by Laura Kaye
Ravens overflowed the kitchen, which made sense since they’d just changed shifts a few minutes before. Kat said some hellos, grabbed a banana and a bottle of water, and made for the gym.
The guys were all gathered around Marz’s desk, including Dare and Detective Vance. Kat hadn’t seen the latter since the day of the attack—the day his godfather and Nick’s friend Miguel had been gunned down, earning the team Vance’s commitment to help. She wondered what he was doing there. Please don’t let it be more bad news.
She rushed across the gym and everyone turned to look at her.
“Hi, Kat,” Vance said. Tall, with dark hair and blue eyes, the cop was a stunner. Though his color blue was nowhere near as brilliant as Beckett’s.
Speaking of which, was she imagining that Beckett wouldn’t meet her gaze?
“Uh, hey. Everything okay?” she asked. She glanced between Vance and Beckett, since the question really applied to both of them.
“Yeah. Well, partly.” Vance gestured to the guys. “I was just telling everyone. I have good news and bad news. I was nearby so I thought I’d deliver it in person.”
She glanced to Nick, whose expression was dark with concern.
“I can try to keep the neighborhood closed up until maybe midweek next week. Maybe Friday, if I can push it. But I can’t promise that.”
“Why? What happened?” Kat said. And here she’d thought the problem of the building’s security had been permanently solved by the neighborhood perimeter Vance had established.
“Nosy journalist,” Nick said. “Pressuring the gas company and the city for details about the leak, and a timeline for fixing it. Plus environmental groups are getting whipped up about a widespread environmental impact the city is supposedly hiding.”
Vance nodded. “Yeah. And the thing is, this woman—the journalist—is a total shark. When she smells a story in the water, she’s damn relentless. Her inquiries have made their way all the up to the mayor’s office, which crawled up the police chief’s ass, who is now all up my ass.” He gave a sexy, crooked grin. “Pardon the phrase.”
Kat blew out a frustrated breath. “What the hell are we supposed to do if this isn’t all resolved by then? Which it very likely won’t be.”
“We could probably take on some of you out at the compound,” Dare said, looking around. “It would be tight, but we could make it work for a while.”
But that would mean . . . they’d have to split up? Kat saw her own reaction mirrored on the expressions of the guys. None of the other women were here yet, but no doubt they’d dislike the idea as much as she did.
Nick braced his hands on the folding chair in front of him. “And the good news?”
Vance nodded. “I won’t have them until late today or tomorrow morning, but I got some surveillance shots of Pier 13 yesterday. The vehicle you described as Kaine’s was there with two others. The meeting took place inside, so the only shots of the suspects I got were of the group walking to their cars. Everything was from a distance, so one of my techs is working on enhancing the images, and then he’ll run them through facial recognition software. He’ll run the plates, too. He’s squeezing it in as a favor for me, though, so I can’t promise exactly when it’ll all come.”
“That is good news,” Nick said. “Thank you. If we could nail down exactly who Kaine is in bed with that would help. A lot.”
“I’ll shoot everything over as soon as I have it.” Vance pulled something out of the inside pocket of his sport jacket. A cell phone. “Damn, I have to go.” He shook hands with each of the men in turn, then pointed at Nick. “Stay in touch.”
“Count on it,” Nick said, nodding. Vance took off across the gym.
“Just a heads-up,” Marz said in an unusually quiet voice from his seat in front of his computer. “Seneka usually logs in to his e-mail around eight-thirty, so we should plan to intercept thirty minutes ahead of time so we’re ready to go.”
Nick planted his hands on his hips and let out a weary sigh. “Okay, that’s our priority. Along with figuring out logistics for Garza’s funeral tomorrow. Let’s put Vance’s news on the back burner for now.” His gaze cut to Dare. “Thank you for the offer of help. Appreciate it.”
The guy nodded, his expression guarded and serious. Kat liked Dare as much as she could like someone who gave off a vibe of holding lots of secrets close to the vest. Which kind of sounded like another hard-ass man she knew. Her gaze cut to Beckett, who still seemed to be avoiding her eyes. Maybe she was just imagining it? After all, they’d just received some really shitty news.
“You should stay for this confrontation we’re hoping to orchestrate,” Nick said to Dare. “Because this is the head of the organization we believe is responsible for Sunday’s attack.”
Lips pressed into a hard line, Dare’s face was grim. “Consider it done.”
Marz looked up from the monitor. “We should keep the rest of the gym cleared during the conversation, though. Nothing can give away our identity or location during the video conferencing.”
As much as Kat wanted to hear what was said, she knew she needed to be here less than any of the guys. “I can guard the door.”
Nick shook his head and nailed her with his pale-green gaze. “No. I want you here for this. I want your take on it.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.” The request muted some of her hurt from yesterday.
“I’ll take care of it,” Jeremy said. “The rest of y’all need to be here for this more than I do.” He hopped off the corner of the desk where he’d been sitting and cut through the group.
“Thanks, man,” Nick said, clapping him on the back.
Jeremy came around the desk, his eyes immediately on her and his expression asking if everything was okay. She nodded, but honestly, until she talked to Beckett, she wasn’t sure what to think.
“All right, Marz,” Nick said. “Walk us through what’s going to happen.”
MARZ HAD FILLED them in on how this was gonna work, and Beckett was strung tight.
Because of everything that’d happened last night.
Because of this whole thing with the guy who’d hurt Kat.
Because they were about to confront John freaking Seneka. And hopefully, finally, get some damn justice.
“All right,” Marz said, excitement in his eyes. “I’m into his zmail account. He hasn’t logged in yet. So now we wait.” He handed Nick a black tactical mask. “When I give you the signal, you’re on.”
Taking a deep breath, Nick accepted the mask. “I guess this is it.” He surveyed the group. The air was suddenly thick with tension and tempered expectation and guarded hopes. “I just want to say—”
“Shit, Nick. He’s on.” Marz said, his head in tight with Charlie’s as they worked on something.
Nick’s expression went immediately, intensely serious. He pulled the mask over his head and sat in the folding chair against the brick wall, a digital camera focused on his head and shoulders. They’d gone over all this in the few minutes Marz had explained what he’d need to do. Nick had a pile of evidence on an off-camera table to his left.
Marz brought the feed up on all the networked monitors, so there were suddenly seven images of John Seneka staring back at them. The man was older, probably in his sixties, with sharp, grizzled features, silvering hair, and intelligent eyes. Despite his legendary status—and contributing to it—he’d retired at what should’ve been the height of his career for reasons no one exactly knew. Not long after, he’d founded the company against which they now fought.
“Once we initiate the chat, no one talks except Nick,” Marz said, voice as serious as Beckett had ever heard it. Nods all around. Marz turned in his seat to look at Nick. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Those odd pale-colored eyes slashed their way, highlighted within the cutouts of the black mask. Nick nodded.
The monitors all went to a split screen, with Seneka on the left and Nick on the right. Seneka’s expression went from surprised to rankly pissed off.
<
br /> “John Seneka,” Nick said. Marz had modulated Nick’s voice so it came through warped and deeper on the chat.
“What the . . . who the fuck are you?” Seneka said, eyes flashing. He reached for the computer. And Beckett’s heart stood ready to jump into his throat.
“A man with twelve million reasons why you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
Seneka’s focus narrowed in on his computer camera. “I’m listening,” he bit out.
“I have evidence that your organization is responsible for the deaths of seven Army Special Forces operatives in an ambush in the Paktia province of Afghanistan, and the attempted murder of five more. I have further evidence that Seneka is engaged in an international narcotics conspiracy involving heroin stolen from Afghanistan and sold to a Baltimore gang for distribution, as well as the human trafficking of kidnapped American women between Baltimore and Afghanistan.”
“I don’t know what—”
“I’m. Not. Done,” Nick said, voice like ice-cold steel. “The evidence in my possession clearly paints these activities as ongoing and extending backward as many as three years. In addition, I have evidence of Seneka involvement in the kidnapping or attempted kidnapping of three civilians in Baltimore within the past few weeks. Finally, I have evidence that Seneka security specialist Emanuel Garza is personally responsible for the deaths of several civilians and city police in Baltimore last week.”
Way to go, Nick. He was doing great. Laying it out like a boss. The one thing they weren’t saying just yet was that they had evidence that a Seneka security team had run an attack on a downtown Baltimore building five days ago, because that accusation would lead too quickly to identifying them.
Seneka shook his head, his expression like a storm. “With the exception of the charges against now-deceased specialist Garza, I know nothing about any of this.”
Which was pretty much what they expected him to say.
Nick continued as if the guy hadn’t just barked out his denial. “I have detailed information that someone with the initials GW or WCE using the now-defunct Seneka extension 703-555-4264 was in regular contact with one or more commanding officers at FOB Chapman, Afghanistan, in the Khost province. I have hard evidence that someone at that same Seneka extension and one other made regular contact with a Singapore bank where deposits topping more than $25 million have been made by someone with those same WCE initials.”
“This is crazy,” Seneka said, his expression bewildered. “I don’t know what evidence you think you have, but I have no knowledge—do you hear me?—of any of this. I’m in the middle of a goddamned congressional investigation, for Christ’s sake.”
Standing by Marz, Kat’s whole face was set in a frown as she studied the monitor. Beckett wondered what she thought of the exchange, of Seneka’s demeanor, and also why he hadn’t made it through the whole night by her side. But long after she’d fallen asleep, he’d lain there awake, staring up at the darkness. Wondering if the idea of an actual relationship was a total frickin’ pipe dream for him. Wondering if this Cole motherfucker was lurking around the next corner of her life—and if so, what happened if he wasn’t by her side when Cole came at her again? It was all more than he could handle while the woman he wanted as much as his next breath lay warm and half naked against him.
Beckett forced himself from his thoughts in time to hear Seneka ask, “What is it you want?”
And that was the money question.
“In exchange for the twelve million dollars I have that I know you want, I require the identities of and hard evidence against GW and WCE within your organization, and all evidence in your possession related to General Landon Kaine’s involvement with this conspiracy.”
That right there was the road to justice, to regaining their honor, to making them as whole as they could possibly be.
Seneka’s gaze went distant as if he were deep in thought, a million miles away. Finally, he tapped his finger hard against the desktop. “I need to see some of this proof.”
“That can be arranged.”
Nick didn’t need to say anything more than that. Marz’s fingers moved over the keyboard, uploading a few redacted excerpts from documents from Merritt’s files and a few screen shots from Kat’s. When he was through, a ding sounded from the computer speakers.
Frowning, Seneka’s gaze moved down from the camera as his attention turned to his monitor, presumably. “Goddamned vulnerable zmail,” he grumbled. “Nice touch sending the files to me from myself. No trace of sender.”
Marz didn’t even crack a smile at the acknowledgment of his skill. He was all laser focus.
Seneka’s expression got more and more grim as he looked over what Marz had sent him. And then his gaze sliced back toward the camera. “Whatever this is, I’m not a part of it. I have no personal knowledge of it. I have not authorized it. I do not condone it. Christ, this is way the hell off the grid. Not to mention sloppy.”
Kat quietly rushed around the far side of Marz’s desk and found Nick’s favorite legal pad, then scribbled something in large letters.
“Then you apparently have some housecleaning to do. Because I have definitive proof and I intend to see justice done here,” Nick said, steady as a rock.
Kat held up the legal pad and angled it around so everyone could see.
I believe him. Exhibiting signs of stress but not lying/deception.
Beckett’s gut reaction: She’s right. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but Seneka was ringing true to him, too.
Kat quietly walked to a position behind the camera and held the pad so Nick could read it. A flicker of his eyes was the only response he gave. But she’d apparently seen it because she lowered the paper and walked away a moment later.
Seneka threw a pen at his desk and bit out a curse, then sat heavily against the back of his chair. His expression was contemplative without being calculating, pissed without being defensive. “Question is, who’s running this thing behind my back . . .” His tone was almost musing.
Staring at the camera, Nick said, “I have a list of candidates for who GW and WCE might be—”
“I don’t need your goddamned list,” Seneka barked. “I know my own people.”
“With all due respect, not all of them, as this situation clearly demonstrates.” Nick’s voice was firm without being mocking.
Heaving a breath, Seneka nodded. “Fair point. It seems we both have something the other wants. But for me, it’s not money. My organization has a traitor that needs to be rooted out before this person takes down twenty-plus years of my hard work. Are you willing to meet?”
“Why would we need to do that?” Nick asked.
“Because I want to know who I’m dealing with, who I’m pinning my reputation and livelihood on. I want to look that person in the eye and know I’ve made the right call. I can’t do that over some internet chat or e-mail. And I won’t. This is my line in the sand. Call me Old School.”
Nick thought about it a long time and finally nodded. “Affirmative. Under my conditions and at a time and location of my choosing. And after you have provided a gesture of good faith.”
Seneka’s eyes narrowed at the camera. “And that would be?”
“A list of all your personal phone numbers, a copy of the SWS personnel list with company phone extensions, and I need you to find something that definitively incriminates whoever this GW or WCE is. And I need it by close of business today. I will contact you again at seventeen hundred and we can proceed with the details of a meet after I’ve evaluated just how good your good faith gesture is.” The phone numbers were to check whether he’d contacted the bank in Singapore, while the personnel list—which they already had from Kat’s documents—was a test. If he altered the document, that would tell them a lot.
“Got this thing all figured out, don’t ya, son?” He chuffed out something close to a humorless laugh.
“Doing my best, sir.”
With a nod, Seneka rattled off four phone numbers—p
ersonal cell, work cell, office direct line, and unlisted home phone.
“Seventeen hundred, sir.”
The guy gave a curt nod. “Seventeen hundred.”
Marz cut off the feed. “We’re clear.”
Nick tugged the mask off and dropped his head into his hands.
A tense silence full of anticipation slowly bubbled into guarded statements of hope and victory. And then the room erupted in outright elation.
Nick heaved himself out of the chair, a dazed grin on his face. Everyone gathered around, Beckett included, to celebrate a job well done.
Now the question was, would John Seneka come through? Or was he playing them for everything he was worth?
Chapter 18
“We have a shit-ton to do now,” Nick said. His words dampened the celebratory atmosphere, and that was probably for the best. As amazing as it had been to watch her brother in action—and Kat had to admit, he’d handled that conversation brilliantly—nothing had substantially changed for them. Yet.
“I’ll search Seneka’s phone numbers against the Singapore bank, Kaine, and Chapman,” Charlie said. “Can someone let Jeremy know we’re done?”
“I will,” Kat said, taking off across the gym.
Behind her, Nick said, “We need to plan some possible meeting locations . . .”
When she had almost reached the door, she noticed Cy on the third shelf of the equipment rack, his head resting on the back of a pair of boxing gloves. When he was asleep, you could hardly tell he’d lost an eye, but her footsteps apparently disturbed him, because his one yellow eye blinked open, wary, watching.
Which, oddly, made her think of Beckett. Maybe it was the wariness. Maybe it was the standoffishness. Maybe it was the fact that you could tell something or someone had hurt him. Bad.
