Endgame (Last Chance Series)

by Dee Davis

  "It was either you come to New York, or me fly to Texas, and since you've got an expense account..."

  "Which beats the hell out of what they offer around here." Harrison laughed as he shot a look around the cubicle Madison called an office. The FBI wasn't noted for its lavish perks, and the New York branch was no exception. "But I still could have accessed my own system."

  "I know, but this is faster. And it's not like you're here to steal state secrets. I just want to know what, if anything, we've got on Cullen's theory, and you know your way around a computer far better than I do."

  "You could have asked one of the computer techs here."

  "And given up the chance to see you?" She smiled, but knew the gesture didn't quite reach her eyes. The whole task force idea left her with a bad taste in her mouth. She'd worked incredibly hard to rise within the ranks of the Bureau, and the idea of mavericking for Cullen, no matter how close they were, left her uneasy.

  Harrison, as usual, read her mind. "The director approved this, right?"

  She nodded, chewing on her lower lip, the habit ingrained since childhood. "He didn't have a choice. Cullen went through the White House."

  "And you're worried that his strong-arm tactics won't sit well with the brass."

  "Exactly," she sighed. "The last thing I need is to be accused of throwing around my pedigree." Her godfather and her father between them controlled a large chunk of the American economy. Which meant they also had political connections to rival the president. Her career, however, had been built on her own terms. She used her mother's maiden name, and was well into her work as a profiler before her connection to Philip Merrick had become public knowledge.

  Until now, she'd never done anything that could even remotely smell of collusion with her godfather or her father, her need to stand on her own two feet almost second nature. But Cullen had blurred the line. And even if she'd wanted to say no, she doubted that she could have.

  "I just don't want to lose all that I've worked for, and dropping three cases in order to unofficially chase after Cullen's shadows isn't exactly the way to make agent of the month."

  "This one's totally off the record?"

  "Yup. He's tried getting various agencies to investigate, but none of them bought into his theory. So, in typical Pulaski fashion, he's cut through the bullshit and gone straight to the top."

  "And tapped you to head up the task force." As usual Harrison was multitasking, talking and typing at the same time, the computer humming with activity.

  "Not alone. I'm supposed to share that responsibility with some guy from the CIA. We're meeting him at Cullen's offices tomorrow."

  "You don't sound very excited by the prospect." Harrison swiveled his chair so that he could see her, hazel eyes concerned.

  "I'm not. CIA types tend to be a bit over the top when it comes to macho, and I really don't want to have to prove myself yet again." There was a hint of bitterness that surprised her. She usually took sexual inequality in stride, the fact that she had to work harder than most men a given.

  "I've no doubt you'll wow him." Harrison's grin widened. "You always do."

  She bit back a laugh. "I'm glad you're here."

  He turned back to the computer. "I just hope your macho man is equally pleased."

  "I'm as much in charge as he is. I have every right to recruit who I want to help. Besides, how could he not want you?"

  Harrison saw a computer as an endless puzzle, one that fascinated him to the point of obsession. That obsession had served law enforcement well. He could access almost any system, and in doing so, secure information that was otherwise unobtainable. He saw patterns in data that even seasoned detectives missed.

  "It's not what he thinks that matters, anyway." She looked up to meet Harrison's questioning gaze. "Cullen is ultimately in charge, and he's delighted to have you on board."

  Harrison grinned. "I thought you abhorred using connections to get what you wanted."

  "It's not the same thing and you know it." She shrugged off a twinge of guilt, determinedly changing the subject. "What are you finding there? Anything of interest?"

  "Well, the best way to test a pattern is to try and find an anomaly. So, using Cullen's database, I've been looking at records for all the members of the consortium. Each company has a designated representative. And in almost every case it's the president or chairman of the board. So I culled out the ones that have had a change in leadership within the last two years. Which ultimately gave me a list of fifteen."

  "But there are only six here." She stared at the screen, reading through the names.

  "That's because the others were legitimate changes of the guard. Retirement, takeover, that kind of thing."

  "And these?" She recognized the names of the recently deceased board members and suddenly it clicked "They're all dead, aren't they?"

  "Yup." Harrison nodded. "And more interesting than that. Only two of the six died of natural causes. The other four met with rather untimely deaths. Seems they were a bit accident-prone."

  Their gazes met and held.

  "Or Cullen Pulaski is right."

  *****

  THE CLINK OF glassware, low murmur of voices and static from the TV blended together to provide the perfect white noise. Panama City was perpetually full of tourists, people fleeing the cold northeast for sanctuary in the sun, but the Blue Room catered to locals. No umbrellas in pineapple glasses here. This was a whiskey-straight-and-beer- from-a-bottle kind of place.

  Exactly what Gabe wanted. He sat in a corner, back to the wall, waiting. He'd put the word out a little over twenty-four hours ago, but he knew his friends would respond as quickly as circumstances allowed. There was a code between them, a bond forged in the fires of hell. There were things they could never talk about, even amongst themselves, but push come to shove, they could be counted upon.

  And with Cullen Pulaski's long arm behind him, there would be no problem with approval. The powers that be would jump to make certain Pulaski's demands were met. Not that it really made a difference. If Gabe had called without any clearance at all, they'd still have come.

  "I see you're still a creature of habit." Nigel Ferris materialized from the shadows and slid into the empty chair next to Gabe's. Ever-vigilant, his gaze swept the room. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he smiled, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes.

  Gabe shrugged and sipped his whiskey. "Old habits die hard. I didn't expect you until tomorrow."

  "You shouldn't have expected me at all." The Englishman's eyes crinkled in genuine amusement. "Your message to London was routed through the Bolivian consulate. And those assholes are mired so deep in political bull it's amazing they manage to find the office each morning, let alone get a message to a supposed subversive working with left-wing anti-American guerillas."

  "Undercover again, I take it?" Gabe raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with his friend's diatribe. Nigel hadn't changed a bit. British to the core, he had the breeding of an earl and the morals of a street urchin, the combination making him one of MI6's best operatives.

  He'd been with Special Forces when they'd met, assigned as an adjunct to their Delta Force team. Not only had he proved himself a valuable team member, he'd won Gabe's trust, and the two of them had worked together on subsequent operations as their respective countries' needs had coincided.

  "Let's just say I was working." Nigel shrugged. "That is, until I got your summons."

  Gabe frowned. "I wouldn't call it a summons, exactly. More of a friendly request."

  "Listen, mate, that request had to clear three countries' security levels, pass through at least five armed checkpoints, and then wend its way upriver to a place most Bolivians don't even know exists." He signaled a passing waitress, ordered a beer, then sat back. "So what gives?"

  "Cullen Pulaski." Gabe spit the words out like a curse. "It's his game. He pulled the strings to call me in."

  "And you used those same strings to get me."

  Gabe nodded. "M
isery loves company."

  "He pulled you off a mission." It was a statement, not a question.

  "Two-year op."

  "You call Payton?" Nigel took his beer from the waitress and sat back, waiting.

  "Yeah. His voice mail was routed through so many connections there's no way of knowing where the hell he really is, or if he'll get the message, but I tried."

  "Last time I ran into the bugger he was in Singapore posing as an import-export man. Wouldn't have known him except for the scar. He had it camouflaged behind a beard, but if you know it's there you can still see it. Surprised he can still work undercover with a mark like that."

  "He gets the job done. That's all that matters when you get right down to it. Hopefully he'll meet us in New York."

  "New York?"

  "Yeah, Cullen's corporate headquarters are there. Guess he thought it would be easier to have us operate off his home turf. He's supposed to be setting up some sort of command control. No idea what the hell that means exactly, but you can bet your ass it'll be top of the line. All that's left is to assemble the team."

  "So, assuming Payton gets word, we'll be together again." Nigel frowned. "Not sure I like the sound of that. The last time we were together people died."

  "That's a given in our line of work." Gabe tried to keep his tone even, to hide his own concern, but Nigel read the truth in his expression.

  "You know what I mean." The Englishman released a sigh. "When Cullen Pulaski wants something, he doesn't give a damn what the price is. Payton's got the scars to prove it."

  There were other scars, too. Less physical ones, and Gabe knew only too well that they festered as easily. "You're not going to get an argument from me. But that doesn't change the fact that the man wants us. And basically—" he fought against a wave of bitterness "—what Cullen wants, Cullen gets."

  "So what is it this time?"

  "Three somewhat untimely deaths, and the foundation of a trade agreement with China. If Cullen's hunch plays out it could mean significant terrorist activity. That's where we come in." Gabe went on to fill in the details, sketchy as they were, including Cullen's grandstand efforts to gain their involvement.

  "Well, you've got to admire the old bastard's spunk." Nigel frowned, his mind already at work on the puzzle. "How long ago was the first death?"

  "About six months."

  "I don't suppose he was kept on ice."

  "Nothing so fortunate. There was an autopsy, though."

  "And victim number two?"

  "Four months ago. No autopsy."

  "We're going to need someone with forensic experience. First to examine the autopsy and then if necessary to exhume the bodies. Even with decomposition there should be something left to point us on our way."

  "We'll use the locals as much as possible, and if we need more help, I'm sure Cullen will find us an expert."

  "He certainly seems to have a knack for it. Anyone else been drafted? Besides the three of us, I mean?"

  Gabe stared down at the amber liquid in his glass. "I'm actually supposed to be sharing command with an FBI profiler. Woman named Madison Harper."

  "Never heard of her," Nigel offered helpfully.

  "She's a friend of Cullen's. Got the feeling that was his motivation for the decision."

  "Wonderful. That'll either make her a tart or an egghead. Just what we need. Either way, shouldn't you have cleared my coming through her?"

  "Probably." Gabe suppressed a grin. "But I didn't. And quite honestly, I don't see Cullen being too concerned with the fact."

  "And the girl?" Nigel asked.

  "Will have to deal with it if she wants to stay on board. I've no interest in playing baby-sitter to Cullen's latest project."

  "Have you considered the possibility that we're judging too quickly here? A profiler might prove very useful if there is indeed a connection between the board members' deaths."

  "Sure, if the guy is Hannibal Lecter." Gabe tried but couldn't keep the derision from his voice.

  Nigel shook his head. "You Yanks and your cinema. Silence of the Lambs certainly gave the profession notoriety, but anyone can be profiled. Number 10 Downing's had great success in using the same skill set to apply to suspected terrorists. If your Ms. Harper is any good, she could be a valuable member of the team."

  Gabe shrugged. "I don't have anything against the woman personally. Hell, I don't even know her. I just don't like the idea of having her forced on me."

  "So look on it as a challenge." His friend shrugged. "Something to sweeten the pot. You know you aren't happy unless someone's throwing the gauntlet down. Besides, like I said, maybe she'll be an asset."

  "Yeah, and the Pope lives in Jersey." Gabe swallowed the last of his whiskey.

  "Hardly." Nigel managed to look indignant and amused all at once. "So when do we leave?"

  "We're catching the red-eye in a couple of hours. In the meantime," Gabe signaled the waitress for another round, "I suggest we drink up."

  CHAPTER THREE

  MADISON STARED down at the report, willing it to speak to her. Not so much the words on the paper, but the implications behind them. Six men dead. Their lives extinguished in an instant. The repercussions potentially global.

  But there was nothing here to tell her why or even if they were connected.

  "Hey, I think I've got something." Harrison looked up from his computer. They were ensconced in a conference room on the executive floor of Dreamscape's Manhattan offices. It had been converted for their purposes, state-of-the-art computers and equipment lining two walls. The third wall was partially covered by a white board, the remaining space designed to serve as a communications center complete with telephone bank and media consoles. The final wall was comprised completely of windows, their glass panes affording a magnificent view of Central Park.

  From where she stood, Madison could see the wide expanse of green, leaves just beginning to turn, hints of gold and red making the trees seem like a kaleidoscope in the wind. "Something more on the dead men?" She turned from the window and walked over to the computer console, staring at the screen over his shoulder.

  "Actually it's information on our Mr. Roarke." Harrison looked up at her with a grin.

  "So what'd you find? His dossier was pretty slim."

  "This isn't a lot better. Five years in the army, three of them with Delta Force. Operations too classified even for me. But whatever they were, they were significant. He's got a list of medals longer than my arm. After discharge, he pops up again at Langley. A couple of years training, and then what looks to be routine assignments in Europe for the next couple of years."

  "So far that tracks with what we already know." Madison tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her attention still on the screen. "What have you got after that?"

  "That's where it gets interesting. According to the personnel file, Roarke had an altercation of some kind with a higher-up, was sanctioned and given a desk job, but—" Harrison tapped the monitor meaningfully "—with a little finagling I was able to access a more secure area and, interestingly enough, Roarke is listed here as an operative."

  Madison read the screen. "Black ops."

  Harrison nodded. "Which would explain the ruse of a desk job. If this adds up, I'd say he was underground for something like six years. But I can't say for sure because I couldn't get access any deeper."

  "I thought you designed the system?" Harrison worked for Phoenix, a Texas company that specialized in computer forensics. In addition, they also developed secure systems for law enforcement agencies.

  "We designed it. But that was before my time. I just know a few tricks. Anyway, just after 9/11, Roarke shows up again on regular listings assigned to counterterrorism. He's been working stateside ever since."

  "With a heck of a lot of success, if that's to be believed." She nodded at the computer, chewing on the side of her lip. Roarke sounded like a testosterone junkie. Quick to put himself in harm's way, he'd command fierce loyalty among his friends, and pr
obably be able to count them on one hand.

  He'd be a loner, and have trouble with rules and superiors, but he'd be smart enough to have turned the detriment into an asset. A man who kept his own counsel, and would definitely not be interested in sharing command. Her guess was that he would be average-looking, the kind of man who faded into the background.

  "Madison Harper?" The voice was deep, almost a bass, the sound sending a wave of something akin to pleasure coursing down her spine. She swung around, her eyes locking with pale blue eyes in the midst of a hard, chiseled face.

  The eyes narrowed as the man with the voice let his gaze travel from her head to her feet and back again, the look measuring, weighing her worth. Black hair curled around his temples, a couple days' worth of beard decorating his chin. He should have looked unkempt, but instead the effect was rakish, the glint in his eyes letting her know he was more than aware of his effect on the fairer sex.

  "Gabriel Roarke," he said, leaning against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest, his mouth quirking upward ever so slightly.

  She opened her mouth to say something pithy, but couldn't get the words past the cotton in her throat.

  Gabriel Roarke was anything but average. Seven years in the Bureau, five of them working with Investigative Support, meant that she could be pretty certain her reaction was well hidden. But the very fact that she was having it at all didn't sit well.

  The last thing she needed was a pretty boy with attitude. "I wasn't expecting you until this afternoon." She carefully modulated her voice, keeping it neutral, almost bland. She'd used the exact tone on reticent offenders with great effect.

  Gabriel's left eyebrow rose, the resulting expression somewhere between amused and demonic. "I caught a ride on a cargo plane out of Tyndall."

  "There was no need to rush over. You could have at least waited until you'd had a shower." It was her turn to measure him, and she had to admit there was nothing a good haircut and a shave wouldn't fix.

  His lips parted in a smile, his teeth white against the beard, making her think of a pirate. "I've been here since yesterday evening, and if you'd care to check," he languidly lifted an arm, resting it on the door frame, "I think you'll find I've showered."