by Blake Dixon
That was when Ray initiated the black directive. Classified the investigation, blacked out every bit of work Sarah had put into it. And then moved on to Sarah herself. He scrubbed her CIA record, birth certificate, driver’s license, everything. Erased her existence entirely.
She had family who still didn’t know she was dead.
He didn’t want to dwell on the history for too long. But there was something he’d wanted to ask Kane, and he might as well do it now.
“Did you know it was her?”
Kane, who’d been lost in thoughts of his own, looked sharply at him. “Her who?”
“Come on, Garrett.” The more familiar name slipped away from him, but he didn’t try to take it back. “When they sent you. Did you know Sarah was the target?”
He stared for too long, and finally said, “I did.”
“You’re lying.”
“I knew, Wyland. I didn’t care.” His eyes held a warning — he didn’t want to talk about this. “I was doing the job.”
His lip curled slightly. “You mean like you did in Maryland?”
“Yes. Just like that.” The cold stare held another minute, until he pushed his chair back. “Gotta take a piss,” he said.
Jude watched him walk across the living room to the bathroom and close the door. There was no question on the Maryland job. He’d been there. He and Kane had argued over the target, a man the black ops division had classified as a moderate-to-high risk and decided to eliminate. When they caught him, the target surrendered instantly. He had no weapons. He begged to be taken to prison. Kane shot him anyway — because it was the job he’d been given.
So that had happened. But this story about Sarah, he wasn’t sure he believed. Kane was lying about some of it.
He just wasn’t sure which part.
As he got up to rinse his empty beer can, the fridge motor kicked off, dropping the ambient noise level considerably. And he heard something from the direction of the bathroom. A low mutter, like Kane was in there talking to himself.
The sound stopped almost immediately. When it didn’t start again, he shrugged and went back to straightening things up.
It was a good ten minutes before Kane emerged from the bathroom looking like he’d seen a ghost. Or was one himself. As he moved toward the kitchen, Jude realized his pale complexion and hesitant gait wasn’t actually shock. It was extreme distress.
He couldn’t even imagine what kind of nightmare Kane’s bodily functions must’ve been reduced to after three years of … that.
Kane slid carefully onto a chair and grabbed the half-finished bottle of Muscle Milk. “Been thinking about Bromwell,” he said, as if the conversation about Sarah had never happened. “We prove he’s innocent, those morons get back on track to finding the kid. Right?”
“Right,” Jude said, frowning. “And how are we supposed to do that?”
“Obviously, the real kidnappers put that shit in his basement. The bastards who have the girl,” he said. “Maybe somebody saw whoever it was go into Bromwell’s house.”
“Natalie’s got an interview canvass out to check with the neighbors.”
“And how hard are they going to go at them for evidence to the contrary? They think they have their man.” Kane choked back some of the protein drink, his mouth twisting slightly. “We look for a non-neighbor. Anybody who might’ve been in the area, doesn’t know Bromwell, and wouldn’t be suspicious of a guy going into a house, since they wouldn’t know it wasn’t his house,” he said. “Power company employee. Mailman. UPS delivery. Someone like that.”
Jude’s brow furrowed. The idea seemed a little complex — not to mention oddly specific. But he had to admit, if anyone had witnessed a break-in at Bromwell’s place, this was probably the best way to find them. Look at services and deliveries in the area, see who was around the house during the day. “Yeah, we’ll check it out,” he said.
“In the morning. I’m beyond done.” Kane stood with difficulty. “Same room?”
“It’s yours.”
He nodded. “I’ll try to stay on the bed this time.”
Once again, Jude watched him walk away, thinking. It was easy to see the Bromwell angle was a setup, one big lie from soup to nuts. Not so easy to tell when or if Kane was lying about any given thing.
Still, he was convinced Kane was hiding something from him. And he had to find out what it was, soon.
Because the secrets Garrett Kane kept were usually deadly.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jude was up at six despite a night of troubled sleep. This time he didn’t bother checking on Kane. Whatever secret he was keeping, it didn’t involve him vanishing — at least, not yet. He’d let the man sleep for as long as he could.
Meanwhile, he’d catch up on the life he was trying to have before Ray Rubin showed up and dragged him back into this.
Not that his new life was all that great, honestly. A tiny town where no one knew him, a little shop that rarely turned a profit, a hobby he sucked at. He wasn’t even sure why he started fishing, except that he liked having a boat and drinking beer on it.
He might hate Ray for springing this on him, but he didn’t hate being involved. Especially if he managed to save the little girl.
The shop was supposed to open at eight. He waited until seven, and then sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee to call Clover’s cell phone, figuring she’d be up and getting ready by now. She answered on the second ring and sounded awake enough.
“Hi, Clover, it’s Jude,” he said.
“Oh! Good morning, Mr. — uh, Jude. I’m not late, am I?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Actually, we’re not going to open for the rest of the week. But you’ll still get paid.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “You know, you don’t have to pay us for not working.”
“I want to. I promised you a job, and it’s my fault you can’t do it.”
“Because you have a cold, right?”
“Yep.”
“Must be some cold, if you have to close down for a week.”
“Okay, you got me,” he said. “I’m actually a CIA agent, and I’m working a big top-secret case right now.”
She laughed. “Good one. Want me to call Dale and give him the news?”
“Could you? That’d be great.”
“No problem. Hope you feel better.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “Thanks, Clover.”
He’d no sooner disconnected the call when a voice said, “Who’s Clover?”
He managed not to jump. Kane stood in the entrance to the kitchen, a half-knowing smile on his face. “She’s my employee, actually,” Jude said.
“Just because you pay them, doesn’t make them employees.”
“Christ, she’s not a prostitute. She works for me,” he said. “At my bait shop.”
“Your what?”
“Bait shop,” he repeated. “You know. Worms and lures and crabbing pots, shit like that. For fishing.”
Kane laughed under his breath and wandered into the kitchen, headed for the fridge. “You left the CIA to buy a fishing store,” he said. “Seriously?”
“You know why I left. The bait shop is just where I happened to end up.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He opened the fridge. The Jack Daniels was still in there, along with half a case of Coors. But Kane grabbed a bottle of Muscle Milk and shuffled over to sit at the table. “Maybe this stuff’s not so bad,” he said. “That, or my taste buds are dead from all the crap I drank yesterday.”
Jude was surprised at the non-alcoholic beverage choice, but he didn’t say anything. There was another problem that had to be addressed. “You’re still bleeding,” he said, gesturing at the fresh damp spot on Kane’s right side.
Kane glanced down. “Huh. Must’ve got it going again while I slept.” He shrugged and opened the bottle. “It’ll be fine.”
“What happened?”
“I told you—”
“No, you didn’t,” Jude said.
“Did you get stabbed? Shot?”
“Fuck’s sake, Wyland. It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
He tipped his head back and sighed at the ceiling. “Road rash. There was a parking lot involved, okay?”
“Show me.”
“You’re a pain in my ass.” He let out a grunt, then lifted the shirt. There was a swath of pebbled red skin blazed down his side, maybe three inches wide and four long, with beads of blood seeping through. “Happy now, Mom?”
At least it was actually road rash. “I will be, when you get it cleaned up and bandaged.”
“Fine.” Kane stood and downed a long slug of protein drink. “I’ll shower. You find us a witness.” He walked out of the kitchen, and called over his shoulder, “Stop giving a shit about me, Boy Scout. It’s irritating.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jude said.
He figured it was probably too late for that, though.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
UPS delivery driver Angelo Carbone had logged a package drop-off the day before at the house that shared a back yard border with Sam Bromwell’s property. The delivery note said he’d left the package on the back porch. And the timing was potentially right — it was delivered around twenty minutes before the anonymous call came in.
Ideal conditions for a witness. And somehow, Kane had known to check into this particular possibility.
The idea made Jude uneasy.
He’d decided to stick with CIA agent for this interview. No time, and no point, to making up a cover story. He and Kane got to the UPS facility in Chimney Hill, the Virginia Beach neighborhood where Bromwell lived, by 8:30 — half an hour before the drivers left for their routes.
Now they were sitting in a small back office across from a very nervous Angelo Carbone, who was trying not to make eye contact with Kane.
“You sure you guys are CIA?” the driver said. “I swear to God, I don’t know anything about what’s in the packages. I just drop ’em off.”
“Yes, I’m sure. And this isn’t about a package.” Jude leaned forward slightly, took his phone out, and swiped to the surveillance photo of Bromwell’s back yard he’d downloaded earlier. “You had a delivery yesterday afternoon on Prior Court, around 4:45 p.m. Is that right?”
Angelo frowned. “Yeah, I think so,” he said. “No one answered there, so I left the package around back.”
“And you could see the house in the adjoining lot across the back yard. This one.” Jude showed him the screen.
He leaned over the phone and looked. Narrowed his eyes. “Right, there’s a chain-link fence between the properties,” he said. “I remember, because the guy at that place was having an issue with his back door. Key stuck or something.”
Jude shared a glance with Kane, half-thinking he’d been expecting to hear this. But the man’s face gave nothing away. “What do you mean, his key was stuck?”
“I guess I just figured that must’ve been the problem. He had trouble getting it open,” Angelo said. “Had to put the stuff he was carrying down and really mess with it.”
Kane made a guttural sound. “Did you see what he was carrying?”
“Er. Yeah, sort of,” Angelo said warily. “He had a wooden chair, like a kitchen chair, and some kind of sports bag. A duffel.”
“Was the bag heavy?”
“Jesus, how would I know? I guess it was pretty light. He tossed it when the door wouldn’t open, and it kinda bounced a little when it landed.” The driver looked from Kane to Jude. “What’s this about, anyway?”
“Never mind.” Jude flicked to the next image he’d loaded, a photo of Sam Bromwell. “Is this the man you saw?”
Angelo looked. “No. He was younger than that. More … uh, muscly.”
Another flick, to the profile sketch of the assailant from the café. “How about this?”
“Holy…” He trailed off, leaned in. “Yeah, that’s him,” he said. “Looks like he’s wanted for something, huh?”
Instead of answering, Jude clicked the screen to sleep and slid the phone in his pocket. “That’s all we need. You can go back to work now,” he said.
“Right. Thanks.” Angelo stood slowly, headed for the office door and turned back. “What if I see this guy again? Should I call the CIA or what?”
“You won’t see him,” Kane said. “He’s done here.”
“Okay, then. Uh … bye.”
Angelo beat a hasty retreat.
When he was gone, Jude looked to Kane. “All right. How did you know to check into this?” he said.
“Lucky guess,” Kane replied evenly.
“Bullshit.”
“You really don’t want to push this one, Wyland.” Kane’s eyes went dark. “We got what we needed. It doesn’t matter how.”
Yes, it does. For the moment he wouldn’t say that out loud, because it was less important than getting this information to Natalie, putting her team back on the right track.
But he absolutely wasn’t going to drop this until he had real answers.
Chapter Thirty
Agent Natalie Moore was not happy to hear evidence that Bromwell was innocent. She also wasn’t as surprised as Jude thought she’d be.
“Most of the evidence we got from the house is processed.” They were back in the conference room, where Jude had relocated his copies of the case files yesterday between the chaos so they could work separately. Natalie hadn’t bothered taking a seat. “No prints from Bromwell on any of it. Just the girl’s,” she said. “Her blood on the ropes, the dress. And the semen is canine.”
Christ. Well, using dog semen sounded like a merc tactic to him. “So you already know it wasn’t the senator,” Jude said.
“It’s looking that way. But we’re still going to hold him as long as we can.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
The flat words came from Kane, and Natalie settled a glare on him. “Because he’s a strong suspect,” she said. “He’s been a suspect from the beginning. He and the D.A. are both making a run for governor, and—”
“I might’ve been locked up for three years, but I can still read,” Kane cut in coldly. “I know that. I saw the case files. What I don’t know is why you’re holding an innocent man.”
She stiffened. “I don’t have to explain my reasoning to you.”
“No. You don’t,” he said. “I guess your exit strategy isn’t the only thing you have in common with Rubin.”
“You stay on your mission. And I’ll stay on mine.” Natalie looked from him to Jude. “Thanks for the tip,” she said. “We’ll verify your witness as soon as I can spare the personnel.”
“Natalie, you have to—”
“I have work to do.” She pivoted and strode from the room.
“That went well,” Jude said.
“Yeah. Real smooth.”
Kane seemed strangely invested in clearing Bromwell. A little too invested. “All right,” Jude said. “Tell me how you knew to check deliveries for a witness.”
“Like I said. Lucky guess.”
“No, it wasn’t,” he said. “Lucky is finding a gold mine of evidence in a suspect’s basement on a police tip. Whatever this was, you knew it’d turn up something.”
Kane drummed his fingers on the table. “You think too much, Boy Scout.”
“Tell me how you knew.”
“I didn’t know.” He looked away and sighed. “Rubin did.”
“Ray? How—” Jude broke off as he remembered the brief sound from the bathroom, like muttering. “He called you last night, at my place,” he said. “Why?”
Kane swung around with a cold look. “Who the hell knows why Ray Rubin does anything?”
“Good point. But if he knew there was a witness who could exonerate Bromwell, why not tell Natalie directly?” he said. “Why tell you? And … when did he get the number for that phone you have?”
“It didn’t occur to me to ask,” Kane said tightly. “His clone must’ve given it to him, probably
making sure my leash stays on. We both know what she thinks of me.”
Jude wouldn’t comment on that. Even if he said she was wrong, it’d sound hollow coming from him. “He could be just covering his ass,” he finally said. “The Agency stance on Bromwell is negative. They don’t want the senator advancing any further up the political ladder, so Ray might not want to look like he’s defending the man.”
“Yeah. I’m sure that’s it.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Kane sneered. “Nothing Rubin does is that simple,” he said. “We’re playing checkers while that bastard’s playing chess on a whole different board game from the rest of us. But right now, I don’t give a damn why he’s doing whatever he’s doing. I just want to find the kid.” He gestured at the laptop bag on the table Jude had brought in with him. “You have those ransom videos on that thing? I want to watch them again.”
“Yes, I saved them off the thumb drive.” He pulled the bag across, unzipped it. “I thought you didn’t care about the girl.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why are you watching these again?”
Kane looked at him. “To remind me why I don’t kill you.”
If that was sarcasm, he’d done a piss-poor job getting it across. He sounded serious. “Right. Well, knock yourself out,” he said, handing the laptop over.
Kane took it and moved to the far end of the table without another word.
Chapter Thirty-One
The meeting with the merc team leader was happening at the Burlington. Jude planned to drop Kane off and stick close, but not too close, until the pickup call came.
They were looming on the back end of the deadline now. Beginning late tomorrow morning, Valerie Noakes would have one day left. Natalie had to let Bromwell go a few hours ago when his lawyer got strident, to her immense disappointment. But he understood why she’d reacted the way she did.
Both he and Kane had the benefit of distance, though in Kane’s case it wasn’t much of a benefit. They’d been out of the Agency for years. But all this time, Natalie had been in. She was still hung up on policy and protocol, going by the CIA playbook. A suspect in hand was worth two in the wind. And letting go meant she was back to having nothing again.
