by Misty Evans
Or help her sister get to safety?
Flynn’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I followed her to Layton Air Strip. She got out of her car with another woman. I was only a minute or two behind them, but I lost her. The security officer said Brigit claimed she wasn’t leaving on the plane, only wanted to ask O’Bern a question, but the plane took off with Brigit still on board.”
Jesus. She’d tricked him. Anger flickered low in his gut. “What happened to the woman with her?”
“Haven’t seen her. She probably high-tailed it when Brigit left.”
“Did you get a good look at her?”
“Better. I got a photo of her with my cell phone. Del’s running it through the system. Want me to have someone pick her up when they land?”
Michael’s first response was yes, but the authorities would want a solid reason and he didn’t have one. Until he figured out what she was up to, he’d be better off to play things cool. “Let me think about it.”
“There’s more. I’m on my way to your house. Meet you there.”
Dread pushed in beside anger. “Just spit it out, Flynn.”
“Twenty minutes? Sounds good.”
The line went dead. In the ensuing silence, Michael stared at the seat facing him where Brigit had sat less than eight hours before, her hair up in a ponytail and his T-shirt still hugging her curves under her fleece jacket. It didn’t make sense. He’d been with the CIA for ten years and worked his charm on everyone from hardened politicians to infamous criminals. Most had succumbed without much of a fight. He’d read their personalities and their intentions with better accuracy than any psychiatrist or profiler and manipulated them—charmed them, as Michael preferred to call it—right out of their hardened states. Brigit Kent should have been a piece of cake compared to the rest.
There’s more.
More Flynn refused to discuss over the phone.
Goddamn. Michael threw the phone at the seat.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Conrad snagged two squat glasses in a cabinet alongside a bottle of Jack in Stone’s den and poured a finger of the whiskey into each. He sat down in a leather chair and sipped the liquid as he eyed the remodeling job his boss was still doing on the south wall.
The sun was setting and a smattering of round patches of drywall mud stood out against the gray background as the waning light suffused the room. On the floor beside the wall sat a five gallon bucket of mud and several scrapers. An unopened paint can, containing the same gray-colored paint as the wall, held down one corner of the drop cloth. Drywall dust coated everything.
When Stone entered the room a few minutes later, Conrad noticed the hard set of his eyes, the rigid posture. The man was primed for a fight.
Conrad had gone a few rounds once before with him and had no desire to repeat the performance. Most men who sat at desks all day were soft, their reflexes slow. Stone wasn’t most men. Even though he’d been shot and undergone surgery, when the two went fisticuffs he’d nearly kicked Conrad’s ass. Since that time, he’d doubled his daily run distance and taken up kickboxing. Where once Michael Stone had been a decisive force, he was now an overwhelming one. He was lean, mean and still angry over Raissi catching him with his pants down.
Conrad stood, picked up the waiting glass and held it out like a shield. “What I’m about to tell you…remember, I’m just the messenger.”
In two strides, Stone was at his desk, slamming his briefcase down on the top and shedding his wool coat. “What is it?”
“You might want to sit down.”
Stone crossed his arms over his chest in his best quit screwing me stance.
Still holding out the glass of bourbon, Conrad took a step back. “I have reason to suspect Dr. Kent has been profiling you for The Firm.”
Stone glanced at the glass and back up at Conrad’s face. “That’s it? That’s what you refused to tell me over the phone?”
Conrad frowned as Stone sighed with what sounded like relief. “SIS has had a profile of me since I was Director of Operations. They didn’t send Brigit here for me.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
A new thought popped into Conrad’s head. “What about your brother-in-law? Could SIS have hired Donovan to stage Ella’s kidnapping in order for Brigit to profile him under a stressful situation? He’s probably going to be the next president, and he’s already stated he’s not going to be best friends forever with Britain like his predecessors have been. Maybe they wanted him to back out of the election.”
Michael dropped his arms, rubbed his eyes. “I don’t have time to examine your warped conspiracy theories—” He stopped in mid-sentence. Straightened. “Our friends aren’t digging into Thad’s psyche, it’s Jeffries.”
Conrad set the glass down. “President Jeffries? Why?”
“He didn’t want me questioning Brigit after Ella was rescued. She told me it had something to do with Ruthie and coerced me into a deal. If I helped Brigit get the charges against her sister reduced, she’d tell me about the secret Jeffries is keeping concerning Ruthie.”
“She didn’t tell you what it was?”
“No.” Stone sank into his desk chair. “And now Brigit’s run off to Ireland.”
Conrad couldn’t find the connection. “I’m lost.”
Stone shook his head. “Me too.”
He wasn’t the king of logic like Stone was. All he knew was most people were driven by lust for power and money. On the surface, Ella’s kidnapping was a diversionary tactic. Probably had nothing to do with Brigit working for Jeffries. Except for the one thing Conrad still hadn’t mentioned to Stone.
He slid the glass of untouched bourbon closer to Stone’s side of the desk. “Peter Donovan is Brigit’s half-brother.”
Stone didn’t move, didn’t even seem to breathe. He sat there as if this news was as inconsequential as the previous news. As if he’d just shut down.
But as Conrad relayed the information Smitty had told him, Stone started breathing again. Muscles in his jaws worked as he ground his teeth.
When Conrad stopped talking, there was a minute of complete silence. Then Stone reached out and took the bourbon and swallowed the shot whole.
As he set the glass down, Conrad’s cell dinged with a message. It was from Del.
Moira Raphael. Sharpshooter for Palestinian army 2000-2004, freelance assassin since.
The list of Moira’s dealings with various terrorist organizations was long. Conrad handed the phone to Stone and let him scroll through the message.
Recovering the whiskey bottle from the credenza, Conrad poured another shot for each of them.
Stone handed Conrad back his cell, ignored the second shot and pushed buttons on his landline. The man was going to need dental work the way he was grinding his teeth. A minute later, he was giving the head of the FBI Moira’s name and background. “I have reason to believe she is the sniper you’re looking for.”
Another minute of conversation flowed before Stone ended the call. He looked at Conrad. “Why would Brigit willingly take the woman who shot her to the airport?”
“Willingly is the key word. What if she was forced?”
The office chair squeaked as Stone sat back. “Forced how?”
Conrad sipped his bourbon, shrugged. “I don’t know, but if Brigit did it willingly, she’s working with Moira.”
Stone was a short step behind him. “Which would mean she’s working with Donovan.”
“Her brother.”
The two sat in silence, both working out the implications. Conrad shook his head and twirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Makes no sense, because why would Moira shoot Brigit if they were both working for Donovan?”
Stone’s phone rang and then Conrad’s did too. The two of them exchanged a look. Something had just broken. Something big.
As the Deputy Director answered his phone with a forceful, “Michael Stone”, Conrad checked caller ID and saw it was Del again. He set his
glass down. “Yeah.”
Del’s voice vibrated with excitement. “Night crew at Layton Airport just found a body in the southwest international hangar. No ID.”
“And?”
“The southwest international hangar, Hangar M, was where Cormac O’Bern’s plane was stored. Body’s not O’Bern. Could be his pilot.”
Conrad caught Stone’s eye and another round of silent communication passed between them. He’d received the same information, probably from the FBI. Stone spoke into his phone. “Someone needs to meet that plane when it lands, and find out who’s on it and what’s going down.”
The caller said something and Stone nodded to himself. What it all meant, Conrad wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was the hair on his arms stood at attention. “We need the identity confirmed ASAP,” he told Del.
“The minute I know, you’ll know.”
Conrad disconnected, found Stone staring at him with that expressionless persona he’d perfected as Deputy Director. He was too still again, trying too hard not to show his frustration and anger. Conrad returned his cell phone to his belt and wondered how the guy kept all that hostility bottled up without going crazy.
“You want to hear my conspiracy theory now?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Peter Donovan just kidnapped the man he’s trying to kill and gained himself a free ride to Dublin.”
Stone was again in sync. “And he took Brigit with him.”
The minute Flynn left, Michael banged his fist on the top of his desk. The glasses jumped. In the fading orangey light, he paced from his desk to the far wall to the couch and back. Peter Donovan is Brigit’s half-brother.
As he replayed the rest of Conrad’s information on Brigit, Michael upped his pace. Brigit had lied to him and apparently everyone else to protect her sister, who was working with Donovan. Get her away from him. So why hadn’t she brought the fucker to justice?
Because Tory would be implicated too.
As his brain spun in tighter and tighter circles, so did his laps around the den. Renewed anger burned in his gut. Damn terrorists. How many families had Peter Donovan torn apart, including his own, in the name of his cause? How many people had suffered because of his self-righteousness?
Early in his career, Michael had tried to understand men like Donovan. To understand what drove them to join a cause and put everything on the line for it. They believed their cause was just, moral. Because Michael believed his own cause was also just and moral, it wasn’t a hard leap to grasp Donovan’s motivations or convictions for standing up for what he too, believed was right. However, Michael would never condone moral absolutism.
The afghan lay half on, half off the sofa, one corner skimming the floor. The image of Brigit, sleepy and smiling at him, filled his head, and his lower half responded. So did his chest. If Donovan had killed O’Bern’s pilot and kidnapped her, she was in serious trouble.
He snatched the afghan up and rubbed the soft material between his fingers. Even though she’d deceived him, he still wanted her. Wanted to touch her hair again, watch her walk across the room. Hell, he’d even drink the awful coffee she made just to have her back safe and sound in his house.
He threw the afghan down and paced to the far wall. The patches were ready for painting, but all Michael could still see were the holes the bullets had left behind. All he could feel was the cold grip of helplessness in the memory of Raissi’s smile. Raissi had stripped him of control. Now Donovan had done the same.
Raissi’s face morphed into Donovan’s. Without thinking, Michael punched the drywall, his large fist busting a gaping hole right where the patches had been. He lowered his head and punched it again, the anger scraping along his veins. Two more punches and the skin on his knuckles cracked and started to bleed. He waited for the pain. Only numbness surfaced.
The hole wasn’t big enough to match the one inside him. In the nearby toolbox, he shuffled tools out of the way until he found his hammer. Facing the wall, he reared back and swung. The hole widened, drywall breaking, dust flying. He hammered it again and again, mindless to the damage.
What seemed like hours later, the wall lay in bits and pieces. Michael’s lungs burned from inhaling the dust, and his left shoulder ached.
“Nice to see you lose your shit for once,” a voice said from behind him.
He jerked to the left, bringing the hammer up at the same time like a weapon. Flynn stood in the doorway, the room’s shadows almost hiding his seemingly satisfied smile. Truman Gunn stood next to him, eyebrows arched above his glasses in surprise. Both men raised their hands in self-defense.
Lowering the hammer, Michael took a deep breath and spoke to Truman. “What the hell do you want?”
“The same as you.” He lowered his arms and shot his cuffs. “Stop Peter Donovan and save Dr. Kent.”
“You’re sure Dr. Kent needs saving?”
Truman’s response was a quick nod. His lips pressed in a tight line, his jaw squared. “You may not trust her or understand her motives, but I assure you, she is in grave danger aboard that plane. As is O’Bern.”
Flynn eyed the destruction of the wall. “I talked to Titus. You’re due for a vacation and his Gulfstream’s on the tarmac at Dulles being fueled as we speak.” He changed the tone of his voice and spoke with a strong brogue. “Thought ye might wanna see a bit of me homeland.”
Michael tossed the hammer onto the drop cloth and brushed at the dust on his shirt. “You were born in New York.”
“Aye, but I’m Irish through and through.”
Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, Michael considered what Titus and Flynn were offering. A sense of control sparked in his gut. He toyed with the idea, found it surprisingly appealing. His hand went to his shirt above the scar and he rubbed it. “Funny, I’ve been craving a pint of Guinness and a pot of stew.”
Flynn’s smile deepened. “Then you’d be a cute whore.”
Michael raised one eyebrow and glared at him. “Excuse me?”
“A cute whore,” Flynn said, losing the brogue. “It’s how the Irish would say you’re astute, cunning.” He walked over and patted Michael on the back. “We’ll work on your Irish language deficit on the plane.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dulles International Airport
Michael climbed the steps to board Titus Allen’s plane, apprehension gnawing at him. The drive to the airport had given him time to think. He shouldn’t be leaving the country, no matter what Titus or the president or anyone else believed. He had responsibilities. He had…
What did he have?
A job. A dog. Nieces and nephews, but not a family of his own.
Flynn was ahead of him, Gunn and Brad behind him, forming a sandwich as if they didn’t believe he’d go through with it. They were right to doubt his intentions.
He had to shift his shoulders slightly and duck to get through the plane’s door. Titus stood on his left in the cockpit’s opening, a navy blue pilot’s cap covering his gray hair. “Welcome aboard, laddie.” He slapped Michael on the back.
“You’re flying the plane?” was all he could say.
Titus’s fake smile fell off his wrinkled face. “Well, of course I’m flying the damn plane. You doubt my capabilities?”
As a matter of fact, he did, but it was best to choose his words carefully. “We’re not allowed to take the same plane, remember? If it crashes, we could both die. Who would head the CIA?”
Titus rolled his eyes. “We’ll be dead. What the hell do we care?”
Michael cringed. Flynn shot a wise-ass smile over his shoulder and started down the aisle. Before Michael could come up with an argument, he caught sight of Del Hoffman in one of the seats. Like most Gulfstreams, the bucket seats formed pairs and faced each other with skinny tables in between. Del had a thin netbook open on the table in front of him and a Bluetooth in his ear. He gave Michael a nod as he spoke into his phone.
Flynn grabbed Michael’s overnight bag, opened an overhead compartment and shoved
the bag in. The plane’s engines came to life, and Flynn raised his voice over the noise. “Thought we might need some techie help and Del hasn’t been out of the office since you hired him.”
Michael set his briefcase on Del’s table and sank into the blond leather bucket seat. Flynn and Gunn took seats opposite each other across the aisle.
The complete and utter absurdity of what he was doing hit him all over again. Ignoring the voice in his head, he slipped Del a piece of paper with the tracking number from the GPS chip he’d snuck into Brigit’s rabbit’s foot. Del terminated his call immediately and gave Michael a questioning raise of his brows. “Yes, boss?”
“GPS tracker you gave me a few months ago. Can you get a location from it?”
“Of course.”
The engines revved as Del’s quick fingers ran over his keyboard. “Satellite is searching…there it is.” He glanced up at Michael. “It’s over the Atlantic.”
The plane jolted forward and everyone gripped their armrests. Gunn made haste to buckle his seat belt before raising his voice over the engine noise. “You put a tracking device on her?”
“In the rabbit’s foot you gave her.”
Gunn laughed. “I already had one in it.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
Respect, mixed with a new awareness, flickered in Gunn’s eyes. “You are a clever one.”
“So they say.”
The plane lurched again, and Del closed his laptop. His face was white and he murmured something that sounded like the Lord’s Prayer.
Titus’s voice came over the speaker. “This is your captain. We’re second in line for takeoff. Seat belts must be fastened and trays in the upright and locked position.”
His ensuing cackle echoed in the cabin and Michael caught Flynn’s eye. “How many martinis has he had?”
Flynn shrugged. “Enough to keep his hands steady.”
Del’s praying got louder.
In his mind, Michael joined in.
