Kill Shot

by Liliana Hart

  The muscles in his back tensed, and his palms were damp with sweat. He turned around slowly, wondering if he could make it out of the building before she got him. He’d seen the looks Gabe had been giving him lately. He knew the team didn’t trust him completely. Didn’t think he could handle the pressure or remain loyal to what they were doing. Well, screw them. He knew damned well where his loyalties lay, but he wasn’t going to stop having fun just because everyone else was old. And it might be perverse, but he was having a good time seeing how far he could push Gabe before the man snapped completely.

  “Relax, Ethan. I’m not here to kill you,” Grace said.

  “Well, that’s a relief. Like you’d even tell me if you were.” He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and headed back to the kitchen.

  “Look at it this way. If I were, you’d already be dead by now. Here, it looks like you could use some of this.”

  He took the coffee she offered him, his mind split between thinking he was going to die and wondering how she’d breached his system. Ethan drank from his cup deeply and winced at the bitterness that touched his tongue. The coffee tasted like it had been boiled a week and stirred with a leather boot.

  “Never eat or drink anything someone you don’t know or trust offers you. It could be poisoned. Spy School 101.”

  “Is that a joke?” He ran his tongue along his teeth and waited for something to happen, for the bitter taste of arsenic on his tongue or foam to start bubbling from his lips, but there was only the bitter remains of too-strong coffee.

  “I never joke.”

  “My mistake.” They stood in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes—or at least he was uncomfortable. She had a way of looking at him that made him think she could see into his soul. It was a little disconcerting.

  He grabbed some cereal from his cupboard and ate it dry out of the box. “What did I do wrong with the system? How did you get in?”

  “It’s a good system. You had a couple of secondary traps set up that I’ve never seen before, and I don’t see anyone outside of this group getting past your security. It took me almost fifteen minutes to get in, and if I was on a mission I would’ve had to abort. If it makes you feel better, probably Gabe and I are the only two people in the world who could’ve gotten in. We used to practice B&E for fun. It keeps you sharp.”

  Ethan relaxed a little at her explanation, though he was already thinking of ways he could tighten the system. A couple of more secondary trips and maybe a body-temperature sensor would take care of it. She’d thrown down the gauntlet, and he was determined to best her.

  “So you and Gabe have worked with each other a lot, huh?” he asked, curious to know more about the man who didn’t seem to have a past. Whose records had been wiped so clean there wasn’t a trace of him anywhere. And Ethan had certainly looked. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if Gabe Brennan was his real name.

  Her lips quirked in either a grimace or an attempt at a smile, he couldn’t be sure which, but she didn’t answer the question.

  “Now that we’ve had our moment of bonding, you might want to change out of your jammies for our recon meeting. Jack lives to torture, and he’ll be here in about thirty seconds.”

  Even as she said it there was a knock at the door.

  “Punctual as always.”

  Ethan speared his fingers through his hair and went to do just that, not sure if he’d passed or failed whatever test she’d just given him. At least he was still alive.

  * * *

  “This is very cool,” Jack said, circling the table of a 3-D hologram of the National Museum in Tehran. “Nice going, kid.”

  “We’ll need at least two men on the inside,” Grace said. “Two more on point, and then Wonderboy here can set up as home base.”

  “Three on the inside would be better,” Ethan said. He changed screens so the interior of the museum glowed with blue lights. Splotches of red lit up where cameras were located, and green lines crisscrossed in the main showroom where infrared beams rotated on a timer.

  “That’s too many bodies,” Grace argued. “Three gives the opportunity for someone to get left behind if things go to shit.”

  “Agreed,” Jack said. “Two can do it. Where’s the entry point?”

  Ethan narrowed the hologram to a small section. “The roof. They’ve got skylights, but I’ve got something to get through the security there.”

  “What about guards?” Grace asked.

  “That’s where things get tricky. The guards are hired guns, no more than a couple dozen, and only a handful of those are official employees on record. The government is still pretty shaky with the new transition, and money is scarce, so they’ve hired out without asking a lot of questions to fill holes. There have been threats against some of their national treasures, so that’s why security at the museum has been upped.

  “There are a lot of factions who still oppose the Iranian government, and from the background checks I’ve done on some of the guards, they definitely fall into that camp. We could always try to pay the guards off. Several of them are barely scraping by.”

  “No. Too big of a chance that one of them will cave under pressure if questioned.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Let me make some calls. I have a few men I trust who are still in the area. We need to know exactly how many we might be facing in and outside the building. We’ve got a good start here.”

  Grace’s laptop beeped from the living area, and she went to see what it had come up with. Ethan’s apartment was set up much like hers. An open living space where there were no walls between the kitchen and dining room, and a private bed and bath off the kitchen. The only difference in their spaces was that Ethan had a large workroom filled with electronics and his 3-D Hologram machine, which he for some reason felt the need to christen Wanda. The furniture in Ethan’s apartment was more masculine and modern than hers—sleek black leather and glass tables—and he definitely had more clutter. There was a basket of clean clothes on the floor, computer parts and gadgets on every available surface, and a video game console and wires scattered every direction.

  She stepped around the mess and sat on the edge of the sofa, pulling the laptop closer to the edge of the coffee table. She’d been running probable scientists and doing research on them since she’d left Gabe in the gym the night before. There was no way she’d have been able to go back to sleep after that fun encounter. So work had been her only option. Ethan and Gabe weren’t the only two who knew how to use a computer, though she wasn’t afraid to admit that her skills came nowhere close to theirs.

  “What’s up, Red?” Jack called from the other room. “Anything exciting?”

  “I think I’ve got a hit on a scientist who’s a viable candidate for recreating The Passover Project. I did some research last night and ran some probabilities, and less than half a percent of all scientists at various universities and institutes around the world have the genius to even guess at a formula as complex as this. And the percentage shrinks even more when you narrow the scientific field. We’re looking at four, maybe five men who can pull this off.”

  “So who’s your top pick?” Jack asked.

  “The deeper level background checks just finished, and it looks like a Dr. Allen Standridge quietly resigned from MIT three years ago after a couple of graduate students complained they saw him experimenting on human test subjects without the people’s knowledge. It was never proven since it was their word against his, and Dr. Standridge insisted the students were just holding a grudge because he’d rejected their theses. But it made the MIT board nervous enough to ask for his early retirement and resignation.”

  “And what’s Dr. Standridge been up to for the past couple of years?” Jack asked.

  “That’s the million-dollar question. He’s disappeared, or at least he’s hidden himself well enough that my limited tracking abilities can’t find him. I couldn’t find a death certificate or an obituary. And his name’s not attached to any new project. I figured I’d turn this over t
o Ethan. He’ll be able to dig deeper.”

  Ethan followed Jack into the room, his glasses skewed on his face and his hair mussed. “Rad. I like spying on other people. You find out the damndest things. They’re strange.”

  Jack snorted out a laugh, and Grace buried her face in the computer so Ethan wouldn’t see her smile. God, everything about this mission felt odd to her. She’d cut herself off so completely for the last two years that being around anyone was a culture shock. Guilt ate at her. She shouldn’t be smiling and enjoying the excitement of starting a new team mission while her daughter was buried in the ground back in Virginia. Not while her murder was still unavenged and the monster who had killed her was roaming free.

  Her smile disappeared, and she watched Ethan pull a can of soda from the fridge and pop the top, oblivious to their amusement or anything else. She and Jack had been rotating the room, checking their positions in the windows and watching for anyone outside who happened to pass by the building more than once or seem too interested. They’d been doing the things they’d been trained to do to stay alive. But Ethan just existed in his own world. He’d make a terrible field agent, and she hoped to God they didn’t get him killed. She had enough blood on her hands.

  “What are you guys staring at?” Ethan asked, his drink to his lips. Grace looked at Jack and she could tell he’d just had the same thought. Ethan was either going to be a great help or a huge hindrance. Only time would tell.

  A hard knock on the apartment door kept them from having to answer Ethan’s question. Gabe came into the room, his iPad cradled under his arm and his phone in the other hand.

  “We’ve got another infection site. It’s the same MO,” he said, placing his things on the coffee table before looking at Grace.

  The tension in the room skyrocketed, and she broke his gaze, returning her attention to the computer screen. She heard Jack mumble something profane under his breath, and Ethan, as unworldly as he was, asked, “What’s going on?”

  Gabe headed into the kitchen and came back with a cup of coffee. He took a sip and grimaced, and Grace felt a small satisfaction at his pained look.

  “Christ, Grace, do you always have to boil it to death?” Gabe went back into the kitchen and poured milk into the mug.

  Jack broke the tension by picking up Gabe’s iPad and scrolling through the pictures of the new infection site he had stored on it. “This site isn’t wiped clean like the others. They didn’t finish the job.”

  “No,” Gabe said. “I’ve been monitoring the World Health Organization’s communications since Bennett sent me that package a couple of weeks ago. I got a hit about five a.m. from a panicked caller in central Mexico that a small native tribe was showing signs of an unknown virus. There are more than a hundred dead, but they’re at the seventy-two hour mark, and there are still survivors.”

  “Maybe it really is an isolated epidemic,” Grace said.

  “Maybe, except a witness came forward and said a white man had been asking for directions to the village. The WHO doctors at the site said they’ve never seen any type of virus like this one before. They said it’s unheard of for a disease that takes affect so quickly and violently to stay contained within one tribe.”

  “So the question is, what’s the nature of that particular tribe—that it only affected them and no one else?” Grace asked.

  “Bingo,” Gabe said with a nod. “The Ahnimado Tribe prides themselves on being pureblood. They’re a tribe of less than a hundred people who all share the same genes. Marriages must take place within the family, and no outsiders are allowed in their village.”

  Grace took the iPad from Jack and looked at the pictures. “So if we assume whoever made this batch of The Passover Project used a specific Ahnimado’s DNA as a test for the weapon, then we can also assume that they’re getting closer to finding the formula. The Ahnimado have all fallen ill because they share common DNA linked to their pureblood lineage.”

  Gabe nodded and said, “The virus doesn’t seem to be contagious, and the doctor said they didn’t have much hope for the remaining survivors. It’s as if they’d all been purposely wiped out.”

  “Did the witness give an ID of the man?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve just put Logan on a plane to go find out. He’s going to check out the site in person and see if there are any survivors who are able to speak.” Gabe turned to Ethan. “Is there progress on the museum?”

  “Jack has some ideas,” Ethan said, shrugging. “I just build the incredible machines. Someone else does all the real work.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “We’ve got the basics, but I’ll feel better about it after I contact some people. The kid has the design of the structure right, and we could get in and out if that was all there was to it. It’s the nonelectronic aspects that are going to give us the most trouble. Bullets beat machines any day.”

  “Let me know if you need any help,” Gabe said, gathering his things and heading for the door. “Grace, I need to speak to you a moment.”

  Grace followed Gabe reluctantly into the hallway, aware that two curious stares followed them out. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, crossing her arms over her chest and mentally preparing for Gabe to bring up what happened between them earlier that morning.

  “I have a contact who said Tussad is visiting his sister in Abadan.”

  Grace straightened from the wall, the news not what she’d been expecting. “What? How long has he been there? How did you find out so fast? Dammit, I’ve paid contacts near there to let me know as soon as he steps foot on Iranian soil. Why the hell wasn’t I contacted?”

  “We both know that what you’re paying your contacts can be beaten. It’s why you agreed to this deal in the first place. My pockets are deeper than yours. Besides, I’ve had all your communications intercepted since you’ve been here.”

  “Goddammit, Gabe—”

  “You work for me now, Grace. You agreed. No outside jobs. I gave you my word we’d get Tussad. I’m delivering.”

  “You can’t cut me off from my contacts completely. I won’t be here working for you forever.”

  “Maybe not, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He waited her out while she fumed silently. There was no way he was going to let her go back to the life she’d been living the last two years. Not even the most hardened criminals lasted long in that kind of work.

  “Fine. Tell me about Tussad.”

  “He’s been in Abadan since early yesterday morning. It’s up to you if you want to try and flush him out now or wait until later.”

  Gabe’s face was unreadable as he waited for her to make a decision.

  “Does your contact think he’ll still be there by the time we can fly in?” she asked.

  “According to my contact, Tussad is there for the three-day birthday celebration of his mother. He’ll be there at least another twenty-four hours.”

  Grace nodded and swiped her card in the elevator. “Then we don’t have a moment to spare. I assume you have a weapons room in this monstrosity?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Good. When do we leave?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Washington, D.C.

  William Sloane had just sat down to breakfast on his private terrace when his butler tapped gently on the door.

  “Excuse me, sir. There’s a Mr. Shawn Kimball at the door. He’s quite insistent on seeing you, though he’s not on your list of callers for the day. He said you’d want to hear what he has to say. Should I send him away?”

  “I’ll see him. Send him in, Peters.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Peters backed out of the room, and Sloane slathered his English muffin with butter. He glanced at his watch and saw it was just after seven. He had meetings that started at eight, and he was already dressed in an expensively cut suit the color of charcoal. Ruby cufflinks glinted in the sun when he turned his wrists just right, and business documents sat neatly stacked at his elbow.

>   He was an affluent man, though a busy one, and nothing could ruffle the calm exterior and quiet determination that had made people give him the nickname of Bulldog over the years. He didn’t take his attention from the meal or papers in front of him as soft-soled footsteps made their way closer. He chewed quietly and looked out at the blooming gardens he’d had built in the back of his Georgetown home.

  “Come in, Kimball. Have a seat.”

  Sloane watched the large man out of the corner of his eye. Kimball reminded him of a hulking cat, ready to spring. Dark brown hair that always needed a cut and a body like a linebacker. But it was the coldness and pure evil in Kimball’s muddy brown eyes that had caused Sloane to hire him. And the fact that the man had a unique brain hidden under the obvious brawn. He was a man easily underestimated.

  Sloane frowned as Kimball helped himself to a cup of coffee and propped a booted foot on one of the dining chairs.

  “I take it you didn’t come to see me for breakfast,” Sloane said, not bothering to let his irritation show.

  “You told me to dig into everything Frank Bennett was involved in, retrace all of his steps over the last month. Have you changed your mind?”

  Sloane still regretted that he hadn’t found out about Frank Bennett digging around in classified files before Frank stumbled across The Passover Project. If Bennett had waited even twenty-four hours to snoop around, all of the files would have been gone. But Bennett had found them, and taken all the information back to his home. It would have only been a matter of time before Bennett found out who was behind The Passover Project’s resurgence. Bennett had been a good man—a useful man. But Sloane didn’t regret for a minute having Kimball take him out, especially once Bennett started asking the wrong questions.

  “Not at all,” Sloane said. “Did you find something?”