by L. T. Ryan
AKERS WISHED HE'D killed the girl along with her mother. He'd spent the past two weeks acting as a babysitter to the whiny little bitch.
And he had no choice.
Under no uncertain circumstances, his boss had said, was he to let her out of his sight. That meant no leaving the suite.
He kept her locked in the bedroom and took to sleeping on the couch. She had a bathroom. He provided her with three meals a day. When she cried, he turned up the radio or the television volume. When she banged on the door, he banged back.
The worst was when she shouted for her mother. Not because Akers felt bad for providing her with an exit from this world. But because he couldn't send the little girl to meet her.
Not yet.
He didn't understand why. Noble, by all accounts, was dead. Taken care of by the other team. The one that had the actual authority to terminate him. So the girl had no purpose. At least as far as he knew.
Akers had to trust his boss. Really, he had no choice. Disobedience would be met with death, and likely not as swift as the one he had given the girl's mother.
Chapter 76
Little River, South Carolina.
THE TOWN WAS quiet. And quaint. Hardly the kind of place where a spook would live. Not that looks mattered. Jack knew better than that.
Brandon had given him the lead two and a half weeks ago. Might as well have been two lifetimes ago. So much had happened in the time since. What started off as a meeting to discuss heading a supposed millionaire's security detail turned into a race for his life.
The millionaire turned out to be something different altogether. He hadn't given a name, but Jack had a hunch it would turn out to be John C. Merrick, or an alias thereof. Then again, Merrick could've been the fake name. Maybe Brandon had figured it out by now. Jack couldn't call him to find out, though. The guy's lines were certainly being monitored for activity.
Once the unfamiliar line rang through, the NSA would be all over it. They'd trace the number to Sasha, then line up the pieces to connect it to Jack. He could use a throwaway line, but that would result in four teams swarming the town within a matter of hours. All they had to do was nail the point of origin. Jack could be gone by then. But what if he wasn't ready? There was something here, he knew it. And he didn't want to be rushed in finding it if it could be the one piece of information or evidence that put all this to an end.
A face-to-face meeting with Brandon was Jack's only option. And given that he had no idea where the guy lived anymore, that had to be ruled out. So he'd have to use someone else. Problem was, who could he trust? There were only two people he could depend on, and both were out of his life.
In the few hours he'd been in Little River, he'd managed to solve one piece of the puzzle. Merrick's address had been listed in the phone book under J C Merick. The misspelling accounted for Brandon being unable to find the listing. Although, with his experience, he should have considered the option. Jack didn't fault the guy, though. He could have just as easily asked the guy to check.
He considered the possibility that Brandon had. See, paper couldn't be changed quite so easily. There had to be fifty thousand phone books, at least, that had that listing. Databases and online records didn't pose that problem. A couple keystrokes did the trick.
Didn't matter. He had the address. Now he had to wait for the most unlikely of partners. A man he'd been sent to kill years ago. The same man who was moments away from taking his life a few weeks ago.
Jack waited on a bench in the middle of the park. He was surrounded by thick oak trees. The sun had set hours ago. The leafy canopy hid him in a ring of darkness. The shops and restaurants had all closed. The bars had let out. The occasional police car drove past. They didn't bother to check the park. Nothing ever happened there. The cops were riding out their shift.
Another two hours passed before the dark Ford pulled into one of the many empty parking spots. A car like that at two in the morning left one of two possibilities. A spook sent to kill him, or one who was there to help.
Jack pulled his pistol. He positioned himself behind a thick oak and watched the car. His phone buzzed once then went still. The car door opened. No one got out. His phone buzzed again. A hand grabbed the top of the door. A foot hit the ground. The man rose and glanced around. Jack surveyed the area. He didn't care about a drunk stumbling around, or a cop bored out of his mind while on patrol. He had to make sure Brett hadn't been followed. That meant he had to believe that Brett was competent enough to know when someone was following him.
Brett closed his car door and walked around the perimeter of the park. Presumably, he had the same question as Jack. No matter how vigilant they were, a skilled trail team could beat them. Enough cars working together could make the job seamless and impossible to detect. At least until you arrived at your destination. Then ten agents would appear out of nowhere and your night officially went to shit.
Jack's phone buzzed again. This time the caller didn't hang up. He didn't have to look at the screen to know it was Brett. He saw the guy with the phone to his head.
"I'm in the park," Jack said. "I can see you now."
Brett clicked off and turned and walked into the shadows. Jack met him halfway.
"Quiet place," Brett said.
"Too quiet for my tastes."
"I don't know. Kind of like it, myself."
"Great, you can retire here then. But let's get this mess cleaned up first."
"You know where we need to go?" Brett asked.
Jack nodded. "Got the address. Figure this is as good a time as any to investigate."
"Not concerned about waking up the inhabitants?"
"I'd rather wake them than approach while they are awake and allow them time to prepare."
Brett agreed. They returned to his vehicle and made the ten minute drive past the outskirts of town. The streetlights thinned then disappeared altogether. The narrow road had deep ditches on either side. A sleepy driver's nightmare. Jack glanced over at Brett. The man seemed alert and awake enough, despite the journey from New York. They had both been trained to operate in any condition, and to function without sleep.
"That's the place," Jack said.
Brett drove by and they confirmed the address on the mailbox. Use of a GPS had been out of the question. Someone could be monitoring the address. As soon as they plugged it in, it would alert the agency to their location.
A few hundred feet past the house, Brett cut the headlights and did a three-point turn that left the front and rear of the vehicle hanging over the ditches. The tires remained firmly entrenched on the asphalt the whole time. They drove past the house again, parked after a hundred feet, then got out.
Both men drew their pistols as they crossed the street. Pine groves lined either side of the driveway. They cut through the woods, using them to conceal their presence in the event that the house had security cameras. Considering the possible identity of the owner, cameras were the least of Jack's concern.
They continued under the pine canopy until they were a few feet past the house, next to the garage. There was no side door as Jack had hoped.
"Let's continue around back," he said.
Brett took the lead. They crossed at the rear corner then located a sliding door at the halfway point. It was locked. Brett shined a light inside. The track was not secured. Brett began rocking the glass door until the latch snapped.
They stepped into the narrow rectangular room.
"Empty," Brett said as he shone his light from corner to corner.
A hallway led them to the kitchen. The appliances were missing. There was no table. Jack opened the cabinets. No plates. No spices or food or utensils.
"Place is deserted," Brett said. "You're sure this is the right address?"
Jack nodded and left the kitchen. "Let's check the whole place."
Room by room, they investigated and found nothing. The dust and cobwebs indicated that the place had been empty for some time.
"Garage," Jack said
.
They headed back toward the kitchen. A door in the hallway led to the single car garage. As they entered, Jack noted it smelled like the outdoors. If a car had ever been kept inside, it had been a long time since.
Brett panned the light around the room. In the corner were three dirt-caked shovels. Jack picked one up. He scratched at the dirt. It was dry and flaked off in chunks.
"Been a while since these were used," he said.
"Perhaps we should search the backyard for buried treasure." Brett flashed a smile.
"Or a body."
Brett shrugged. "Guess that's possible, too."
Jack glanced down and saw what had once been muddy boot prints tracked from the shovels to the hallway door. Brett might not have been that far off about something being buried after all. If someone had been gardening or doing lawn work, why not enter and exit through the garage door?
"We'll check back there. First, I want to go into the attic."
They returned to the hallway. Halfway down was the attic opening, covered with a piece of wood. Jack jumped up and pushed it out of the way. Then he jumped again, grabbing either side, and pulled himself up into the opening. Brett handed up the flashlight. Jack panned around the attic, which was more spacious than he would have guessed. And in the corner, he saw a rack lined with folders.
"And there it is."
Chapter 77
Queens, New York.
THE SEWER SMELLED exactly as Paolo had expected. To associate filth with freedom was quite a stretch, but he'd take it. And he was sure Essie would, too. He'd taken a chance and made contact with one of the guards at the compound. The guy was a secret loyalist. He did what Charles said because he needed a paycheck. But if and when the time came, he'd be the first to switch sides.
The guy had told Paolo that his sister was there. She'd come around some. She got up. Ate. Showered. Didn't speak, but made eye contact now.
Whether she knew she was in the armpit of the compound Paolo worked out of was up for debate. Regardless, he knew she'd blame him for this. And he swore he'd do whatever it took to fix her.
He sloshed through the putrid water. Boots that were supposed to keep his feet dry didn't. The thought that he'd get a deadly infection crossed his mind. So be it. He had to push forward.
Paolo had committed the schematics to memory. To most, it made little sense to spend six figures on copies of the blueprints and then burn them. But he had no choice. If someone showed up at the fleabag motel he stayed at and found them, he'd be executed on site. No chance at offering an explanation. No credence given to him offering a bribe in exchange for his life.
He made the final turn of the first leg of his journey. The false door was now in sight. Before opening it, he switched off his flashlight and glanced back. The water still bounced off the walls. A remnant of his journey thus far. He heard a multitude of drips, something that had gone unnoticed until now.
All of it sounded like someone approaching. His mind raced. He gripped the MP5 and aimed it in the direction he had traveled from. His eyes adjusted, and for five minutes he stood in the dark, waiting for a shadow to appear.
But none did.
So he switched on his light. And he turned. And he made the final few steps toward the hidden door.
It gave with ease. Paolo stepped up onto dry ground. Then he shut the door behind him and sat down. In his bag were a second pair of socks. He removed his boots then peeled off the soaked socks. For a few minutes, he remained that way, his light aimed at the ceiling, letting his cold feet dry out.
And he listened to the sounds of nothingness.
Finally, he slipped on the dry pair of socks and stuck his feet back in the boots. They were damp, but at least his feet were no longer soaked.
This section of the tunnel continued on for close to one hundred feet. As expected, it curved so that the end wasn't in sight of the beginning.
It was at the end that he found the security panel. He removed the cover with the compact power drill he had brought, and then punched in the code. A few seconds passed and nothing happened. Paolo's heart rate increased. Had he pushed the wrong numbers? If so, what would happen? Would an alarm go off in Charles's office, signaling his presence? Then he recalled that Charles didn't know of the tunnel's existence. Even if an alarm went off, it would take the man a while to figure out what it was.
Paolo's fingers hovered over the pad, ready for a second attempt at the code.
Then there was a hiss and a click and the door in front of him cracked open a sliver.
He exhaled and brought the back of his hand to his face to wipe away the sweat that had formed on his brow. He released the MP5, allowing it to hang in front of his chest, and used his other hand to push the heavy door open.
His light washed over the dark room and down the tunnel in front of him. He took a few steps in. The door swung shut. Feet shuffled. And before Paolo could even grip the MP5, he was down on the ground with four hands wrenching his arms back.
"DON'T YOU FUCKING move," Beck shouted as he secured his handcuffs to Paolo's right wrist.
Clarissa followed his lead and wrapped hers around Paolo's left. Then they connected the two empty cuffs together and locked them.
The door behind them opened. Four agents entered one at a time. Beck instructed them to take the guy into custody.
"What the hell is this?" Paolo asked as they peeled him off the ground.
"Secret Service," Beck said. "We're placing you under arrest."
"What? I've never been near the White House or the president."
Clarissa said, "Remember that counterfeiting ring you run?"
Paolo glanced at her, then looked away.
"Yeah," she said. "That's right. Who knew you couldn't get away with printing your own money?"
"Piss on you." Paolo spat at the ground near her feet.
Beck struck the man in the midsection. Paolo bowed over, mouth open, trying to suck air into lungs that weren't ready to accept it.
"Go on," Beck said. "Do it again."
Paolo composed himself a few moments later. "I don't know anything about a counterfeiting ring."
"That's not what your buddy says," Clarissa said.
"What? Who?"
"The one you paid a visit to a few weeks back. Remember that? You took a trip to Anderson, met with him. He gave up your entire plan to get back at your boss for forcing you out of your biggest money maker."
Paolo glanced between the two agents. He started to speak, then went silent. After a pause, he said, "I'm not saying anything else without my attorney present."
"Do what you want," Beck said. "But know that I'm much more likely to cut you a deal without some bloodsucker in the room. Especially a corrupt one like Romano."
Paolo said nothing.
"Doesn't have to go down here," Clarissa said. "Just tell us you're willing to talk and we'll get you someplace safe and go over the details."
"Who are you looking to take down?" Paolo asked.
"Who do you think?"
Paolo shrugged, said nothing.
"Charles DeCosta," Beck said. "I can't promise you immunity. Not yet, at least. But if you can serve him up, I'm sure we can deal."
Paolo said nothing. He'd dropped eye contact and now stared at the ground.
"Or not," Beck said. "You're facing forty in a federal pen. From the evidence we've got, the witness testimony, you'll go down for this."
"Wait." Paolo paused for a long minute. Clarissa felt the hair on her neck raise, like an attack was imminent. Finally, Paolo continued. "Let's talk. Alone. No lawyer."
"Get him to the van," Beck instructed the other agents.
Chapter 78
Unknown Location.
BEAR GLANCED UP as the light washed over his feet. Someone had lifted the iron flap that covered his cell window. For two weeks, he'd been confined in the nine by nine space. That window had opened twice daily, on a schedule. This was the second time today, but the schedule was off.
/> A head blotted out the light. Bear made the outline, definitely a man's head. But he couldn't see the features. Could have been anyone.
Then the flap closed.
He leaned his head back against the cold wall and stared up at the ceiling. Two weeks of his life lost. Two weeks for Mandy to drift further away from him. He'd decided if he ever saw that nurse again, he'd kill her first, then ask questions. She could have given him the information. Instead, she notified the authorities.
But he had a strong inclination that this was not how prisons were in France. Reminded him of something from the Middle East. The makeshift prisons and interrogation rooms the CIA had set up. He and Jack had never been part of the crew that was allowed to enter. But they'd been taken down there a time or two for prisoner extraction.
He shook the thoughts away. That was a segment of his life he had little desire to recount.
"Mandy," he muttered. "I hope you're safe. As soon as I'm outta here, I'm coming to find you."
His eyes drifted toward the floor. His head followed until it came to rest with his chin on his chest. There were roughly three hours until dinner. Might as well catch a nap. Nothing else to do.
His eyes closed and he repeated a soft mantra that had helped him sleep over the years. He hadn't completed three lines when the door to his cell opened.
A tall wiry man approached. The first full bodied human Bear had seen in two weeks. As his eyes adjusted to the light that flooded in, the man's features came into view.
"Pierre?"
He extended his hand. Bear saw two keys dangling from Pierre's fingers. The Frenchman reached down and unlocked the shackles that bound the big man. Bear rubbed his wrists for a few moments.
"How?" he asked.
"They let me go almost immediately. I've been working at securing your freedom since." He looked up, away from Bear. "It wasn't easy, and I had to make some concessions, but you are now free to go."
Pierre extended his hand and helped Bear to his feet.
