by Dee Davis
“Tucker?” He heard his brother’s voice as he dove underneath the table, the world around him suddenly splintering into light and sound, the force of the blast tearing through brick, plaster, and plate glass.
It was over in a moment, the little restaurant suddenly eerily still, debris raining down, sounding almost like rain against the tabletop. Carefully, Tucker pushed aside the rubble and crawled out from under the table. Sirens wailed in the distance, a cloud of dust choking him as it descended with the debris. The couple across the way were bloodied, but alive, the boy’s arm protectively around the girl, his eyes still wide with fear.
“You okay?” Tucker asked.
The boy opened his mouth to reply but nodded instead, words deserting him as he pulled his sobbing girlfriend closer.
The waitress emerged from behind the counter, her arm clutched to her chest, blood snaking down from her shoulder. Like the couple, her face was ashen. “Lou,” she whispered, her eyes cutting to the floor. “He isn’t breathing.”
Tucker pushed through the rubble to where the businessman had been sitting. Lou. The man was curled in a fetal position on the floor, a piece of sheared glass bisecting his neck. Blood pooled beneath him. Tucker grabbed his wrist, feeling for a pulse, already knowing the answer. His eyes met the waitress’s, and he shook his head.
“Oh God,” she moaned.
“Get them out of here,” Tucker said, motioning to the couple. “The rest of the building could come down at any minute. It’s not safe.”
The woman hesitated, her eyes still locked on the dead man.
“There’s nothing else you can do for him,” Tucker told her, his voice gentle. “You need to go. Now.”
She acquiesced, and with the help of the boy, the three of them climbed over the broken tables out onto the street.
“Tucker?” Drake’s frantic voice echoed amidst the rubble and Tucker realized he was still holding his cell phone.
“I’m here.”
“Are you okay?” Drake asked.
“I’m fine,” Tucker answered, his eyes on the spot where the old man had been sitting. There was nothing left but rubble. The booth was gone. Incinerated.
“What the hell happened?”
“Bomb.” Tucker said, his mind going to the moment before the explosion—the backpack, the old man, and his cell phone. “Someone just blew the fuck out of Weatherbees.”
CHAPTER 2
Alexis Markham stopped pacing long enough to glance out the hotel window. Clouds were gathering on the horizon, a storm descending from the mountains. On any other day she’d have stopped to drink in the beauty. She’d always loved the mountains. But these days, more than ever, they only reminded her of everything she’d lost.
And George was trying to take it all away. Again. He was the only family she had left. They might not share blood, but their bond was still a strong one. George had been there during the worst time of her life. He was the one who’d quite literally saved her—from the horror, the pain, and eventually even herself. He’d been her touchstone. Her anchor. Even when he was in prison, they’d found ways to stay in touch. But now—
She clenched her fists, turning her back on the mountains. Now he wanted nothing more to do with her. His words echoed in her head. “We can’t do this anymore. You’ve got to build a new life. One without me in it.” She’d argued, fought back, pleaded even, but George had been resolute. So she’d walked out on him. It was modus operandi, even after all this time. Disappear first. Question later.
She crossed her arms over her chest as the canned laughter coming from the TV mocked her. Some sappy family show. Seemed appropriate. She sank down on the bed, fighting against tears. She hadn’t cried in years. Hell, she hadn’t even known she still could. Most of her heart had died with her family. Her mom and dad. Her brother. And now George wanted to destroy the only part that was left.
Angrily, she wiped away the tears. Maybe he was right. Maybe there was no place left in her life for him. After all, she’d made a place for herself in the world. A shadowy one, to be certain. But without George, her ties to the past were gone.
No one was looking for her, and, thanks to George, no one even knew she existed. Lexie Baker had died in an explosion with the rest of her family. Alexis Markham had taken her place. Thirteen years was a long time to carry such a burden. Maybe it was time to let it go. She frowned, sucking in a breath. There’d been something more to what George had been trying to tell her. He hadn’t just wanted to sever ties; he’d wanted her to create a new identity.
And considering how carefully they’d laid the groundwork for her current existence, that didn’t make sense. Unless someone else knew who she was. Suddenly nervous, she carefully checked out the room, and then, satisfied that she was safe, at least for the moment, she reached for her cell.
It wasn’t really hers. Just a throwaway she’d bought for the trip. Never take chances. That was George’s motto. And he’d drilled it into her head. Nothing that can be traced. Ever. In today’s technology-driven world, it wasn’t always easy. But so far, at least, she’d managed to stay off the radar. She closed her eyes, calling to mind the number George had given her. Another untraceable phone. Maybe she’d been too hasty in running out. After all, he’d been the one to suggest the meeting. And he’d looked genuinely happy when she’d walked into the diner.
She chewed on her lip, staring down at the phone. Part of her wanted to call. To hear George’s voice. To get some kind of reassurance that everything was okay. But he’d wanted to cut her out of his life. That much had been perfectly clear. She hesitated, fingers on the keypad. Then, resolutely, she started to dial.
Across the room, the blaring notes announcing a news bulletin interrupted her concentration and she swung around, her attention on the screen. There’d been an explosion, the announcer said. Downtown. At least three casualties. The camera panned across the burning wreckage and Alexis’s heart jumped to her throat as she recognized what was left of the diner.
The cell phone dropped to the floor, her mind on overdrive as she searched for some sign that George had left before anything happened. That the explosion wasn’t related to her or to him. But the camera panned closer, zooming in on a smoldering crater marking the center of the explosion. The booth where they’d been sitting. There was nothing left except debris.
She choked as the camera moved closer still, a ragged piece of canvas and a braided leather band lodged beneath a pile of stones. She recognized the leather. It was a bracelet she’d made for George sixteen years ago. It was the only time she’d been allowed to go to summer camp. George had made it possible, so she’d made him the bracelet. He’d never taken it off.
Tears fell in earnest now, her mind going numb as pain cut through her. George was dead.
Dead.
Bile rose in her throat as she thought of their last conversation, her angry words. If only she’d been there—but then she’d have been dead too. Or worse. She fought for control and won, icy resolve overshadowing everything else. George hadn’t wanted her dead. That much she was certain of. The report cut away from the carnage, reverting back to the artificial world of the sitcom. Alexis started throwing things into her suitcase, wiping down the room as she went, removing all traces of having ever been in the hotel.
The most important thing now was to escape. From what or whom she had no idea. But George was dead, and there was every possibility that someone had seen them together, that somehow they’d put two and two together. She had nothing to hide, but she’d learned long ago that innocence meant nothing.
She swung her bag over her shoulder and, using a handkerchief, pulled open the door. The cold, hard truth was that the good guys didn’t always win. In fact, sometimes they were persecuted to death. It had been true with her father. And now, most likely, with George. And as much as she wanted to mourn him, she knew she couldn’t. Instead, she’d do what she’d always done.
She’d run.
“I think you should be
at home in bed,” Drake said, his face twisted into a scowl. “You’ve just survived a bombing, for God’s sake.”
“Give me a break,” Tucker protested as they stepped out of the car, the charred shell of Weatherbees still crawling with forensic specialists. “I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse and you know it. Besides, I checked out okay. The doc said there was nothing but a few scrapes.”
“And three bruised ribs,” Drake reminded him. “I didn’t fly across the country to see you injure yourself after the fact.”
“I’m fine. And you know you’re as anxious to see what they’ve found as I am. If only so you can get back to that pregnant wife of yours. Sorry to have pulled you away at such a critical moment.”
Drake smiled. “It’s not like she’s having the baby right this minute. And besides, Madeline was the one who bullied Avery into getting me here posthaste. In fact, it was only with Annie’s intervention that I stopped her from coming herself.”
“Annie can be pretty imposing when she puts her mind to it.” Tucker agreed. Annie Brennon and her husband, Nash, were both part of the same CIA black-ops unit as Drake, the American Tactical Intelligence Command, A-Tac for short. Its members masquerading as college professors, A-Tac was based out of Sunderland, an Ivy League college in New York. Anyway, Annie and Nash had been quick to volunteer to help Drake rescue him from San Mateo. He owed them both a hell of a lot. “I’m still not sure I understand why A-Tac is here at all. Seems like something for the local police or, at most, maybe the FBI.”
“Well, first off, you’re my brother,” Drake said. “Which makes you part of A-Tac whether you like it or not. And we take care of family.”
“Hey”—Tucker held up his hands in apology—“I’m not complaining. Just curious. There’s got to be something more than just me. Unless you guys have gone off book again?” The mission in Colombia hadn’t been officially sanctioned. In fact, there was some evidence that certain parties within the CIA would have preferred that he stay in San Mateo indefinitely, the better to keep a major fuckup from going public.
“No way.” Drake shook his head. “These days we can’t take a piss without someone documenting it for the records.” A-Tac had been infiltrated by a mole. A man they’d all trusted. A friend. Tucker understood the difficulty in dealing with something like that. He’d been betrayed too.
“So is it still really bad?” he asked.
“Things are quieting down a little. We’ve all been cleared again for duty. And everyone’s back to work. Which is a good thing. But we’re still dealing with the fallout. I keep expecting to see Jason or Emmett as I round every corner. The truth is, we all jumped at the opportunity to get the hell out of there for a little while.”
“We?”
“Nash, Tyler, Hannah, and me. Harrison and Avery are holding down the fort. And Lara is still on leave.” Lara Prescott’s longtime partner, Jason, had been killed by the man who’d betrayed them. Tucker had met her only once, briefly, but he understood her pain.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “But I’d still like to know the rest of the reason A-Tac’s on the job. Is it something to do with what happened in Colombia? You think di Silva was behind this?” Tucker asked, his eyes on the remains of Weatherbees.
“We can’t rule it out completely, of course.” Drake slowed to a stop as they reached the plastic canopy serving as temporary headquarters for the investigation. “His operations took a hell of a hit. ”
“Glad to see you made it out in one piece,” Nash said, looking up from a table spread with debris. “Can’t say as much for the bastard sitting at ground zero.” He nodded to a basket filled with evidence gathered from the site, including a well-worn leather bracelet.
Tucker closed his eyes, the image of the old man and the blonde filling his mind. He could see their clasped hands—see the bracelet on his wrist. “The bracelet belonged to the old man in the booth,” Tucker said, opening his eyes on a sigh.
“George Atterley,” Hannah Marshall confirmed, closing the computer she’d been working on, her spiky hair streaked blue. Hannah was A-Tac’s intel expert. She’d also coordinated logistics for his escape from San Mateo, including a last-minute helicopter rescue.
“Good work,” Tucker said. “I figured with only a first name to go on we were going to have problems. I mean, there sure as hell wasn’t enough left of him for an ID.”
“You’d be surprised.” Tyler Hanson smiled, walking up to the table. Tyler was A-Tac’s ordnance expert. Tucker didn’t know her well, but he knew his brother thought the world of her. According to Drake, there wasn’t much she couldn’t do with a bomb—on either side of detonation. “But in this case it was a security camera. There wasn’t a lot left of it, but thanks to Harrison’s magic fingers, we managed to resurrect the video right before the explosion.”
“And from there we managed to isolate a photo and use facial recongition to ID him,” Hannah added.
“Who’s Harrison?” Tucker asked, feeling like he’d been dropped into a secret clubhouse without the password.
“Harrison Blake. Our new computer dude,” Drake replied. “I told you about him. He worked with us when we were trying to stop the nuclear explosion in Manhattan.”
Tucker nodded. “Used to work for Cullen Pulaski. FBI. I remember. Is he here?” He glanced around the space, looking for someone he’d missed.
“No.” Hannah smiled. “Well, at least not physically.” She tapped her computer lovingly, then swung it around so Tucker could see the monitor. A tousled-headed guy with the rumpled look of a geek and the physique of an athlete stared out across the pixels.
“Glad to hear you’re all right,” Harrison said, his voice disembodied as it came from the speakers next to Hannah. “From what I hear, you’re one lucky son of bitch.”
“Thanks.” Tucker grinned. “I think. So what have you got on this George Atterley?”
“Well, he’s not known for coloring inside the lines,” Hannah said. “He was just recently released from prison. Spent the past six years doing time for racketeering, among other things.”
“He’s low profile in the extreme,” Harrison picked up, his virtual face turning somber. “Until he was apprehended, he was pretty damn good at staying off the grid, starting with a round of civil disobedience that ended in a campus bombing. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict him at the time, and he fell off the radar shortly thereafter.”
“So someone from his past wanted him dead? Couldn’t they have accomplished that more easily while he was incarcerated?” Tucker was more than familiar with how easy it was to arrange for an accident in prison.
“Seems probable,” Nash said, “unless whoever it was didn’t have the contacts to pull something like that off.”
“The girl,” Tucker said, frowning as he remembered. “Did you get an ID on her?”
“No.” Tyler shook her head. “Nothing yet. The pictures are grainy, and the shots of her are mostly from the back.”
“But we’re working on it,” Hannah said, turning the computer around again, Harrison’s image disappearing as well.
“We do have more information on George, though,” Nash said. “He’s been linked to a network of black market dealers.”
“While he was in prison?” Drake asked.
“It wouldn’t be the first time someone called the shots from the inside,” Nash said. “Anyway, according to our intel Atterley was trying to sell technology for weaponizing biotoxins.”
“A method of turning the toxin into an aerosol, which in turn renders it that much more lethal,” Hannah added.
“On a grand scale,” Drake agreed. “But I didn’t think the technology actually existed.”
“There’s never been confirmation,” Hannah said. “But it was linked to a weapon developed a few years back. There was an accident, and an entire town was wiped out.”
“Only the people behind it tried to cover the whole thing up.” Drake frowned.
“Yeah, it wa
s a huge debacle—brought down two senators in the process. But if you believe the scuttle, the original technology was developed in the late seventies, early eighties. There’s no verification, of course, because the project was unauthorized and supposedly shut down when politicos got wind of it.”
“There were rumors that the formula was stolen,” Nash added. “But there was nothing to substantiate the story.”
“But you have intel connecting George Atterley to a similar weapon and now he’s turned up dead.” Tucker leaned back against the table, turning over this new information in his mind. “So you guys weren’t already following him, right?”
“I doubt we’d have been apprised of any of this if you hadn’t been involved,” Nash said. “But now that we are on board, Avery wants us to make it a priority to figure out what really happened here.”
“So assuming Atterley was really trying to sell the thing, do you have any idea who the buyer might be?” Tucker asked.
“There’s some evidence that points at a group known as the Consortium,” Hannah said.
“So can’t you trace it backward through them?”
“Not a chance.” Tyler shook her head. “These people are like ghosts. We suspect they were behind the nuclear bomb planted in Manhattan. But knowing it and proving it are two different things. If George Atterley was involved with them, they could be behind his death. We’ve already seen firsthand their preferred methodology for tying up loose ends. ”
“I’m sorry about your father,” Tucker said, belatedly remembering that Tyler’s dad had been killed by the same shadowy organization. “I know how hard it is to lose someone you love. Particularly like that.”
“Thanks.” Tyler smiled but the gesture didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m dealing. Anyway, if we’re right, and this is the work of the Consortium, then that could mean they’ve already got the formula.”
“Unless the girl’s got it,” Drake said. “Maybe the meet was a transfer. And then, mission accomplished, she offed the old man. Was she carrying the backpack when she came in?”
