Zero Separation

by Philip Donlay

  “No rules. We find Ramone, he’s mine.”

  If nothing else, Donovan appreciated her direct answer. It was what he’d expected her to say—it was what he’d have said if the positions were reversed. “So we work our way through the bad guys until you find the people who killed Alec. What then, kill them all and call it a day?”

  Montero shrugged. “That depends on them, I guess.”

  “But once they’re dealt with, I’m free to go and my secret stays safe?”

  “You have my word. But not until it’s finished.”

  She’d said nothing that had dissuaded him from his initial assessment of her. She was a wounded animal. He’d learned a lot in the last couple of hours. That she could be functioning at any effective level so soon after the traumatic events she’d disclosed was hard to comprehend. A month after Meredith had been killed, he’d been a wreck, living on pills and whiskey. He didn’t know whether to be totally impressed with how well she was holding it together or terrified that she could bottle up her emotions to the extent that she could orchestrate her revenge. Either way, not only was she completely unpredictable—she was extremely dangerous.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Donovan heard the sound of water running as Montero began her shower. He went to the kitchen, poured some whiskey in his glass, then picked up Montero’s home phone, and dialed Lauren’s cell phone.

  “Dr. McKenna.”

  “It’s me. Can you talk? Where are you?”

  “Michael’s awake. I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  “How’s he doing? Does he remember anything?”

  “Susan said he’s doing okay. His head hurts. Susan also told me the FBI showed him some pictures, but he didn’t recognize anyone. Apparently he doesn’t remember much of anything after you two landed.”

  “Tell him I said hello.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m still with Montero,” Donovan said. “I don’t want her to know I’m on the phone.”

  “What does that mean?” Lauren asked. “You’re not allowed to call your wife?”

  “Not when I’m going to talk about her,” Donovan took a hard swallow from his glass and grimaced at the burn. “I was hoping you’d read a file today.”

  “I did. How secure are we?”

  “I’m on Montero’s landline. I doubt anyone is listening.”

  “You’re at her house?”

  “Yeah, this thing might actually be manageable. Based on everything she’s told me so far, she’s out for vengeance. She lost someone, and there are some connections to what happened to Michael. We’ve got a lead and we’re going out later to find a few people who may have some answers.”

  “You’re not going to trust this woman, are you? I mean, let’s stop and think for a moment what she’s really doing here. It’s called blackmail. You think running around playing cop makes sense?”

  “Did you have time to read her file?” Donovan avoided Lauren’s question and waited for her to say something, anything. Briefly, he wondered if she’d hung up on him. He mirrored her silence and waited for a response.

  “Her real name is Veronica; she hates that name and goes by Ronnie. She’s thirty-six years old, never married, no children. She’s an only child, raised in Chicago by her father, who was a United Airlines mechanic. Her mother died in a traffic accident when she was six years old. Her juvenile records are sealed, but there were some early run-ins with the police, typical wild-child behavior, I’d guess. She grew up mostly on her own, spending a great deal of time as a latchkey kid and weekend airport bum with her dad. Most of her early jobs were at a small airport outside Chicago. I guess she got it together, because she went on to graduate from high school as a national merit scholar. She did her undergrad work at Cal State Fullerton and graduated from their criminal justice school at the top of her class.”

  “What was William’s assessment of the person who gave this to him?”

  “He seemed to think the source was good, but there is a defense attorney bias at work here.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “She joined the FBI full time shortly after graduation. At one point, she was on a fast track within the FBI, but she was suddenly shipped out, sent back to Quantico for additional training, and then reassigned to South Florida. There were whispers about a sexual harassment issue, one she chose to deal with herself. The file says she may have assaulted a superior officer. There was a similar incident in college, an assistant professor ended up with a broken arm, but no charges were filed. She has an IQ somewhere in the one fortyish range, which makes her Mensa material, and she has a temper. Not counting today, she’s been involved in four shootings and was cleared for duty after each instance. She’s been accused of using excessive force on at least three occasions, but that isn’t all that unusual. Criminals love to try and play that card, but who knows? She’s an expert marksman and a certified instructor in hand-to-hand combat. Then the report gets a little sketchy, but an agent was killed, and she was placed on restricted duty. Her return to full-duty status is pending the outcome of an internal investigation.”

  “That’s the issue she wants my help with. She lost her partner and may have inadvertently had a hand in it. Overall, what do you think I have to work with here?”

  “So, she’s fixated on some sort of vendetta?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it she turned down any thought of financial reward?”

  “Yes.”

  “My guess is she sees you as some sort of kindred spirit. With what she knows, she could view you as a mentor in dealing with what she’s going through.”

  “There are some parallels.”

  “That should give you some insight into her behavior. You might think about using what you know to manipulate her actions, though I’m not all that sure she’s the best candidate for that approach.”

  “You don’t think she can be manipulated?”

  “Only that you need to tread lightly, be careful, she’s an expert on the subject. I’m no psychologist, but her childhood scenario, coupled with her subsequent actions, point to boundary and accountability issues. She’s had several official reprimands for not following procedures. Then there was one other thing that I found worrisome. It was only a footnote with multiple question marks, but it referred to her possible criminal involvement with an underage prostitute.”

  “In what context?”

  “The file only said that the person in question was a fourteen-year-old girl who accused Montero of blackmail and assault, and then the girl disappeared before any kind of formal investigation could be launched.”

  “Disappeared? As in Montero may have stepped outside the law and dealt with the problem herself?”

  “That’s how I read it,” Lauren said. “In my mind this woman has no real regard for rules.”

  “She told me she sent my file to someone who has instructions to open it if anything happens to her, which forces me to watch her back.”

  “This woman is no dummy. This isn’t some crazy impulsive maneuver, it was premeditated. Blackmail is illegal and it didn’t slow her down for a second. Keep in mind she’s an attractive woman who has no problem using her looks to get what she wants. Manipulating others is one of the main weapons in her arsenal. My guess is she’s also hypertuned to being manipulated by others, which in my opinion, makes your task more difficult. She’s smart, desperate, and, above all, emotionally compromised. You’d do well to remember your Kipling.”

  It took him a moment, but he finally made the connection. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Please do.”

  Donovan noticed that the water had quit running. “I need to go. I’ll try and call you later tonight or tomorrow.”

  “Be careful. I mean it. This isn’t worth your life,” Lauren said.

  “If I can’t control her, or the situation, I’ll bail on the whole thing and meet you in Europe,” Donovan said. “Whatever happens we’ll be together, okay?”
/>   “Just be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Donovan was about to tell Lauren he loved her when he heard Montero’s footsteps. He hung up the phone and reached for the bottle of whiskey. When he turned, she was standing there, still wet, one hand holding up her towel, the other a pistol.

  “I thought I heard voices.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Donovan replied, as he took a drink.

  Montero studied Donovan carefully then her eyes darted to the phone. “Who were you talking with?”

  “Relax. I called my wife.”

  Montero used her free hand to tighten her towel. “From here on out, don’t make any calls without my direct permission. I’m serious. Don’t screw with me again, there’s too much at stake.”

  Donovan stepped close enough to look down on her. Despite the gun, she seemed defenseless wrapped in nothing but a towel. “You bought my help. You didn’t buy my soul. Now go put some clothes on.”

  Montero pursed her lips, her face flushed red. “Be ready to leave here in an hour. And quit drinking, I need you to be sharp.”

  Donovan watched as Montero padded off to her bedroom. He thought of Lauren’s reference to Kipling and decided that his wife may have pretty well summed up Montero. “The female of the species is deadlier than the male.”

  He dumped out the remainder of his drink as an unsettled feeling came over him. He wondered if the Kipling reference was solely about Montero—or if Lauren had brought it up for other reasons.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lauren, unhappy about her conversation with Donovan, wheeled her SUV into the Fairfax County Hospital complex and found a parking place not far from the main entrance. She felt completely severed from her husband. It should be the two of them going to see Michael. Instead, he was running around Florida, his phone turned off, with an attractive yet unstable woman who was yanking him around like her own private puppet. When they spoke on the phone, she’d heard the unmistakable sound of ice cubes tinkling in a glass—he was drinking.

  It hadn’t escaped Lauren that at some levels her husband wasn’t all that different from Montero. Both were highly intelligent, they’d each had difficult childhoods and they were also two emotionally scarred, type A personalities, who possessed unique skill sets. Montero carried a gun and a badge—Donovan had private jets and an unlimited bank account. Lauren felt the creeping insecurity that Donovan may have found a measure of commonality, maybe even comfort with a person who was as damaged as he was.

  She grabbed her purse, slammed the door, and hurried toward the entrance. It was already pushing nine o’clock, and she wasn’t sure when visiting hours ended. She hoped they’d still let her in to see Michael.

  As she approached, a man dressed in a suit and carrying a bouquet of flowers came at her from the left. He hurried a few steps, then stopped and smiled widely as he pulled open a door, graciously allowing Lauren to go first. She smiled in return, guessing that he’d come from work, and, like her, was trying to beat the end of visitation hours. She went straight to the information desk. Lauren was given Michael’s room number and informed that visiting hours ended at nine thirty. Relieved that she’d made it, Lauren thanked her and followed the directions to the bank of elevators. She only waited a moment before there was an empty elevator going up.

  The doors were about to close when the well-dressed young man stepped through. He nodded wordless thanks, and then stood next to her, his hands holding the flower arrangement in front of him.

  “What floor?” Lauren said, her fingers poised next to the row of buttons.

  “Three, please.”

  Lauren dropped her hand; it was the button she’d already pushed. “Nice flowers,” she said as she admired the arrangement. He smiled again but kept his eyes locked straight ahead as the elevator rose from the first floor, chimed as it passed the second floor. Lauren noticed his hands were shaking and his suit seemed too large for his slight frame.

  The elevator chimed once again, and then slowed as they approached three. Without warning, the man slid next to her, and she felt a sharp jab as he pressed something hard into her side. She looked down and saw he held a pistol.

  “I will kill you if you don’t do exactly what I tell you.”

  Lauren was stunned. His smile had vanished, replaced by an intensity that sent a shockwave of fear through her body. He was close enough that she could smell him, a mixture of sweat and fresh flowers. He still used the bouquet to hide the pistol from any casual watchers.

  “Do you understand me? I will kill you if you scream.”

  Lauren could only nod as the elevator doors finally parted. She had hoped that there’d be people in the hallway, but the corridor was vacant as they stepped off the elevator. Lauren stopped, not sure where the gunman wanted to take her.

  “To the left! Move.” He hissed and jabbed her with the gun for emphasis.

  Lauren glanced up at the signs on the wall and saw that he was guiding her in the direction of Michael’s room. He propelled her forward by pressing the pistol into her left kidney.

  “Turn this way,” he said, as they reached an intersecting hallway.

  Lauren saw a room number as they walked by, it was marked 325. Michael was in room 315, which would be near the end of the corridor. She spotted a vacant chair in the hallway and thought of the security Donovan had arranged. Her knees felt weak—where was Buck? The chair was empty, as was the hallway. The raw fear building in her sent a river of adrenaline into her system. She couldn’t get a full breath. Michael and Susan were probably in the room, defenseless. She gathered herself for one desperate effort to stop the attacker. However futile, she decided she wasn’t going to die quietly.

  Lauren’s mind raced. The door to Michael’s room was shut and her attacker had his hands full, one held the gun, the other, the flowers. Would he open the door himself, or would he order her to open it? She envisioned both scenarios and decided that would be her signal to do something—anything. She felt as if her nerve endings might explode.

  “Stop here,” he whispered.

  He stepped away from her—his eyes darting between her and the door. “Open it or you’re dead.”

  She felt powerless, he was beyond striking range. She moved toward the door and placed her hand on the cold steel lever. Her last chance would be to slam it in the attacker’s face, or his gun hand. Stun him long enough to scream for help.

  The door suddenly jerked open from the inside and she was yanked forcefully into the dark room while at the same time a volley of gunshots rang out. Someone had her by the hand and swung her off to the side. She went down hard, slid on the tiled floor, and crashed into the wall. The door slammed shut and a crushing weight fell on top of her.

  The explosion seemed to pull all the oxygen from the room, followed by the deafening concussion. Debris peppered her exposed skin and a high-pitched ringing was all that remained as she fought to purchase a breath in the dust-choked air. She felt numb instead of scared, disoriented, as if everything were happening to someone else. The only comfort she found before she blacked out was the fact that she wasn’t alone. Whoever had her was still clutching her hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “You ready, Roberto?” Montero called out from her bedroom.

  Donovan ignored her. He’d showered and had just finished dressing. He wore black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and he hadn’t bothered to shave.

  He turned and found her standing in the doorway. A short, jet-black wig had transformed her blonde hair. Makeup had altered her already attractive features into what amounted to a different face altogether. Black eye shadow and reddish lipstick gave her face a sultry, dark expression, deceptively sensual. She wore a silky top, her nipples poked against the flimsy material. A black skirt ended mid-thigh and, farther down, her toned legs were wrapped in knee-high black boots. Without thinking, he muttered, “Jesus.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  An invisible trail of perfume hit Dono
van as she walked by, something spicy and slightly musky. Donovan stood still until she passed, and then flicked out the bathroom light and followed.

  “Where’s your phone?” she asked.

  “It’s with my things in the other bedroom.”

  “Good. Leave it there.”

  Donovan slipped on a sport coat and pulled the sleeves of his shirt into position.

  “You look nice,” Montero said, as she stepped closer and brushed away some imaginary lint from his shoulders. She reached up and fussed with his hair so some of it fell over his forehead.

  “Where’s your gun?” Donovan asked.

  “None of your business,” Montero replied and then handed him her keys. “You drive.”

  Twenty minutes later, with Donovan behind the wheel of the BMW, Montero had directed him turn for turn as they’d traveled south on I-95, past Pompano Beach, until they were in Fort Lauderdale. They got off on Cypress and headed east. He’d watched as she’d carefully kept track of what cars were behind them, issuing abrupt lane changes that would expose a tail. Montero was completely absorbed studying the traffic from the passenger side mirror.

  “So, who exactly would be following us?” Donovan asked. “Bad guys, the FBI, or both?”

  She shrugged without taking her eyes from the mirror. “Take your pick.”

  When she was satisfied they weren’t being followed, they worked their way back down Commercial Boulevard.

  Donovan calculated they’d done nothing but drive in a big circle when she motioned him to pull into the parking lot of a modern, two-story building.

  The structure was lit up with garish indirect red and purple spotlights. The driveway arced up to the grand entrance where the front walk wound through tropical landscaping illuminated by a dozen torches. Tucked up near the front door was a neon sign that read: ARENA.

  “Skip the valet guys.” Montero pointed to an empty space about fifty yards away from the main door. “Park over there, in fact, back the car in so we can make a quick exit if needed.”