by A K August
I opened my comms. "Target in sight."
In the past, to properly track a suspect, you needed to narrate every turn and stoplight so the teams on parallel paths or in front of the target could maintain their position; but everyone had the GPS locator for the Mercedes as well as our locations on our phones.
Rand's computer network also had access to the street cameras and would be looking for signs of others interested in either the Mercedes or us. As we turned on Mass Ave, Rand chimed in. "Seven o'clock, three back, white Escalade and at six o'clock, five back, black Mustang."
These were two vehicles that appear to be taking the same route we did coming out of Adams Morgan, pacing us. We were in the right lane, with the Mustang five cars directly behind us and the white SUV three cars behind in the left lane. We'd be turning on Ninth Street shortly; we'll see if that continues.
I tapped Handsy's leg as I saw the Mercedes turning ahead, but too early for Ninth. "Deviation." I heard Handsy tell Rand through the comms.
"Copy."
I watched the target slow then turn on Thirteen Street. We couldn't follow on the side street; it would be too easy to spot us. "13th Street. Possible detection test."
"Copy. Alpha Team, maintain course, turn on Ninth, may be able to reengage. Charlie Team, watch for ground movement."
"Copy," I replied.
Handsy tapped me on the leg and pointed forward. I nodded. We'd let the Mercedes turn and Charlie team cover. If our target looked for anyone following, it wouldn't be us.
The Mercedes turned and we slowed to let the light shift to red. I felt Handsy stretch behind me, his body forming a wall that kept my smaller form hidden to those behind us. I turned to ask Handsy a question while watching the Mercedes drive down Thirteenth Street.
The light turned green, and we drove through the intersection as the Mercedes approached K Street three blocks south of us. Charlie Team positioned to pick them up, so I shifted my focus to check out the vehicles behind us in my mirrors. The white SUV had moved to the right lane, three cars behind us, but then it turned onto Thirteenth, following the same path as our target.
Could be a coincidence.
"Escalade stayed with the target," Rand confirmed he was tracking the same.
The Mustang stayed on Mass Ave, passing us as we turned on Ninth and got stuck behind a light.
I let Rand know we were one less suspicious vehicle. "Mustang went home."
"Copy."
I got in the left lane and we cruised down Ninth Avenue, past the CityCenter, a billion-dollar high-end shopping complex designed to attract money to a failing Chinatown. Hermes, Louis Vuitton, Kate Spade, and all the exclusive realtors bought in on the hype, sinking money into the complex, which would house retail and restaurants on the first and second levels and luxury living on the upper floors. After the initial three-year contracts expired, many retailers pulled up, leaving empty storefronts and a ghost town feel. Developers were adding a luxury hotel and other amenities to try and appeal to the stores and customers, but the residents joked that it was like a big piece of art, you went and saw the exhibition once and had no reason to return.
Handsy tapped my thigh as I caught sight of our Mercedes turning on Ninth in front of us. We allowed the Mercedes to pull ahead as we spotted the White SUV turning south several cars behind our target.
We passed by the Museum of Natural History on the National Mall and merged onto the Ninth Street Parkway, going under I-395 and turning left on Maine as planned. Rand had Bravo Team hang back to not spook our target. The Escalade was still with them as well.
Along the drive, Handsy gave me the backstory on our target. We'd acquired the metadata on key card usage for all Criterion employees and discarded 90% as swiping in and out regularly. There were still over fifty employees with irregular or no access to the office. Most of that irregularity tracked to vacations or sick leave, but five employees, listed as working out of that office, never swiped their badges.
Two were in a wheelchair and were escorted by security around the turnstiles, never recording their access. Dwyer was one of the other three, and Rand said another was Dwyer's former platoon member, who died two weeks ago. That left our target, the computer geek. Criterion employed him, but he never went to the office, and there were no other locations listed as Criterion properties. So wherever and whatever this guy was doing for Criterion, they wanted it kept quiet. We were tasked with identifying this location.
We got word from Rand that the target and the Escalade pulled in to a parking lot adjacent to the trendy District Wharf area, and Bravo Team had eyes. Echo Team abandoned the grocery store as I turned on G Street just before Maine, and we routed through the residential area snagging a street spot on H Street only two blocks from our target's current location.
It was four o'clock on a Tuesday. The restaurants and boardwalk would be closed until dinner and foot traffic was minimal during the summer heat. It would be hard to conceal an eight-man team casually walking the perimeter. Handsy pointed out a clump of trees on the corner and I headed to the bus stop shelter just down the street. Bravo team radioed that our target approached street level, no signs of the occupants for the Escalade. Charlie team had taken position on the north end of the street; Echo team had the south end. Handsy and I were in place to intercept if he headed east, and Bravo would pick up if the target circled around and went toward the boardwalk.
It was a blistering afternoon and I felt the sweat trickle down my back. I'd left my leather jacket and helmet with the bike, but my thick dark jeans and boots did not allow much airflow. I'd seen and dealt with worse in the desert so I would survive. I grabbed my t-shirt and tied it in a knot just beneath my breasts, exposing my well-sculpted abs and pulled my hair into a high ponytail, giving it a hard shake to let out a few stragglers. I cocked my hip and took out an emery board, focusing on filing my nails while smacking my gum.
I heard chuckling in my comms as Handsy called in our positions. "I'm behind the tree line at Cloverton Apartments, Wash at the bus stop doing her bimbo biker chick routine."
"One stick or two?" Bakken's voice came over comms. He and Yardley were on Echo Team today.
I ran three fingers through my hair, and Handsy answered their question, "it's a three stick afternoon gentlemen." More hooting from Charlie and Bravo Teams, echoed in my ears until Rand's sharp voice silenced everyone.
"Get back in the game. Who's got eyes?"
Stick from Charlie team chimed up, "just exited parking lot, heading east up 7th."
"I see him. Wash, he'll be to you in sixty seconds," Handsy updated the team.
"Bus approaching, Wash. Number fifty-two. Look at it and discard, you're waiting for Victor-One." Even now, Rand's voice sent shivers down my back. I readied myself to get on the bus, glanced as it approached, then slumped back against the wall of the shelter. A convenient shadow hit me as our target passed my position, giving me a reason to make eye contact. I saw him smirk as he perused my body and I flipped him off before resuming my manicure. He swore under his breath as he picked up his pace.
Handsy reported the interaction and this time it was Rand who chuckled into the comms.
I spied Stick and Dunn of Charlie Team on the other side of the street, acting like a couple of drunken college guys heading home after an afternoon on the water. Echo Team radioed that they were parallel to our position on Sixth. Bravo Team just exited the parking structure and split up. Books headed straight for me while Steve Gilford hustled over to Ninth to try and get ahead of our target.
Handsy chimed in. "Target tying his shoe in front of the electronics store."
Books reached me and smiled, "hey baby, glad I caught up with you."
I leaned in for a kiss, angling so he could see our target through the shelter frame. "Did you get off work early?"
"Yep. Said I was too depressed after you left. I was scaring all the customers."
I chuckled and wrapped my arms around him. "I missed you too."
&nbs
p; Books' hands circled my waist and squeezed before traveling south. I stepped on his foot, my steel-toed biker boot grinding into his baby toe. "You cop a feel, you lose a toe."
His wary smile nodded. "Can't blame a guy for trying."
RAND
I listened to the banter of my team and felt a pang of jealousy. I hated being stuck in the office, unable to watch their backs physically. It was unavoidable; there wasn't anyone else I'd trust to sort and process the tactical adjustments for the mission, especially not with Missy Harlow.
My balls grew stiff, just thinking her name. The woman put me on edge. It wasn't that she couldn't handle herself or would do something to put the team in danger. On the contrary, she was the best, and her being out there made me step up my game, be her equal. She deserved that.
Handsy's description of Missy's attire was dead-on and she looked damn good. We'd tapped into a camera from the shelter and I could see her clearly, her tight, shapely body accentuated by the sprayed-on jeans and t-shirt she wore. I was momentarily distracted, wondering how she got them over her luscious hips and even better how to get them off, envisaging running my K-Bar over her hip and down her leg, the honed edge effortlessly tearing the fabric away from her body.
Books entered frame and I tensed as he kissed Missy then smiled when she threatened to remove a toe if he tried anything. I'd have to remember to assign him a hundred burpees when this was over. That'll teach him to touch my girl.
Whoa! What am I thinking?
Missy Harlow is not my girl, and other than that one undercover operation where circumstances forced us to take things further than we'd anticipated, Missy and I would never be together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ANTHONY
The access road about a mile from my father's cabin is impossible to see; you just know it lines up with the tallest of the pines and confidently turn. "Road" is a polite term; it's more a path, worn down over time by the 4x4 pickups that decided this was the perfect egress for duck hunting. From the highway, it looks to dead-end after about a hundred feet at the clump of evergreens. However, if you know the area, you know the path makes a sharp right behind the tree line and continues to the lake, opening up with enough space to turn a truck and trailer around and position your boat to slide into the water.
It wasn't a legal easement, it was private land, and the police had tried to shut down the access path several times, but the landowners told the cops they were okay with the locals using it, provided they kept it clean and didn't wreak havoc on the land or water line. A couple of years ago, someone had been courteous and hauled in a few hundred pounds of gravel to line the entry, so you didn't get bogged down in the mud.
At the moment, it offered me a perfect place to leave my car and follow the shore around to the backside of Dad's cabin. Approaching cautiously, I stayed in the shadows, to avoid any spotters or sentries placed in the area. Pressed against the cabin wall, I listen to the voices coming from inside. At least three, two males and a female, one is my father. The muffled sound is hard to understand, but the tone is composed, so no one is panicking yet. I determine I have two possible unfriendlies inside.
I don't know where anyone is in the room, so I can't charge in and try to overtake them. I'll have to play dumb and look for an opportunity to get the upper hand once inside. I keep my shoulder holster in place but stash my back up gun near the door, then a quick knock before throwing the door open and striding into the room.
My father's cabin is square and spacious, the common areas bleeding into each other. My mom divided the room using rugs and furniture to create cozy spaces that served different purposes.
A round dining table that could seat six sat in the back corner, nearest the kitchen, an island cordoned off the kitchen on one side, with the hallway leading to the bathroom and bedrooms on the other. A couple of oversized chairs framed a large picture window overlooking the lake, creating a reading nook. The middle of the room had two sofas facing each other with a fireplace on one end and a writing desk on the other, next to a tall curio cabinet full of books.
My father stood near the curio cabinet, distancing himself from Katie and Claire, who hovered on the other side of the sofas, closer to the dining table. My two unknowns had taken position flanking the door and now stood behind me with their hands on their weapons, but they hadn't drawn. Good to know they weren't trigger-happy-they were the advance team, sent to hold everyone in place, ordered not to kill anyone until the principles arrived. Gave me an edge. I had no problem killing these two if they stood between me leaving with my family.
I rushed into the room and headed straight for Katie, seemingly oblivious to the hired guns behind me. "How stupid could you be, Katie? Ditching me? Are you okay?"
Katie's pallor is ashen, her eyes full of fear, trying to communicate with me. I want to hold her, kiss her, tell her everything will be all right, but I've got a chess match to deal with, and I needed to stay one move ahead of them. I squeeze her shoulders, hoping she'll pick up on the support. I turn to Claire.
"And you, Aunt Claire, or Dad, for that matter. Neither of you thought to call me?" I'm pacing in front of the three people who mean the most to me, making me the focus and attention of the unknowns.
I spin suddenly, extending my hand to introduce myself. "Thank you for watching out." Confusion plays on their face. They reluctantly release the grip on their guns to shake my hand.
"Your relief is en route, yes? Do you have any backup outside, just in case?"
They look to each other and I wave it off as if inconsequential. "What are your orders?"
I look from one to the other. Yeah, I'm stalling.
Buying time while I form a plan that won't get anyone killed. These two were ex-military; their holsters strapped to their thighs instead of a shoulder or belt, probably out at least a year. They presented like enlisted, wearing fatigues and combat-ready boots, but they're not squared away like you are required to be when you're active duty. Their boots aren't double tied, nor the extra lacings wrapped up to avoid catching and tripping you up. The shirts are military-issue but not pressed and creased. Their pants are tucked into their boots, but not evenly, making the pants billow out like Aladdin's genie.
Katie watches me with an eagle eye, listening as the grunts sputter out something about protection until their supervisor arrives.
"Have you been provided an ETA?" They shake their heads.
Damn. We either have hours or minutes before more people descend.
"I assume relocation once everyone is on-site?"
They nod. "That's our understanding, sir."
Claire is sitting on the edge of a dining chair, literally ready to spring.
Dad's calm exterior belies the activity in his eyes. He is hearing everything and waiting for the right moment to lunge for the shotgun I know he has stashed above the curio cabinet, not two feet from where he was standing. The gun has only been used a handful of times over the years, mainly to run off deer and the occasional black bear that wanders too close to the house.
He told me he cleaned it weekly and used to store it empty, the shells kept in the hall closet, but since mom died, he's left one in the chamber, just in case. Figured if it went off, it would hit the drywall above his head, no one could get hurt. I chastised him several times about that but now thanked the stubborn fool.
Meeting his eyes, his slight nod confirmed he would go for the gun when I made my move.
Timing would be everything. Katie was quick; whether she hit the floor or ran she'd probably make it out of the line of fire. Dad was stubborn, he'd go for the gun, so when I lunged to take out one of Criterion's grunts, I needed to get the other to turn their back to Dad, give him time.
Claire was the wild card. She'd been around politics all her adult life and wasn't prone to panic, but she was used to having secret service protection tell her what to do and shield her. I wasn't sure how she'd react, so I needed to put myself between her and the shooter.
&nb
sp; I'm ready to attack when the door opens and the game changes. Mark Tennyson has arrived with Scott Dwyer in tow. I school my expression and see if I can bluff my way through.
"Mark? You found Scott?" I leap from face to face, looking for signs of their intent.
Mark laughs; it's cold and sinister. "Stop play dumb Tony; it doesn't suit you."
So Mark is calling the shots. I hadn't wanted to believe it. "What's all this about, Mark?"
"Money and power, what it's always about." He chuckles as he looks around the room, landing on Katie.
I shift my position slightly to block his view. "You have the money, who has the power?"
Mark looks at me, gleefully, "soon I will."
"How many people have to die for that to happen, Mark?"
It's like he ate one too many mushrooms in college and now was having a crazy acid trip. His fully dilated eyes brimmed with excitement; the wild energy bleeding off him in waves, he was close to lunacy. "As many as it takes."
Behind me, I hear both Katie and Claire take in a sharp gasp of air.
I assumed Dwyer pulled the trigger or set the trap to kill everyone in Mark's path toward cash and control, but I saw a new side to Mark. He looked invincible, standing at rest, his hands casually in his pockets, a gun visible on his hip. I remember Mark liked guns, went to the range back in college, was a decent marksman, but slow on the draw. If he'd slacked off on the practice, that would dull him further. Dwyer, however, was a mercenary, a hired gun, ruthless dead eyes; he was as twitchy as the two grunts that had held my family here awaiting Mark's arrival. Dwyer may have more control, but I could see the need in his eyes. He wanted to kill; he was just waiting to see who it was going to be.
