definitely got me thinking."

"Yeah?"

"PSYOPs."

"What?"

The U.S. military. Black budget projects. Psychological operations. They're apparently a big part of the new arsenal. Worldwide."

"Yeah. Not surprised. They've actually been into that shit since the first World War."

"Yeah but today . . . right now, Bill. There's a lot of stuff going on behind the scenes these days. "Top secret stuff the government's not admitting to."

"You really think there's something to that? Going on with our girl?"

"According to this guy Elora used to date . . . someone who was up on military intel and special ops, they're weaponizing psychological techniques. Methods most people wouldn't have a clue about."

"Alright, Corey. I'll back you on that theory. Once you show me something about it which includes Johns Hopkins and Henley Marlow."

"For now, just trust it, Bill. The Feds have something in that laptop they won't share. Something super sensitive. Not even with us, their partners on this case."

"Partners. That's laughable."

"Ok. But there's gotta be something there. Or should I say here. Hopkins is leading the world in Brain Science, man. If you were the military, stretching out your capacity to screw with people's minds . . . foreign or domestic enemies . . . where would you go for any advantages?"

"OK. I suppose top-notch researchers on that. So you're suggesting it's possibly the military? Or some . . . out of control government agency?"

"Exactly! . . . Now you're hearing me, partner. Maybe just a rogue group out there. With lots of money to influence people's minds with their own agenda?""

"OK, Junior. Pretty wild. But get what you can tomorrow from Hopkins. We'll speak again around this hour."

"Right. No mention of any of this yet to the Chief, Jaelyn or any of Marlow's friends. They all must know by now she's possibly alive. But we still can't trust the Feds. Whatever they may be learning from those girls regarding our work."

"Right. Hey, be safe, pard. You're still playing the Lone Ranger back there."

"Will do. Thanks, Bill."

"Later."

Corey suddenly felt exhausted. It had been a long and eventful day. He turned on the TV to the local news as a means to anesthetize his mind as he undressed and fell into bed. He picked up his phone and typed out a text message for Elora. As their line wasn't secure and all possibilities of surveillance were open with the Feds. He hastened to write much to her:

Hey Sweetie. All is well here. Made some nice discoveries in this beautiful place you asked me about. Hopefully I can catch up with you in real time tomorrow. Thanx for your concern. This place is way different than Boston. Actually, it's awesome. Not exactly San Diego. But great for some R&R. Dropping off to sleep-land right now. Kisses. –Corey

Not surprisingly, after several minutes, the phone rang. It was Elora.

"Corey . . . Sorry. Just wanted to hear your voice."

"Alright then."

"Listen, I know security's an issue. Just glad to know your day went well and you're safe and in for the night."

"Yeah, Sweetie. Not to worry."

"Yeah, right. Not to worry."

"Come on now. This is routine business for me. But thanks for the concern."

"I'll just feel better when you're back in Crazytown . . . under safer circumstances."

"Understand your concern, Angel. But there's lots to keep me busy here."

"Alright Lover Boy. Get a good night's sleep."

"You too. Good night."

Corey closed the phone and picked up the TV remote. He scanned over the many channels rapid-fire. All news about the world pandemic, divisive homeland politics, Florida mass-shootings and international unrest in Europe. On other channels he found demonstrations in the streets taking place in foreign countries he had no desire to visit, even under the best of times.

He lay back and looked at the ceiling for relief. It really was an intense time in the world, he reflected. It brought him back to his now obsessive question: Who would want to abduct an innocent twenty-two-year-old lesbian? A girl with no salient political agenda or past criminal involvement, to hold her prisoner on a multi-million-dollar yacht? In almost two weeks since the case was opened, there had been no demands for her ransom nor had any group of individuals claimed responsibility.

It was the entirely of this grand mystery which had plagued him since being assigned to the case. He was just about to fall asleep when he thought he heard voices outside his hotel room door. . .

The voices were all male, and after the initial sound, they were muted but continued, as if trying to go undetected. Corey quickly left his bed for the doorway and stood silently on the other side of it He cautiously peered through the peephole while listening intently. He could see three Caucasian men in the dim light, all roughly in their thirties. One wore a dress suit, characteristic of a businessman and the other two sported short, cropped hair and were dressed casually. Their voices remained purposely soft as one of the young men, blond and bearded, held a small piece of paper in his hand and perused the room number on Corey's door. Corey could not make out a single word of their brief and muted conversation.

Could it be a different language? He could not tell through the thick, secure door. Could it simply be a party looking for a colleague or known guest?

After several moments, the three left, leaving Corey nervous and perplexed. Normally, back in Vegas or the West coast he would have his handgun near him on the nightstand. On this trip, staging himself totally incognito, and as per the restrictions of airline regulations, he had not taken his firearm with him.

After slowly calming himself, Corey went back and laid on his bed. For one of those rare times in his young career he felt like a tightrope walker, high above a craggy canyon without a safety line. What would he have told Mattingly or Elora now if they had just called? It was like all else in his training for undercover law-enforcement. All new experiences were the best teachers. And he knew full well the game was played out only by surviving each successive lesson.

* * *