Something else came to Carlos while he was playing this hand. “And Salvatore is not going to be happy when he finds out who set him up to be blamed for the hits on your oil minister.”
Durand’s face flared with just enough surprise to confirm what Carlos had guessed. Vestavia probably paid Durand to make missed attempts on the oil minister in a way that placed the blame at Salvatore’s feet. But why “missed” attempts?
“What do you know about Vestavia’s organization?” Durand asked.
Carlos shook his head in disgust. Durand was so power hungry he’d let a dangerous man dupe him.
“I don’t know for sure,” Carlos hedged, unwilling to share anything unnecessary about the Fratelli. “But I believe he’s part of a highly organized group who have the financial and political capability of wiping you off the face of the earth.”
Durand’s face changed colors from a sickly gray to mottled shades of red, but he still answered softly, “You lie.”
“No, I don’t. Check out my story.” Fat chance of Durand’s doing that. Carlos accepted that he’d reached the end of the time he could stall.
“Give me the damn iron,” Durand ordered in a low voice without looking at Julio, who rushed over to the pit and retrieved the iron.
A siren blared through the building.
Radios crackled on the hips of Julio and his men: “We are under attack!” Weapons fired in the background.
Durand’s face turned a deep purplish red. He crossed the room and took the branding iron from Julio’s hand. “Go see what is happening and take the men. It could be someone trying to get Alejandro. Maybe that pig Vestavia.”
Julio raced past Carlos to the door at his back, yelling orders at his men, who followed.
Carlos braced for the red-hot iron heading for his chest.
Durand stepped forward with the casual arrogance of a man who had always been in control.
When Durand got close, Carlos shoved up on the pads of his feet, grasping the chain in his sweaty hands. He kicked a boot up to knock the branding iron free. The end hit his thigh, frying a strip of skin before the rod hit the ground. He growled at the pain and swung his second boot right behind the first to connect with Durand’s chin.
An explosion outside rocked the building. Carlos lost his grip and dropped hard to the floor, wrenching his wrists. He tried to twist around to see if anyone was coming, but couldn’t.
If Vestavia had sent men for him, Carlos had a chance to fight another day.
Durand stumbled backward, caught his balance, then reached over to his left for the chain hoist control. He hit a button, yanking Carlos off the ground where he couldn’t get traction to jump a second time. He lifted the branding iron off the floor and started walking.
“I was only going to mark you as a traitor, but now I’ll let this burn all the way through to your black heart.”
Durand moved forward, the branding iron chest high and coming at Carlos.
The door behind Carlos blasted open. Durand looked past him, eyes shocked. A gunshot boomed through the room.
The bullet struck Durand between the eyes, knocking him backward an inch before the iron reached Carlos.
Carlos sucked a couple fast breaths, then waited as heavy footsteps pounded up to him.
Dominic Salvatore held a.357 Magnum with the barrel pointed at Carlos’s head. “Who are you?” Then his fierce gaze went to the tattoo and scar on Carlos’s chest. He frowned, thinking. “Durand’s brother died…there are no more family…” Recognition dawned.
“Alejandro?”
A LOW BUZZ of conversation filled the hearing room that held an easy hundred people. Awed voices from teenagers on their first visit and adults shielding whispered words percolated the air.
Joe walked away from Dolinski, the Secret Service agent in charge of operations today, wishing he could tell the president’s protective service the truth about his team. Since no one knew BAD existed, the president had personally cleared Joe’s team as a private security group hired to watch for a kidnapping attempt on three physically challenged teenagers during their international travels. And Joe would have shared more if they had firm evidence of a threat, more than just a warning sent in a postcard from an unknown woman about teenagers with no history of violence.
The SS wouldn’t believe him if he swore on Bibles.
The way Joe saw it, the children, the president’s cabinet, and esteemed members of Congress were as safe as they could be with the SS and twelve BAD agents in the room including him and Tee. Speaking of his codirector, Tee finished texting a message on her cell phone as he walked up to her. The navy jacket and pants look they’d chosen for this mission had been custom-tailored for her petite size and fit her lethal business image. Straight hair fell to her shoulders in fine strands of sin black.
He envied how comfortable she looked in the straitlaced attire that matched his. Give him jeans and a T-shirt any day.
“I don’t like this.” Tee met his gaze with a severe one that missed little. “Feels too easy.”
“What do you mean?” Joe surveyed the room, catching sight of his people as he took in each section. Two BAD agents stood within fifteen feet of the three teens. Joe had pointed out four of his people to the SS agent so if something happened and those two moved in to protect the teens, they wouldn’t be shot by Dolinski’s men.
“Everyone is here. What better way to lure so many powerful people into one spot than by using political hot buttons?” Tee grumbled, thinking out loud more than pointing out the obvious. “Just because the room is full of children doesn’t mean it’s safe enough to have the president, most of his cabinet, and an alarming number of congressional members present.” Tee’s cell phone buzzed. She thumbed a key and read a text message, then scowled. “Correction. Both presidential candidates and their running mates. This is a terrorist’s wet dream.”
Joe pointed out, “But nobody in an intelligence group has noticed any terrorist movement in the past two weeks, no one has entered the U.S., nothing has popped up on anyone’s radar but what we’ve learned at BAD. And the SS swept for bombs.” He frowned, thinking. Could they have missed something? “We can’t put a hundred percent faith in a damn postcard from some woman no one can vouch for except Gabrielle.”
“I know.” Two small vertical lines broke the plane of Tee’s exotic face, which was part Vietnamese, the tiny change a serious sign of her frustration. “Gotthard is running a breakdown between the list of everyone preregistered and anyone who came through security who was not on that list.”
“Slipping in undetected would be hard to engineer.”
“Not if that person was SS or another national security agency.”
“What are you thinking?” Joe shoved his full attention to Tee now. She had the amazing ability to think not just outside the box, but to reach the outer limits of possibilities.
“We didn’t find out until after the viral attacks last year that a DEA agent had been working as a mole.”
“Brady. You think he’s involved?” Joe asked, trying to follow Tee’s thinking, which would be like keeping up with a beam of light at night.
“Not necessarily, but we are the only ones who know about the Fratelli and that he might be involved with them. We should consider everyone a suspect, even the Secret Service.”
“Good point.”
Hunter walked up to them, his eyes skimming the crowd, then settling on Joe and Tee. “Just got in. Gotthard is here, too. Korbin and Rae are inside the clinic in Switzerland, waiting for word to move. They’ve located three teens that match the ones we’re watching.”
Tee angled a perfectly shaped eyebrow the color of coal. “How could there be two sets of the same teens? We checked all the records. There isn’t a possibility of a twin or even a sibling of the same sex.”
“The tougher question is, which set of teens are the real ones and which set are fake?” Joe glanced at his watch. “We’ve only got thirty minutes before they address the energy co
mmittee. Who do Rae and Korbin have to back them up?” Joe had the best BAD agents available stateside covering this meeting inside and out.
“They have four contractors Retter set up before he disappeared.” Hunter thumbed a message on his cell phone as he spoke. “They’ll move to apprehend the teens in the clinic on your word.” He looked at Joe.
“Not yet. Those teens are safe for the moment. We have to determine what’s happening to this trio before we do anything there that might tip off whoever is behind this, whatever the hell this is.” Joe would kill for a drop of solid intel right now. Carlos had sent word the teens were definitely in danger and that this meeting was the true target, not the one in South America. He just didn’t know what the danger was, only that he believed the meeting in South America was a decoy.
And Carlos might be dead by now. Retter as well, so what the hell was going on in South America, too?
“We can’t help Retter and Carlos yet,” Tee said softly, reading Joe so easily it always surprised him. “As soon as this meeting is over or we’ve determined what is going on here, you and I will go after them. For now-” Her gaze shifted to the side, then she frowned. “What is she doing here?”
“Who?” Joe and Hunter asked together, turning their heads in the same direction.
“Silversteen, the DEA agent leading the search for Brady. Why would she be here or even in D.C. right now?”
“I don’t know.” Joe studied the sleek form of Josie Silversteen slipping through the crowd.
“Let’s find out what official capacity she’s here under.” Tee lifted her cell phone, tiny fingers typing in a blur. Hands that knew how to kill a man in more ways than Joe wanted to count. She paused, typed again, paused, and raised a suspicious gaze to him. “Silversteen is supposed to be on leave today. Her office has her listed as being in Miami.”
“Wonder if she knows something she isn’t sharing with anyone else?” Joe said quietly. “She has a reputation of not playing well with others.”
“Neither do I,” Tee muttered, then flashed a wicked look at Joe. “I’m going to find out what she knows. Think you can handle this without me?”
Joe sighed. “I would say be careful, but I’d only mean for you to be careful not to kill her.”
Tee patted his cheek. “Flattery will get you a night at the Ryman when we go home.” She tugged on the bottom of her jacket as if straightening her armor for battle.
Joe ignored the tease about the building housing his favorite Grand Ole Opry entertainment in Nashville and snagged Tee by the arm. At the flash of anger in her eyes for being detained, he whispered, “Be careful. Really.”
His codirector nodded, then moved away, her body moving with liquid grace.
Hunter said, “Everyone’s in place. Twenty minutes to go.”
“Let’s hope this Linette hasn’t steered us wrong.” Joe scanned the room once more, his gaze settling on the three teens and the Collupy woman. “Are Jake and Jeremy back?”
“Yes, I told them to wait at Reagan Airport. Figured once this was over we were taking our best people to South America.”
“That’s the plan.” Not much of one since Joe doubted they’d get to Carlos and Retter before the agents were killed.
JOSIE FLASHED HER ID at one of the armed security guards overseeing the flood of people and teenagers being checked in and out of today’s meeting in the hearing.
“I feel for you guys having to deal with so many physically challenged kids. Has to be a nightmare getting everyone scanned. You deserve bonus pay.”
“Like that’s going to happen.” The closest security guard with a military buzz cut and buff physique to back up that dangerous look allowed a grin. He reviewed her ID and checked her off his list of approved law enforcement, noting the time she exited, then waved her on. “Have a good day.”
She smiled, planning on an excellent day. Now that she’d confirmed the three teenagers and Kathryn Collupy were in place, Josie was on her way to a spot close enough to observe but not be affected by the blast. Keying in three phone numbers on her cell phone would trigger detonators for C-4 packed inside long, narrow tubes the teenagers had unknowingly passed through security.
Scientists in Fratelli labs had successfully tested the solid tubes of C-4 in security scanners identical to those here, then integrated the tubes into the prosthetic and wheelchair structures. The detonator had been camouflaged in the prosthetic mechanism and within the wheelchair design.
In less than an hour, the U.S. power structure would be crippled beyond belief. No one had ever considered the possibility of losing the sitting president, vice president, the next four directly in line to the presidency, and the other presidential candidate a week before Tuesday’s polling.
This country would turn to number six in the government hierarchy, the secretary of the treasury, a Hispanic man with a spotless record who would be duly shocked by his new position. His opportune trip to Columbia would be called a miracle by some who would believe he was just one lucky bastard. From the ashes of a chaotic country desperate for a new president, he would show leadership in the interim that would prove him to be the best candidate once elections were resumed.
In spite of a twenty-two-year career in politics spent maneuvering himself into a position where he’d be appointed by the current administration, the man who would step into the president’s shoes was truly neither left-wing nor right-wing.
Josie smiled over the brilliant plan for putting a Fratelli in the White House.
TEE SHADOWED JOSIE two blocks from the congressional meeting. Her target entered an office building and passed up the elevator for the stairwell.
At the third floor, Josie went through a doorway to a hall that was very empty for a D.C. office building. Tee made a mental note to have someone research the offices rented along the hallway, but she’d bet every agreement would lead back to the same renter, who would be nonexistent by the time they located an address.
Tee mentally flipped through everything that could be going down. Kidnapping didn’t seem likely with so much security onstage. And why would Josie leave the site if she was part of an operation? If Josie wasn’t part of something going on here, then why would she lie to her office and show up at an event like this?
Trying to put herself in Josie’s shoes, Tee realized the only reason she would be off-site in an operation was if…something was going to happen at the site. Like a bomb.
Tee started texting Joe frantically.
Up ahead, Josie opened a door and vanished inside an office.
JOE READ THE text message from Tee, then stepped back from where he observed the crowd to speak softly into his transmitter, which would reach his entire team. “Tell all three television stations to go to commercial break in five seconds. I don’t care how you make it happen.” He headed for Dolinski.
NOT EXACTLY THE rescue Carlos had hoped for. Durand lay sprawled, a glassy-eyed stare fixed on his face. Carlos should feel something like remorse, but all he could muster was relief this monster would never harm Gabrielle, Maria, or Eduardo.
Salvatore hadn’t moved since stopping in front of where Carlos hung.
“Hola, Salvatore.” Carlos didn’t deny being Alejandro since lying in a situation like this wouldn’t help him. At least Salvatore would probably kill him with another bullet between the eyes instead of torturing him.
“You are the one Helena went to meet the day of the bomb,” Salvatore stated.
“Yes. I know you don’t believe me, but I never wanted her harmed,” Carlos told him, his voice thick.
The door slammed open again. Carlos kept his gaze on Salvatore since he couldn’t imagine a bigger threat than the one he was facing.
Retter came into view…wearing more artillery than Rambo. Except Retter was so much taller than Stallone. He had black grease on his face. Arms bulging with roped muscle held a.50-caliber machine gun. Two belts of ammunition crisscrossed over the black tank shirt on his chest. Black cargo pants were ripped an
d dirty as though he’d crawled through mud. Blood was splattered over him.
He’d never looked better to Carlos.
Salvatore didn’t blink an eye. In fact, he ignored Retter.
What the hell was going on? Carlos started to ask Retter when Salvatore spoke.
“I know you didn’t kill Helena or try to kill me. Durand tried to convince me the Valencia family set the bomb and that his family suffered from the explosion. When that didn’t work, he leaked that you had made the failed attempt on my life. He blamed his nephew’s injury that made him a paraplegic on you. We searched Helena’s diary for a clue on who had wanted her dead. I was not the only target, but I was warned not to go outside the store.”
The pain from the handcuffs cutting into Carlos’s wrists was nothing compared to the anguish shafting Salvatore’s eyes.
Salvatore lowered his gun. “She wrote about how the two of you believed you could end the war between our families. That might not have convinced me if one of my security men hadn’t told me what he heard on his radio. He scanned all channels that day and caught you yelling to your cousin, ‘No, Eduardo, don’t hurt Helena. Don’t do this.’ Then he heard your screams at Helena through the radio, telling her to turn and run.”
Carlos wanted to say something, but all he could do was try to breathe through his constricted throat.
Retter was searching the room and found the control to the chain hoist, which he engaged to lower Carlos to the floor. He found a pair of bolt cutters and snapped the handcuff links.
“Thanks.” Carlos stood, rubbing his wrists around the metal. “Want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Salvatore’s man captured me,” Retter stated as if that were an explanation.
Salvatore scoffed. “Because you let him.”
“True.” Retter’s face split with a smile that turned the heads of women anywhere he went, regardless if he was decked out for a night on the town or wearing dirty fatigues as he was now. “I couldn’t pass up a chance to meet with Salvatore. Once I did, I knew he wasn’t behind the attacks on the oil minister. I had just explained that I thought someone else was trying to finger him for the attempts on the oil minister’s life when he got a call from some guy named-”
Whispered Lies Page 36
