There was a pause, a gap in the silence as Donovan thought over the real answer to that question. He was still checking through it in his head when Eleri said, "Nothing of value."
This didn't faze their agent in charge. "What do you have not of value?"
"Too many things." Subtle differences in her carriage showed defeat. Not deep seated, nothing she couldn't overcome, but right now Eleri was feeling the burn of the pieces not coming together.
Westerfield waited them out until Donovan started throwing out some of the bits of information and evidence they had amassed. Eleri chimed in then, listing more that didn't connect.
Westerfield only nodded when they mentioned Donovan had gone into the square and listened in on conversations. Donovan told how Eleri had seen the police officer with Ratz and Aziza with Dr. Gardiner.
Cooper Rollins had confirmed that he'd been in the office after Gardiner had died, but there was no remaining evidence and other than his own statement, there was nothing to tie him to the scene.
They tossed out fact after disconnected fact, until Westerfield finally leaned forward. "What actions have you taken?"
Donovan wasn't sure what it was, but he always felt judged when speaking with Westerfield. Westerfield didn't offer indications of approval or dissent, and it made Donovan squirm. He hadn't squirmed under anyone's scrutiny in a long time. Donovan decided to make it end by telling. "We're investigating Vivian Dawson and canvassing the neighborhood for the Indian Man. We're following the pamphlet, since we now have confirmation he was handing them out. And we're hoping to get a GPS tap on Cooper Rollins' phone."
Was that enough? He wasn't sure.
"Do you think she can do it? Get to the man's phone and get it set up without getting caught?"
Eleri spoke up this time, resuming the lead role. "I don't know if she can complete the task. I believe she can save herself from getting caught, but as far as making it work, I think she's the only one who possibly can."
Westerfield nodded. Sometimes he added ideas, brought new intel to the table. Last time, Westerfield had given them curveballs and intel, but that's all there was. Neither Donovan nor Eleri had been with the unit long enough to know what normal was. If he paid attention to her experiences, 'normal' was different all over the FBI.
"So put it together." Westerfield's voice cut his thoughts.
"I'm not sure we have enough yet, sir." Eleri's voice was firm. It wasn't that she doubted herself, it was that she was scientific. Donovan knew this about her without a single thought otherwise. She was happy to speculate when it was called for, but she didn't seem to want to do it now.
"Guess."
"Do you have more intel for us?" she asked Westerfield, and Donovan almost smiled. “Are we missing anything?”
He'd never worked with anyone like this before. Never been part of a group other than for track in school, and that wasn't a team sport, not really. He and his dad had not only not been a team, they'd been at odds. But having Eleri put voice to what was in his head made him feel connected, a symbiosis he'd never experienced until now.
He pressed his hand flat on the table between them, hoping she'd understand that he meant he had her back.
A waft of air brought a faint scent he recognized. Wade.
The other agent must have been shut out of the meeting. He was in the hall or had been just a moment ago. Donovan tried not to let it show on his face.
"No more intel. In fact, I'm disturbed by the chain leading into the military." Though his voice didn't level any tonal change to indicate his perturbation, the quarter stopped walking. "Do you think it has to do with the black op that Rollins was discharged for?"
"I have no clue, sir." Eleri told him, sitting up straight, but when he didn't respond, she added, "But if it did, it would sure tie everything together neatly."
"Keep going." Westerfield prodded. "What would you guess if it were a game and it was ‘guess or forfeit’?"
Eleri looked to Donovan and he spoke up. "The officer said 'and they came back and told the rest, but they did not believe' before he killed Ratz—"
"And you know this how?" Westerfield interrupted.
As Donovan's own anger flared, he watched Eleri's teeth clench. She'd been in the mental hospital the last time the burden got too great. Even Donovan himself had been pushing her, but the difference was he believed her. Every word. "Eleri."
Westerfield only nodded.
Apparently, that was good enough. But that judgment had come through again.
Donovan took up the slack, wishing he could pat his partner on the shoulder or give some sign of comfort, but this was neither the time nor the place, and he really had no clue how to do it. So he talked. "Aziza was quiet, but the Indian man was proselytizing 'The Lost Years' when Jesus was in India. So it would seem there's a religious angle to it."
Westerfield sighed. "There always is."
Eleri spoke up. "Are we the Religion Based Crimes Against Humanity division?"
This time Westerfield barked a short laugh, finally seeming human. "No. It's just turning out that way. You want a break from the zealots next case?"
"Yes, please." Eleri slumped.
Westerfield's quarter started moving again, a sure sign that his brain had turned to a different direction. "Which side do you think Cooper Rollins is on?"
"I have absolutely no guess on that one." Eleri shook her head. "He's a slippery bastard. Won't tell anything. Excellent at evading us. And he's totally under the gun of some serious PTSD. To the point where Dr. Gardiner was willing to treat him off the record. I think just to keep him off the streets."
Their boss stayed silent for a moment and Donovan waited for the next question to pop, but it didn't.
"See if you can get ahead of the next one. Let's see if we can get a handle on this before it becomes a media circus. So far no group is claiming this. I'm hoping to God it's not US military folks covering tracks on a deal gone bad."
You and me both, sir. But Donovan didn't say it.
"You want the good news?"
Eleri said yes, but Donovan just wondered what the hell the 'good news' could be. And would it only be 'good' by Westerfield's standards?
"You're in. You're unified and the two of you are staying together."
"What?" The word fell out of his mouth. Unprofessional. He might as well have said, "huh?"
Westerfield stood. The leaving part was good, but Donovan wanted to understand what the man had said. "You didn't know that you were on probation to this point. But you've been cleared. You're both going to stay in the NightShade division, and you've shown you can work together, taking advantage of each other's talents and, shall we say, 'special skills' to bring a case to its conclusion."
This time he managed to keep his mouth shut, but Donovan's brain was going. They'd been a probationary team? All this time?
Westerfield must have caught his confusion, or maybe he just read Eleri, whose look was plain as day.
"It's standard for a division like ours."
A division like ours? There were other divisions like NightShade?
"You waited this long to clear us?" Donovan didn't mean to seem ungrateful, but he was ungrateful.
"Not me. The higher ups."
"Who?" Eleri pushed as Donovan frowned.
"Trust me, you don't want to know."
Cooper Rollins walked the streets of downtown Los Angeles, checking the square corners for enemies, looking into store fronts for shady deals, and wondering what he'd come to. Though he had a solid sense of purpose and a deep-seated belief in what needed to be done, he did not have a good grip on who he really was anymore.
When he was in the teams, he'd been the guy you could count on. Even among the guys you knew had your back. He was smart, though not the smartest. He was good with languages, though he didn't have Kellen's gift there. He was decent with creative wound care—the only kind in the field a lot of the time. He was passable at making friends. He was the non-specialist. Neve
r the best, but good at all.
And he always had your back. He was always mentally and physically strong.
Until the last mission.
Cooper hadn't realized that PTSD could come on like his did.
He'd been in so much combat, seen so much. He'd watched towns get bombed, seen people he didn't know run screaming. He'd killed more than just one of them. He'd seen a friend die from an IED: one second he walked along, the next he flew in more parts and directions than was human. He'd seen a friend get shot while they'd been talking. Cooper still didn't know why it wasn't him. And he'd held his friend, unable to stop the bleeding from the artery, unable to hold his life inside him, and he'd humped the body back home for the family Cooper had never met. For the people he'd never seen, who loved his friend as much as he did.
He'd never lost it.
But that last day he'd cracked wide open. Some of his men had turned on them, and he'd shot some of his own. A few had disappeared into the surrounding landscape. And Cooper suddenly realized just how serious it had gotten.
He was pinned under fire with dead friends and live traitors. Disturbing as it was, he still didn't really know which was which.
Did the guys who fled do so because they thought he was the traitor? Did they flee to cover their own transgressions? Were they dead? Several of them had hiked back to base—the only course left—not knowing who was traitor and who wasn’t. Had he shot his friends and helped his enemies?
And he didn't know if he'd been on the right side of things. That wounded him even deeper than the bullet had. They'd dug the metal out of his side and stitched him up. No organ damage, just a scar. But no one had been able to dig out the damage to his faith.
Cooper Rollins had always been a believer. He'd joined because it was a good fit for a patriotic adrenaline junkie. Always the smartest and the noisiest in his classes, he'd been excited to no longer be outstanding amongst his new peers. He'd learned to be quiet, too.
So he went down the paved sidewalk purposefully making noises. It wouldn't do to stay silent when no one else was. Blending in wasn't about not being seen; it was about being seen and then forgotten as quickly as possible.
He'd come here two days ago, talked to the man Aziza had sent. This time he was supposed to meet with Alya. Unfortunately, he had to appear at the meeting site and wait.
Cooper wasn't right on time. He was early with plenty of time to check the place out. But if he wasn't in place when Alya came by—if he wasn't clearly visible—she wouldn't stop. He wouldn't get a second chance.
Turning into the front of one of the old edifices, Cooper entered as though he knew what he was doing. The desk guarded the stairs, but it wasn't much of a task for Cooper to stride into the restrooms at the back of the lobby, then wait for a moment when the desk agent had his back turned. Cooper was climbing the steps silently, looking like he had permission.
On the fifth floor, Cooper finally found an office where he could get over to the corner and look down on the meeting site.
Fifteen minutes to meeting time. Seven minutes until time to head out. Standing at the plate glass window, his arms folded across his chest as though he were simply thinking, Cooper counted and cataloged the people he saw.
Given the corner, he had a view down each of the streets, and on the third one he was analyzing he saw Alya. She hung back, walking slowly, her non-distinct brown backpack slung over one shoulder. She was ready for his meeting, but she was talking to a man with dark red hair.
The jolt to his system surprised Cooper. The low pull of base fear tugged in his gut, and he felt his insides start to collapse with the pull of the episode.
No.
He would not loop.
He was here. Now.
His jaw clenched and he pushed his lips together before remembering to purse them and push air out. He concentrated on his breathing—in, tight, through his nose, out with pressure through those pursed lips. He reached out, tapping nearby objects until his hand slapped one that had a distinctly non-military, non-Middle Eastern shape. The curve of the polished wood ladder-back on the chair he'd grabbed anchored him in the US. In downtown Los Angeles, looking over the street corner that he now had four minutes to get to.
Still fighting a past that wanted to take him over, he told himself no one was shooting at him as he raced down the stairs. He reminded himself that the enemy wasn't present. But he wasn't very convincing. If the redhead was Ken Kellen, then he didn't know what was happening.
The steps flew beneath his feet, as he never considered waiting on an elevator. He dashed past the guard at the desk, only seeing that he elicited strange looks. Stealth was not his strong suit right now, and his priority was twofold: find out if Alya was talking to Kellen, and stay in the present. An episode now would ruin everything.
He fought to hold onto his sanity as he ran.
Hitting the warm air as he pushed out of the building onto the street, Cooper let the heat resist his forward momentum and bring him to a slower pace. He let the humidity remind him he wasn’t in Bagram or Fallujah. His breathing slowed, too, no longer the deep inhales of a man who'd run three flights of steps with the devil at his heels.
A message dinged his phone and he pulled it from his back pocket. Alya.
"R U ready?"
He hated the text-speak, thought German swear words were a prettier language, but none of that registered in his features.
"Y" He could speak the ugly language like a native teen. And he only briefly stopped to consider that this shorthand was native to neither him nor Alya.
He looked down the street, but she approached alone.
Wanting to look like he was doing nothing other than checking his phone, he hit a few buttons and once again had to push his emotions down.
Son of a bitch! His brain took off, a string of swears rolling but not released. How had he missed this?
His phone had a tracking program on it. It appeared to be broadcasting to somewhere. But there wasn't time to fix it.
If it was Alya and her people who put it there, he had to leave it.
Shitshitshit.
But he smiled slightly and nodded as they passed on the street slowing just enough for her to look up and raise her eyebrows in question.
Cooper answered in low tones that no one around them would hear.
"Fracture Five."
16
Eleri watched the square, waiting for Walter. Walter stayed inside the chain link, oblivious to Eleri’s presence or at least putting up a good show of it.
Eleri didn’t know what to make of it. She thought she and Walter had garnered a good rapport during the interview and the subsequent breakfast on the FBI’s dime. But she hadn’t seen nor heard from the woman in a few days. Walter wasn’t specifically supposed to check in, so maybe she should set up something a little more formal.
But this morning she’d gotten a ping on their tech. An email with a link from Walter Reed Medical Center, in Bethesda. Somehow Walter had managed to create an email that was from the actual medical center or at least she’d made it look that way. Given their conviction that it was from the veteran, Donovan had clicked the included ‘your medical records’ link and been directed to a map that tracked Cooper Rollins’ whereabouts.
Eleri had struck gold, and she wondered if she could thank Walter and ask for more. But she couldn’t if she couldn’t contact the woman.
Walk right up to the square and rattle the chain link? No. Word would get back to Rollins and that would be the end of it. So Eleri had to catch Walter when she was out and about. But it had already been about four hours of daylight and Walter hadn’t moved.
Eleri sighed. Why hadn’t she given the woman her number? Gotten a number? She could have been napping, drinking, or at least helping Donovan and Vasquez research past local deaths.
No. She was sitting in her car, feeding the meter and watching a group of homeless vets like a perv, or like the FBI. At least she actually was the second. She put her boo
k back up in front of her face, remembering to turn pages so she didn’t look like she was doing what she was doing.
It took another hour in a car that she wasn’t able to turn on, reading a book she couldn’t read. Eleri at least had the windows down and the weather was nice. That was L.A.for you, the temperature was perfect, but you couldn’t see very far with the pollution. It sure didn’t have a clean air smell like FoxHaven or Bell Point Farm.
Eventually Walter left the square, heading in the opposite direction from where Eleri sat. So she jumped up, left the car and attempted to look casual as she tried to figure out where to go to cut Walter off.
Though Eleri made it to the next intersection with amazing speed, and she should have seen Walter down the street, the woman was gone. Jesus, Eleri was good at what she did. She could sneak through the woods and raid a home as part of an assault team. She could crack a suspect with a cup of coffee and a well-timed question. But clearly she could not tail a Special Forces operative.
Eleri gave up and headed back to the car. Half a block away, she spotted Walter leaning against the driver’s side door, her arms crossed as she waited. Eleri asked, “So, did you make me wait four hours on purpose?”
It wasn’t what she should have said, but dammit, that had been a long time.
“Four hours? No.” Walter shook her head. “You weren’t here that long, were you?”
“Yes. This spot.” Eleri pointed, and Walter seemed to take the hint and move out from in front of the driver’s door. “Come with me?”
A nod, and Walter gracefully made her way around the front of the car, all economy of motion, despite the missing limbs. As Walter slid in and buckled herself, she commented, “Well, you’re better than I thought if you were here that long. I only found you an hour ago.”
“And you made me wait?” Eleri now found it comical rather than rude. Eleri now had the air conditioning on and was on the way to the Bureau office. That definitely made a difference.
The NightShade Forensic Files: Fracture Five (Book 2) Page 13
