“No,” Joe told him. “That’s why I sent an urgent message. The bulk of our immediate resources were shipped to the UK as a starting point since language data programs we ran the posts through indicated our source could be from there, but that might have only been to throw us a curve.” Joe was saying the informant was either not in the UK or not from the UK.
“Where?” Carlos shook off any last exhaustion with that word, ready to track the bastard down.
“Georgia. Peachtree City.”
“Are you serious?” Carlos spun around and rushed up the ramp to the parking deck.
“Yes. That’s why I called you. I’ve only got one local asset and he’s on the way to the location.” Joe paused and sounded as though he sighed. “I sent instructor Lee.”
Carlos jammed his parking ticket into the payment kiosk and stuck his credit card in next, willing it to process quicker. “Instructor? When did that happen?” Instructor was code for “field agent” since this was not a secure line. Lee couldn’t be ready for prime time yet.
“Today. No choice. Nobody else close enough besides you.”
“Where is he?” Carlos snatched the paid ticket the minute the machine spit it out and picked up his pace, eyes searching for his steel-blue 750i BMW.
“Ten minutes away from the meet spot.”
“Send him a message to wait, no matter what-”
“I gave him guidelines. You’ll get a text with the meet location next. He has the rest.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Carlos shut the phone and found his car. Just in time to toss his bag into the trunk, climb behind the wheel, and release a scalding curse.
Welcome home. Deposit any hope of the day ending on a good note and charge toward a situation with as much planning as a train wreck.
The only redeeming factor?
Carlos got first shot at interrogating the snitch on Durand Anguis. To find out what angle Mirage was working. Informants always wanted something, always had an ulterior motive.
And he hadn’t met one yet that wasn’t a criminal.
He could list four countries off the top of his head that would jump at the chance to get this one. They could have him as soon as Carlos got what he wanted.
GABRIELLE JUMPED UP, tossed on a gray long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, then shoved her feet into sneakers with Velcro clasps. The perfect shoes for quick exits. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, which informed her she’d slept a half hour.
How long had the security alarm been sounding?
She hit the wall button to shut off the repeating double ring, then ran to the closet and snatched up a backpack that held clothes, money, passport, and a few more necessities. Always.
On the way to the living room, she took her hair out of the clamp at the back of her head, then twisted her hair up and stuck a cap over it. Swallowing was difficult. Fear climbed the constricted muscles of her throat and threatened to strangle her by the time she reached her desk. She lunged for her laptop, working the keys in between slinging a scarf around her neck and shrugging on her knee-length khaki trench coat. Two clicks of the mouse and her monitor split into six screens, showing the areas scanned by digital video cameras positioned around the house.
Five frames revealed nothing unusual.
Number six covered the yard leading up to the front door…where a giant man in an ill-fitting brown suit walked up the first step to her porch.
Slow, heavy steps thumped on the wooden boards.
Gabrielle snapped her laptop shut and shoved it into a case with a shoulder strap that held all the accessories. Where to go? She’d always planned on having enough notice to reach her four-wheel-drive Jeep and take a path through the woods, one advantage of living in a community with eighty miles of golf-cart paths. Her gaze slashed to the picture window at the rear of the house, filled with a serene image of Lake Peachtree and a boat dock with a runabout tied up. With a full gas tank.
She’d make a perfect target alone on the lake.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He couldn’t be a salesman. The sign next to the mailbox at the head of the driveway stated clearly NO TRESPASSING, VIOLATORS WILL BE ARRESTED.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Gabrielle grabbed her car keys on the off chance she could reach her Jeep. Which would already have happened if she hadn’t been so exhausted so the alarm would have roused her faster.
From the other side of the door, a deep voice said, “Law enforcement. Open up.”
That froze her. FBI? If they’d tracked her electronically, he could very well be CIA since she’d routed everything through several bounced locations to an IP in London.
“The house is surrounded.”
Her heart jumped a foot.
Bloody hell. Options ran through her mind at blinding speed since she only had two.
Running, option one, was pointless.
Gabrielle accepted option two, turned around, and went to the foyer, hoping to bluff her way out. She plastered a smile on her face and opened the door.
“Can I help you? I was on my way out-” She paused to stare up six and a half feet off the floor at a face that would launch a million nightmares. Pocked skin, hulking posture, and a thick neck. Salt-and-pepper hair.
“You don’t look like Harry Beaker,” he said.
“I’m not. Harry isn’t here, but I’ll be happy to take a message for him.” More smiling. Could she be so lucky he was only looking for Harry? She clutched the door with one hand and the door frame with the other to hide her trembling.
“And you are?”
“Gabrielle Parker. I’m just a renter. I’ll make sure Harry gets your message, but I need to go or I’ll be late.” She’d call Harry the minute she got free if this guy really was looking for him. Harry was pushing ninety, an ex-marine and feisty. She doubted even the CIA could intimidate him.
“I’m not looking for Harry. I’m looking for you,” he said.
Her skin prickled at the threat in his voice. “Who are you?” That hadn’t come out like the demand she’d hoped for, but had been the best she could do with a dry throat and staring at someone who might be from Durand Anguis.
He reached inside his jacket.
Her heart thumped a panicked beat.
“Special Agent Curt Morton with the DEA,” he said, flipping his badge out for a couple seconds before closing the case and shoving it back inside his jacket. He offered her a smile she wished he hadn’t. Those big teeth and crooked nose were almost as scary as his flat gray eyes. “Sorry if I gave you a start, but I wanted to be sure before I said too much.”
“Sure of what?” she asked, breathless as someone who had just finished a five-mile race. Or close to hyperventilating.
“That you’re the one who’s been sending electronic messages to intelligence agencies about Durand Anguis.”
Busted. And exposed. Durand would find her for sure now.
CARLOS MOTIONED FOR Lee to follow him when he closed the door on a dark blue Suburban and stepped away. The vehicle was parked just off a private driveway in Peachtree City and hidden from the road by a copse of trees. With an unconscious driver.
His feet and hands were bound with flex cuffs, which would hold him until Carlos had time for a full interrogation. The driver had a DEA badge on him, but the credentials were phony.
Carlos couldn’t pull the thug’s real name to mind, but he’d seen that face and cauliflower ear before. The driver had been part of an electronics bust last year. Hired muscle who offered bargains.
Discount muscle was like eating cheap sushi.
A risk to your health.
Sticks snapped. Carlos cut his eyes at Lee, who grimaced at the noise. Rookies were a risk, too, but Joe wouldn’t send someone wet behind his ears. And Lee had ancient eyes in a young man’s face. Hard eyes, but he must have come off the streets and lacked experience in wooded terrain.
Waving a hand, Carlos dismissed the misstep and moved ahead, sorting through his options.
&
nbsp; Someone had clearly beaten them to the informant. Who? And was the driver’s partner here to grab the informant…or meet with him? At least two had to be involved. The guy in the car was likely a lookout, a poor one, so the partner could be at the house by now.
Carlos moved quickly through the woods, parallel to the driveway. Light faded faster with each step, tossing shadows through the sparse woods.
Who had beaten him here?
He paused at a curve in the driveway where an open area-the front yard-appeared in the next twenty feet.
He turned to Lee. The young guy’s sharp hazel eyes burned with determination. Not quite eye level with Carlos or as heavy-built, Lee stood just over six feet tall, trim, muscular body dressed for the task in camo pants and long-sleeved, dark green shirt.
In spite of all that, this kid was too clean-cut for Carlos’s taste. What were Joe and his codirector, Tee, thinking these days?
Joe had given Lee strict marching orders about following anything Carlos said, without question. To that, Carlos had added one simple order-if things went bad, he wanted Lee to back off and contact Joe.
Do not, under any circumstances, play hero.
Voices approached from the open area just beyond them, too soft for Carlos to make out what the two people said.
He signaled with his hand for Lee to stop and back him up, but stay out of sight. Lee palmed his weapon and nodded. Carlos pulled his own 9 mm from the small of his back, and silently edged forward toward the pair talking.
“I D-DON’T KNOW what you’re talking about.” Gabrielle tried to chuckle, but the sound skidded close to hysterical.
Special Agent Morton wasn’t smiling. “You’re the one who sends information on Durand signed ‘Mirage.’ We’d like to talk to you.”
“I really don’t-”
“Miss Parker. Right now you’re considered an ally of the United States, but if you refuse to help, your status might change to being considered an accomplice to the Anguis crimes. We’ve obviously tracked you as the Mirage to this point electronically.” He stopped speaking, wisely allowing time for that little warning to settle in.
Accomplice? She swallowed, panic quivering just under the surface of her practiced calm. At least he was with U.S. authorities, not Durand, but leaving here with him would not end well. “C’est des conneries!”
“What’d you say?” His thick eyebrows bunched in confusion.
She clutched the shoulder strap of her bag in a tight fist. “This is bullshit. I have done nothing wrong.” After years of shielding her identity from the Anguis, she’d lose her anonymity the minute the DEA processed her. Roberto’s attempts on her life would pale compared to what she believed Durand would do. “Can we just talk here?”
He shook his head.
“Do I need an attorney present?” Not that she had one, but she could buy time hunting one.
“No. We want to keep this as quiet as you do and protect your anonymity.”
Who could argue with that?
She looked past him. “Where’s your car?”
“At the entrance to your driveway. Saw the warning. Figured I might risk a flat tire by coming down the drive.”
“Is the house really surrounded by agents or police?”
“No, but I do have backup.” The gruesome smile appeared again. Why did he even try?
She reached around and pulled the door closed. “I don’t know what you are talking about, but I’ll cooperate. I’ll follow in my car.”
Special Agent Morton shook his head again. “We ride in mine. I’ll have you driven home.” He moved an arm to point toward the driveway as if the way to the car wasn’t obvious. When he did, his jacket shifted open, exposing a shoulder holster with a gun.
If she made too big of a fuss, he could just arrest her.
She fumbled with the key, finally locking the dead bolt after two tries. As they said here in the States, just go with the flow for now.
He waited as she walked down the steps ahead of him. Each pace away from the house hurt. This had been the best place she’d lived. She couldn’t come back here. Harry’s rental house was one of the original homesteads in this planned community, with a paved drive a quarter mile long and hidden by trees on both sides. She trudged through a fresh layer of leaves covering the front yard she’d raked just yesterday.
Striding alongside her, the DEA agent flipped his phone open, punched a key, and waited.
“Why do you think I’m some Mirage person?” she asked. Where had she screwed up, and who else might have caught her mistake? When he didn’t respond, she looked over her shoulder. He’d slowed, but extended those long legs twice, then stopped next to her so she stayed put.
He punched buttons on his phone again, and since he used it like a two-way radio, she could hear the ringing at the other end. No answer.
The flash of suspicion he turned on her now twisted his ugly features to truly evil.
Chill bumps spiked along her skin.
CARLOS WAITED SILENTLY as the two men walked side by side toward the driveway. The tall one could have played Lurch on The Addams Family. The smaller guy was maybe a couple inches over five feet tall. He wore a khaki trench coat and carried a laptop shoulder case plus a backpack.
And little guy’s voice had been high when he said, “Why do you think I’m this Mirage person?”
Damn. Could he be the informant everyone in the intelligence world was searching for?
Carlos slowed his breathing, completely silent so he could hear the conversation. Lee had become perfectly still.
The mismatched pair paused ten feet from where Carlos stood without moving a muscle. Lurch had punched his cell phone and waited. When no one answered, something registered behind that flat forehead that flipped his pissed-off switch.
Two things hit Carlos at the moment Lurch snarled, “Who did you alert that I was here?” at the little guy.
Lurch was Baby Face Jones, a master electronics felon who contracted out for special side jobs, such as kidnapping and torture, when the coffers ran low.
And the little guy-the possible informant-was a woman.
Her face turned a pasty white. She mumbled, “No one.”
She sure wasn’t what Carlos had imagined.
Baby Face grabbed her by the arm. “Come on.” He lifted his phone with the other hand to key it with his thumb.
Now for the train-wreck part of this operation since Carlos couldn’t risk that Baby Face would bring in more men.
“Stop right there.” Carlos stepped from the brush, his weapon pointed at the pair.
Baby Face’s head whipped to Carlos. He released the woman and his phone in one movement and drew a weapon, finger on trigger. Firing.
Carlos shot first, catching Baby Face in the shoulder, the only option he had to knock the incoming bullet wide and not kill Baby Face or hit the woman. But the bullet passed close enough for Carlos to feel heat brush his ear.
The woman screamed, eyes startled in horror at Baby Face, who hit the ground, howling.
Lee jumped into view.
Carlos spun to Lee. “I hit his shoulder. Stop the bleeding and-”
“She’s running!”
Carlos whipped back around to see her legs chewing up ground toward the far end of the one-level brick house. “Son of a bitch.” He ran after her.
She was quicker than he’d have guessed. She raced around the corner, disappearing.
When he made it to the backyard, she’d already reached a long dock and flew down the wooden walkway, skidding to a stop before the bench at the end. She tossed her computer bag and backpack into a small runabout and jumped in. He could see her now, but in another fifteen minutes the twilight would fade into night.
Without slowing a step, Carlos shoved his weapon inside the waistband at the small of his back, freeing his hands since she hadn’t appeared to be armed. He reached the spot where the boat had been tied just as the outboard she was yanking on caught with a low growl. She shoved off and stood,
heading for the steering wheel while the boat floated in neutral.
When his foot hit the last section of dock closest to her, he used that step as a springboard, going airborne. He cleared the six feet of space to the boat, catching a handful of her on the fly, knocking her overboard with him.
She screeched, “No!” as they hit the cold water on the other side of the boat.
Carlos surfaced with a hand still clutching her jacket.
She twisted around, coughing, then fought and kicked loose, catching him in the ribs with her shoe. He grunted, lunged, and snagged her again as she sank. He yanked her around until he had her back to his front, but she was sinking both of them.
“Stop it,” he ordered.
She kept flailing her arms and gasping for air. “Help!”
He locked one arm around her middle to free his other arm. The boat was closer than the shore by now, but neither would be an option until she stopped fighting him. “Calm down or we’ll drown.”
She was gulping for air and squeezing out terror-filled shrieks that died in a mouthful of water. “I…can’t…swim.”
Oh, hell. “I can…if you don’t fight me.” He was kicking his legs so hard to keep them afloat his muscles burned.
She stopped moving, all except the deep, wheezing breaths.
Carlos glanced around, hoping Lee could deal with Baby Face and watch both their backs at the same time. The informant shook so hard against him, he expected hysterics any moment. He didn’t know what her story was…yet, but he had to keep her alive long enough to find out.
“Take it easy,” he said, this time in a calmer voice. “I’ll get you to the boat.”
“Who…” She breathed hard a couple times. “Are…you?”
“Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”
Whispered Lies Page 4
