Fatal Fallout

by Lara Lacombe

  Must be nice, he mused, thinking how quickly she had gone from tears to smiles. Would that his own grief and sadness were as easy to shake.

  Although he understood on a logical, rational level that his brother’s death hadn’t been his fault, he couldn’t dismiss the guilt that plagued him at the thought of Roger.

  I should have taken Mom....

  After a late-winter storm had pounded the city, his mother had called needing a ride to a doctor’s appointment. Buried at work, Thomas had asked Roger to cover for him. Since he was off duty at the time, Roger hadn’t hesitated to hop in the car and head over to their mom’s house. It should have been just another drive, a normal errand, nothing to write home about.

  Except for the garbage truck that hit a patch of ice and slammed into the car, crushing it and his brother in the blink of an eye.

  For the first few weeks after the accident, Thomas had woken almost nightly, soaked with sweat and with a scream trapped in his throat. The nightmares were graphic and all too real, the accident playing out in horrible slow motion while Thomas stood on the sidewalk, helpless to do anything but watch as his brother disappeared into a pile of twisted metal.

  The images had gradually faded, but the worst part was that Thomas still couldn’t think about his brother without imagining Roger’s last conscious moments as he lay trapped in the wreckage. His pain. His fear. His worry for Jenny and Emily. He hoped that one day, he would be able to remember Roger without recalling the accident, but for now, thoughts of Roger just left him feeling raw, like he’d taken a bath in acid.

  So he tried not to think about it.

  With a shake of his head, he reached for the dial, wanting some music to distract him for the rest of the drive. No sense in brooding over a past he couldn’t change. In that way lay madness.

  Before he could settle on a station, his phone rang. A quick glance at the lit display showed his boss calling, which was unusual. Agent Harper liked to keep track of the team, but he usually wasn’t overbearing about it. For him to call now, minutes before Thomas was due to show up at the office, meant something was going on.

  “Kincannon here.”

  “How close are you?”

  Thomas bit back the urge to reply Good morning to you, too. Harper’s brusque tone made it clear his sense of humor was on vacation, and since Thomas still didn’t know him all that well, he decided to play it safe. “Five minutes, give or take a few.”

  “I need to see you when you get in. Right away.”

  “No problem,” Thomas replied to the dial tone. Snapping the phone closed, he tucked it back into his jacket pocket and pressed on the accelerator to beat a yellow light.

  It sounded like Harper had a new case for him, an idea that had his pulse quickening with anticipation. Forget music—work was the best distraction.

  * * *

  Harper’s door was partially open, so Thomas gave it a perfunctory rap with his knuckles as he walked into the office. The older man looked up from his computer and gestured for Thomas to take a seat. He did, glancing about the room as Harper finished typing.

  While Carmichael, his former boss, had been a bit of a pack rat, keeping papers and other bits of miscellany piled high on every flat surface, Harper was practically a monk by comparison. His desk was clear of everything but his computer, a cup of pens and pencils, a desk calendar and a single piece of paper. The filing cabinets were a new addition to the space, the neatly labeled drawers a testament to Harper’s organizational prowess. Thomas thought briefly of his own desk, which fell somewhere in the middle of the two extremes. Even though he wasn’t terribly messy, he had the fleeting thought that Harper would not approve of his filing system. Good thing the man stayed in his office most of the time.

  “I have an assignment for you.”

  Thomas returned his focus to the man in front of him, belatedly realizing Harper had stopped typing and was staring at him.

  “What’s up?”

  The older man winced slightly at his choice of words, and Thomas bit his lip to keep from smiling. He knew his casual speech bothered the buttoned-up man, and the small, rebellious part of him liked to poke the bear. One of these days it was going to come back and bite him in the ass, but he didn’t care.

  “Dr. Claire Fleming received a death threat this morning,” Harper informed him, pushing the paper across the desk toward him.

  Thomas picked it up and glanced over the dossier. Claire Fleming. Thirty-two years old. Scientist with the Nuclear Safety Group. The grainy black-and-white photo didn’t do her any favors, but he could see she was pretty enough, with her light hair piled atop her head and slightly plump lips under a straight nose. She didn’t look like the kind of person to inspire death threats, but there were a lot of unhinged people in the world.

  “Why do we get the case?” Death threats usually stayed at the level of the local police, so there must be something more to the story.

  “This particular threat came from Russia. Dr. Fleming’s contact, Ivan Novikoff, was killed yesterday, and she received a picture of his body with the threat.” Harper pressed a few keys, then flipped the monitor around so Thomas could see the gruesome photo.

  “Has this been verified?” Ivan Novikoff lay sprawled in a puddle of blood, his open mouth an echo of the gaping wound in his neck. “You’re next” was written on the man’s white shirt, the reddish-brown of the letters a stark contrast to his pale skin.

  “Yes. It’s legitimate.”

  Thomas frowned. “Is State involved?”

  Harper pressed his lips together, a sure sign of agitation. “They are...facilitating discussions with the Russians,” he said delicately, leaving no doubt as to his opinion of their involvement. “We’re hoping to hear more from our counterparts regarding the circumstances surrounding Dr. Novikoff’s death.”

  “Well, it wasn’t accidental, that much is clear.”

  “Quite.”

  Thomas set the paper back on Harper’s desk and stretched out his legs. “What are we doing?”

  The older man regarded him with a level gaze. “There is no ‘we’ at this point. There is ‘you.’ And you will act as our contact with Dr. Fleming. I want you to stick by her side and keep her safe until we figure out what is really going on here.”

  “You want me to act as her bodyguard?” Disbelief made the words come out a bit sharper than he intended, but Thomas didn’t bother to apologize. No way was he going to take a babysitting job when he had other cases to work, other responsibilities that needed his attention.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Yeah, there kind of is. I’ve got other cases—I can’t just drop everything to hang out with this woman on the off chance someone tries to pull something.”

  Harper narrowed his gray eyes, the atmosphere in the office growing decidedly chilly. “Agent Kincannon,” he began icily, “lest you forget, you are in a precarious position. After the debacle that was the Collins investigation, the suits upstairs want nothing more than to fire this entire unit. I am all that stands between you and the brass. You will go where I tell you, do what I tell you and take the assignments I give you without question, or you will find yourself without a job. Are we clear?”

  Thomas felt his face heat but kept his mouth shut. Now was not the time to protest that they had all done the best they could with the limited information they’d had at the time. It wasn’t their fault a crazy man had blown up part of the Smithsonian. Besides, the injuries had been minor and the group had brought in not one but two suspects. It really should have counted as a win, but the guys upstairs had no tolerance for deviations from the plan. In the end, Carmichael had fallen on his sword to protect the rest of the team, but it sounded like the big boys wanted more blood.

  “Yes, sir,” he bit out, trying to keep his voice level.

  Harper lean
ed back with a nod. “Very good. Dr. Fleming is still at her office, along with the local police and someone from computer crimes. I suggest you meet her there and introduce yourself. You’ll be spending a lot of time together in the coming days, so do try to be nice.”

  Recognizing a dismissal when he heard it, Thomas stood and turned to leave. His fingers itched to fire off a mocking salute, but he resisted the impulse, knowing it would likely send Harper over the edge.

  He paused at the threshold. “You’ll let me know as soon as you hear from the Russians?”

  Harper nodded, already turning back to his computer. “Of course.”

  Thomas frowned. He knew in his gut that something else was going on but had no idea what. He left the office, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck to massage away the tingling sensation dancing across his skin. Was it any wonder his alarm bells were ringing? Russians, nuclear scientists and death threats. All the makings of a disaster.

  Pausing to grab a notebook from his desk, he headed back out to the car, softly whistling the James Bond theme music as he went.

  * * *

  “So it’s done?”

  Victor rubbed the blade of his knife with a soft cloth, buffing the metal to a gleaming shine. “He’s dead.”

  “Did you have any trouble?”

  He held back the snort of laughter. Trouble? Of course not. Ivan Novikoff had been an easy mark, a soft, careless man. He hadn’t known he was being followed, hadn’t suspected a thing when Victor had appeared in his office. The man had even offered him coffee, for God’s sake. He shook his head. A stupid mistake, and the last one Novikoff had made.

  “No trouble. It was quick and easy.”

  “Not too quick, I hope.” The man’s voice took on a slight edge. Victor’s lip curled up in disgust. He didn’t torture people without reason. He prided himself on making a clean kill—to do anything else was a waste of time and talent. The only reason he’d written on the scientist’s shirt was because his employer had demanded it, and he was being paid very well for his efforts.

  “The message was delivered as you requested,” he said, hoping to change the subject. The man on the other end of the line could be a bit stubborn, grabbing on to topics like a dog with a bone, and Victor wasn’t in the mood to relate the precise details of the job. He was paid to kill, not to give a play-by-play after the work was done.

  “Good. And the papers?”

  He hesitated a beat, knowing his employer wouldn’t react well to the news. “There were no papers.”

  There was a pause, and Victor could practically feel the man’s anger build in the charged silence. Victor wasn’t happy about the missing documents either, but there was nothing to be done at the moment.

  “Look, the job isn’t over yet,” he pointed out, hoping to stave off an explosion.

  “You’re right, it is not.” His voice was lethally quiet, the cultured accent making his words seem even more dangerous. “You still have to take out Fleming. I hope, for your sake, she knows where the papers are. Otherwise, I will take it out on you.”

  Victor sucked in a breath. He had known the threat was coming, but it still hit him like a fist to the gut.

  “That won’t be necessary. I think she has them.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He set the knife aside, smoothing out the cloth as he spoke. “I found a package receipt in Novikoff’s office. He’d sent a collection of documents to her the day before I got there, if the customs form is to be believed.”

  “You should hope it is. I don’t have to remind you what happens to associates who disappoint, do I?”

  The images flashed through his mind, a horrific movie reel of pain and blood and a final, merciful death. The Russian mafia wasted no time in meting out retribution in creatively gruesome ways, and Victor had no intention of experiencing it firsthand.

  “No. I remember,” he said, suppressing a shudder.

  “You have three days.”

  Victor flipped the phone closed, carefully placed it next to the knife and smoothed his hands over his face. He was walking a tightrope, to be sure. Killing Novikoff had been easy enough, and while he didn’t relish the thought of killing a woman, it had to be done. The papers were the real target—Novikoff and Fleming were just collateral damage. There was no guarantee Fleming would have the papers he needed, though, and he knew that if he didn’t get them, his mission would be considered a failure.

  Failure was not tolerated by the Bratva. Failure was punished. The greater the failure, the greater the punishment. It was that simple. And since he would not tolerate failure, would not give his employer the satisfaction of punishing him, he had only one option.

  Kill the woman. Find the papers.

  Survive.

  Chapter 2

  Claire sat on the sofa in the break room, arms wrapped tightly around herself in a vain attempt to control her shaking. Ivan was dead. Ivan, who had visited just two months ago, who had been so full of life and energy, tirelessly taking on the problems of safeguarding Russia’s nuclear material, was gone. And not just dead, but murdered in a horrific fashion. She blinked furiously to clear the tears that threatened to fall.

  No crying. Not now. There would be time for that later, when she was home and could fall apart in private. But it just didn’t make sense. Who would want to kill Ivan? He was—had been, she corrected grimly—such a wonderful man. He had made it his mission to keep people safe, to ensure that the crumbling nuclear power plants in Russia were decommissioned safely, that their dangerous fuel sources were disposed of properly. He had been a force of nature, using humor, charm and sheer stubborn will to get the authorities to listen to him. He’d had his share of enemies, but in the years they’d worked together she’d seen that even those who disagreed with him respected him.

  Or so she’d thought.

  A uniformed police officer sat by the door, idly flipping through one of the Nuclear Safety Group’s newsletters. She didn’t understand why he had to stay with her—she’d much rather be alone right now to gather her thoughts—but the detectives had insisted on leaving someone here while they checked her office. They’d shooed her out the door, politely but firmly, giving her no choice but to retreat to the break room while they pored over her computer and files. Even though she didn’t keep anything personal in her office, she still felt a bit disconcerted by the knowledge that her things were being scrutinized by strangers.

  You’re next.

  Goose bumps broke out across her skin as the bloody image popped into her head again. Why? Who would want to target her? What had she done?

  Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of a new face. A tall man stepped into the room, stopped to murmur something to the police officer who had looked up at his entrance, and then turned and walked over to the couch. He sat down, close but not crowding her, and gave her a small smile.

  “Dr. Fleming, I presume?” His voice was deep and smooth, calming. She nodded.

  “I’m Agent Thomas Kincannon, FBI.” He removed a badge from his jacket and held it out. She took it, inspecting the gold shield and picture ID. He looked so young in the picture, a fresh-faced boy probably just out of the academy. She glanced at his face as she returned his identification. The long nose was the same, but his cheeks were a bit leaner, and faint lines bracketed his mouth and feathered from the corners of his bright blue eyes. It would seem Agent Kincannon had grown up a bit since this picture was taken.

  “Claire.” She relaxed her arms, stuck out a hand. Standing five foot eight, she’d never felt particularly small before, but when his large hand enfolded hers, she felt positively tiny. His skin was warm, and the brush of his fingertips against her wrist had tingles shooting up her arm.

  What was she supposed to say to him? Nice to meet you was a lie, given the circumstances, but m
anners dictated she say something. He turned to glance at the officer by the door, and the light from the window caught Agent Kincannon’s hair, highlighting the mix of red, gold, amber and copper strands in the tuft that fell across his forehead.

  “Your hair—it’s beautiful,” she blurted out. He turned to face her, eyebrows lifted and mouth twitching, and she wished desperately for the couch to open up and swallow her whole.

  Where the hell did that come from?

  “I always wanted red hair,” she muttered, knowing she sounded like a crazy person.

  “Trust me, you don’t. I burn within five minutes of stepping outside. It’s like I’m a vampire or something.”

  “I stay inside most of the time anyway, so it wouldn’t affect me.” Stop talking!

  He merely stared at her with a faint smile, as if trying to determine if she was just socially awkward or if she’d skipped a dose of medication. Desperate to fill the silence, she rushed ahead. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I talk when I’m nervous, and I don’t really know what’s going on here. Ivan is dead, and I have no idea who killed him or why they would want to.” She paused to swallow, hating the tightness of her throat. It felt like a fist was squeezing her neck, making it hard to breathe or speak. Needing a distraction, she dropped her eyes to Agent Kincannon’s hands. His wrists were lightly dusted with red-gold hair, and a large silver watch peeked out from under his jacket sleeve. She focused on the blue watch face, tracking the second hand as it ticked around.

  “And apparently someone is after me, too, but I don’t know why. It’s not logical. Why would anyone want to hurt me? I haven’t done anything!” She shook her head, still trying to make sense of the morning’s events. A small part of her hoped this was all a bad dream, that she’d wake up in her bed and start the day over again. Things would go back to normal. But as she raised her eyes back up to Agent Kincannon’s face, his expression of pity made it clear her life would never be the same again.