Inside was cash—several thousand dollars’ worth—credit cards in three different names, driver licenses and more false identities. The forgeries were good. Excellent even. But no goddamn cell phone. He slipped the wallet into an evidence bag and placed it in his vest pocket.
He dug deeper into the blue ceramic pot but nothing else was hidden. He brushed off his hands. Tried to think like he was on a military op. So the guy had hidden his wallet because if things went wrong he didn’t want whatever was in it to be found.
The guy had known going in that this was a high risk operation. It was unplanned because Michael Vincent was an unforeseen complication. Jed thought for a moment. The fact this guy had stayed outside the fray during the attack on the mall suggested he was high value. Worth more to the organization alive than martyred to the cause.
So why risk revealing his identity for the kid?
Jed was missing something.
Give him a series of mutilated bodies and he could predict all sorts of salient details about the killer. But terrorists killed for different reasons—they murdered out of conviction. Now, with the attempt on Michael Vincent’s life, the motivation had switched to one of murder for elimination. Michael was an inconvenience or a danger to them. Jed just didn’t know why.
They were organized offenders. Highly organized in this case. The fact they’d taken such risks to go after the boy… Maybe the female terrorist who’d escaped was personally involved with this pool guy and he hadn’t wanted her exposed because they were lovers. Maybe they were plotting further attacks? The latter seemed much more likely considering the female tango could easily have died during the mall attack. Her escape was both bold and daring.
Was she the brains behind the organization? Were they simply trying to protect the mastermind’s identity?
What might be locked up inside Michael’s mind?
He walked into the pool area, feeling the heat and humidity cling to his skin, the slight sting of chlorine in his eyes. Sweat ran down his temple. He slipped out of his down vest and scanned the poolside. It was early but already filling with people. Kids were laughing and splashing like nothing had happened yesterday—and why not? Better than these sadistic morons disrupting people’s lives with their hatred and bitterness, which was exactly what they wanted. A pair of navy-blue eyes and red hair flashed through his mind. The sooner he could wrap this thing up, the sooner Vivi Vincent and her son could go home.
OK then.
Think.
The injured lifeguard had sported a goose egg from where the guy had hit him over the head. What did he hit him with? Jed walked over to the secluded alcove where the lifeguard had been stationed yesterday, not far from where he’d seen Michael underwater.
A heater blasted against the window, condensation forming a dense mist on the huge panes of glass. A first aid kit was attached to the wall. Jed checked inside but nothing jumped out at him. Another fake palm sat nearby. It couldn’t be that simple, could it? He ran his hand inside the lip and touched something smooth and hard, not hidden just propped out of sight.
A gun. Holy hell. He pulled it out, recognized a Browning Hi-Power pistol. Crap. The lifeguard was damn lucky he’d just been knocked unconscious, rather than shot. Jed was assuming the terrorist hadn’t wanted to cause a ruckus and risk losing Michael Vincent in the chaos. Instead he’d been patient and pounced like a crocodile.
Jed swept his hand further inside the rim and came up with pay dirt. Cell phone. Ding ding ding. Grinning, he bagged it and headed out the way he’d come. This guy was important, Jed could feel it. These items were going to provide valuable intel and help them round up the dregs of this particular terrorist cell.
Slipping into his vest on the way out of the changing room door, he stopped dead when he saw the spook from the briefing on his hands and knees digging out a potted fern in the hotel corridor. A trail of debris circled each piece of foliage in the foyer. Jed leaned against the wall and watched the guy for a full ten seconds before he spoke up.
“Pretty good instincts you’ve got there, CIA.”
The man sat back on his heels. “Why don’t you say it louder? I don’t think they heard you in Canada.”
Jed grinned. There was no one close enough to overhear them talking and the guy knew it. The spook looked up at him. “You find it?”
Jed held back a smirk. No one liked a bragger. “Yup.”
The spook narrowed his gaze. “Gonna share?”
“I think the question is, are you going to share?”
“Feebs are in charge.” The spook climbed to his feet, brushed his hands on his thighs. “How about I look at it while you drive me?”
“Drive you? Drive you where?” The guy was too cocky and too confident. Frankly, he didn’t trust him.
“To visit the Vincent woman and her kid.” Jed opened his mouth to argue but the intelligence officer cut him off. “Look, I like you Brennan. I like how you think. I like the results you’ve gotten so far. She trusts you. Work with me and I promise not to break out the plastic wrap and buckets of water.”
“Not funny, asshole.”
“Agency humor. C’mon, Brennan, work with me here.” The spook trailed after him, leaving the dirt scattered for someone else to deal with—a sure reminder of how the Agency usually operated, always leaving someone else to clean up their mess.
The spook didn’t shut up. “It’ll go smoother if you’re there too. I need to talk to her. To assess her and the kid. Hey, maybe she’ll like me.” The grin was practiced and smooth and made Jed want to knock his gleaming white teeth out of alignment.
The pressure in his jaw ramped up a notch and he rubbed his neck. Sooner they figured this out the sooner Vivi and Michael would be free to carry on their normal lives. This guy was supposed to be on their side.
“Fine, but I want in on your intel.” He carried on walking, figuring someone from the CIA could probably manage to follow him to the car without getting lost. He climbed in his SUV and started the engine. Blew on his hands as the spook jogged through the snow to catch up. “Where’s your ride?” he asked the guy.
“I caught a cab.”
Because he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone where he was going or what he was planning.
“Where do you live?” asked Jed.
“Wherever they send me.”
“Not much of a life.”
The spook shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
“What do I call you?” Jed asked. “Aside from the obvious.” He gave him a grim smile. He didn’t want this guy thinking he didn’t understand what his agenda was—and that the agenda was thousands of miles away tracing the source of the problem. Jed got that, admired it even, but he didn’t want to be anyone’s stooge. Vivi and Michael were not pawns in his game.
“Patrick Killion. Everyone calls me Killion.”
“Right, Killion, we’ve got a couple stops to make first.” He handed the guy some latex gloves out of the box he kept in the dash, then dug out the wallet and cell he’d found hidden, saving the pistol until last. “Knock yourself out.”
Killion turned on the cell just as they were leaving the parking lot. “And we have a name—Abdullah Mulhadre.” He pulled out his own cell phone and spoke to someone presumably at Langley.
“Anything?” Jed asked impatiently after a minute of silence on this end and the other guy busy scrolling.
Killion’s expression grew forbidding as he hung up. “Yeah, there’s a record of one Abdullah Mulhadre being assigned to the Syrian Embassy—they’re checking his immunity status although no one is immune from terrorism charges.” Killion’s eyes gleamed. “If it’s the same guy he’s a member of the Syrian Republican Guard.”
A wave of dread crashed over Jed’s body. “Are you saying this attack came from Syria itself?” He’d seen the cost of war up close. Hell, he’d lost his best friend to it and didn’t want more of it here.
Killion’s lips thinned. “Not a word about this, Brennan. Not a fucking word until I
hear back from Langley.”
He blew out a frustrated breath. Dammit. Was he supposed to lie to his colleagues? But sharing with everyone at the field office could mean this information could leak, and a leak could precipitate a series of events that might morph into full-scale war. No way did he want to risk thousands of lives. And what about the Vincents? If it was the whole Syrian Government they were facing their lives would never be safe—or maybe, if this was the big secret the terrorists were trying to protect, then publically revealing that the Syrian Government had attacked US citizens on US soil meant the boy’s safety would no longer be an issue.
War would be declared.
It was too big to screw up.
“We tell McKenzie but no one else—that way we can control the flow of information and he can take it higher.” Jed didn’t want to be responsible for the investigation missing a solid lead or veering in the wrong direction, but he didn’t want to be responsible for starting a war either. He didn’t trust spooks. And spooks didn’t trust the FBI. Damn. They were in for a hell of a ride.
***
Vivi woke with a start. A door slammed downstairs and her heart hammered. Then she heard the murmur of conversation and subdued laughter. The US Marshals going about their normal day.
OK. It wasn’t bad guys. They were safe.
She pushed up onto her elbow and stared down at Michael. He had his eyes pressed tightly closed. Faking it.
“OK, sleepy head. Time to get up and eat some breakfast.” He squeezed his lids even tighter. Crap. Although this was better than the trance-like state he’d arrived in, it wasn’t exactly business as usual. “How about I bring you breakfast in bed? Special treat?”
He didn’t answer and a little drum of panic fluttered just beneath her ribs. The attack in the pool last night had undermined any progress they’d made after the mall shooting. She’d promised no one would hurt him but a stranger had held him under the water until he’d almost drowned.
What sort of parent did that make her?
Flawed.
Inadequate.
Struggling.
Normal.
Time. He just needed a little time and space from what had happened. They’d be OK.
She eased out of bed, wincing as her injured feet hit the ground. She showered, ignoring the slight throb of discomfort, and put on fresh salve and bandages. She pulled a pair of jeans, a green blouse and thick socks from her case. One look in the mirror had her dragging out her make-up case—she’d seen zombies with more color. Subtle eye shadow, mascara, and a light coating of lip gloss made her look almost human. With another glance at Michael’s sleeping form—he’d drifted off again—she went downstairs to see if she could rustle up something good for him to eat.
Two strangers stood in the kitchen, both wearing dark suits and shoulder holsters. It was an unwelcome slap of reality. They both looked up as she entered.
“I was wondering when we’d get to meet you.” One guy, not tall, but blond and nice looking in a rough and rugged way came toward her with an outstretched hand. He shook hers vigorously. “We’re the day shift. I’m Inspector Patton and this here is DUSM Rogers.”
She nodded at Rogers who appeared a little older—in his fifties with graying hair and a hard edge to his face that made him look both capable and dangerous.
“How’s your son doing?” Patton asked. He wore a wedding ring and seemed easy going. The title “Inspector” suggested that Patton was the boss.
She cleared her throat. “Not great actually. I was hoping to take some warm milk and a bowl of cereal up to the room to try and get some fuel inside him.”
“You sit and have coffee. I’ll make his breakfast.” Patton was already in the fridge getting the milk. He was either a family man or had lots of siblings growing up. “Does he like Cheerios?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Not all men were as good with children or as comfortable doing for others.
FBI Agent Brennan had been good with Michael too, she thought with a pang. Perhaps they were the norm and her expectations of the male of the species had been skewed unfairly because of Michael’s father. Sad that she’d found more caring in the presence of strangers than she’d ever experienced with her ex.
The other marshal, Rogers, handed her coffee and joked. “Thank God you’re awake. This guy can’t sit still. The next phase was to redecorate the living room in soft, pastel colors that feel more ‘homey’ and then sew new drapes.” He winked at her. “He’s heading toward retirement at lightning speed and, personally, I can’t wait for him to get there.”
“Yeah, well wait until Dr. Phil is on TV this afternoon and see who the little homemaker is then,” Patton taunted him back. Rogers winked at her. They were obviously people who’d worked together for many years, both easy with their authority and, in turn, trying to put her at ease. She smiled back. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed the company of men. Nowadays her world was filled with Michael, his friends, and a couple of other moms she knew from school. She worked over the internet. Had no close male friends. Certainly no dates and absolutely no lovers.
Her mood dropped.
The guilt of motherhood was prodding her not to enjoy anything about this terrible situation. People had died yesterday. Michael had almost died twice. But everything that had happened also made her realize how lonely her life had become. She had no one who cared if she never went home. It was a sobering thought.
She edged up onto a tall stool. Patton slid a plate of toast and marmalade across the kitchen island toward her. It tasted delicious and she was ravenous.
Roger’s cell phone rang and he checked the window that overlooked the long, winding driveway. “Just make sure you both have your ID out and hands outside your pockets until I verify the new guy.” Rogers hung up and dialed someone else. “Visitors,” he told her and Patton, who left cook duty and went to check the back door.
“Who is it?” she asked nervously.
“Jed Brennan and some intelligence officer.”
Her stomach somersaulted. Had they figured out who Michael’s father was? What would she do if they tried to take Michael away from her, or lock him up? She’d scream bloody murder, that’s what. No. David hadn’t even returned her call from yesterday. He’d lost interest in them years ago, but he did like wielding power just to prove he could. She stood rigid with indecision and told herself she was being stupid. Every counter-terrorism agency in the world would want to see what they could get out of Michael. They’d see him as an asset, a tool.
Even if Michael had been a normal kid this would have been a traumatic time, but with his brain so delicately balanced between this world and some unknown place, it was even more difficult. She would not let them push him.
Rogers waved to get her to move out of sight behind the kitchen counter. She crouched, knowing these guys had a job to do and she could make that job harder or easier. Michael’s safety and well-being were all that truly mattered. Not David. Not the CIA. Not Jed Brennan. Just Michael.
She heard voices at the door. Footsteps. When she looked up she found herself staring at a very tall Special Agent Brennan. There was some distance in his expression which helped her see him as a federal agent again, rather than an attractive male. It settled her. Made her think that maybe they could do this. She climbed to her feet, feeling slightly foolish. Another man spoke to the marshals in the hallway. She couldn’t see him.
“Everything OK?” He sounded tired. Eyes red-rimmed from fatigue, the shadow of a dark beard sweeping his jaw. He still wore the jeans and plaid shirt he’d changed into yesterday, but the whole outdoorsy thing looked even better on him than the tailored suit. As a woman who’d always preferred tailored suits that was troubling.
“Michael’s asleep.” She grimaced as she realized she was once again hiding behind her son.
“What about you? Sleep OK?” Brennan watched her with something akin to pity. The fact he saw straight through her, made her want to hunch her shoulders and turn away.
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Instead she straightened her spine and went with honesty. “Hanging in there. What about you?”
“A little too busy for sleep.” His dark hair was ruffled as if he’d run his hands through it countless times. His ears were pink from the cold.
“Have you made any arrests yet?”
Brennan shook his head. “We’re working on it. I called the hospital like you asked. The woman whose kids you saved woke up in the ICU. Looks like she’ll make it.”
“Thank goodness.”
He grinned, and that wave of attraction hit her again, harder this time.
He was the same tall, dark and handsome that had been her undoing ten years earlier. He had the same broad-shouldered, lean frame, the same confident-competent manner. But there the resemblance to her ex ended. Brennan’s eyes were warm, his grin easy. His voice was calm and non-threatening, even though power radiated from the way he held himself and the way he commanded attention. Even when she’d met the take-charge version of the guy yesterday he hadn’t yelled or gotten angry. He hadn’t lost his temper or lashed out.
It could all be an act though—she’d been fooled before. She couldn’t afford to forget that the FBI had an agenda when it came to her and her son.
A stark reminder of that fact appeared behind Brennan’s shoulder.
Everything inside her went quiet and still, the way a mouse froze when a buzzard hovered above. The newcomer’s eyes were pale blue; his gaze dissecting her like a surgeon’s scalpel. The long, sun-bleached hair softened the overall effect but she knew exactly the sort of man he was. Cold. Hard. Ruthless. No way in hell was he getting anywhere near her son.
Jed introduced them. “Vivi, this is Intelligence Officer Patrick Killion. He’s hoping to speak with you and Michael about what you experienced yesterday.” There was something in his voice that she didn’t know how to interpret. Almost humor.
The two marshals stood close by and watched the exchange.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am. I was just hoping to ask Michael a few questions.” Killion held out his hand and she took it.
Cold Pursuit (Cold Justice) (Volume 2) Page 9
