by Kat Martin
“Nawabi would want access to . . . Jesus—what was the favor my father provided? Either knowingly or unknowingly, he gave Vaughn’s client access to the capitol building! What better terrorist target than blowing up the Texas State Capitol?”
Hurriedly digging through the printed material they had collected, he tugged out the sheet with the list of contractors hired to do deferred maintenance.
“What was the name of the company Scott Watson recommended?” He ran over the names on the list. “There it is—you circled it. Hardrock Trenching.”
Her pulse started thrumming. “I remember it wasn’t a very big company. It had to qualify under the Small Construction Participation Assistance Program.”
“That’s right.” Beau shot up from his chair and pulled her to her feet. He tugged her over to her laptop. “Let’s see if we can get the names of the people who own the company and a list of employees.”
Excited now, thinking maybe they were finally on the right track, Cassidy sat down and started typing. “And we need to know exactly what job they are doing.”
By a little after four P.M., they had the answers they had been looking for.
“Sonofabitch!” Beau studied the laptop screen over Cassidy’s shoulder. “It’s hard to wrap your head around, but there it is.”
“We need to call Quinn Taggart,” Cassidy said urgently.
“Better yet, let’s pay him a visit. I don’t think this is something we want to talk to him about on the phone.”
Collecting their notes, making sure they had everything they needed, they set off in the Ferrari, Beau driving the car at breakneck speed toward FBI headquarters at One Justice Way, which on a Friday with heavy traffic took what seemed hours.
Cassidy refrained from mentioning that honking his horn and cutting in and out between cars wasn’t going to get them there any faster. Beginning to know her, Beau flicked her a sideways glance and tapped the breaks.
Cassidy flashed him a smile and for the first time in days, Beau smiled back.
“We’re almost there,” he said a few minutes later, turning off Storey Lane onto Justice Way.
Beau had called ahead, but Taggart wasn’t there. He had an appointment somewhere else, but Beau had demanded a meeting, told the man’s assistant it could be a matter of life or death. It was getting dark by the time the Ferrari parked in the lot of the federal complex and they walked through the main entrance into the big gray building.
“Agent Taggart’s expecting you.” An attractive middle-aged woman wearing tortoiseshell glasses sat behind a computer at the front desk. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
So Taggart had returned, as Cassidy had figured he would.
A few minutes later a young woman with glossy black hair slicked into a knot at the back of her neck walked toward them. Dressed in a navy-blue skirt suit, white cotton blouse, and low-heeled shoes, typical FBI attire, she smiled as she approached.
“I’m Special Agent Margaret Dominguez. Agent Taggart is waiting for you upstairs. If you will please follow me.” She was pretty, at least part Latina, with creamy skin and big brown eyes.
They rode in silence as the elevator swept them up to the fourth floor and the doors slid open. In a glass-fronted conference room, Quinn Taggart waited next to a long mahogany table.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” he said, shaking hands with each of them.
“If things hadn’t been happening so fast,” Beau said, “we might have figured it out sooner.”
Taggart indicated they should sit down, so they each took a seat in one of the rolling black vinyl chairs that lined the table. Beau set the manila folder they had compiled in front of him.
“Before we start,” he said, “we’d like to know where you are with Malcolm Vaughn.”
Taggart frowned. “Sorry, that’s FBI business. I’ve given you more than I should have already.”
Their lives were on the line. They needed to know what was going on with Vaughn, and as they had feared, the FBI wasn’t going to tell them.
Beau rose from his chair and braced his hands on the table. “You don’t have time to stonewall, Taggart. What’s in this file is urgent. It could be a matter of life and death. Tell us what we need to know.”
Cassidy noticed the faint tightening of Taggart’s square jaw. He wasn’t happy, but he was intrigued.
“We found a disposable phone in Franco Giannetti’s car,” the agent said. “There were calls between him and Clifford Jennings. We’ll be able to get a warrant for Jennings, but we aren’t quite ready to pick him up. If Jennings gives us what we need, we can bring Vaughn in. With luck, we can use him to go after Luca Reichlin. If Jamal Nawabi is connected to terrorism, our hope is Reichlin can help us prove it.”
Beau sat back down in his chair and opened the file. “It might not matter. What we have in here will answer most of your questions.” The information was also on the flash drive he handed to Taggart.
“This file contains a list of the companies currently working on deferred maintenance at the Texas State Capitol,” Beau said. “I think you’ll find one company of particular interest.”
He pointed to the name circled on the list. “Hardrock Trenching. Senator Scott Watson—now deceased—recommended them at the request of my father—now also deceased. It was a favor done for Malcolm Vaughn as repayment for a portion of a loan.”
“Go on,” Taggart said, clearly interested now.
“Hardrock Trenching qualified through a special program for small contractors. We can’t confirm since we don’t have the same information you have, but we believe at least some of the employees’ names will correspond with members of the terrorist cell you’re investigating.”
Taggart’s gaze sharpened on Beau. A pulse beat excitedly at the side of his neck. “How do you know this?”
They knew because Cassidy had dug through Hardrock Trenching’s bank accounts, employee tax withholdings, anything that would give them the names of the people working on the project, many of whom were Middle Eastern. She had also gone into the corporate records, which eventually led them to the name they were looking for—Jamal Nawabi.
Beau leaned back in his chair. “Let’s just say we received the information through an anonymous source.”
Taggart wasn’t pleased. “That’s your story?”
The glance Beau flicked Cassidy held a hint of amusement. “That’s right, and we’re sticking to it.”
Taggart’s mouth edged up, but only for a moment. “All right—for now. So you believe the men who work for this company are part of a terrorist cell.”
“That’s right. Turns out Hardrock Trenching is owned by a company named Mardax, which is owned by a corporation called Sandon. One of the owners of the Sandon Corporation is Jamal Nawabi.”
“What?” Taggart’s whole body went tense.
Cassidy spoke up. “If Nawabi is a terrorist, as you suspect, we think it’s possible the men working for Hardrock Trenching are planning to destroy the Texas State Capitol.”
Beau leaned toward Taggart. “For the most impact, it’s likely to happen when the entire legislature is in session. Which, though repairs are currently in progress—is going on now.”
Taggart was out of his chair before Beau had finished his last sentence. “Stay right here.” Striding through the door of the conference room, he disappeared outside.
Cassidy could hear him shouting orders as he headed down the hall. True, it sounded like something out of a TV movie, but the information they had compiled proved the threat was real.
“No matter what happens now,” she said, “it’s all out in the open. No point in Vaughn having us killed when the FBI knows everything we know.”
Beau rose from his chair, pulled her up, and into his arms. “Once the FBI follows the chain of evidence that starts with my father’s murder and ends with Jamal Nawabi, I should be completely in the clear and neither of us will be targets.”
Beau bent his head and very gently
kissed her. “It’s almost over, baby, and I owe it all to you. If you hadn’t shown up that day in my father’s study, I’d probably be rotting in jail.”
Cassidy rested her cheek against his shoulder. Just a few more days and Beau’s name would be cleared. Her job would be finished. She could pack her bags and go home.
Her eyes stung. Even if Beau asked her to stay, she would refuse. She valued herself too highly to live in a dead woman’s shadow.
She ignored the ache in her throat and the pain that settled deep inside her. She was in love with Beau, but she would have to give him up. There was nothing else she could do.
Chapter Thirty-Five
After they finished making love, Beau curled Cassidy against his side in bed. It had been a long, torturous day, but everything they had worked for was falling into place.
Cassidy had been quiet since they’d left the federal building. She was worried. So was he. Until Nawabi and the terrorists were stopped, anything could happen. Hundreds of lives could be lost.
He yawned, beginning to drift to sleep when his cell phone started ringing. He sighed at what was becoming an unwelcome habit. Beau snagged the phone.
“Turn on your TV,” Agent Taggart said. “Bring up the news.” Beau picked up the remote, clicked it on, and the screen lit up.
“What’s going on?” Cassidy asked as Beau changed the channel.
“It’s Taggart,” he said. From then on there wasn’t much need for explanation. Cameras rolled in Austin, showing teams of FBI agents swarming the Texas State Capitol. Bomb-sniffing dogs strained at their leashes. Lines of police vehicles and black FBI SUVs stretched as far as the camera lens could see.
Beau put the phone on speaker. “Fast work,” he said.
“The session was over for the day, but construction work was continuing at night. Hardrock Trenching was doing maintenance under the capitol rotunda, digging trenches for a series of pipes for new underground plumbing. They were also planting bombs in the trenches—set to go off with manual detonators. Cell phones that could be exploded at any time.”
“Jesus,” Beau said.
“Bombs that could kill Lord knows how many people,” Cassidy added.
“Hundreds, maybe more. Thanks to you and Cassidy, that isn’t going to happen.”
“What about Vaughn?” Cassidy asked.
“We’re lining up evidence that connects Jennings, Vaughn, Luca Reichlin, and Jamal Nawabi. They’ll all be facing charges very soon. Once things get underway, I’ll speak to the DA in Howler County on your behalf, Beau. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about being charged in Senator Reese’s murder.”
Relief hit him hard, reminding him how worried he had been. “I appreciate that.”
“You can watch some of what’s happening on TV. As things progress, I’ll keep you posted on the rest. Good night, both of you, and thanks again.” The line went dead and for a while they watched events unfolding in Austin.
No mention was made of Jamal Nawabi; nor was there any reference to Luca Reichlin, Clifford Jennings, or Malcolm Vaughn.
Still, it was only a matter of time until all of it was over. “I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders,” Beau said.
Pulling Cassidy down on the mattress, he kissed her. What started as a celebratory moment turned deeper, hotter. After everything that had happened, they seemed to need each other tonight. He didn’t like how deeply involved he’d become, but he’d worry about that tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he told himself. It was still a day away.
* * *
It was late, almost two in the morning. Eliza Spears had been watching the sprawling contemporary home in the expensive Bluffview neighborhood from various locations, looking for exactly the right entry.
She had no idea why killing Beaumont Reese and his current bedmate, a private investigator named Cassidy Jones, was worth a quarter of a million bucks—the deal she had cut for her services—but she didn’t care.
Ten days ago, she had received the call on a disposable phone, the usual procedure. Because the payoff that Jennings had agreed to was so big, she’d made an exception to some of her rules and taken the job; then she’d gone off the grid.
Three days ago, she’d spotted a house a few blocks away from the targets’ location with a FOR RENT sign in front of a small, furnished apartment above a detached garage. The property was owned by an eighty-year-old widow who rarely ventured outdoors and was too rickety to climb the stairs.
“I don’t really need the money,” Mrs. Dabney had said. “I just hate seeing the apartment go to waste.”
Eliza inwardly smiled. Being softhearted, the old woman hadn’t been able to resist renting to Julie Simmons, a slender blond woman in her early thirties, a single woman who was supposedly four months pregnant and only needed to stay for a week or two before her place in Dallas was ready to move into.
The apartment provided the perfect base of operations, a spot to store her equipment, stake out Reese’s house and both targets, and prepare. Now the time had come to utilize the information she had compiled.
Eliza moved silently through the darkness. A thick layer of clouds obscured a fingernail moon, giving her the cover she needed. Dressed completely in black, her blond wig gone, her short black hair stuffed under a black knit cap, face covered in greasepaint, she was tall enough to pass for the man her clients believed her to be.
Athletic and strong, her muscles honed from hours spent in the gym, she was former military, her army training invaluable for the far more lucrative career she had chosen. She figured in a year or two, she could live the life of luxury she had always wanted.
Eliza settled herself, focused on the task ahead. The money was better than good, the biggest job she’d ever undertaken. Her task was simply to eliminate Reese and Jones, exactly what Eliza planned to do.
She had waited long enough, prepared for every possibility. It wouldn’t be easy, not with guards circling the property every fifteen minutes. Not with a bodyguard sleeping in the studio apartment at one end of the house while her targets slept in the other. But the way she had worked it out, it was doable.
Black canvas satchel in hand, she crossed a wide stretch of manicured lawn, careful to stay in the shadows of the trees scattered around the four-acre property, headed for the stream that meandered through it, and slipped down the bank.
Keeping low, each step placed soundlessly, she moved along the edge of the water with the stealth she’d been taught by the former special ops soldier she had trained with before she’d gone pro.
When the stream reached the point closest to the house, she checked her wristwatch and crouched below the bank, out of sight. A white circle of light appeared, approaching through the darkness, the guard right on time.
Eliza pressed against the bank, folding into herself, her black clothes making her nearly invisible. The light swept closer, ran up and down both sides of the stream, then the guard moved on.
Eliza gave herself a couple of minutes to be sure the man was completely out of sight, then opened her satchel, pulled out her smartphone, and aimed it toward the house. The software she had downloaded disarmed the digital alarm system in less than three seconds, though red lights would continue to blink inside and out, giving the false impression the system was still armed.
The outside entrance to the studio at the far end of the house was her destination. She needed to dispose of the bodyguard; then she could take care of Reese and the woman.
She smiled. She could almost smell the papery scent of money, touch the stacks of bills in her hand. She could almost feel the sun shining down as she lay on the beach in Cancún, sipping a salty margarita. It wouldn’t be long now.
Eliza checked her weapon, a Walther PPQ, the silencer already in place. She smiled as she stuck it back in the bag and quietly moved forward.
* * *
Beau awoke slowly, his brain stirring to life in the darkened room lit only by the light of the moon outside. As h
e lay in his bedroom, next to Cassidy, he listened, straining to locate the sound that had roused him from a deep, dreamless sleep.
A soft click, a quiet glide of movement somewhere in the house had him rolling silently out of bed and dragging on his jeans. He opened the drawer in the nightstand beside the bed and lifted out his Glock. He didn’t need to check to be sure it was loaded. Not since he’d found out someone was trying to kill them.
Beau started for the door, heard the mattress shift as Cassidy slid out of bed. He turned to see her slipping on her robe, knew the moment she saw the gun in his hand she would be arming herself.
It was probably nothing, just the house settling, or the wind blowing. Nothing to worry about. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cassidy come up behind him, her gun aimed at the ceiling, same as his. He pointed a finger at himself then down the hall toward the living room, pointed at her then down the hall in the opposite direction.
No way to know exactly where the sound had come from. No way to know if someone was actually inside the house. Or if there was more than one person.
They moved off in opposite directions. If it had been any other woman, he would have told her to stay in the bedroom, lock the door and keep safe, but this was Cassidy. He trusted her to know what she was doing. It occurred to him he trusted her as he hadn’t trusted a woman in a very long time.
He paused at the end of the hall, listening for movement in the kitchen or living room. On the opposite side of the house, the studio apartment had its own kitchen and living area. No reason for Frank to come into the main part of the house at this hour of the night.
He heard the sound again, a kind of glide, almost indistinguishable and yet there was a rhythm to it, a progression that said the sound was moving forward, definitely heading for this end of the house.
The hairs on the back of his neck went up. Someone was inside and it wasn’t Frank Marino. His gaze shot to the alarm on the wall next to the door leading out to the swimming pool. A tiny red light indicated the system was armed.
