by Dianna Love
She had valid points. Jackson hadn’t flown much lately, not with his wife so close to giving birth. Josh saw the pilot in passing, but Josh hadn’t socialized with any of the task force. No reason to when he could find answers from a distance.
That might be why he’d missed the key traitor.
Not this time.
Sabrina started unwinding the clasp on the satchel, pulled a stack of files out and pushed them across the table to Josh. “Based on what we learned from Colbert, we’re looking at anyone close to Jackson. Wife, sister, friends. Going through the women might be our fastest route.”
“I remember some intel on his wife, Angel. She almost died trying to prove her innocence in a grand theft and was credited with being the reason the FBI caught an international thief. Based on the final report, she sounded pretty courageous.”
“Prior to marrying Jackson, Angel had a prison record for muling drugs, but it was expunged.” Sabrina’s tone made it clear she questioned the expunged record.
Josh frowned. “When you look at it from a different angle it does make you wonder about Jackson’s position and access to agency information.” He sorted through the files. “Getting near Angel will be tough since she’s got one in the oven ready to pop.”
“That alone puts her lower on our list. Jackson would need someone who is mobile at any time. With Colbert gone, Jackson would have to go with someone he could trust. He may have figured out that Colbert was snooping and decided to point attention at him, set up Colbert to get caught.”
Which means Josh had not caught the mole, but had been used by the mole. He shuffled the files. “I heard Jackson’s sister runs some antiques shop in Ft. Lauderdale, but I’ve never seen her around the office. Don’t know how useful she’ll be.”
“You never know,” Sabrina said as Josh opened Patricia “Trish” Jackson’s file. Twenty-four. Average height. Grew up in Houston. He pulled out her photo and paused.
Big brown eyes, a dainty version of her brother’s, gazed up at Josh. The photographer had caught her waving at someone. Where Zane Jackson could look at you with deadly intent, nothing in this soft, feminine version held a threat.
Sweet came to mind.
Chelsea had looked sweet the first time, too, and she’d been one hell of an operative. That innocent gaze in the photo stared at him as he slowly closed the file.
He’d rise to the occasion. Shouldn’t be difficult as long as he stuck to his Personal Rule Number One: Never mix business and pleasure.
Of all the rules he’d decimated, he should never have broken that one.
Sabrina continued, “Colbert spent some time shadowing Jackson’s sister after he met her at the holiday office party. He went by her antiques shop, trying to hook up with her, but she gave him the cold shoulder. He suspected Jackson and wanted leverage if he was right, but Colbert said he wouldn’t risk tailing Jackson’s sister after he was warned off tracing the cell phone. Wasn’t worth putting his child at risk. But he considered her movements suspicious and pointed out that she’s the most mobile of Zane’s tight group.”
Josh put the files down. “We need someone to do more than tail Jackson’s sister. Has to be someone who can get very close to her. I’m your guy.”
“I could send Nicholas–”
“Are you serious?” Tell Nicholas Ferrari–the self-proclaimed Italian Stallion–that Josh needed help handling women on an op?
Not in this lifetime.
Sabrina’s eyes could drill through someone when she focused all that visual power at a target, like she was doing now. She said, “This calls for charming women quickly.”
“Now you’re insulting me. Trust me, Nicholas has nothing on me when it comes to women.”
“Really? When was the last time you took anyone to dinner?”
He was not having this conversation with her. “You’re not going there, right? Want me to give you a blow by blow on my last six months?”
She crossed her arms. “Spare me details of your sex life, which I personally think doesn’t have a pulse.”
He reminded himself that she was like a sister to him. You don’t kill sisters no matter how bitchy they get.
At this rate, the conversation would go downhill soon. She was as hardheaded as he was. “I told you. I’ve got this. When I‘m done with Miami, I’ll know everything there is to know about Zane Jackson and the women in his circle. Once I do, we won’t have this conversation again, right?”
Sabrina shrugged, but finally appeared satisfied. “I am sending Ryder down with you.”
“Why?”
“Backup for one thing, since this whole thing has turned ugly, and because you can’t juggle all those women at the same time.”
He ground his teeth and kept his jaws locked. With a product as deadly as Spa Zing coming in and their short timetable, Josh would do the same thing, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept having the FNG tag along.
Sabrina continued, “Colbert believed another Spa Zing shipment could happen this week. The deaths of four teens in the past two weeks have been traced to the last shipment that got through Miami. One girl tried to punch a hole in her throat with a pen, because she thought she was suffocating from roaches trying to climb out. The other deaths were worse.”
Thanks for that visual. “We’ll find the leak.”
“We have to and soon. Our first priority is to stop that next contraband shipment from being distributed, but...” She held back, thinking, then said, “Just as important...we have to capture that mystery guy who you saw meet Colbert.”
“Why’s he so important?”
She lifted a piece of paper from the booth seat. “All we got from Colbert was a description of his contact man, but Salazar worked with an artist to give us a rendering of the person he thought was Colbert. Colbert’s description matches this picture. Neither the DEA nor the FBI could identify him.”
As Josh reached for the photo, Sabrina said, “If what Colbert told us is true, we have a small window of time and one chance at capturing this man.”
Josh turned the paper around to view.
The air between them grew deathly still.
He stared at the face of the man he’d hunted for two years. Len Rikker, the CIA agent whose freedom had been traded for the lives of Sabrina’s team. And Chelsea.
Sabrina‘s eyes locked on Josh, watching for his reaction.
She was right. The stakes were high on this job. She would not send anyone who wasn’t a hundred percent, even someone as personally invested as he was.
Josh shoved his emotions into lockdown, and pulled out the skills he used on undercover ops. He laid the picture on the table, the epitome of calm. No sign of the rage that burned inside him. He kept his voice matter-of-fact and controlled. “Son of a bitch has finally surfaced. I’ll be back in Miami tonight.”
She gave it a beat before nodding. “Call for anything you need. Every resource will be made available.”
“Will do.” And no one would stand in his way.
Sabrina had nothing to worry about when it came to the women on this job.
Josh would seduce Medusa to get his hands on Len Rikker.
Chapter 4
Tri-issshh. Wake up, Trish, whispered eerily through her vanishing nightmare.
“Not...yet,” she mumbled. Heavy with exhaustion, her eyelids fluttered as she fought waking, then closed tight when she drifted off again.
Come and play, Trish.
“Not...yet...” she groused, mind thick and half asleep. “Go...’way...leave me ‘lone.” Sleep pulled her under.
Tri-isshhh!
Trish jolted at the harsh whisper, blinking fast awake in her dark bedroom. She tensed, ready to fight. Who was calling to her? The only sound now was her panting breaths that matched the rhythm of her thumping heart.
The whisper had been so close. So real.
Was someone in the room with her?
She slowed her breathing and lay perfectly still, trying to detect
any movement. Had she been dreaming the scratchy voice? Not scratchy, really, but more like a robot voice.
Her sweat-drenched T-shirt clung to her clammy skin. Maybe the voice had been in her nightmare. Eyes adjusting to the blue glow cast by her nightlight, she scanned the room once more.
Nothing stirred.
No sound. Not even street noise. Trish flipped on the light beside her bed. A few of her geriatric neighbors drove around at midnight sometimes. She’d fallen in love on sight with the cookie-cutter houses with neatly trimmed yards and happy flowerbeds. West of North Miami, her quaint, older subdivision offered peace and quiet.
A safe haven.
Until now.
“You are one step from the loony farm.” Her whispered words might be funny, if they didn’t hit so close to the truth. She ran trembling fingers through her short curls and worked to calm her breathing. Just a bad dream. Again.
No more sleep for tonight.
She glanced at her digital clock. One tick past midnight. Wednesday had officially started and April was almost over. Dragging her sleep-deprived body from the bed, she headed down the hall to the kitchen for coffee, her sole vice these days.
When Trish straggled into the semi-dark kitchen, she expelled a sigh of relief, glad to escape another nightmare. But she couldn’t continue living on a few hours sleep here and there if she wanted to keep this problem from her overprotective brother.
Zane would soon notice the bags under her eyes.
And Trish had no choice but to keep this secret. No way would she allow someone to harm her only family.
Leaning against the sink, Trish instinctively reached to her right where the glass jar of coffee normally sat. Her wrist bumped something in mid-air a foot above the counter. She snatched her hand back and held her breath, then used her left hand to flip on the light switch.
Subtle light sifted across the counters from fluorescent fixtures beneath the cabinets. The coffee jar had been slid back to the wall, a cutting board left in its place.
Her wrist had hit the handle of a butcher knife stabbed into the thick slab of wood.
The knife blade nailed a piece of paper to the board.
Her mind screeched a denial, refusing to believe someone had been inside her home. She spun, checking behind and around her as she swallowed a sob threatening to rend the silence. Her hand trembled when she reached out to grasp the knife handle. Working it forward and back, she dislodged the tip.
The crisp piece of gray, fine-linen paper bore the same style of typed letters as the other notes she’d hidden in her nightstand.
I should take a Rook to replace the one I lost, but knocking over a worthless
Pawn in my way first is more fun.
When was the last time you had fun?
Time to come out and play, Trish. Go to your car and find your next instructions. Remember, your brother–or his very pregnant wife–will pay the price if you tell anyone about our game or if you don’t follow the rules exactly.
Trish put a hand over her mouth to smother the scream building in her chest.
AA
The Chessmaster smiled when a light brightened the kitchen window of Trish Jackson’s home.
Trish’s brother had felled Colbert, the Rook. An inconvenient loss that would mean a complex series of moves for this lowly Pawn. Every move would lead to eventually placing Zane in checkmate...once Trish was knocked off the board.
But not until Trish fulfilled her purpose.
No one could outplay the Chessmaster.
Chapter 5
We need someone to do more than tail Jackson’s sister.
Famous last words.
Dawn had just cracked the horizon, with another half hour before sunrise won the battle, as Josh followed Trish Jackson. She moved cautiously through an area of south Miami he’d seen on the news more than once in past weeks. A place known for knifings, shootings and drug deals, complete with abandoned buildings and busted windows. Granted, most criminals did not work this early in the morning, but still.
There was just enough light to avoid falling over sleeping homeless.
Dark curls slipped out from beneath her white cap and feathered around her neck. It would give the impression that she was a young boy from the back, if not for nice curves filling out her jeans and the feminine shift of her hips when she walked.
Zane Jackson was known for being overprotective of his wife and females in general. What kind of brother sent a young woman down to this area before daylight to meet someone?
Maybe he hadn’t.
Nothing about Trish pinged as a criminal for Josh. In fact, after reading through her file on the flight back last night, he had his doubts about her being involved with Zane’s illegal activities. Not one thing in her background jumped out as suspicious.
If Zane was the mole, his sister could be nothing more than an innocent family member. But Josh couldn’t come up with one reason she’d be in this neighborhood if she hadn’t been sent here. It made no sense.
When Trish slowed near a rusted, three-story metal building that had seen better days as some kind of factory, Josh tucked into a shadowy corner and held his breath against the sickening urine odor. She glanced around once then disappeared to her right, into the dilapidated structure.
Josh caught up quickly. The door was missing. He took a look through the doorway. No one in the first room. He slipped inside what had once been an office, and clung to pockets of dark near the walls while he searched for Trish, who’d continued to an open warehouse area beyond the office.
If she was meeting someone, Josh had to find a better vantage point. He eased up a steel stairway that led to another destroyed office space on the second floor. A place for observing workers at one time, based on one wall facing the warehouse that had a gaping rectangular hole where jagged pieces of glass stuck out from the molding like giant teeth in an open mouth.
He picked his way through debris, careful not to step on anything that would crunch, and stopped at the right side of the window. His target stood in the center of the warehouse, the only spot not draped in deep shadow. Josh reached into the pocket of his jersey jacket and pulled out a low-light video camera just a little thicker than his smart phone, looping the cord around his neck.
He flipped out the digital screen, then zoomed in and focused, studying Zane’s sister.
She carried herself with confidence, chin up with attitude and shoulders back, prepared.
For what? Meeting a drug dealer?
Soft light filtering in from the first hint of daylight grazed the outline of her face when she turned, giving Josh a three-quarter view of soft, pale cheeks and a heart-shaped mouth.
Unnecessary information, he reminded himself.
Tell that to the part of him that noticed the way her light-gray T-shirt left no doubt that she was a woman. Nothing boyish about that body.
She tilted her head up, looking straight toward where he hid. Good instincts.
He sucked back, but held the camera so that he could see the image on the digital screen. Her eyes searched for whatever had clued her that she was being watched. Beautiful eyes, but shadowed as though she hadn’t slept much.
When she shook her head over some silent thought and turned away from him, Josh zoomed in on her fingers, where they fidgeted with the pockets of her jeans. Telling.
She was nervous.
Or afraid.
Few things bothered Josh as much as seeing a frightened woman. But he couldn’t allow himself to think that way about her, not when she might be a conduit in a sophisticated, deadly drug running operation.
When she flinched at a sound to her left, Josh tensed, pulse ratcheting up with the worry needling him.
What the hell are you doing here, Trish Jackson?
A man burst from the shadows at her right and attacked her, hooking an arm around her neck and dragging her backwards.
Josh dropped the camera and reached inside his coat for his weapon, but in the nanosecond
that took, Trish had broken free of the man and turned on him. She kicked fast, but he blocked his family jewels and grabbed her arm.
She spun, breaking his hold, and tried to run.
He grabbed her shirt and yanked her backward.
Torn between intervening and doing what he’d been sent here to do, Josh aimed the weapon at the bastard, crazy with the need to jump in and save her. His heart beat hard against his chest.
In the next two seconds, Josh realized she didn’t need his help. Smaller than her attacker, who had to go two-twenty and reached six feet tall where she was five-five, Trish made quick, sharp moves, hands flying in reaction to every aggressive action the vagrant made.
Not a vagrant. He knew it as well as he knew his own name.
Curly hair corkscrewing to his shoulders, dark baggy pants and a ratty T-shirt might look like someone homeless, but none of that camouflaged the man’s skills.
He was trained. And dangerous.
And he was pulling his punches. He could have killed her at any point, but he hadn’t.
Josh moved his sights off of the man’s forehead. Something was going on here beyond what the casual observer would see on the surface.
Trish broke loose again and spun around. She was fast and passionate about every move. Determination was clear on her face when she rammed her foot into the back of the man’s knee.
Hard enough to take him down, but not inflict damage. Not as hard as the strike should’ve been. Josh would bet his favorite restored Porsche on that.
Still, her attacker hadn’t been expecting that move and tried to counter it by throwing his weight on his solid leg, hand flying around in a sweeping, outside block.
She moved in at the same time, and the heel of his hand cuffed her on the chin hard, knocking her off her feet.
Fuck that. Josh took aim again, ready to shoot the mother if he made one wrong move.
The man yelled, “Son of a bitch! Zane’s gonna fuckin’ kill me, Trish.”
She laughed.
Laughed? Had Josh heard that right?
