The priest said, “Please, señor. He’s a boy.”
“Three. Two. One.”
The gunman pushed the boy to the ground and aimed his gun at Kane.
He was dead before he could fire.
“Get the boy out of here,” Kane ordered the priest and ran toward the back.
He’d heard nothing from Blitz, and the other shooters must have heard the gunshots.
He stopped, just before he exited. He realized he’d almost made a fatal mistake—never run blind out of a building.
Because this was Siobhan. He’d almost been reckless because of Siobhan.
“Report,” he said.
Silence.
“Dyson,” he said.
“The priest just left with the boy.”
“I’m coming out the back.”
“Roger, I’ll be there in ten.”
Ten beats. Kane counted them, not liking that his patience was slipping. He took a long, deep breath.
On the eleventh beat, he cautiously opened the door, but didn’t step out. Gunfire erupted, right in front of him. Dyson had turned the corner of the church, and the gunman unleashed a modified AK-47. Dyson retreated, but he might have been hit.
Kane jumped out of the doorway and tackled the shooter. The spray of bullets went high. Kane disarmed him and knocked him out with the butt of his own gun.
“Dyson,” he said into his com.
“I’m okay.”
“Hit?”
“Flesh wound.”
Blitz burst out of the rectory half carrying Siobhan.
Time stopped, just for a second.
She was in a long, dirty white sundress, not the jeans she lived in. Blood, both old and fresh, stained the cotton. A bruise, purple and black, enlarged her right cheek.
They’d hurt her. Those fucking bastards had hit her.
Blitz was bleeding from his arm. “Knives. Gomez.” He shook his head. “I got one, one escaped, but he’s seriously hurt.”
“Recon, get Gomez, meet in the church in five.”
Blitz nodded to Dyson and passed Siobhan off to Kane.
Kane picked her up. “I can walk,” she said, her voice scratchy.
Kane carried her into the church and set her down on the pew. He took a bottle of water from his pack and handed it to her. She drank. “Thanks,” she said.
“Where are you injured?”
“It’s fine.”
He glared at her and inspected her dress, looking for bullet holes or knife marks.
“The blood is mostly from your friend,” she said. “Kane—I’m sorry. I knew someone was following me, I should have left town. I planned to leave right after church, and then…” Her voice trailed off.
“This time it wasn’t your fault.”
She tensed. “This time? And the other times were? You’re a piece of work, Rogan.” She tried to stand, then winced.
He pushed her back down. One of her crystal-clear blue eyes was swollen. Her silky red hair was tangled and matted. “Where. Are. You. Injured.”
“Last night I tried to escape with Diego,” she said. “Is he okay?”
“Yes,” Kane said.
“They just … they just hit me. I’m sore.”
He applied pressure on her stomach and she winced. He unbuttoned her dress, tried to ignore her lacy white bra, and looked at the bruising. “Cracked or broken ribs.”
“I don’t think—”
“No, you don’t.”
He buttoned her back up and tried to ignore the tears that welled in her eyes.
This was why he didn’t form attachments. They could be used against him. He didn’t even have an attachment to Siobhan, but he wanted to hunt down and kill the last man left standing.
But he couldn’t. He needed that man alive because he needed information.
Blitz and Dyson came in. “The priest took the boy to his mother,” Blitz said. “We secured Gomez’s body in the jeep. The priest told me to give you this.” He handed Kane a slip of paper. There was a local address. “I asked him where someone would go for stitches or surgery, other than a hospital. The fifth guy isn’t going to get much farther than that without medical attention.”
“Take her to Hidalgo.”
“Rogan,” Blitz said, “I never question your orders, but this time—it’s you they want.”
“I know.”
Siobhan said, “Don’t be foolish, Kane. They were willing to kill a priest and a little boy and—and me to get you.” Her voice cracked, her concern digging around in his hardened heart.
“But they didn’t,” he said. “You don’t know what’s going on here, stay out of it.”
“You think I’m deaf? They work for a man named Joseph. They don’t want you dead; Joseph thinks you know something about money that was stolen from them.”
“Does the name Tobias mean anything to you?” Kane asked.
“No. Should it?”
Joseph. The FBI was looking for a man named Joseph Contreras who was suspected of killing Congresswoman Adeline Reyes-Worthington. Broke her neck and disappeared. There was nothing on Contreras, but Kane hadn’t looked too deep—his focus was Tobias. If Worthington was working for Tobias, though, then it stood to reason that when she was going to turn state’s evidence, Tobias had ordered Joseph to kill her. Tobias’s other front man, Jay, had been killed by SWAT during a hostage standoff two weeks ago; he would need a new one. Perhaps Joseph had been promoted? Or had he been part of Tobias’s operation all along.
“Kane,” Siobhan continued, “the man who got away—he’s American. He’s not like the others, though he spoke decent Spanish. He was in charge. He was the one making the calls, making the decisions. He seems to think he knows what you’ll do, but he was surprised that you came with a team of four.”
Kane didn’t quite know what to make of that information. “Description?”
Blitz said, “Six feet tall, light-brown hair gray on the sides, probably close to forty-five, fifty.”
“He was in good shape,” Siobhan added. “Lean and muscular. Nice looking. Clean, articulate. He had a faded scar on his right forearm about this long.” She put her fingers about three inches apart.
Not Tobias. Same age, but Tobias was balding and rounded. “Did you get a name?” Kane asked.
She shook her head. “They all called him ‘sir’ or ‘boss.’ He called in reinforcements, I know that they hadn’t arrived before you did.”
“Blitz, Dyson, get Siobhan and Gomez to Hidalgo.” He looked at his watch. With Gomez dead, Kane was the only one who could fly the plane. “It’s a three-hour drive to Hidalgo. Be alert, stay on the main road. Watch for patrols. When you get near Hidalgo, call Padre and he’ll get you across the border. Tell him she needs medical attention. She has a cracked rib. Take care of your injuries on the road.”
“We’ll come back for you.”
“Negative. I have the damn plane, I’ll fly myself out.”
“Kane—”
“I need information. Go, before the Mexican police swarm this place. I’ll be in Hidalgo before dawn.”
He didn’t want to look at Siobhan again, but he did. She looked worried, and not about herself.
“I packed up your things, they’re in the jeep. I’ll be fine, kid.”
She bristled and he almost smiled. He knew she hated to be called “kid.”
Before she could open her mouth, he said, “And call your sister.” Then he left.
He had a man to find.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was after nine that night by the time Sean left St. Catherine’s Boys’ Home. Lucy had called an hour ago to say she was bringing Brad Donnelly over to talk about the Rollins escape. Normally Sean wouldn’t mind, but right now he was tired and worried and wanted to hold Lucy. He’d had a long talk with Father Mateo Flannigan and the boys about security and ended up hiring a private security company for the next couple of days, until he had a better sense whether St. Catherine’s—or Michael in particular—was in danger. He calle
d his brother Duke, hoping to get an urgent message to Kane.
“You’re in contact with Kane more than I am,” Duke said.
“But he still works under the RCK umbrella. You know where he is.”
“I don’t, but Jack would. Call him.”
Sean didn’t tell Duke that he’d already left a message for Jack Kincaid, Lucy’s brother, who was one of the principals at Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid. Now that Jack was married and living in Sacramento with his wife, an FBI agent, he didn’t work beyond US borders. But Jack still worked closely with Kane on planning and scheduling operations south of the border. It used to be Jack’s life, when he lived in Hidalgo, Texas, and most of Jack’s team had moved over to work with Kane when Jack gave up international ops.
“I’ll do that,” Sean said. “How’re Nora and Molly?”
“Amazing. Nora went back to work last week. It was bittersweet. Nora missed her job, but now she misses the time with Molly.”
“Are you taking her to work with you?”
“I pretty much work from home,” Duke said. “I take her with me when I go into the office, but when I need to go on-site to install or test a system, we have a terrific nanny.”
“Mister Mom,” Sean said. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Babies are a lot easier than genius teenagers,” Duke said.
Duke had raised Sean from the time Sean was fourteen. Duke hadn’t been much older—he’d been twenty-three when their parents were killed in a small plane crash. Sean, the youngest Rogan and the only minor at the time, needed a guardian, and Duke was the only one willing to do it. Kane was fighting wars and the twins, Liam and Eden, were in college in Europe. Sean loved his brother for sacrificing so much to raise him, but it hadn’t been easy for either of them. As a teenager, Sean had been angry, resentful, and far too smart for his own good. Duke was a borderline dictator, trying to control Sean without understanding the root of Sean’s anger. They’d had ups and downs over the years, but even after Sean fought his way into the family business—as a respected member of RCK—Duke still treated him like the black sheep, the screwup, the problem kid.
Sean had had to leave RCK, or he would never have been able to save his relationship with his brother. Or his own self-respect.
“I suppose they are,” Sean said.
“I didn’t mean it as a jab.”
Maybe not consciously. “I know.” Duke still couldn’t see that Sean needed to forge his own path. It didn’t help that Duke—and the other principals of RCK—kept sending him jobs. He didn’t want to be tethered forever to his brother. He turned down more jobs than he took, but some were interesting or challenging, and Sean loved a challenge.
“Give my best to Nora,” Sean said and hung up before he or Duke said something they’d regret.
Sean pulled into his garage, noting Brad’s truck parked in front of the house. Lucy had sent him a slew of messages over the course of the day, the last of which was that she and Brad were bringing Tex-Mex home at eight thirty. Sean liked Brad, but he wanted Lucy to himself. They’d had three perfect, carefree days in San Diego, where Lucy had completely relaxed and had fun, something she didn’t do often enough. They’d swum in the ocean, surfed, run on the beach at dawn, made love several times a day, and still managed to touch bases with everyone in Lucy’s large Irish Cuban family—including the newest addition, her nephew John Patrick Thomas.
And then their first day back in San Antonio, Lucy was pulled into a major case.
He walked in through the side door and found Lucy and Brad eating takeout while sitting at the island in the center of the kitchen.
Lucy smiled at him, but her eyes were troubled. “How are the boys? Father Mateo?”
“Safe,” he said. He kissed his fiancée, maybe a bit longer than he normally would have in front of company. He felt a pang of jealousy that had no place in his relationship with Lucy—she loved him, he knew it. He’d mostly gotten over his insecurity that he wasn’t good enough for her, but Brad Donnelly reminded him too much of Noah Armstrong—another competent, alpha-male federal agent who had befriended Lucy and was attracted to her. Sean and Noah had settled their differences and Sean now considered him a friend, but it had taken a year before Sean stopped feeling threatened by the fed.
He started to walk to the refrigerator for a beer, but Lucy put her hand on his forearm. She didn’t need to say anything; he saw the worry. He didn’t want to add to her stress. Not after today and five dead cops.
One of whom could have been Lucy.
He put it out of his mind. He had to, or he wouldn’t be able to function. The idea of tossing Lucy back on his plane and returning to the beach house in San Diego had crossed his mind more than once today.
“It’s been a long day,” he said, touching her cheek. “For all of us.”
“So you’re getting married,” Brad said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Sean said, pleased that Brad acknowledged it. How petty was that? But he nodded to the bottle in front of him. “Another?”
Brad drained it and nodded. “Thanks.”
He extracted two beers, handed one to Brad, then drank half of his in one long gulp. He dished up a small plate. “You’re not sick, are you?” Lucy said, motioning to his modest serving.
“I ate dinner with the boys. But I can’t resist these tamales.” He sat next to Lucy. “What don’t I know?”
“Not much,” Lucy said. “There’re so many agencies and people involved, it’s controlled chaos at both the FBI and the DEA. The marshals seem to be on top of things, but so far no sightings after the helicopter left the park this morning. After the debriefing, and my meeting with the ASAC—” She paused when her cell phone vibrated on the table.
“It’s Noah,” she said to Sean. She answered the phone. “Hello, Noah. This is a surprise.”
“Lucy. Good to hear your voice.”
Lucy hadn’t spoken to Noah since she graduated from Quantico six months before. He’d been one of her training agents, but he’d also become a friend. She should have made more of an effort to keep in touch. She’d emailed him a few times, sharing some of her experiences as a rookie, but it wasn’t the same as face-to-face.
“I wish I was calling to say hello,” Noah continued. “Special Agent Logan Dunbar was murdered last night, only minutes after he arrived home from San Antonio.”
Her heart dropped. Another dead agent? “What happened?” Her voice sounded calmer than she felt.
“We believe the killer was waiting outside Dunbar’s town house for him to return, but I’m waiting for the ERT report. No sign of forced entry, but Dunbar wasn’t expecting the attack. Two bullets to the back, one in the head. Rick Stockton asked me to work the case because I was privy to Dunbar’s undercover work in San Antonio.”
“I didn’t know that.”
She realized she sounded angry. Why? Because she’d been out of the loop? Or because Dunbar’s undercover work had indirectly led an innocent man to his death? She wouldn’t soon forget her last investigation, or the fact that Dunbar had kept too much information to himself when it would have been useful if the San Antonio field office had known about his assignment.
“I was his liaison with Rick.”
It would have been a million times easier two weeks ago if Noah had simply called her and explained what was going on after Dunbar was forced to come forward. She trusted Noah, and it would have saved time and sour feelings if Noah smoothed things over.
“You think it’s connected to his undercover assignment in San Antonio.”
“I can’t prove it, but yes, I think it is. We have the best crime techs going through his house. Nothing appears missing, but because we don’t know what he came home with we can’t be positive. He supposedly shipped all his files back to headquarters, but we haven’t received them yet. The cyber lab is going through his electronics to see if they’ve been accessed. I just debriefed Rick and Hans, and we all concur that Dunbar was killed because of somethi
ng that happened in San Antonio.”
“Maybe, but his investigation wrapped up nearly two weeks ago, after Adeline Worthington was killed.”
“Dunbar was working with the AUSA on indictments of individuals who profited from her corruption. Not just in Texas, but staff here in DC—in Congress, at the EPA, at the Bureau of Land Management. All she needed was one well-placed person in each organization.”
“But you already ID’d them, correct?”
“Yes—but maybe we missed someone. Maybe Dunbar had additional information that was worth killing for, or he knew something that he hadn’t put in his reports. I’ll be going through the paperwork myself and review each report. Rick told me you were part of that investigation.”
“I worked Harper Worthington’s murder, not his wife’s crimes.” Then she remembered Barry. “My partner on the case, Barry Crawford, worked with Dunbar on the follow-up. It was a complex financial situation, and I’ll admit I had a hard time grasping the nuances of the illegal land transactions. I can give you Barry’s contact information. He’s out of town, but our boss called him back in.” Her instincts twitched. She’d also sent him a message, but he’d never returned her call. Barry was a by-the-book agent. He would have responded. Maybe he was still traveling.
She had a bad feeling.
“I read your reports, Lucy. Two of the three primary people involved in the money laundering scheme were murdered—the congresswoman and her campaign manager. The finance guy, James Everett, turned state’s evidence, correct?”
“Yes. He’s in witness protection with his family. That’s all I know about it—if you need to talk to Everett, you’ll have to go through the US Marshals’ office.”
“I’ve spent most of today going over the financials of anyone who might have had a reason to take a hit out on Dunbar, because the scene reads like a hit. I was hoping you might have some ideas.”
“You’ll have to talk to Barry. He’s a meticulous agent.”
“I’ll contact your SAC and make sure Barry contacts me as soon as possible. Watch your back, Lucy—if Dunbar was targeted because of the Worthington investigation, you and your partner need to be alert.” Noah paused, then said, “Dunbar was killed last night when he came in from the airport. Nicole Rollins escaped this morning. What if, after the escape, he realized he knew something important about who might have helped her? Something that would lead to her location?”
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