She heard more gunshots from the direction of the kitchen but didn’t know who fired. Bobby’s cries were getting louder so she rushed and picked him up out of the crib and ran back into her room. The baby was warm against her body, but his diaper was saturated. Her dog Sampson followed her, whining unhappily.
She stripped the sodden sleep suit and diaper from Bobby’s body and tossed them on the floor. Then she laid the baby on the bed and wrapped him in a towel that hung on the back of her door.
The gunshots were getting more frequent now and glass shattered. Kenny’s words from earlier that evening came back to her in a rush.
“If there’s ever trouble, promise me something? Hide in your closet or under your bed. Don’t come out for anything or anyone.”
How’d he known?
She had no idea, but somehow, she was sure he had.
She stared at the gun she’d laid on the bed, and then back at the baby smiling up at her, torn as to what to do.
Kenny was dead and she needed to avenge him, but she didn’t want to get shot or die. Bobby gurgled and her heart twisted. She didn’t want Bobby to die either.
She didn’t allow herself to worry about the rest of her family. They never listened to her anyhow.
She ran to the bedroom door and closed it, turning the key quietly in case one of them heard and came running. Then she wedged a wooden chair under the handle. Next, she picked up the baby and cradled him against her chest. She grabbed the handgun, climbed inside her closet, shoving aside old shoes and toys, urging Sampson to join them. She pulled the door closed, lying on the cramped floor beside the infant. She put the gun behind her so Bobby wouldn’t be able to reach it.
Gunshots sounded louder now and she shivered as the baby cried out in alarm. Vibrations of bullets slamming into her home reverberated through the wood and along her bones. She curled over the baby and hugged the dog, protecting them both as best she could.
The shooting seemed to go on for hours. Eventually, she heard her mother’s voice, faint between the two closed wooden doors.
“Theresa Jane?” Her bedroom door rattled. “Theresa Jane, you in there? Open the door. Theresa Jane! Open the damned door!”
Theresa Jane’s hand started to inch toward the closet door and then stopped. Her mother sounded angry enough to carry out her earlier threat. Theresa Jane was smart enough to be more terrified of Francis than of the bullets flying around.
“Theresa Jane, I’m warning you—” Her mother’s threat was cut off by a scream of pain and a sob.
Theresa Jane sat up.
Oh, God. Had her mother been shot?
“Help. Help.” Her mother’s voice grew fainter.
Theresa Jane’s heart twisted. Her mother was hurt. She started to go to her, then froze when her mother started yelling. “You always were a contrary little bitch. I should have drowned you at birth.”
Hot tears filled Theresa Jane’s eyes. The tightness in her throat made it impossible to breathe. Bobby started fussing and she gathered him closer as Sampson stuck his nose between them and whimpered. “It’s okay, Bobby. I’m gonna take good care of you. I love you, baby.” She kissed Sampson’s wet nose. “I’m gonna protect you both, forever and ever.”
Chapter Two
The time had come. All the years of planning, plotting, pretending, had finally come to an end.
Now was the time to act.
The targets had been carefully chosen. Each one would send a message until it was time for the ultimate demonstration of power. Let the government scurry madly in mindless fear. Let them mobilize their resources and throw a thousand imbecilic drones at the issue, trying to hunt them down. They’d fail. It was already too late. They moved too slowly. She was too clever. The plan was in motion.
Now was the time for vengeance.
The morning was still dark. The late February air crisp and dry. She pulled her hat lower, the wool black scarf wrapped high around her neck, the heavy black winter coat done up to her chin against the chill, concealing her build, her shape, her femininity. She hunched her nose into her scarf and avoided meeting the gaze of a man wearing a business suit and woolen overcoat.
If she hoped to complete her mission, she couldn’t afford for anyone to remember her face.
Her grip tightened on the pistol she concealed in her deep coat pocket. It was a generic gun, holding unexceptional bullets. They carried a clear message.
North Cleveland Park was one of the few areas of the city not covered with cameras. If people knew how much the government spied on their every move they’d have more members in their ranks. But theirs was a small and exclusive club. Restricted to those they could trust, those committed to doing something about their problems, rather than just mouthing off. She kept her head down as she turned right and walked up the hill, passing beautiful, century-old homes with leafy driveways, and gardens that were a dark, lush green, even in the dead of winter.
Three more houses.
She didn’t glance around, or draw attention to herself as she turned into the driveway of number forty-four. She slipped around the side of the house to the back door, drew out her pistol. With her gloved left hand she rapped sharply using the small iron knocker. She looked around. The rear of the house was concealed by a tall privet hedge and a dense band of trees on either side, a heavily wooded ridge behind. She heard the tread of footsteps from inside, a voice calling out and another one muttering in response. The man opened the door, his bushy gray eyebrows rising up his wrinkled forehead. He opened his mouth to say something—probably some biting comment meant to put her in her place.
She didn’t give him the chance.
She pulled the trigger twice. The suppressor made the gun heavier than normal but her aim was true. Then she stepped over the dead man and walked into the warmth of his home. A woman stood slack-mouthed beside the open refrigerator. She pulled the trigger again and the woman crumpled to the hardwood floor. Determinedly, the woman tried to drag herself forward. The messenger stepped closer and put a bullet between terrified black eyes.
No witnesses.
She picked up the shell casings.
No evidence.
She stepped over the man’s body, avoiding the dark pooling blood.
No remorse.
She walked away.
Chapter Three
It was Assistant Special Agent in Charge Steve McKenzie’s first day in his new position and he was early.
He’d just wrapped up being team leader of a Joint Terrorism Task Force investigating the November attack on a shopping mall in Minnesota. The carnage still gave him nightmares but that was the cost of the job. Stopping terrorists from hurting others made it worthwhile.
Prior to Minnesota, he’d spent two years at the Crisis Management Unit in Quantico. Now he was bringing those skills to do a stint at HQ—a necessary evil if you wanted to get promoted within the FBI. The only drawback was somehow the heart of FBI operations felt a whole hell of a lot like the sidelines, and he did his best work neck-deep in shit-storms.
But this was a plum job that utilized all his skills and messing it up wasn’t on the agenda. His plan was to make Special Agent in Charge (SAC) and be put in charge of his own field office by the time he was forty. At the ripe old age of thirty-nine he was cutting it fine.
He got off the elevator on the fifth floor. A tall, burly man approached from an office on the left. Mac headed that way, passing a small, wooden desk, cordoned off with protective rope, a framed photograph of J. Edgar Hoover sitting pride of place on its shiny, mahogany surface.
“ASAC McKenzie?” the man approaching asked.
“Yes, sir.” Mac nodded as he held out his hand. “Most people call me Mac.”
“I’ve heard great things about you, Mac.”
“All lies,” Mac said straight-faced. “ASC Gerald, I presume?”
The man nodded. “Let me give you a quick tour of SIOC and help you get settled.”
Gerald swiped his badge over an elect
ronic panel and opened the door. SIOC—or the Strategic Information and Operations Center—in the depths of FBI headquarters was over forty-two thousand square feet of state-of-the-art facilities that looked like it had been ripped right out of a Jason Bourne movie.
They entered a large room filled with a big conference table and TV monitors mounted on the wall. Off to the side there was another smaller Executive Suite with coffee making equipment and en suite facilities.
“That’s where the director and the attorney general meet every morning to talk through the most pressing issues of the day.” The ASC checked a wristwatch that looked capable of launching rockets. He nodded to a woman setting up refreshments. “They’ll be here any minute. The suite has everything except a Jacuzzi.” Gerald laughed at his own joke and walked through to another larger conference room, swinging his arms out in an arc to encompass all the screens and clocks on the wall showing local times around the globe. “We have six crisis action team rooms, five large-scale operations areas, executive briefing areas and conference rooms. We operate around the clock, 365 days of the year, 24/7, with three watch units and one critical incident unit.”
Mac’s job was to act as liaison officer between the Crisis Management Unit here and the one in Quantico.
Gerald stopped in one of the Executive Operations rooms and stood with his hands on his hips looking around, the sense of pride obvious from the smile on his face and the confident angle of his chin. “This is where we manage special missions like the Somali pirates’ operation.”
“You ran that from here?” Mac was impressed.
The ASC’s deep brown eyes glowed with satisfaction. “Every second of it.”
Those were the sorts of cases Mac wanted to be involved with—a fix for his inner adrenaline junkie and a way of gaining valuable insight into the full capabilities of the Bureau. But he’d been working for the FBI long enough to understand it was ninety-five percent paperwork, five percent high-octane action. That proportion only increased the higher you climbed up the food chain.
Each FBI Field Office had their own Operation Centers, but SIOC made most of them look like high school media rooms. From this place, they could monitor the position of every aircraft in US airspace, access all street cameras in five states, and know the deployment of all national assets from bomb squads to surveillance units. This was important information to have on hand and CMU needed access to it. Excitement snaked up Mac’s spine as he took everything in. This was where he was meant to be.
A commotion broke out and several agents came hurrying out of a media operations room across the hallway. One of them, a young woman with straight brown hair, searched around until her eyes found Gerald. She walked briskly toward them carrying a piece of paper. Clearly something big had happened.
“What have you got, Hernandez?” Gerald held out his hand.
“Just got word a federal judge has been found murdered in his DC home.”
Gerald took the paper. “What do we know?”
“Judge Raine Thomas of the United States Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit. Shot dead in North Cleveland Park this morning before he left for work. Wife was also shot dead.”
“They catch anyone?”
The woman shook her head. “Local cops were first on the scene. But as soon as they discovered the identity of the victim, they called in the Feds. Washington Field Office has agents en route.”
“ASAC Steve McKenzie.” He indicated Mac with his right hand. “I want you to meet Libby Hernandez, a top analyst at SIOC. Mac just joined us from the Crisis Management Unit at Quantico.”
Mac shook hands with the analyst and didn’t bother to correct Gerald. It was close enough. “WFO has the lead on this?”
They were heading toward Gerald’s office, the men’s long strides forcing the woman to almost jog to keep up. Mac slowed down and indicated she go ahead of him.
“Correct.” She nodded and smiled gratefully.
They walked into Gerald’s office and the man went behind his desk to pick up the phone. “I need to update my boss.”
“I’d like to visit the crime scene and talk to the case officer. See if they’re going to need our services,” Mac said.
Strictly speaking, the Assistant Section Chief wasn’t his boss—that was still the head of the Critical Incident Response Group, but Gerald was one in a long line of superiors within the Law Enforcement Services division.
Gerald appeared amused and tapped his fingers on the phone’s handset. “You understand that’s why we have all these monitors and computers here, right? Remote access.”
“But there’s nothing like being at the actual scene to get a feel for what happened and how it went down. That’s how agents figured out there was a female terrorist involved in the Minnesota mall attack.” Mac held Gerald’s gaze. They all knew that same female terrorist had tried to assassinate the President of the United States. It wasn’t something that could be overstated. He didn’t know how long Gerald had been in administration or whether he still got that buzz from being in the field, but Mac did. That was the one thing he was going to miss as SAC. “With such a high-profile murder occurring on our doorstep, I think it’s worth a quick field trip.”
“Makes sense.” Gerald conceded. “Let me find out who’s on it from WFO and I’ll tell them you’re on your way.” He covered the mouthpiece with his palm. “You have transportation?”
“I’ll grab a cab.”
Five minutes later, Mac was back on the streets of downtown DC, trying to hail a cab. Only a few top FBI officials were assigned parking spots beneath HQ and he wasn’t on that list. It was a stark reminder that while he might think he was hot shit, around here, he was simply another cog in the wheel.
* * *
Tess Fallon let herself into her brother’s house and dumped her laptop case on top of the kitchen table.
“Cole?” She shouted. “You here?”
Silence met her greeting and her breath rushed out in frustration. She checked her wristwatch. They were supposed to meet at nine to go over his tax returns, but to say her brother had other priorities was an understatement.
“Zane, Andy, Dave?” She paused. “Joseph? Anyone?”
Cole had bought this house using money he’d inherited from their mother last year. He rented rooms to three of his friends, other members of the university soccer team, and his best friend, Joseph, spent more time here than in his own dorm.
No one answered her.
“Damn.” She eased out of her coat and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. She gave Cole’s cell a try and cursed when it went straight to voicemail.
He’d obviously forgotten she’d arranged to come over this morning. She had a client meeting at ten-thirty, with an influential civil liberties group—her specialty—and she knew more-or-less where Cole kept his files. She could wait around, wasting her time, or she could get on with the job.
She headed through the messy living room with its polished hardwood floor, rumpled couch, and massive flat-screen TV. Two empty breakfast bowls sat on the coffee table, along with two half-full mugs of coffee which suggested someone had eaten a quick breakfast here this morning—or they hadn’t cleaned up lately.
She headed to the den, which served as Cole’s office. This was strictly his space and pretty much the only rule he had in the house was that the guys did not mess around in here. Two PCs and an iMac lined one wall and another flat-screen TV decorated the bare space above it. Her brother’s paperwork was stacked haphazardly on his desk next to his laptop docking station.
She eyed the papers. She had him automatically copy her on electronic receipts every time he made a work purchase or got paid. Even so, this was a mess.
Cole had enrolled at American University on a soccer scholarship but had busted his knee at the end of the first season. During his recuperation, he’d started writing software apps. It turned out he was phenomenal at it.
Tess didn’t have the first clue about writing code, but
she did understand that if he didn’t pay taxes, he’d go to jail. On a positive note, he now earned more than she did, which was a little demoralizing when she thought about all the years she’d put in to her CPA training, but at least she didn’t need to worry about supporting him through college or paying off his student loans.
“So where d’you put the household bills, genius?” She leafed through the stack of papers on the desk, slowly grinding her teeth. Didn’t matter how many times she’d asked him to pull those numbers he always forgot—and yet here she was, enabling him.
She glanced at the filing drawer where he kept most of his personal information. He didn’t like people going through his stuff. He never had. She didn’t like snooping, but she had a living to make and she was the one doing her brother a favor. The least he could do was allow her to enable him at her own convenience.
She opened the drawer and made short work of locating the files she needed: Internet, phone, heating, insurance, mortgage. She was just about to close the drawer when a shiny black folder caught her eye.
Her fingers plucked at it before she could stop herself. Apparently, she was compulsively nosey, but if her brother had turned up like he was supposed to she wouldn’t have been forced to go digging through his belongings. Inside the folder was a printed photo of a man she didn’t recognize, along with some personal details like his name, home address and phone number. There were pages on other people, too. Her eyebrows scrunched together as she quickly flicked through the pages. Weird. A bright purple data stick was also tucked inside the file.
Maybe they were professors, or people who’d hired Cole to create software for them. Or maybe they were potential investors. Cole had talked about opening his own company, but she’d insisted he get his degree first. It didn’t mean he’d listened to her.
With a grumble, she slipped the file back into the drawer. He was twenty years old next month. An adult capable of making his own decisions. It wasn’t her business.
Grabbing the bills, she headed into the kitchen where there was more space to spread out. She pushed the junk mail and cereal boxes to one side. Cole had probably gone to the library. Or maybe he hadn’t come home at all…
Cold Malice Page 2
