by P. A. DePaul
The Senator’s son’s murder had this city all abuzz.
Griffin cracked his neck from left to right and stuffed his right hand in his front jeans pocket, making sure he always kept his left side toward the open area beyond. Fucking prosthetic. He needed to blend in as much as possible, and a man wearing a fake arm tended to stick out no matter how much it cost to make it look “real.”
A swell of commotion hooked his attention and Griffin slid to the end of the aisle. Finally, the Senator and his wife arrived. Stern, joyless men accompanied the Senator as he strode across the paisley carpet. The wife remained a few steps behind with a wad of tissues gripped in her palm.
Griffin strolled out of the gift shop toward the large seating area filled with tall potted trees and palms. He pulled the bulky encrypted phone out of his jacket and opened a highly illegal app a tech head he met years ago had developed and sold to Griffin for an astronomical amount. There were plenty of free or cheap tracking apps parents could utilize to track their kids, but this beauty had a few extra perks that’d have the privacy advocates screaming and picketing. Who, honestly, would want a piece of spyware delivered to their phone via a call and Bluetooth connection and have all their calls and movements monitored by someone else without them ever knowing?
Operatives the world over, and he was the only one who had it, thanks to a fatal car “accident” the IT nerd had suffered shortly after selling the software to Griffin.
He retrieved April’s number and pressed Send.
As casually as he could, he slid his fake hand into his jeans again and headed for the couple causing the controlled chaos throughout the lobby.
The phone in Mrs. Bob Harris’s hand rang, and she jumped. She stared at it, puzzled.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the phone. “Answer the fucking thing.”
On the fourth ring, she answered with a shaky, “Hello?”
He instantly pressed a button on the app and held his breath while it scrolled and flashed on the display.
He bypassed the couple and continued moving toward the main doors.
“Hello?” April Harris asked again.
The phone dinged and the words Successful Pairing blasted on the screen. He chuckled and hung up, strolling into the sunlight.
Chapter 8
Too many hours later, Cappy dropped his overnight bag against the wall in the baggage claim area and raised his arms overhead, stretching as far as he could. He hated sitting in coach. The cramped seats weren’t designed for tall, muscular frames.
“Indianapolis International Airport would like to remind passengers to keep your bags with you at all times—”
“I don’t like this,” Talon barked, cutting off the droning PA announcement. “We’re not the Senator’s damn puppets.”
“I know.” Cappy sighed. “But we owe him. He bailed us out when we needed it.”
Talon humphed. “I saw the way your eyes softened when you recited that little bit of nothing history. You sure you’re not here for the girl?”
His phone blared an innocuous ring.
“Saved by the bell.” Talon smirked.
Cappy ignored the taunt and hit Answer. After a weird snick intoned through the speaker, he answered, “Hey, Ted.”
“This . . . n . . . sec. . . .”
“You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you over the airport notices and exuberant family reunions.”
“I SAID—”
Cappy yanked the phone away, then interrupted, “Christ. You don’t have to shout, just talk louder.”
“I said,” Ted tried again, better this time. “The line is secure.”
“I figured when I heard the click.”
“The weapons and items you and Talon requested are in a suitcase tagged for Jeremy Malone. It should be arriving down the baggage chute any minute with a yellow tag.”
Jeremy Malone. God, hearing that name said out loud after six years sounded strange.
Part of him cringed at resurrecting the moniker, like he somehow tempted Fate to royally fuck everything up after staying under the radar for so long. But a part of him that had been steadily growing the closer he got to Indianapolis jumped up and down, clapping its hands like a schoolboy. To hear her utter his real name, to watch it fall from her lips, made the anticipation almost unbearable.
Idiot.
“Hello? Did you hear me?”
“Got it. Hold on a second.” Cappy pointed to the baggage claim turnstile. “Talon, our suitcase is labeled Jeremy Malone with a yellow tag.”
Talon smirked and ambled away to mix among the hoard of passengers jockeying to find their luggage, his fingers twitching the entire way.
Bet the man wished he had one of his wicked knives.
Talon relied on the grip of blade like some people chewed on a toothpick. It was comforting. And lately, it was a rare moment when the man’s hands remained free of his favorite black-bladed Ka-Bar. The same knife etched with the Latin phrase De inimico non loquaris sed cogites onto the blade, which translated to “Don’t wish ill on your enemy, plan it.” Definitely a story there, but not one Cappy would ask about today.
Talon pulled a sharpened number two pencil from his back pocket and fidgeted with the thin wood. It had to be a piss-poor second, but just as deadly in Talon’s hands. The man earned his code name; it hadn’t been randomly chosen to sound cool.
“Cappy?” Ted shouted in his ear.
“Sorry. Got distracted. You able to find out anything more on Michelle since we left?”
“Basics like Michelle Alger, born in July in Laurel, Delaware, attended the University—”
“I already know this, remember?” Cappy interrupted. “Skip to after I put her on the chopper.”
“Uh. No one resource had much information—”
“Forget it,” Cappy barked. “Talon’s got the bag. I’ll call when I can actually hear you better.” He shoved the phone into the holder clipped to his belt and motioned for Talon to follow.
Rays of sunshine drilled into his retinas as he exited the airport. He used a free hand to slip on the pair of sunglasses hanging from his T-shirt collar. The crisp, sixty-eight-degree air would be perfect if he was here as a tourist. But he wasn’t. No. Instead he was here to find out why the woman who haunted his dreams had killed the Senator’s son. Son of a bitch. Served him right for thinking of her in any way other than professional. SBG operatives weren’t allowed to have personal lives.
Talon shifted a carry-on bag on his shoulder and used his free hand to pull a master car key out of his jeans pocket. Nothing needed to be said as they approached parking space C-12. An older model Pontiac waited, backed in to the spot. The silver color was dull now but the body still seemed in okay condition. Nothing that should raise any flags. Which was the point.
Talon unlocked the car with a key that fit every model SBG had scattered in airports and train stations throughout the country. He then opened the back driver’s-side door while Cappy opened the back passenger door and they both dropped their bags on the seat. Cappy felt underneath the cushion and grabbed a small tool set. He tossed it to Talon, then stood to survey the area. No one around and the camera was just beyond the car’s sight—deliberately why SBG reserved this specific parking space.
“Clear.”
Talon didn’t hesitate to unscrew the bolts on the door and pop the panel off. “Which state?”
“West Virginia.”
He grabbed a package wrapped in plastic from an opening in the steel frame and flipped through a stack of license plates. “Got it.”
He tossed the plate onto the passenger floor and grabbed the corresponding paper registration before he re-wrapped the bundle. Cappy picked it up and double-checked the year and month registration stickers were still good. They were. Excellent. He reached into the tool kit and in less than a
minute had the license attached to the back. The plate that had been affixed to the car needed to be disposed of but he couldn’t do anything about it now. He threw it to Talon, who dropped it into the frame’s space with the others before he resealed the door’s panel.
Once they were settled inside, he redialed Ted.
“Hello.”
“Ted, I’ve got you on speaker. What did you find out?”
“Like I said, not much. Right after you put Michelle Alger on the chopper she dropped off the system. No records exist for her after that date except for a small obituary in a newspaper.”
“Reporter should’ve fact-checked that one,” Talon snarked.
Cappy’s stomach tightened. Not good. “So what happened? She given a new identity?”
“This is where it gets really tricky. I can’t just hack into the U.S. Marshals’ database.”
Cappy sat up. So the government actually did something about protecting her instead of waving their hand and wishing her well?
“The U.S. Marshals put her in Witness Security Protection and relocated her to Indianapolis, where she finished her degree as Michelle Holman.”
“Ah,” Cappy said, stroking his chin. “So, in typical WITSEC fashion, they changed her last name, figuring her first name was common enough.”
“How did she get from there to murderer?” Talon interrupted.
Cappy shot him a look he blatantly ignored.
“Couldn’t find much more, but she works for Fort Harrison State Park, located in the northeastern section of Indianapolis, and doesn’t have much credit, but she’s also only twenty-five.”
Like Cappy needed the reminder to make his thirty-eight years feel old.
“All right,” Cappy cut in. “Got it. Give us the addresses. We’ll call you after we check out the apartment.”
Chapter 9
Michelle glanced at the clock on the bedside table for the millionth time. 4:48 p.m.
The name Jeremy Malone—Cappy stared up at her from the paper, as if to remind her what a chicken she was.
“I know that already,” she told it, turning toward the yellowy-brown plastic phone resting on the edge of the nightstand that matched the horrendous seventies décor.
Countless times she had marched to the stand, only to wig out at the action. Sweaty hairline, racing pulse, thundering heart. Good grief. It was like she was back in middle school having to ask a boy to the Sadie Hawkins dance.
Yeah, but Ethan Frond said “yes,” her mind retorted.
She snorted. This was a little bit different than a first crush.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Michelle recoiled and choked on the air freezing in her lungs. Oh God, they found me already. Beads of moisture dotted her hairline and she frantically surveyed the locks. The chain was still firmly in place and the deadbolt turned.
A shadow crossed in front of the sheer-curtained window.
She ducked under the table, wishing she could use her cell phone. Her breath hitched. And call who? The police? Oh, they’d definitely come running, but it wouldn’t be to help her. Fear slid down her spine like ice. For the first time since she watched that stupid video, she realized just how alone and isolated she truly was.
“Larry, open up,” a slurred voice yelled at her door.
She blew out the breath she’d been holding and lifted shaking fingers to her face.
Bang. Bang. Bang. “Come on, man. I gotta take a piss.”
Tears of relief banked the corners of her eyes and she let out a bark of laughter. She crawled out from under the table and shouted, “Wrong room.”
Silence, then, “Six. Says it right here.”
“Nine,” she shot back, wondering how she’d make a drunk understand the failures of proper hotel maintenance. “Nail fell out. Go three doors down.”
Scratching scraped against the wood, probably from Larry’s friend swiveling the room number.
“Oh, yeah,” the drunk replied, still scraping the number against the door. “Look at that.”
A final thunk echoed through the thin wood before a large shadow crossed in front of the window, staggering away.
She gripped the back of the wooden chair and fought the black dots crowding her vision. Jesus, that was close. Jeremy’s name jumped out at her from the card. No more fooling around. It wasn’t like she was inundated with alternatives.
No questions asked.
His promise sounded almost too good to be true, but who else could she trust to help her find out what was really going on and clear her name? Besides, no one in this life would ever connect her to Captain Jeremy Malone. She should be safe enough to hide with him for a few days.
“Please be alive,” she muttered, swiping the paper off the table and striding to the phone. She slapped it on the scratched wooden stand and slowly dialed nine. The phone paused then clicked over to a dial-tone. She pressed one, then jabbed five-five-five—
A fast-paced warning tone blared through the earpiece. She ripped the handset away. What the heck? She bent and squinted at the writing on the face of the phone above the keypad.
NO LONG DISTANCE CALLS ALLOWED. DIAL “0” FOR ASSISTANCE.
Really? After it took her hours to work up her courage? She had to ask Creepy Stevie at the front desk for help? She stabbed the button to hang up on the annoying warning and pressed zero.
Two rings later, “What?”
Nice. “I need to make a long distance call.”
“Can’t. Not allowed.”
“Like ‘can’t’ as in the phone’s not programmed that way? Or ‘can’t’ as in you’ve got to do something on your end to allow it?”
“Uh.”
She held the bridge of her nose. “Let me ask it another way. If I give you cash for the call, can I dial the number from my room?”
“Sure,” Creepy Stevie’s tone brightened. “But you gotta come see me first.”
Michelle cringed. “I’ve already promised to visit when your shift ends. Can’t I give you a five then?”
Silence.
Not a deep thinker, this one.
Creepy Stevie sighed deeply. “I’m not supposed to let you make the call before I get the cash.”
“I promise I’ll hand it to you when I see you later.”
His disturbing chuckle had her stomach knotting. “I can’t wait until six.”
She just bet he couldn’t.
“Give it a minute, then you’re good.”
She tossed the handset down.
She shook her whole body, trying to exorcise the heebs the oily-haired, twentysomething guy inspired. “I need to get out of here.”
On that note, she picked the handset back up and dialed nine, and the normal ringtone filled the earpiece.
“Please work.” Her nerves couldn’t take trying a third time.
She pressed one, then the ten-digit number from the paper and held her breath.
***
The computer-generated female voice instructed Cappy and Talon, turn-by-turn, from the docking station he’d plugged his phone into. The farther they traveled on Route I-465/I-74, the more rural the landscape. He liked that about Indianapolis; it might be a big city, but it never felt that way.
“You going to fill me in on what the hell is going on?” Talon asked in the silence, shattering the small respite Cappy had found from his churning emotions.
Cappy’s phone flashed, and the screen turned black with a phone number scrolling across the front. He glanced at the display and his blood ran cold. Only one person left had knowledge of the phone number he now had forwarded to this cell phone.
Talon leaned forward. “Three-one-seven area code. Isn’t that around here?”
Cappy snatched the phone off the dock. “Pull over.”
Talon raised an eyebrow, but eased the car onto the w
ide shoulder, underneath an EMERGENCY STOPPING ONLY sign.
“Hello,” Cappy answered, his stomach flipping.
A breath hitched.
His heart thundered. With every fiber of his being he just knew who was on the other end. “Hold on.”
Cappy flung his door open and pushed out of the car. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Talon, “Be right back.”
Cappy ignored his teammate’s blatant non-verbal demand for an explanation. As commander of this team, he did not have to answer to Talon.
Cars whizzed by and the heavy thrum from a semi’s passing made it hard for him to hear, so he strode to the guardrail and placed a hand over his free ear. A light, crisp breeze hit him, raising the goose bumps on his arms further.
“Michelle,” he said softly so as not to scare her off the phone.
Her breath hitched again. Then the voice haunting him for years murmured, “Jeremy.”
His stomach fluttered like a damn schoolboy, and he closed his eyes to savor it.
“You are alive.” Before he could react, she asked in a louder voice, “How did you know it was me?”
“Not many people have this number. I can’t imagine it would be one of them since most of them are dead.”
Pause. “Oh.”
Way to go, moron. Real smooth. Now she really wants to open up. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “That sounded better in my head.”
She chuckled thinly, then audibly swallowed. “I, ah, didn’t think you’d remember me.”
Was she kidding?
“Or this phone number would even work,” she continued.
He stayed silent, unsure of the correct response. Part of his brain tapped danced knowing she had kept his note all these years. The other part wondered what that meant.
“I, ah . . . I need your help.”
A truck hauling construction equipment roared by, followed by a car blasting its horn. Damn traffic. Just follow the goddamn rules and stay in one lane. He turned away and jammed his finger harder against his free ear.
