Proof of Life: Super Agent Series, Book 3

by Misty Evans

  Chapter Seventeen

  The park on Grant Avenue was a kid’s paradise à la Steven Spielberg. A wooden castle complete with turret dominated one end. Giant insects, whose interiors were hollowed out for tunnels, appeared to roam the grounds. A mini merry-go-round with elaborately painted animals anchored the opposite end, and next to a long row of slides and swings lay a sandpit big enough for a T-Rex.

  Light from decorative lamps straight from the Victorian era illuminated a curving sidewalk under large oaks surrounding the park. Since Michael had been concealed in the castle with his binoculars, several joggers had used the sidewalk, but other than those people, the insects, animals and Conrad Flynn next to him, the park was deserted.

  Covert surveillance was not his specialty. It wasn’t Flynn’s either. Although both of them had the patience required for the act, sitting in freezing temps in cramped turrets overlooking a playground served to make them both slightly neurotic. Michael’s mind was filled with thoughts of Julia, Zara, Ella and Brigit. All were worrying him.

  All were worrying Flynn.

  While they waited, the two of them talked in starts and stops, the darkness covering them in a blanket of familiarity if not exactly friendship.

  How did you help a child you couldn’t find? What did you tell a counterintelligence spy about her job options when returning to the field was too dangerous for a pregnant woman, no matter how tough and invincible she imagined herself to be? How did you convince someone to play by the rules when you never played by them yourself?

  Michael dropped the binoculars from his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He liked women, respected how determined they could be and how soft and vulnerable they usually were underneath the tough exterior. He liked the way they banded together and looked out for each other. What he didn’t like was their ability to outthink and outmaneuver him at almost every turn.

  Movement on the path caught his attention. He didn’t need the binoculars to see it was another jogger. Solitary, female, dressed for exercise in cold weather.

  The cold was the least of her worries. Jogging alone after dark was asking for trouble, even in this upscale neighborhood. Maybe the woman considered herself safe here or enjoyed the feeling of taking a risk where she knew the odds were in her favor. While he admired guts in anyone, male or female, he admired common sense even more. Now he had another woman to look out for, at least as long as she was in his range of vision.

  He scanned the park again while the woman stopped on the path and looked down at her feet. One of her shoestrings had come untied. As she stepped off the path and walked over to a large caterpillar, he raised the binoculars to get a better look. She must have been wearing six layers of shirts and jackets by the thickness of her shoulders. Either that or she had a stocky upper body. Bracing her foot against one the caterpillar’s stomach segments, she removed her gloves and went to work on the shoelace. Her movements were awkward, though, as if her fingers were too cold to function. She lost her balance and had to put her foot down before bringing it back up for a second try.

  Something about her stance tapped a warning in his brain. He watched her a moment longer, but nothing out of the ordinary happened.

  A vibration in his pocket disrupted his thoughts. Shifting his hip, he fished out his cell phone and glanced at the readout. Ace was texting him.

  All clear. You?

  He hated trying to type on a keyboard smaller than his palm. Setting the binoculars down, he glanced around at the quiet park, noting the jogger had finished tying her shoe and was now stretching. His fingers fought to find the right keys to text back. Mouth shut. Eyes open.

  A few seconds passed and then from Ace, Balls froze.

  Michael showed the message to Flynn. Flynn smirked and typed back, Ours too.

  Returning the cell phone to his pocket, he scanned the park. Emptiness and shadows stared back at him.

  Jamming the binoculars to his eyes, he followed the path from one end to the other. The jogger had disappeared.

  Brigit’s shoulder was on fire. The simple task of raising her arm enough to tie her shoe had set off fireworks in her muscles. She’d downed two over-the-counter pain relievers before leaving her loft, but they were no match for the jarring of her body disguised as a jogger or the cold weather seeping under her Under Armor. This is why I’m a consultant. I suck at fieldwork.

  While sitting in her car would have certainly been warmer, it also would have been a dead giveaway. The park sat back far enough from any of the connecting streets to be a bitch to surveil anyway. All the trees and the various pieces of high-rise playground equipment would have blocked her view.

  Being on the ground, in the park, was her best bet. The inside of the caterpillar was cold but roomy. Along its abdomen, there were small holes to let in air and light during the day when kids squirmed through it. Tonight, she could use those holes to watch the perimeter of the park while remaining camouflaged.

  Getting Ella back was her top priority and she’d picked the most obvious park for Peter to deliver her to. Not so close to the child’s home he might be spotted and yet not so far away she would be spotted almost immediately. He wouldn’t bring her until just before dawn, knowing she’d freeze overnight and not be found until morning anyway. No, he’d use the last remains of the night to do his covert drop with sunlight minutes away so the child would be found quickly.

  That didn’t mean Peter wouldn’t be scoping the area long before then though. Precaution was second nature to him. Since the hit on O’Bern had failed, Peter would be extra cautious, which meant she had to be in place long before he showed up. She just hoped he wouldn’t be so cautious he’d deviate from his normal pattern before disappearing and throw Ella to the wolves in his hurry.

  Settling into her perfect hideout, Brigit adjusted her weight to ease the tension on her shoulder. It was going to be another long night.

  Dawn came and Michael thought he’d crawl out of his skin if he didn’t get moving. Not from the cold, but from the despair seeping into his bones. After the last jogger had disappeared, nothing had moved in the park all night except for a threesome of raccoons.

  Ace had reported a similar night, and since Michael hadn’t heard from the Feds, he knew they’d been screwed too.

  Still, he stayed inside the castle’s walls with Flynn, willing Peter Donovan to show up with Ella, even as the bright light of morning pushed through the trees and forced the shadows to disappear.

  While he knew it was nearly impossible to predict what any criminal would do, he was pissed Brigit had been so wrong about Donovan. Whatever else she was, whoever she worked for, she was supposed to be the expert on this guy. So much for being an expert. She hadn’t called one thing right yet.

  Maybe Donovan wasn’t involved at all. Julia had called to tell Flynn the ERT team had turned up nothing linking Donovan to the shooting. The rifle revealed no fingerprints. The room, not a scrap of trace evidence. All the same, the FBI had issued a be-on-the-look-out for Donovan. Nothing had materialized from the BOLO. Only Michael’s refusal had kept Donovan’s photo and statement saying he was wanted on suspicion from being issued to the press. Michael wanted to give him at least twenty-four hours to return Ella, and he was taking a beating for it from Jeffries on down.

  Flynn was still waiting to hear from Smitty about Truman Gunn, but one way or another, they would figure out who and what Brigit Kent was and deal with her. While painfully aware of how badly he wanted to see her again, he had to shove his emotions aside. She’d made him look like a fool, and now her advice was keeping the state police and Feds from issuing an all-out manhunt for Donovan. Time was of the essence, and if Michael didn’t know better, he’d think Brigit was in on the kidnapping.

  Actually, he didn’t know better. Maybe even the sniper taking a shot at her was all part of some bigger picture he couldn’t see. He hated to believe it of her, but the facts were staring him in the face.

  Using a kid as leverage was the lowest of the lo
w. Yet, he couldn’t take a chance. He had to grasp at any straw available.

  The path through the park began to see some business again. More women, some walking, some jogging, cruised by. A single male, black from what Michael could tell from the small amount of the man’s face showing between a knit cap and a scarf wrapped around his neck, sprinted through.

  He’d just decided to wait another twenty minutes when he caught sight of a figure slipping out of the caterpillar. Well, I’ll be goddamned. The shoe-tying jogger hadn’t left the park, she’d been inside the insect all night.

  Her head and face were covered by a knit face mask, but as she stretched her right arm before tentatively rubbing her left shoulder, a light bulb went off in his brain. The bulk under her outer coat was only under the left side.

  Taking several stiff steps, she held her left arm with her right hand until she fell into step behind a woman pushing a stroller with big tires. As he watched her follow the path out of the park, he stretched his own stiff limbs and motioned to Flynn that he was going to tail her. Then he took the castle’s fire pole down to the ground and did just that.

  A block past the park’s main gate, she folded herself into a green Ford.

  Flynn, who had been hanging back, whistled at him. They ran through an alley and hopped into Flynn’s Jeep parked in the lot of a convenience store. Making several right turns, he caught the Ford half a mile from the park.

  They only followed her for another mile, hanging back in the early morning traffic, until Michael was sure she was on her way home. Then he told Flynn to take an alternative route.

  She had parked and was crossing the street to her loft when they came around the corner. The knit mask was gone, and her face showed confusion as she stopped in the middle of the street and looked up. He followed her gaze and saw the cause of her surprise.

  He’d been so intent on making her, he’d missed the smoke rolling out of a broken front window on the second floor. Flames shot out the window as well. Before Conrad could dial 9-1-1, Michael heard sirens.

  It was still early enough there were few people out, but a small crowd was forming on the sidewalk. Brigit stood alone in the street, watching the smoke and flames with one hand on her forehead in disbelief as a car rushed by her and honked its horn.

  Flynn pulled to the curb and Michael jumped out before the Jeep stopped rolling. Without warning, Brigit’s face went from dismay to terror as she continued to gaze up at the burning apartment.

  She dropped her hand from her forehead, yelled “No!”, and took off running. A collective gasp and then shouts from the people on the sidewalk rose as they pointed up at the upstairs windows.

  As she disappeared around the side of the building, Michael took off after her, taking a second to glance upward to try and see what had spurred her into action.

  Framed in a window stood a small girl, her hands pressed against the pane of glass, her face dissolved in tears. His heart jumped as her lips drew back in a cry. Uncle Michael. Help me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The entry to Brigit’s loft was on the side of the two-story building. She took the wooden stairs two at a time, her pulse so loud in her ears it drowned out the cries and yells behind her on the sidewalk.

  Rational thought eluded her, but she knew without consulting logic or reason Ella was the girl in her burning loft.

  She hit the entry door full force, jerking on the handle. Locked. Ignoring the terrible pain in her left shoulder, she fumbled in the pocket of her pants and found the key. Jamming in the lock, she turned the handle again.

  It refused to move.

  Frustration and fear drove tears into her eyes. Get it together, Brigit. You can’t fall apart now.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs to her side. She tried the key again, wiggling it back and forth so hard the key nearly broke in half. The lock wouldn’t budge.

  Michael Stone appeared like a mirage at her side. He must have been the one following her in the Jeep. Without preamble, she turned to him and said, “Door’s jammed. Can you kick it in?”

  “It’s steel,” he said, wrestling the key from her hand and trying the lock himself. He threw his shoulder into the door, but nothing changed. “Other way in?”

  There were no windows accessible from the landing. “Fire stairs around back go up to the roof.” She took off back down the wooden stairs with the deputy director on her tail.

  By the time they reached the roof, she was breathing like she’d sprinted a mile. He didn’t seem to be breathing at all. He tried the fire door exit, but it too was locked from the inside. Peter had done his homework.

  “Goddammit,” Michael said, throwing his shoulder against the door.

  Brigit located the vent stack that corresponded to her bathroom’s exhaust fan. “Here,” she said, grabbing it with her right hand and giving a yank. Her left hand and arm were useless. “Help me.”

  Michael fell to his knees beside her and tugged on the stack until it broke free. “How’s this going to help?”

  “I can fit through it.” A good operative always had an escape plan that didn’t use doors or windows. She hadn’t needed SIS training to know that, thanks to her father and the fact she’d once been locked in a bathroom with no escape.

  She’d practiced escaping from this one several times from the inside out. Now she’d have to hope it worked in the opposite direction. “I’ll get Ella and hand her up to you if I can’t get her out the front door.”

  She squeezed into the hole, realizing at the last instant her extra layers and the bandage on her shoulder were too fat for her to raise her arm over her head. She sat on the lip of the roof and pulled off the jacket she was wearing, then the shirt. Ella, hang on, she chanted in her head. The sound of sirens drew nearer.

  “Hurry,” Michael said.

  Down to her bra, she gripped the edge of the padded bandage and yanked as hard as she could. A small cry of pain escaped her lips as the gauze pulled free from her wound, taking flesh with it.

  Blinking the tears out of her eyes, she dropped her body into the hole and fell to the bathroom floor.

  Smoke was everywhere and she could hear the crackle of flames in the far room. “Ella!” she called and listened for a response. Nothing.

  Ghost fingers of fear curled around her. Holy Mother Mary, she hated fire.

  “Brigit.” Michael’s voice sounded far away. “Can you get to her?”

  Slapping the fear away, she scrambled through the bedroom to the main living area where she’d seen the girl in the window. Smoke stung her nostrils and made her throat as dry as a desert. Fire burned in the path laid by some type of accelerant across the front door. No going out that way.

  Ella was no longer in the window. Brigit called her name again and still heard no reply. There was already a significant lack of oxygen in the loft and her lungs strained to find the precious stuff in the midst of the smoke. She swung around in circles before running to the kitchen. The fire burned out of control there, and made her throw up her hands to protect her face and backtrack to the living room. The papers she had left scattered on the coffee table and futon were gone. The futon itself was smoking as if someone had left a cigarette burning inside its stuffing.

  “Ella, my name is Brigit,” she called. She sucked in smoke and coughed. When the fit passed, she called out again. “Don’t be scared. I’m here to help you. Call my name so I can find you.”

  Through the din of the sizzling curtains and cracking wood, she thought she heard something coming from the bedroom. Not a voice, but a cough, like hers. Retracing her steps, she stopped in the doorway. “Ella, I know you’re in here. Tell me where you are.”

  When she didn’t hear anything, she threw open the closet doors, pushing aside the hanging wardrobe of blacks and other neutrals and kicking at the shoes lining the floor. Where was that girl?

  Michael’s voice roared from the bathroom. “Ella!”

  The smoke had now invaded the bedroom to the point Brigit could
barely see. She fell to her hands and knees, another coughing attack assailing her. For a second, her vision blurred and her stomach spasmed. Pushing herself forward, she crawled on the floor, her shoulder a mass of pain. She would have missed the tiny swatch of the red Wonder Woman cape peeking out from under the bed skirt if she hadn’t lain her head down on the floor, searching for a breath of oxygen. “Ella?”

  When she flipped the bed skirt up, a rush of relief flooded her limbs at the sight of the little girl gripping tight to a Tinker Bell doll. Her eyes were red from crying and when she saw Brigit, she started coughing. “Wendy?” she choked out.

  Forcing her left arm to help her right, Brigit pulled the crying girl from under the bed, lifted her and carried her to the bathroom.

  She slammed the door shut and gave Ella a quick once-over. Dirt smudged her cheeks and hands but otherwise she seemed unhurt. “I’ve got her,” she yelled up to Michael. “She’s okay.”

  His reply boomed down the vent. “Thank God.”

  “Step up on the toilet lid here,” Brigit directed Ella. With her good hand, she guided her. “Now over to the vanity.” Again she nudged Ella into position as she lined herself under the hole in the ceiling.

  “Are you ready?” she called up to Michael.

  His face was in the opening but he seemed miles away. She could tell he was lying down on his stomach as his hands reached down the exhaust fan’s metal tunnel. “Go!”

  “Uncle Michael?” Ella said, looking up.

  “Listen to Brigit and do what she says,” he told her.

  Brigit addressed the child. “I want you to step over onto my shoulders, okay? Take my hand and place one foot here and the other here.” She tapped each shoulder to demonstrate. “Do you think you can do that?”

  The girl nodded and reached for Brigit’s hand.

  Balancing Ella was difficult, not because she weighed much, but because Brigit’s left arm hung useless. She couldn’t raise her hand to steady Ella’s legs. She almost lost her once, but the girl dropped her Tinker Bell doll and grabbed her uncle’s hand.