Hot Pursuit

by Christina Skye

  “Won’t hurt to look again,” Jack muttered. “If Rains was carrying anything important, he’d have tossed it as soon as he got the chance.” He checked the stalls one by one, then climbed up, inspecting the top of all the doors, but with no success. “Any luck out there?”

  “Nothing so far.” Izzy was checking the garbage can.

  Jack ran a hand inside each toilet paper holder.

  Nothing.

  Frowning, he went out to join Izzy. “Did you try looking inside the paper towel dispenser?”

  “Not yet.”

  Jack slid his fingers underneath the front metal plate. Then he removed the paper and checked every inch of the empty compartment inside. One by one, they covered all six.

  And found nothing.

  Jack stood up slowly. “Looks like that idea was a bust. Unless—”

  Frowning, he bent over the first paper towel unit, which was farthest from the door. He ran his hand lower into the metal bin holding used paper towels. “This is empty. What happened to the waste paper that should have been in here?”

  Izzy’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Damned good question. Let’s go ask our friendly store staff.”

  Twenty minutes later they were staring at three neatly tied bags of garbage at the back of the kitchen, while a graying man made anxious explanations.

  “It was Francisco, Mr. Teague. He was new on the custodial team. We have a clearly posted cleaning schedule, but he decided to clean up his bathrooms early so he could take a break.”

  Probably to go have a smoke in a quiet spot, Jack thought. “And he left all his bags here in the kitchen?”

  “That’s right. He’s a good worker, Francisco. Sometimes forgetful, but he doesn’t miss anything when he cleans.”

  “No one else has seen these bags or examined them?” Izzy asked quietly.

  “No one, sir.”

  Izzy’s face was blank. “Thank you. You can go now. I’ll notify your supervisor that you were very helpful.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  Alone in the kitchen, Izzy looked at Jack. “We could probably wait for the Feds to get a team over here,” Izzy mused. “Probably take two hours, and then we’d get cut out of the loop again.” He glared down at the neatly tied bags. “I don’t like that scenario much, do you, Broussard?”

  “Personally, I think it sucks.”

  Izzy pulled out clean gloves, tossed a pair to Jack, his face grim. “Be damned careful and keep contact minimal. Do not remove anything from your bag without my okay. Now get to work.”

  Jack smiled grimly. “It will be a pleasure.”

  They worked with infinite care, silently sifting hundreds of crumpled paper towels. Jack was sweating when he reached the bottom of the third big.

  Suddenly he stiffened. “I’ve got something here.” He dug deeper, his eyes narrowed.

  When he stood up, his gloved fingers were holding a cell phone very carefully at the top of the bag.

  “Not bad, Broussard.” Izzy slid the phone inside a plastic evidence bag and smiled. “Let’s go see what we’ve got.”

  Three hours later Izzy was muttering over a pile of printouts. Around him, computers hummed on metal tables piled high with data disks, cords, and empty coffee cups.

  “You still alive?” Jack sat down in the only empty chair.

  Izzy looked up, his face lined. “Just barely. What’s the news?”

  “Braden wants us both upstairs.”

  “Works for me.” Izzy pushed to his feet, smiling tightly. “It took me awhile to get Rains’ battery juiced and hack his password.”

  Jack stared at the nearby computer screen. “Did you check his call log?”

  “Not yet. He’s got some kind of secondary password I’ll have to break. I need another hour for that.”

  “Anything on his voice mail?”

  “Don’t know yet. When does Admiral Braden want us upstairs?”

  “Yesterday,” Jack said dryly.

  “Then we better get moving.” As Izzy pulled off his headphones, the telephone whined next to Jack. “Can you get that?” he called.

  Jack started for the far wall, then realized the sound wasn’t coming from the desk phone. It was Rains’ cell phone, wrapped in a plastic bag on the table, which was ringing.

  Izzy swung around in his chair and looked at Jack. “Does the press know about Rains yet?”

  “Definitely not. Whoever’s calling has to be a close contact.” Jack nodded at the bag. “You want me to handle this?”

  “Better let me.” Izzy attached a wire to the phone, flipped a switch on his computer console, then answered. “Hello?”

  His eyes widened. He pulled off the wire and cursed softly. “Please tell me this isn’t happening.”

  Sitting in pajamas, Taylor frowned at the phone. Her clothes hung neatly in the closet, and her face was covered with green cucumber gel. “Hello? Is this—Izzy?”

  “I wish it weren’t.”

  Moonlight streamed around her. There was a long silence as Taylor stared at the phone. “Izzy, are you there?”

  “Yeah. How did you get this number?”

  “It was on my cell phone. According to the call log, you dialed me at 7:42 last night.”

  Izzy’s voice was hard. “How did you know it was me?”

  Uh-oh. He had his professional voice on, Taylor realized.

  She sat back slowly, wincing as the movement tugged at the stitches in her side. “Nothing technical. I decided to hit the redial button.”

  Izzy muttered something that sounded like why me.

  “What’s going on, Izzy?”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know.” He took a hard breath. “I can’t talk now.”

  “Why? Is Jack with you? Are you in some kind of trouble there?”

  “Look, I can’t talk.” His voice sounded very tight. “I’ll get back to you. And don’t call me on this number again.”

  The line went dead.

  Taylor stared at the moonlight dusting the Berkeley Hills and listened to her heart pounding. Something was definitely wrong. If Izzy hadn’t placed that call to her, then who had?

  She drew her knees up to her chest, shivering, suddenly very cold.

  A clock ticked in the quiet office.

  Jack looked at Izzy, waiting for an explanation that didn’t come. “You going to tell me what that meant?”

  Izzy simply stared at the cell phone. Abruptly, he kicked a box across the room.

  Jack cleared his throat. “I take that as a no.”

  “It meant nothing. Less than nothing. It was a wrong number,” Izzy growled.

  Wrong number, hell.

  “Who was it, Teague?”

  “Fine, it was Taylor. She had a call at 7:42 last night, and she hit the redial button.”

  Jack sat back, blowing out a breath. “So you’re telling me that Taylor was the last person Rains called last night before he vanished?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Izzy put the cell phone back in its bag and sealed it tightly. “For the moment I suggest we forget this call ever happened. Otherwise, things could get very ugly for Taylor.”

  Jack frowned at Rains’ cell phone. “I thought they already had.”

  “What about you?” Izzy crossed his arms. “You still going to ask Braden for reassignment?”

  Jack stared at the pile of pictures of the gala. “I should, but I’m not sure I trust who Braden would replace me with.”

  “It’s a concern,” Izzy agreed. He watched Jack pull out two photos. “Something wrong?”

  “Take a look at these waiters.” Frowning, Jack held the photos beneath Izzy’s halogen desk light. “They’re definitely familiar, especially the one with the thin mouth. I think they were in the crowd after the convenience store robbery. Can you check with the television people and see if they have any B-footage from the robbery that we could borrow?”

  Izzy was already lifting the phone. “Consider it done. It’s about time we had another face to
look for.”

  Viktor Lemka stared at the bound-and-gagged man lying unconscious on the grimy floor.

  The cabin was surrounded by dense woods north of Lake Tahoe, and the rental records showed that it was leased by a commercial airline pilot named William Stallone.

  He’d always loved the movie Rambo. Classic Americana. A big hit in Albania.

  He nudged the man on the floor with his foot, irritated that he’d come this far, set all his traps, and now he had to wait for the drugs to wear off.

  He shoved again, harder this time, and the man made a sleepy sound.

  Viktor walked to the big cabinet on one wall, unlocked a drawer, and took out a new syringe. “Time to wake up, Harris. Just you and me now. No games, no more clever escapes.” Whistling softly, he expressed some of the potent amphetamine he’d brought in from Mexico on his last trip. “Now you’re all mine.”

  He sank the needle into Harris Rains’ arm, then stood back, watching the pale green eyes open and flash awake with pure, terrified recognition.

  “That’s better. I’m glad to see you remember me.”

  Harris was drooling through the gag, trying to crawl away on the floor.

  “I think it is time to talk, you and I.” Viktor moved in closer and whispered, “Where is it? The real ricin we paid you to make, not the fake samples you gave me two weeks ago.”

  When Harris tried to wrench away, Viktor hit him hard against one cheek. “I can’t hear you.”

  Harris whimpered through the dirty cloth at his mouth.

  Kneeling, Viktor untied the gag. “Tell me again.”

  “Taylor O’Toole,” the scientist rasped. “The writer—I gave it to her. I knew no one would think of looking there. I was about to speak with her when your people found me.” Rains’ voice was high, pleading. “She’ll give it to me, Viktor. All I have to do is call her and say Candace is in trouble. She’ll meet me wherever I say.”

  “But how do I know you’ll give it to me?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you,” Rains whined.

  Viktor sighed. “Wrong answer, my dear Harris. You always lie.”

  “What—do you mean?” Rains was gasping as if the fear would kill him.

  “You lied every day for months. Then you took our money and lied again.” Viktor’s eyes hardened. He refused to think about the bungled job on the American woman. “Where did you put it?”

  Rains whispered painfully, clutching his side. “It was there, I swear it.”

  Viktor shook his head. “You were told, my friend. We paid you, and you gave us nothing. You know the consequences.”

  “Making recombinants is expensive. But I can make more. Ten days—a week,” Rains said eagerly. “I promise. More ricin and the vaccine, too.”

  Viktor studied the arsenal of surgical knives on the table beside him and smiled. “Your promises no longer interest me or your employer. Besides, too many people are looking for you.” He picked up a scalpel and turned it thoughtfully. “I wish I had time to take you to my little clinic in Paraguay. It is so much better equipped. But no matter. We’re going to take a trip, you and I.”

  Harris Rains tried to scuttle away, but he was already flat against the wall. “A trip where?”

  Viktor smiled slowly. “To hell, Harris. And I’m afraid that only one of us will be coming back.”

  The pain didn’t stop.

  He was lying in his blood, gagging. Whenever he fainted, they gave him another shot to wake him up and then they started all over again, asking questions and cutting.

  He couldn’t take any more pain.

  The man with the cold eyes looked down at him. Whistling, always whistling. “Where are your notes? Where are your samples?”

  “I didn’t have time to—”

  “You did. I know this because the manager of your lab in Mexico was very happy to tell me all the details about the one complete set of samples you finished before you left.”

  Rains thought frantically. He’d planned for this possibility, hiding bits and pieces here and there as protection. “Fine, I’ll tell you.” His throat was raw as he stared at his bandaged hand and the stumps of three fingers. “But no more cutting.”

  The Albanian leaned closer, turning the scalpel slowly. “Talk.”

  Rains blurted all the details of his careful plan.

  “When did you give this to her?”

  “I can’t remember—a week ago, I think.”

  “Very stupid.” The Albanian wasn’t happy. His lip twitched. “And all of it is there?”

  Rains nodded wildly. “Exactly where I told you. She doesn’t know anything about it. No one does. It was to be my—escape route.” He was starting to feel hopeful, and then something pricked just above his hairline. He fought, desperate to make Lemka listen. If they gave him a little more time, he could explain and make a new plan. With the Navy scientist they had locked up, Rains could make dozens more samples, enough to incapacitate a major city. What more did they want, for God’s sake?

  A fierce pain knocked him back. He grabbed at the air, feeling something kick deep in his chest while his heart spasmed like a fist jerking closed. Then his vision blurred and the pain tore right through his chest.

  Gone, all gone.

  Harris Rains felt a brief, savage moment of regret for all the things he hadn’t finished, all the schemes, all the plans.

  Then he was falling falling falling.

  All fall down.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Four days later

  Taylor was on her seventh cup of coffee, watching rain streak the windows of the dingy hotel where she’d been moved. The soft patter didn’t quite muffle the drone of late-night planes roaring in and out of San Jose International Airport, less than two miles away.

  Her efficient female agent was sitting near the door, speaking quietly on a cell phone. Taylor knew there were two other agents outside in the parking lot, but no one had given her the reason for the escalating security—or told her where Jack had been for the last twenty-four hours.

  She eyed a carton of cold Chinese rice with disgust and turned to pace some more. Since Jack and Izzy had left, she couldn’t get the hum of adrenaline out of her system. Now her nerves were on overdrive and the muscles in her neck were screaming. What she needed was a hot bath and some cold champagne. Barring that, she’d settle for some answers about what had happened to Harris Rains and why she kept turning up in the middle of things.

  She glanced at the agent near the door. Taylor had asked for news a dozen times already, and each time she was given polite smiles and cool evasions.

  The agent looked up and gestured to Taylor’s untouched dinner. “Would you like something else to eat, Ms. O’Toole? I can order from room service.”

  Taylor’s stomach rebelled at the thought of greasy fries and rubber chicken. “Maybe some coffee.”

  “Any more coffee and you’ll burn a hole right through your stomach.”

  “I’ll risk it. But first, maybe you could check—”

  Agent Nancy Rodriguez raised a brow. “The answer is no, nothing new to report. As soon as I hear anything, I’ll relay it.”

  Muttering, Taylor hit the bathroom, settling for a shower hot enough to leave her skin raw. The pelting spray soothed some of her anxiety, allowing her to think about the days ahead.

  Moving from safe house to safe house in the middle of nowhere. Round-the-clock guards and limited contact with family and friends.

  And all for what? She didn’t have anything remotely worth protecting.

  She dried her hair and slipped into a pair of jeans two sizes too big, courtesy of the agent outside. When she caught a look at herself in the mirror, she rolled her eyes. Why couldn’t she be smart about her life? A smarter person would have ignored Candace when she’d asked for help. A smarter person would have backed off and run the other way when that nasty funeral wreath had turned up with her name on it.

  So why hadn’t she?

  Because she was stubbor
n and obsessive. Because she couldn’t get the possibilities out of her head. It hadn’t been about Candace or safety or justice. In her heart, Taylor knew it was about sheer, god-awful stubbornness.

  And now that stubbornness might get her killed—taking innocent people along with her.

  She yanked on a thick sweater, oversized like the jeans. Since she couldn’t go back, that left going forward. For starters, she was going to demand some answers. She wasn’t a casual bystander they could keep in the dark. She deserved an update.

  She jammed a brush through her damp hair and grimaced. The fluorescent lights picked out the circles under her eyes, which Taylor knew no amount of cosmetic wizardry would hide. She dragged her hair up into a rubber band and charged outside, temper button set on high.

  Before she could fire off her first question, she came to a stop, staring at the tall woman speaking quietly to Agent Rodriguez. The visitor had to be at least six feet tall, wearing a flowing southwestern skirt and cowboy boots that only enhanced her size.

  Taylor frowned, unable to pick up their quiet conversation.

  Shut out again.

  “I want some answers,” she began. “For starters, I want to know where Jack is and what happened to Rains.”

  The agent by the door gave a long-suffering sigh. “See what I mean. She never gives up.”

  “You’re damned right I don’t.” Taylor grabbed her purse from the bed. “And unless I have answers in sixty seconds, I’ll be walking right out of here.”

  “Ms. O’Toole, I told you—”

  “That’s nonnegotiable.” Taylor’s voice was hard.

  The agent raised her hands. “Okay, pal, she’s all yours. I’m going to find some gut-destroying tacos with all the works. I’ll check in with the team outside in fifteen minutes.” She shook her head, closing the door behind her.

  What was going on? Taylor watched the woman at the window, who seemed to be moving her shoulders, as if she was shaking.

  Or frightened?

  Taylor started across the room. A muffled sound made her stop short.

  Laughing. The woman was laughing at her.