“What’s wrong?” Danny asked Kono. She was staring at her computer screen, a frown on her face.
“You know that intel I found on the Comescus?”
“Yeah, I didn’t have time to look at it, what with the pandemic and all, but if you forward it to—" Danny broke off as Kono shook her head.
“Whaddya mean, gone?”
“It’s gone, right off my hard-drive. And when I went back to the database where I found it? That was gone, too. I double-checked,” she added before Danny could ask. “All mentions of Dracul Comescu have been wiped clean. And you know what else?” She leaned back in her chair and looked up at him. “Agent G Callen doesn’t exist.”
Danny scowled. “Whaddya mean, he doesn’t exist? Guy owes me a beer—he damn well better exist."
“Not according to this.” Kono tapped her screen. “I ran a search. Federal and state law enforcement agencies, Interpol, even civilian stuff. There’s no record of a G Callen any time, any where. The guy’s a ghost.”
“Huh,” Danny said.
“You want me to keep looking?”
“Don’t even bother,” Danny told her. “Whoever did this is a pro.”
“So am I,” Kono pointed out.
“A pro above your pay grade.” Danny gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Fuggetabouit. It’s no big deal.”
He walked back to his office, checking his cell automatically. Still no calls, no texts from Steve. With most folks, no news was good news. With Steve McGarret? No news usually meant mysterious explosions on the evening news.
Danny sighed and put his feet up on his desk. Under ordinary circumstances, Steve could handle himself just fine. But the last 48 hours had been anything but ordinary. Trying to navigate a case this big without Steve felt like trying to run with a broken leg.
And underneath his genial demeanor, Agent Sam Hanna was smart and professional, perceptive and persistent. Judging by his slightly-too-casual banter, he knew there was more to Steve’s absence than Danny was willing to tell him. And he didn’t seem like the kind of cop who would be content to leave loose ends.
Too bad, Danny thought. Until Steve’s absence impacted national security—say, a global pandemic—that information was classified. If Steve wanted anyone to know about it, he could tell them himself. Until then it was nobody’s damn business.
And if Steve wasn’t here to watch his back, Danny would do it for him. After all, that’s what partners were for.
Sam leaned over Eric’s shoulder, peering at the computer screen. “Done?”
Eric tapped a few keys. “Done,” he confirmed and leaned back in his chair. “G Callen no longer exists.”
“Thank you,” Sam said. “I appreciate your help.”
“Forget about it.” Eric gave a wave of his hand. “It’s my job.”
Sam gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder—or rather, the Sam Hanna version of a friendly pat, which was more like a hearty swipe from a bear paw. “Good man,” he said.
He walked back to his desk, automatically checking his cell. Still no calls, no texts from G. With most folks, no news was good news. With G Callen? No news usually meant mysterious gunfire on the evening news.
Sam sighed and put his feet up on his desk. It wasn’t unlike G to drop out of sight for a few days after a major case, just to decompress. Under ordinary circumstances, G could handle himself just fine. But the last 48 hours had been anything but ordinary. Despite G’s claim that he was fine after shooting Dracul, Sam knew better.
And underneath his genial demeanor, Detective Sergeant Daniel Williams was smart and professional, perceptive and persistent. Judging by his slightly-too-barbed banter about blood feuds, he knew there was more to G’s connection to the Comescus than G was willing to tell him. And he didn’t seem like the kind of cop who would be content to leave loose ends.
Too bad, Sam thought. Until G’s personal life impacted national security again—say, another global pandemic—that information was classified. If G wanted anyone to know about it, he could tell them himself. Until then it was nobody’s damn business.
And if G wasn’t here to watch his back, Sam would do it for him. After all, that’s what partners were for.