Crash and Burn - Chapter 32: Ho’okolokolo

The sun was already high in the sky when the ringing of her phone rudely woke her. Groggy and her mouth tasting like something had died in it, Reena peered at the caller ID.

“This better be good,” she muttered in lieu of a greeting.

“You’re expected at the U.S. Attorney’s office at one,” Marc replied. “And get your game-face on, Sabrina.”

At the sound of the dial tone, Reena pulled the phone away from her ear and scowled at the call-disconnected sign on the screen, then checked the clock. Her eyes widened. It was past noon.

“Okay, girl,” she murmured encouragingly. “Up you go.”

PJKK Federal Building, 300 Ala Moana Blvd., Honolulu, 12.58 p.m.

AUSA Deacon Rutherford tapped his pen softly against his desk, looking from governor Marcus Hawthorne who lounged easily in a chair in front of his desk, to his task force standing behind him, with their leader, Lieutenant Commander Steven McGarrett looking formidable and intimidating with a scowl on his face and his arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging, and finally to Captain Vincent Fryer standing beside his desk, a satisfied smirk on his face.

Rutherford glanced at his watch—one minute to one. Apparently Special Agent Sabrina Logan, despite being a super-woman, at least according to rumor, was still a woman—hence late.

A martial click of heels could be heard from outside, getting closer. The sound stopped, was followed by soft whispers, and then the beep of his intercom.

“Yes, Agnes?” Rutherford answered.

“Special Agent Logan is here, sir,” his secretary replied.

Rutherford glanced again at his watch. One o’clock on the dot. “Let her in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The clicking of heels resumed, stopped, there was a perfunctory knock on his door, and without waiting for his reply, the door swung open, and AUSA Deacon Rutherford got his first live glimpse of Special Agent Sabrina Logan.

What hit him first, was the black. Head-to-toe black. She wore a black, sleeveless turtleneck, black pencil skirt, falling to just below her knees, and black, metallic-stiletto-heeled, knee-high boots. She looked sexy, inviting, dangerous, and detached at the same time.

What hit him next, was the icy look in her eyes. It felt like the temperature in the room’s dropped a couple of degrees at the impact of those eyes. They were cold and calm, giving the impression nothing could ever ruffle this woman’s feathers. And if someone was stupid enough to try, she’d dispose of him quickly, quietly, and efficiently.

As she approached his desk, the click of her heels muffled by the carpet, those eyes brushed slightly over the Five-0 team, the governor, Vincent Fryer, then settled on him as she stopped a few paces behind the other free chair. There was plenty of space around her, her pose relaxed, arms by her sides, though Rutherford, having seen his fair share of government-trained agents and those otherwise-trained, knew she could erupt into action at the blink of an eye.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Rutherford,” she said and he felt a chill run down his spine. The sound was slightly raspy, as if she’s only recently rolled out of bed, carrying equal amounts of self-assurance, competence, and defiance.

“I did, Ms. Logan.”

“Special Agent Logan,” she corrected him, her expression never wavering from its blank mask.

Rutherford thought he heard the governor snicker, but when he looked at Marcus Hawthorne his expression was as neutral as ever.

“Special Agent Logan,” he said, a little annoyed, “an alarming detail has come to my attention this morning.”

She was silent, waiting for him to continue, not giving an inch.

“There had already been an interference into an ongoing IA investigation by the Five-0 task force, but last night, a member of the aforementioned task force had approached Frank Delano personally, severely jeopardizing the investigation of Delano’s crime network.”

Adopting a slightly bored expression, her eyes still icy, Sabrina Logan spoke, “Let me guess, the person who brought this ‘alarming detail’ to your attention was Captain Vincent Fryer, right. Well, Vince here isn’t exactly a fan of mine ever since he literally told the President to fuck himself. I’m not making this up, I have witnesses.”

Rutherford glared at Fryer.

“As far as the ‘interference’ goes,” she continued, “the double-homicide was part of a Five-0 investigation. The task force apprehended the two culprits, they were never pressed for any information about Delano and his network, and they were killed in a prison fight. I don’t see how the IA investigation could’ve been compromised.”

“Fine,” Rutherford interrupted. “Let’s get back to last night, then.”

She nodded. “Let’s do that. Tell me, who was the Five-0 member that approached Frank Delano?”


“Sorry to burst your bubble, Mr. Rutherford, but Vince here gave you an erroneous report.”

Rutherford pulled a surveillance photo from a manila folder and placed it on his desk, facing her. “Captain Fryer has proof.”

She glanced at the photo. “Good for him. By erroneous report I meant the Five-0 task force member part.”

“What do you mean?”

“As of two days ago I’m no longer part of the task force. I gave my resignation to the governor, he accepted it.”

Rutherford glanced at Marcus Hawthorne, felt sweat gather on his forehead when the governor nodded, then glared at Sabrina Logan as she continued, “Since I’m no longer affiliated with the task force, you can let them go back to their job, fight crime, which you should also be doing, instead of listening to disgruntled little turds who just love holding grudges.”

“Now, hold on just a minute,” Fryer sputtered.

Reena stopped him with a venomous look. “Shut up, Vince. We both know you have shit on Delano and what you do have will never stick. You just love to feel important and I’m starting to suspect you also love the sound of your own voice. So why don’t you do us all a favor and crawl back into your stinky little cubicle to watch pornos.”

He opened his mouth, but she interrupted him. “Before you say anything else, you might want to remember who I used to work for. I know your browsing history in minute detail.”

Fryer went from purple to green and back, sputtered, glared at her, glared at Rutherford, glared at the Five-0s, and with one last venomous look at her, rushed out of the office.

Rutherford looked at her archly. “I won’t even ask, but the fact remains you did approach Frank Delano, interfering with the IA investigation—one that might stick or not.”

She cocked her head. “My visit to Delano had nothing to do with him or the IA investigation. I was looking for one of Delano’s contacts, someone outside of his little crime network.”

She could feel Steve’s intense gaze on her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

“And who might that be?” Rutherford asked.

“A person of interest in an ongoing DHS investigation, one that’s been ongoing longer than Fryer’s.”

“You have proof?”

“More than enough for the U.S. Attorney to build her case, more than enough for the case to stick.”

Rutherford could envision his future if he nabbed the case. “I want to see what you have so far.”

Reena let the corners of her lips curl ever so slightly. “Sorry, Mr. Rutherford, but that’s way beyond your pay grade.”

His mouth opened and closed, making him look like a bewildered fish, but he didn’t make a sound.

Reena nodded. “I’m glad you understand. Now, if that’s all, I’ll bid you farewell.” Her gaze narrowed, chilled. “And for future reference, I don't like to be summoned for something so trivial as Vince Fryer and his petty grudges. Are we clear?”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned, walked away, and as soon as she left the office, and stepped on the hardwood floor, the martial rhythm of her heels sounded again.

Steve caught up with her before she could leave the building, Marc, Danny, Chin and Kono fast on his heels.

“You found Wo Fat?” Steve asked, grasping her elbow to stop her.

She looked down at where he gripped her arm, then up at him. “No.”

“You said Delano knows where he is.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Steve gritted his teeth at the neutral tone, her vacant expression. He preferred her when she was spitting mad, when she was sarcastic, snarky...Anything was better than this blankness. And he knew it was all his fault.

He ran his hand down her forearm, circled her wrist. “We need to talk.” And before she could object, before anyone could object, least of all Hawthorne, who—oddly—just stood there with a small smile on his lips, he dragged her after him, fighting a grin at the sound of her heels that told him she had no problems keeping up despite his long strides.

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