by Nina Bruhns
“What’s that?”
“Don’t trust anyone.”
ALEX came to with a start. It was pitch dark, but one thing was totally obvious. He was underwater. In full dive gear.
WTF?
His body came uncoiled and his flippers and hands hit walls all around as he attempted to right himself. He was in a confined space no higher in any direction than his outstretched hand. His mind scrambled for an explanation.
Suddenly, he remembered. The unstable yacht. Crashing over. The vortex of water sucking them into the small storage area. Rebel panicking. No air. And then the flashback.
His thoughts screeched to a halt. Rebel!
Where was she?
He did a quick roll, searching the corners of the space by touch. She wasn’t there.
Jesus. What had happened to her?
He patted down his BCD, groping for the tether that had bound them together. He found the ends. Both karabiners were intact. Had she unhooked herself? Just left him there?
Not that he blamed her. He would have left himself behind, too. Because right when she’d needed him most, he’d failed her. Turned into a whimpering baby, trapped in his own pathetic mind. He’d put her life in mortal danger. Hell, she could be out there drowning, or dead, because of his weakness.
He grabbed for the hatch and wrenched it open. He needed to find her. He’d tear the goddamn wreck apart if he had to.
A beam of light whipped over him as he surged through the opening. A bubbly exclamation sounded through the darkness, then the light was moving rapidly toward him until Rebel burst into view. She looked unhurt.
Thank God.
He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight, then motioned upward for them to get the hell out of there.
She signaled for him to wait, disappeared into the gloom for a moment, then returned carrying one of the net evidence bags. It contained several file folders spilling papers. And a black velvet pouch of the kind used for precious gems. Holy fucking crap.
“Diamonds?” he mouthed.
She nodded.
He looked at her in humbled amazement.
While he’d been passed out, cowering in his own traumatized imagination, she’d been doing his job for him.
She grabbed the tether and snapped the free end onto her BCD. Then she led him confidently through the remains of the stateroom and up the narrow stairway to the deck, where they checked that the other two net bags were still secured to the line anchored to the Stormy Lady above. They added the third bag, then made the ascent up to the surface.
He’d never been so glad to see blue sky in his life.
And had never been so achingly unhappy.
Because in his heart, he knew what he had to do. He’d thought he could go back to work. He’d thought he was ready.
But he wasn’t. Not by a mile. He was a danger to himself and all those around him, to those he loved, those who depended on him. It was only a matter of time before he accidentally killed someone.
He couldn’t live with that. Couldn’t handle being the reason someone he loved got hurt.
He had no choice.
He had to quit STORM. Along with something that was far, far worse.
He had to leave Rebel.
“SAC Montana,” Sarah greeted Wade coolly in the lobby of the apartment building where Asha Mahmood had resided. It was in the Dupont Circle area of Washington, D.C. Pricey neighborhood, she mentally observed, instead of noticing how nice Wade looked in his blue suit this morning.
“Please don’t let’s do this, Sarah,” he said when she didn’t let herself smile at him. “I’m really sorry about last night. I was an idiot.”
Ya think? She glanced around the building’s lavishly decorated reception area, complete with security guard, and ignored Wade’s surprisingly convincing attempt at a regretful demeanor. She was so over it. And him.
“Whatever you say.”
“Look, Sarah, can we—” Wade began.
She was also not going to discuss her personal life in front of others.
“This must be Commander Quinn now,” she interrupted, turning to the front door, where an incredibly tall, good-looking man was holding it open for a pretty woman wearing soft woolen trousers and a pastel turtleneck. The man was dressed casually in a black suit jacket over faded blue jeans, but there was no mistaking his military bearing. Quinn had said he’d have another STORM agent with him. Must be them.
“Detective McPhee, good to meet you. Bobby Lee Quinn,” the man drawled in that unmistakable good-old-boy accent that was so contrary to the powerful aura of authority that surrounded him both in person and on the phone. He shook her hand. “This is my associate Tara Reeves.”
They exchanged hellos while Quinn acknowledged Wade with a frown. “Didn’t expect you to be here, Montana.”
“Just an observer,” he said. “At Detective McPhee’s invitation. Just like you.”
Not exactly. This morning Sarah had received a personal call from a deputy director at the Department of Homeland Security, who had politely asked her to extend every courtesy to STORM Corps in general, and Commander Quinn in particular. Politely, as in, cooperate or we’ll come down on D.C. Metro with a world of hurt. STORM’s investigation concerned a matter of national security, he’d said, and her case seemed to tie in with it. Score one for Quinn, zero for Montana.
Not that she was keeping score. Not after last night.
“Shall we?” She grabbed her gear, and the security guard took them up in the elevator to Mahmood’s floor.
When they got to the apartment, the door stood slightly ajar.
Sarah cursed, drawing her weapon. “Everyone stay outside while I clear the place.”
“No way,” Wade said, pulling his automatic from under his jacket. “I’m coming in with you.”
So much for being strictly an observer. She would have argued, but Quinn had already slipped through the front door with Tara Reeves covering him from behind.
“Oh, for chrissakes,” Sarah muttered under her breath, held up her hand to the security guy to stay put, and hurried in after the STORM agents. Once inside, she halted in her tracks, just as they had.
The apartment was totally trashed.
Quinn and Reeves were poised just beyond the foyer, listening for intruders. After a lengthy pause, Quinn shook his head, and with military hand signals directed Wade and her to go left into the kitchen, while he and Reeves went right into the hallway that presumably led to the bedroom area.
Sarah ground her jaw. This was her case and her goddamn victim’s apartment. She should be giving the orders here.
Yeah, good luck with that. Between Quinn and Wade, the cloud of testosterone filling the air was nearly lethal.
Though both men were striving to be professional, she got the distinct feeling there was some bad blood between them. She wondered what that was all about. A woman, perhaps? Gina Cappozi, for instance? Had they been in conflict during her rescue for some reason? Or was it more personal . . . ?
Not her business, she reminded herself, and doused the annoying spark of jealousy that appeared at the thought of Wade Montana fighting over another woman.
How stupid was that?
“Thanks for the help, Commander,” she said tetchily when they’d cleared the apartment. “I can take it from here.”
“Sorry,” he said with a lazy grin. He shrugged. “No disrespect intended, ma’am. Sometimes the training just takes over and I forget myself.”
Sure he did. However, it was only thanks to Quinn’s largess she was here at all, so she smiled back. “Not a problem.”
Tara Reeves pulled a video camera from her shoulder bag. “Mind if I shoot some video, Detective? Naturally we’ll supply you with a copy.”
“Please, go ahead,” she said, grateful she wouldn’t have to delay the search until a CSI could get there to do it. She figured if STORM’s creds were good enough for DHS, they were good enough for D.C. Metro.
Reeves turned on th
e camera and they all took a moment to study the mess.
The contents of the upscale apartment were thrown everywhere: bookshelves were swept bare and the expensive-looking decorative items smashed, furniture slashed open so their stuffing poured from the gashes, cushions were ripped, drawers emptied onto the floor; even the food from the refrigerator and freezer were heaped melting and festering on the kitchen floor. In the bedroom, the mattress had been savaged and the closet emptied of clothes, which now lay scattered about in tatters. Holes had been punched in the walls.
“Jesus,” Quinn said with a low whistle. “The bastards were certainly thorough.”
“Wonder what they were looking for?” Tara Reeves said, slowly panning the room with the video camera for a master shot.
“Same as us, I’d wager,” Wade said grimly. “Incriminating evidence.”
“Whatever it was, the good news is, it doesn’t look like they found it,” Sarah ventured.
Wade nodded. “Or they would have stopped searching.”
“Unless they weren’t exactly sure what they were looking for,” Tara suggested. “Or didn’t want to inadvertently miss anything.”
True. “Let’s hope they did miss something,” Sarah said, and called Lieutenant Harding to inform him of the development. He said he’d send CSI, and Jonesy, who was back on duty because his court case had been delayed.
“Metro is sending Crime Scene to check for prints and trace,” she reported after hanging up. “My priority is still the murder case, but Commander Quinn, once the rooms have been videotaped, you and Miss Reeves have been okayed to do a visual search for evidence of the cousin. However, anything you find stays with Metro until I get orders otherwise.”
“Understood,” Quinn said. “And Montana?”
She turned reluctantly to Wade, irritated that she still felt an attraction to him. And it didn’t help that he was acting so damn contrite. “I guess I could use an extra set of eyes, if you want to come with me.”
“Thank you,” he told her quietly as they gloved and booted up. “I appreciate you letting me stay.”
She glanced at Quinn and Tara, who were going into the kitchen, then leveled him a look. “I keep my promises.”
His mouth thinned at the unspoken rebuke. “Sarah—”
“Forget it.” She turned away, but he caught her by the arm.
“Honey, your talking to Quinn yesterday took me by surprise, that’s all. Being overly suspicious is an occupational hazard. Trust me, I didn’t sleep a wink thinking about what a complete ass I was.”
Despite herself, she half smiled. “At least we have something in common.”
He stepped in closer and murmured, “But an ass who’s crazy about you. Forgive me?”
She sighed, even more irritated that she was entertaining the notion of giving in to his dubious charm. But there you go. She wanted him. Simple as that.
However, she refused to let him off so easily. It was one thing to know she was weak, another entirely to show her weakness to others. Just look where that had gotten her in the past. “I’ll think about it,” she said, and took back her arm.
He got the hint. “Okay. I’ll try to be patient.” And they went to work.
For being so lavish, the apartment was amazingly devoid of personal items. No letters, no bills, no diary, not even a scribbled inscription in Mahmood’s few books. But oh. My. God. What they did find was an eyebrow-raising collection of sex toys scattered amongst the ruins of the bedroom.
At least Sarah was pretty sure that’s what they were. Most of the items she recognized, but some of them . . . Okay, just . . . yikes.
“A call girl?” Wade ventured.
She glanced at him. “Why do you say that?”
“Fairly standard assortment for someone in that profession,” he stated, cataloging them with a practiced eye.
A bit too practiced.
“Is that so.”
He looked up, realized what she was thinking, and made a face. “I worked on an international prostitution trafficking case for three years, thank you.”
“Picked up some interesting educational tidbits, I take it.”
“Oh, yeah.” The corner of his lip flicked up. “I’ll gladly teach you everything I know.”
To her chagrin, her face heated. “I haven’t forgiven you yet.”
“Oh, you’ve forgiven me.”
“And you know this how?”
“You keep staring at my mouth.”
She jerked her gaze up. Damn. Her cheeks blazed hotter.
Just then Quinn poked his head into the bedroom. “Any luck in here?”
Wade kept his eyes on her as he said, “As a matter of fact”—he casually glanced away, down to a large square metal object he’d been excavating from under a pile of linen—“I found this.” He gingerly lifted it up. It was a shredder. He raised the lid for them to see. It was filled with confettied paper.
Quinn walked over and peered into the container. He smiled. “Oh, yeah. Touchdown, baby.”
“What?” Sarah asked, following the two of them into the kitchen, where Wade set the machine on the table.
“Some of the strips of paper are badly wrinkled,” Quinn explained as he reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a square leather case. “Which means the thing jams. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
The case contained a dozen shiny metal tools, like a cat burglar’s kit. Two minutes later, Quinn had the machine taken apart. With two latex-gloved fingers he extracted a torn quarter page of paper that had gotten stuck between the blades. He grinned triumphantly at it, then handed it to her.
“I’ll be damned,” she murmured, giving the paper a quick study. Her eyes halted in mid-scan. “It appears you were right about the connection with the cousin.”
“What is it?” Wade asked, looking over her shoulder.
“It’s a printout of a statement from an online bank account—in the names of both Asha and Ouda Mahmood.”
Tara made a noise over Sarah’s other shoulder. “The balance is over seven hundred thousand dollars!”
Sarah slid the paper into a plastic protective folder and passed it over to Quinn, who said, “The statement is dated six months ago.”
“Six months?” Tara repeated.
Wade snapped to attention. “That’s during the time Gina was being held hostage.”
“Too bad the rest of it’s gone,” Tara said, pursing her lips.
Wade flipped out his phone. “Read me the account number. I’ll have the Bureau subpoena the bank records.”
Sarah shook her head. “FBI’s not involved in this case, remember?” she reminded him. “Not unless I request their help.”
“Damn it, Sarah!” he said and angrily snapped the phone closed again. “Then fucking request it!” He quickly added, “Please.”
“You really want some other FBI agent looking up your ass on this?” Quinn interjected.
Wade did not look pleased at the reminder that his presence was anything but official. He glared at Quinn, then backed down. “Point taken.”
“I understand you’re anxious for answers,” Sarah said to him, breaking the tension and reaching into her pocket for her cell phone. “I can just as easily—”
Commander Quinn put a hand on her arm. “As it turns out, you have no jurisdiction.”
She frowned. “What?”
“This is a foreign bank,” he pointed out. “Cayman Islands. Let me make a call. I have a friend there. And I’ll be happy to share.”
She got the distinct feeling it didn’t matter what she said, he’d make that call anyway. She might as well see the results. “All right. Have them e-mail me the account records, if you can get them.”
“I can get them.”
Meanwhile, Tara had been studying the bank statement through the protective plastic. A scowl suddenly swept across her face. “Look at this!”
“What?” Quinn asked.
She pointed to a line on the statement. “This check was ma
de out to an American political campaign.” Tara looked ready to spit nails. “Twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth!”
“That’ll buy you a bit of influence inside the beltway,” Sarah said disgustedly.
Tara glanced at Quinn. “And you’ll never guess whose campaign fund.”
Quinn had gone deadly still. “Whose?”
“The Committee to Reelect Lester Altos. The congressman from Louisiana.”
At that, Wade’s eyes flashed wide. But just as quickly, his face went completely blank. If Sarah hadn’t been looking right at him, she’d have missed it.
Hmmm. What was going on there? “And that’s significant why?”
Quinn turned to her, his voice cold as steel. “Louisiana is where the al Sayika terrorists maintained their sleeper cell. It’s where they held Dr. Cappozi for three months, and tested the bioweapon they forced her to perfect.”
What he was hinting at hit Sarah like a blow. My God! A congressman? No, she must have misunderstood. “So, what exactly are you saying . . . ?”
“I’m saying it’s one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think? And I do not like coincidences. Not one little bit.”
FOURTEEN
GINA snuggled into the buttery leather seat of the Mercedes Roadster that Gregg had somehow acquired—she’d deliberately not asked how—and wrapped the cashmere sweater he’d bought for her more tightly around her midriff. It was a gorgeous magenta color and looked beautiful with the soft gray skirt and black leather knee boots he’d gotten to go with it. Not to mention the silver necklace and earrings that matched the heart anklet he’d given her. The man had wonderful taste.
“Gotta learn about style when you live undercover,” he’d said, looking embarrassed when she’d told him so. “Can’t get the details wrong.”
“I s’ppose not,” she agreed.
“Besides,” he’d added, reaching over from the driver’s seat to touch her thigh, “I like you in that color.”
And she knew why. She owned a set of sexy lingerie in nearly the exact same shade. They’d been his favorite, back before . . .
Once again, involuntary memories of her captivity shivered through her. Would they never stop? She gripped the armrest with white knuckles, fending off her thoughts. The painful images always hit her at the most inappropriate, random moments, and she was never prepared for the onslaught. She hated it.
