Too Far Gone

by Allison Brennan

  “And what if she’s wrong?”

  “Do you think she is?”

  “I won’t take that risk with Jesse’s life.”

  It was clear by his expression that Kane didn’t agree with him, but Jesse wasn’t his kid. Jesse was Sean’s son, and Sean would do anything to keep him safe.

  “I’m going to recon Vasquez. Did you run him last night?”

  “Basics. Owns a million-dollar house in the Dominion. Has a yacht moored in Galveston and a condo on the beach. More property in Dallas, a few rentals locally, and a giant ranch in Tucson. And that’s just the property in his or his wife’s name.”

  “He’s married?”

  “Anita Vasquez. Maiden name Garcia. Going back twenty-some years. One grown daughter attends LSU.”

  “Is she home?”

  “I found her working in New Orleans for the summer. What are you thinking?”

  “Do you know how he got his money?”

  “No. I would have to cross over to the gray area. I’ll do it if you think it’s important.” Sean didn’t like breaking the law—even if it was a gray area—unless it was life or death. Not now, when he was married to a fed and it might ruin Lucy’s life. “I couldn’t find any way that he could have legitimately gotten that money, but there could be an inheritance—him or his wife. There was no major case where he won a settlement in a federal court or in Texas in the last decade. Not all court cases are online, so it would take some legwork—especially if it was out of state. I only looked in Texas because he’s never lived anywhere else. I was going to check Arizona next, because of that ranch he owns.”

  “No known source of income and he was suspected of being a dirty cop. Now he’s a PI hiring thugs.”

  “Sums it up.”

  “I may or may not make contact, but Jack will call when he lands. You find out how Jesse was tracked, then dig back into Vasquez for criminal connections.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Sean snapped. He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Kane squeezed his shoulder. “You’re not in this alone, brother.”

  Kane walked out and Sean went back to work, running a deeper background on Bart Vasquez and his wife, letting the computer program do the work for him, while he refocused on analyzing the raw data from Jesse’s phone.

  Because he was preoccupied and tired, he didn’t see the problem the first time he looked through. His head hurt, but he needed to find it. He knew something was there.

  So he went back again. And again.

  Then he saw it.

  He had been focusing on ISPs, when he should be focusing on the time stamps. Because the program was supposed to be the safest out there, it only sent data when authorized users pinged the phone. They had to proactively log in and collect the data. Sean had already considered that Madison’s phone may be compromised, but convincing her of that would be difficult. If he didn’t find anything in the raw data on Jesse’s phone, he would call Rick Stockton and go through proper channels to get access to Madison’s phone—or walk the FBI cyber team through what to do.

  Then he went back through all the data and saw the breach.

  Every time Madison logged in to see where Jesse was, the data was sent to a blind account. The individual couldn’t get into Jesse’s program, but the breach was on Madison’s end. And she had checked Jesse’s location while they were at the Rib House on Wednesday, and again Friday night, an hour before Lucy was run off the road with Jesse in the car. At that point, they had still been at St. Catherine’s. Someone had followed them from there and taken the opportunity to scare them.

  Why would she compromise her son like that?

  Carson Spade.

  Spade could easily gain access to Madison’s phone. If Madison wasn’t checking Jesse’s location, Carson could easily do it. Madison might not even know what he was up to.

  He dialed Madison’s cell phone number. It went immediately to voice mail.

  “This is Sean. We need to talk. Call me.”

  He downloaded all the data and sent it to Rick. This was proof, as far as Sean was concerned, that Carson Spade had lied to the FBI and his handlers and that he should be put behind bars. Screw the plea deal. He was putting his son at risk and for what? Why would he do it? To get back into WITSEC? To get that clean slate? To keep Jesse away from Sean?

  Of course, someone else could have set up the blind account, but it had to be someone with physical access to Madison’s phone. Who else except her no-good husband?

  Jesse walked by the den door, but didn’t come in or even look at Sean. Bandit followed on Jesse’s heels.

  Sean got up and went to the kitchen. “Do you want me to make you something?” he asked.

  Jesse shook his head and stared into the refrigerator.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  He closed the refrigerator without getting anything.

  Sean wanted to tell him what he’d found, but he didn’t want to put any more stress on Jesse. He didn’t know why he was so quiet, why he wouldn’t even look at him.

  “You remember Jack, right? Lucy’s brother? He’ll be here this afternoon.”

  Again, nothing. Sean tried to remember when his life came crashing down on him after his parents died. Duke tried to talk to him, and Sean had the same reaction. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He wanted Duke to leave him alone, to let him figure things out on his own. But Duke wouldn’t leave him alone, and that had made Sean even angrier.

  At fourteen, he had no idea what to do with his rage, so he got in trouble. A lot of it. He didn’t want Jesse to go down the same path. Sure, Sean had cleaned up his act, he’d learned to channel his anger and develop healthier ways to relieve frustration, but there were times when he nearly got himself killed because of his rash actions. He’d been wild. He didn’t get into drugs and drinking, but he’d raced cars—before he was legally able to drive. He risked life and limb to get a rush, to feel alive, when everything inside him felt dead and buried along with his parents.

  Would Jesse go down a similar path? Would he rebel to the point of putting himself in mortal danger? How could Sean stop it? Lay down the law? Give him space? Talk to him? He didn’t know. He didn’t damn know what he was supposed to do. He was a father now, but he had no real examples. His own dad had been interesting and brilliant, but he’d never disciplined Sean. He was absentminded and more interested in work—that’s why Sean had become interested in electronics and computers in the first place, because that was how he earned his father’s time and attention. Sean’s brother Duke was the opposite. He was strict and dictatorial. He knew Sean was going down a dangerous path after their parents were killed, and Duke’s way of trying to prevent it was to go to the opposite extreme.

  What was Sean supposed to do now? He had no real authority over Jesse. He had only what Madison granted him. He wanted more—he wanted it all—but he’d never have it. Jesse didn’t have to listen to him. Hell, if Sean was in his shoes he’d say go to hell, leave me alone. The pushing and prodding that Duke tried in order to force Sean to talk had made Sean clam up or lie.

  Jesse wasn’t Sean, and Sean wasn’t Duke—or his own father. But that didn’t mean Sean had any answers. Hell, he had no answers. He was far out of his comfort zone and areas of expertise.

  “Lucy likes my chocolate chip pancakes,” Sean said. “Of course, Lucy likes anything with chocolate.”

  “Where is Lucy?”

  “She had to work.”

  Jesse grabbed a banana and said, “I’m not really hungry. I’m going to play video games.”

  “Want a partner?” Video games. That was something Sean could do. A connection he could make.

  “No. Don’t you have things to do?”

  Jesse walked away. Bandit looked at Sean and tilted his head, as if he knew there was a strain between them. Sean scratched him behind the ears, then said, “Go with Jesse.” Bandit didn’t need to be told twice. He bounded out of the kitchen. Sea
n watched as his son and dog disappeared at the end of the hall into the game room.

  He sat down at the island. He’d played the whole thing wrong.

  But he didn’t know how to fix it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Kane Rogan was used to working with a team—he had his core group of mercenaries, all former military, and while he was the commander, he listened to his men and weighed the pros and cons of any decision. Quickly, because when you were in the middle of the jungle or planning an op to rescue a hostage there wasn’t time to pontificate or debate.

  There were also times when one person could get the job done. Having backup was preferred, but not always required. He’d never tell Sean that—Sean could be reckless, especially when someone he cared about was at risk. Kane had never been reckless. When he went into a dangerous situation, he always knew what he was getting into. He always knew the threat, analyzed his chances of survival, and determined whether the goal was worth the risk.

  Since Siobhan had moved into his heart and his bed, he had recognized that taking risks didn’t just impact him anymore. And while he wasn’t ready to give up his vocation, he had added another factor to the mix: Was the risk worth losing Siobhan?

  For the first time in his life, he looked forward to going home. Hell, for the first time since he’d enlisted in the marines when he was eighteen, he had a home.

  Because neither he nor Sean really knew what was going on in this situation or if it even connected to Carson Spade or Jesse, Kane opted for caution. Sean would do his thing with computers, and Kane would watch the players involved and figure out the threat. He wouldn’t have been overly concerned except that Domingo had been assassinated to keep from talking. That told Kane whoever was behind this didn’t want anyone to know the endgame. Vasquez was just another tool. But even if he was a tool, he might also be a threat.

  It took Kane time to track down Vasquez, but soon he learned that the man had a standing golf date with three other men at eight a.m. every Saturday at a private club. Sean was much better at bribing or talking his way into these situations, but Kane had a few tricks up his sleeve, and speaking fluent Spanish helped. He found a young woman on the janitorial staff, gave her a short but believable story about how he was trying to get pictures of a deadbeat dad who spent thousands of dollars golfing but couldn’t pay his ex-wife to feed their kids. He slipped her a hundred dollars and promised he’d keep her confidence. She let him in through the staff entrance.

  From there, he just had to blend. He grabbed a staff polo shirt, a golf cap, and a clipboard so that it looked like he was working. Then he slipped into a golf cart and tracked Vasquez down at the twelfth tee.

  There were two caddies and four golfers. He parked close, but not too close, and pretended to be checking a flower bed. He had no idea what people did to maintain these type of exclusive golf courses, but he imagined there were always things that needed fixing. And maintenance people were ignored by almost everyone. It was often the best cover.

  He couldn’t get close enough to hear anything that they said, but he did have a powerful little pocket camera that he used to discreetly zoom in and snap photos of everyone in Vasquez’s party.

  He sent the photos to Sean to run their identities. Kane didn’t recognize any of the men, other than Vasquez. All white men, except Vasquez, who was Hispanic. All in their forties to early fifties. Anyone walking by would think they were businessmen playing golf on the weekend.

  Kane left after twenty minutes and took the cart back. He earned a few odd looks from staff, but no one stopped him. How long before they were done? At least an hour. A couple, if they stayed at the club for lunch or drinks.

  He’d checked on the house earlier. Full security and it appeared that the wife was home. If they needed to get into the place, Kane would have to wait until dark and when he had Sean to help. He didn’t want to get his brother caught breaking and entering, and if it was an old-school security system Kane would have no problem getting in. But the high-tech systems were out of his league.

  He left the neighborhood and drove downtown to Vasquez’s PI office. He called Nate.

  “You taking heat about last night?”

  “Not too much. Need me? I’m sitting on my ass doing nothing.”

  “Do you have a solid contact with SAPD?”

  “A couple.”

  “I want everything on Vasquez. Proven and unproven.”

  “I’m on it.” Nate hung up.

  Kane liked Nate Dunning and wished he could bring him into RCK. He was exactly the type of operative who would fit in well with their organization. Unfortunately, JT Caruso, Kane’s partner, had an agreement with Rick Stockton that they wouldn’t recruit out of the FBI. The only exception was former Sacramento FBI Agent Mitch Bianchi. However, there were extenuating circumstances: Mitch had wanted to quit, and he had broken a bunch of FBI rules—ridiculous rules, Kane had thought at the time—that had put him on the hot seat. They’d finessed it and it worked out.

  No way in hell would Rick Stockton let Nate Dunning go. Rick had actively recruited FBI agents out of the military. And if Nate quit the FBI to join RCK, they would severely damage their relationship with the one person who could cover them when things went south.

  Vasquez maintained space in a strip mall that was primarily destination businesses: a real estate office, a mobile phone dealer, a dry cleaner, a chain tax assistance business, a few others. A mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant had the largest space.

  Why would a former cop—probably corrupt—who lived in a million-dollar house in an exclusive San Antonio community have his PI office in a lower-middle-class neighborhood? Might mean nothing. Lower rents. Certain clients. Maybe he wanted to help the little guy.

  Kane was thinking that wasn’t his primary reason.

  Thugs like Domingo wouldn’t stand out here. People could come and go at all hours and no one would bat an eye. At night, everything was closed—except for the twenty-four-hour gas station across the street.

  Kane grabbed a plain, black ball cap and put it low on his head. He wore a black shirt and khakis and his hair was completely covered by the cap. He’d gotten tired of telling Sean to cut his hair, but it was probably a good thing because Sean was a taller version of Kane. He didn’t need to look any more like him.

  He walked down the strip mall as if he was heading for the Mexican restaurant. When he got to Vasquez’s office, he slowed, took a couple of photos of the door—they were open by appointment only on the weekends. Nothing could be seen inside; the blinds were tightly closed. He couldn’t even see how big the office was, whether there was a receptionist desk or waiting area or how many internal doors. There was a security camera above the door.

  He walked down to the restaurant and entered. It had counter service. He ordered six street tacos and a beer, sat in a booth that had a view of the door, and considered his options.

  He had an idea.

  He called the number of Vasquez’s business. He wasn’t surprised that he had an answering service.

  “Vasquez Private Investigations and Security, how may I help you?”

  “I need to speak with Mr. Vasquez.” He spoke with a heavy Mexican accent.

  “The office is closed today, I can take a message.”

  “A message? Write this down. I know he ordered the hit on my boy Manny. Manny Domingo. If he wants to talk, call me, otherwise one good turn deserves another.” He gave his burner phone number. Sean had set up a trace for it, just in case they needed it. He hung up before the answering service could get any ideas about asking questions.

  He looked at his watch. One seventeen. How long would it take the service to deliver the message?

  As it was, the message was delivered at the same time his tacos were. He let the phone ring three times before answering.

  “We need to meet,” Kane said.

  “Who is this?” Vasquez sounded angry, not worried.

  “I’m sorry,” Kane said in a heavy accent, �
��did I interrupt your golf game?”

  Silence.

  “You’re fucking with the wrong person.”

  “No, Mr. Vasquez, you’re fucking with the wrong person. Your office, one hour, alone.”

  “Sounds like a trap.”

  “Be there, or I’ll have some friends of mine in New Orleans pay a visit to sweet Maria and tell her what her father has been up to.”

  He hung up. He didn’t generally like threatening the children of his targets, even adult children. Chances were that Maria Vasquez was innocent of her father’s dirty work. But Kane couldn’t use the man’s wife—he didn’t know anything about her, and she could be in as deep as her husband if they hadn’t won the lottery or her rich uncle Roberto didn’t croak and leave them the house. Until he knew more, he went with his gut, and his gut said Maria Vasquez was innocent and her father wanted her to stay that way.

  Kane ate his tacos and waited.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The search of Cassidy Roth’s house was almost a complete bust.

  First, it was immaculate. She was a minimalist. Her bookshelves were orderly, every book straight and in alphabetical order. She had no fiction—most of the books seemed related to science and the history of science, with a few thick world history books. Her linen closet was organized, every towel and sheet folded perfectly. She had an extensive DVD collection sorted first by genre then in release order.

  The boxes she’d been described as taking from Charlie’s apartment after the standoff were nowhere to be found. Her computer wasn’t covered in the warrant, which had been limited in scope: They were looking for Charlie’s computer, Paul Grey’s cell phone, evidence from Charlie’s apartment, and notes or an address book that could give investigators a clue as to where to find any of the above. They also had a warrant to track her cell phone, but they’d tracked it to her house—she had left it there, which told Lucy she had a second phone.

  Lucy really wanted to get into Cassidy’s computer because there could be more information, including information about Adam, Vince Paine, or what she was up to.