The Kill Order

by Robin Burcell

  “You’re Sydney’s friend,” she said. “I remember you from the bar that night.”

  “I am.”

  “You just missed her,” she said.

  “She was here?”

  “Well, until we dropped her off at the airport.”

  Scotty closed his eyes in frustration. “She’s so going to kill me,” he whispered.

  “Get in line,” Griffin told him. “Because I’m pretty sure I’m first in her sights. Where’s she going?”

  “Dulles. Flying home for a few days.” He looked at his watch. “But you better hurry. Her plane leaves in less than an hour.”

  Sydney didn’t notice Griffin until he sat down in the seat next to hers in the waiting area near her gate. She glanced up from the magazine she was reading, then turned her attention back to the article.

  He saw it was about the making of Doctor Who. “I wasn’t aware you were a fan,” he said, hoping, if nothing else, she would at least discuss that.

  “Time travel. You should try it.”

  “You’re not even going to say anything?”

  She flipped the page. “Will it make you go away?”

  “No.”

  “Waste of breath, then.”

  “At least talk to me about this.”

  She turned another page. “Nothing to say.”

  “There are reasons I couldn’t tell you about my involvement.”

  “Why? Because it’s easier to start a relationship with someone if they don’t know you were trying to—”

  “My orders were to make sure that information didn’t make it out of Orozco’s hands.”

  “Guess you screwed up. And now look where we are.”

  Like he needed a reminder of the ripple effect.

  Sydney looked away, watched the travelers walking through the terminal, some meandering, others in a rush to make their connections. When she turned back to him, her eyes were cold, hard. She fixed her gaze on the magazine. “You should probably leave. I’m engrossed in this article.”

  “Sydney, we need to talk.”

  “No. We don’t.” The flight attendant at the gate announced that they’d be boarding in five minutes. She got up, tossed the magazine onto the chair she’d just vacated, grabbed her overnight bag from the floor, then started walking toward the gate.

  He followed. “I need a sketch from the woman we picked up in South San Francisco. One of her friends was murdered because of what was found on the copy machine.”

  Sydney’s footsteps faltered, and then she stopped, turned, and faced him. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “I’m done with you and your whole crew. I want nothing to do with any of you.”

  “Like it or not, your actions are partly responsible.”

  “And what? You’re blameless?”

  “No. But you can help me put this right. One drawing, that’s all I ask.”

  “One? It’s always just one. And every time I do a sketch for you, someone’s getting shot. Even when I’m not doing one for you, someone’s getting shot.”

  “Which is why we call you and not someone else.”

  “I don’t even know how to take that.”

  “As a compliment. You can handle yourself.”

  “Woe be to the artist who ever hooks up with your crew.”

  “This will be the last one if that’s what you want. And then I’ll be out of your life for good.”

  She stared at him for several seconds, as though weighing the decision in her mind. “Fine. That’s a deal I can live with. And you can pay for my missed flight, too.”

  13

  North of Ensenada, Mexico

  The early morning sun rose over the red tile roof of the villa perched on the hilltop overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Robert Orozco watched his almost three-year-old granddaughter, Rosa, running down the beach, her little feet barely making an impression in the hard, wet sand. She stopped suddenly, bent down, her brown curly hair falling in her face as she examined whatever it was she’d found.

  He was about to call her back, worried she might wander too far, when he noticed two men exiting a black sedan parked up on the side of the road. This was a stretch of beach not quite on the beaten path, never mind that neither man was dressed for a casual stroll. Both wore dark suits and were walking in his direction, their strides sure, purposeful. His first thought was that they were government agents, but his instincts told him that even if they were, something was amiss.

  His gaze flicked to Rosa, who stood there, wriggling her toes in the bubbles from the seawater that skimmed across the sand. Farther up the beach he saw a couple walking a dog, the woman’s long blond hair making him hope she might be American. He could use a break right now, and he took out his cell phone, texted a message, even though there was no signal. At least there would be a record of it, and he bent down toward his granddaughter, his knee aching from a recently healed gunshot wound.

  “Mija,” he said. She ran over to him. “Let’s play a new game.”

  “Sí, Poppy.”

  He wrapped her chubby fingers around the phone, then changed his mind, and wedged it in the tiny pocket of her jeans, hoping it wouldn’t fall out. “Do you see those people, mija? The man and the woman?”

  She nodded.

  “How fast can you run to them?”

  “Why?”

  “Please, mija. But you must be very fast. Faster than the waves.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have to go to work. Okay?”

  She didn’t move, instead putting her thumb into her mouth, staring at him with her large black eyes.

  “The pretty lady with the yellow hair. She might have candy for you.”

  Her gaze widened.

  “But only if you run very fast.”

  She took off. He stood, his breath catching from the pain in his knee, the limp he’d almost overcome returning as he hurried across the sand toward the two men. The moment Robert reached them, one man shoved the barrel of a semiauto into Robert’s side, and he prayed that no one else would see it, that Rosa wouldn’t change her mind and come running back, running toward him.

  “Your nine lives are up, Orozco,” the gunman told Robert. “In the car.”

  The other man nodded toward the coastline. “What about the girl?”

  Robert’s heart pounded as he waited to hear the answer. Not Rosa . . .

  The gunman pulled the door open, glanced in that direction, then said, “You want to go get her?”

  “No.”

  “Then who cares. She’s too little to know what’s going on.”

  Relief flooded through Robert, and he looked toward the water, caught a glimpse of his beloved granddaughter, saw her stop, distracted once again by something in the sand. He smiled to himself, closed his eyes, burning the image into his mind, then prayed for a miracle that might spare the rest of his family.

  The low rumble of tires on the paving stones carried in with the breeze through the open veranda door as a car drove beneath the arch into the villa’s courtyard, stirring Maria from her early nap. Five months along, she thought she’d have far more energy, but this pregnancy was so much different than when she’d carried Rosa. A car door slammed, and she raised herself up on one elbow, glanced through the partially open slats of the second story window, catching a glimpse of a black sedan parked in the courtyard next to the fountain.

  Curious, she stood, walked to the window as the driver exited, opened the back door, allowing her father to slide out. Her first thought was that Rosa should be with him. And when she realized that her daughter wasn’t there, Maria was about to call out, ask what happened.

  But then she saw the gun.

  Her heart clenched.

  She turned on her heel, ran from the room and was stopped by her mother in the hall
way.

  “Mama. They have Papa. I don’t know where Rosa is.”

  “Hush, mija. Don’t make a sound. We haven’t much time.”

  “Time? I have to find her.”

  A woman’s scream shattered the quiet, then a gunshot rang out, echoing up the stairwell. The young woman they’d recently hired to help out around the house. Had someone shot her?

  Maria’s pulse thundered as her mother reached up, put a finger to her lips, warning her to silence. And then she drew her to the back of the house, the master bedroom, closing the door. “Listen, mija. Those are the men your father warned us about. They are here to kill us.”

  “Mama—”

  Her mother shoved a business card in her hand, then closed her fingers around it. “They are looking for something we do not have. Hurry. Out the back, the way you used to when you went to meet Jorge. Rosita is safe. I feel it in my heart. Your father must have left her on the beach for that reason. He would not want her harmed. If you hope to ever see her again, you must go.” She pushed Maria toward the veranda. “Hurry. And don’t look back, mija.”

  “This is all Papa’s fault. If he hadn’t hid out here—”

  “If? I would never have met him. Would never have had you.” She reached up, touched her daughter’s cheek, and tears stung Maria’s eyes at the sight of her mother’s pain. “Go.”

  Maria hesitated, up until she felt the baby move in her belly. “I love you . . .” She hugged her mother, then hurried out to the balcony, quickly climbing over the balustrade, trying not to think of her family as she climbed down the trellis. Everyone she loved was downstairs. Her husband, her father, her uncle. And soon, her mother.

  Tears clouded her vision, but she shook them off, knew she had to get away. She glanced down the side of the house, made certain no one was waiting. And then she darted across the back lawn toward the bougainvillea. In the corner, there was just enough space to slip behind the thorny vines, between the stucco wall and the trellis that allowed the vines to grow up and over the wall, a space that hid a gate from the casual observer.

  The sharp thorns scraped her arms as she shimmied toward the gate. It was dark behind the vines, smelling of greenery and dampness, and she blindly reached out, felt for the gate’s latch. As her fingers found it, she heard a gunshot, then several more. Her heart jumped, then thundered double-time in her chest, and she pressed her hand against her mouth, stifled the sobs. Tears blinded her as she subconsciously counted the shots, and with it the deaths of each person in that house.

  She was truly alone, and she couldn’t move. Didn’t dare move, certain her legs would give out beneath her. She leaned against the gate for what seemed an eternity as she heard things in the house crashing. They were searching her home for whatever this thing was, this thing her mother said they didn’t have, and then she heard footsteps echoing across the courtyard, the sound of two car doors slamming shut, followed by the screech of tires as the vehicle sped from the villa, then down the street.

  But she didn’t return to the house. She knew better. They would come back for her if they knew she was alive, knew she had escaped. She waited, forcing herself to take deep breaths. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she opened the gate, stepped out, wondering where she’d go next. And then she looked at the business card in her hand, damp with sweat from clutching it so tight.

  She needed to go to the beach, find her daughter, Rosa. Her Rosita. Tears blurred her vision, and she brushed them away, then focused on the card her mother had given her, reading the name.

  Sydney Fitzpatrick, FBI.

  This was the woman who had come down to visit her father several months ago, she realized. The U.S. government had followed this FBI agent straight to Maria’s father, and they had shot at him as he had helped this woman flee.

  The name burned into her memory.

  Why on earth would her mother tell her to find this person? The woman who had brought death to her family?

  But then she turned the card over and realized there was something else written on it. And suddenly she understood.

  14

  Sydney hefted her overnight bag on her shoulder as she and Griffin walked through the terminal. “Since I didn’t bring a car,” she told him, “you can pay for my taxi. When am I doing this sketch?”

  “The sooner we have it, the safer she’ll be. So I hope you don’t mind if we forgo the taxi and I take you straight there?”

  As much as she didn’t want to ride back with him, she agreed. The faster she did the sketch, the faster she could wash her hands of him. They walked out of the terminal and to the parking lot in silence.

  “Where is she?” Sydney asked, once they were in the car and on the freeway.

  “With Lisette. She’ll remain there until she goes into witness protection.”

  “All because of those numbers?”

  “And who she saw.”

  “Who is this person?”

  “We believe one of the key figures of the Network. Someone we’ve only heard about, but have never been able to trace.”

  “How long have you been looking?”

  “Over twenty years.”

  “So before you even started. Is he part of this W2 investigation?”

  “I have no idea. We have every reason to believe W2 and the Network are connected. And if he’s as important as some of our sources have led us to believe, he may be at the heart of it.”

  Sydney glanced over at Griffin, who was watching the road. Suddenly she was very interested in who this person was, what he looked like. Especially if he was connected to the W2 case. And if it took doing a drawing for Griffin to get more answers, she was willing to suffer his presence.

  “Do me a favor,” Griffin said, when they arrived at Lisette’s apartment. “Don’t mention the witness protection angle. We haven’t told the girl yet, and I’d rather not leave Lisette with the fallout.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “And watch your belongings. She has a habit of taking things that don’t belong to her.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I seem to be a few dollars short after having spent a couple of nights with her. She ripped off Tex as well.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Lisette’s Washington, D.C., apartment was typical government fare for government agents who didn’t spend a lot of time in the area. A prefurnished abode with no personality whatsoever. In fact Sydney had lived in one very similar when she’d first moved here. She’d hated it. The apartment didn’t seem to bother Lisette, who welcomed Sydney, kissed her on both cheeks, then drew her into the room to introduce her to Piper, who was watching TV.

  The girl was not what Sydney had expected. Although her clothing seemed normal, blue pants and a pale pink shirt, her hairstyle had more of a punk rock look, short black hair with pink spiked tips. She also noted the slight mark on her eyebrow and lip, which had apparently once sported piercings. It seemed to Sydney a façade that did little to hide the vulnerable young girl beneath. “Hi. I’m Sydney. I’ll be doing the sketch with you.”

  “Hi.” Piper rose, then stood there awkwardly for a few seconds.

  Not sure what to say to the girl, Sydney walked to the dinette area. “Okay if I set up here on the kitchen table?”

  “Probably the best place,” Lisette said, then glanced at Griffin. “Since you’re here, it’ll give me a chance to run a few errands. Marc’s taking a nap.”

  “Have at it.”

  “Make yourself at home,” Lisette told Sydney. “Fresh coffee’s in the pot and there are a few odds and ends in the refrigerator.”

  After she left, Griffin pulled up a chair. “You don’t mind if I sit in, do you?”

  “Feel free,” she replied, even though she did mind. It wasn’t her case, so it wasn’t like she had a say. Besides, if she wanted to find out who it was
that was allegedly behind the whole W2 affair, probably best to mind her manners. He did not sit at the table, however, but pulled up his chair behind Piper so that she couldn’t see him while they worked. As Sydney had mentioned to Griffin in past sketches she’d done for him, there was less chance of outside influence when it came to recalling faces if the witness was not looking at one directly. To the same end, Sydney had Piper face her chair toward the wall, then explained the process, how long it would take, usually several hours, adding, “I will, however, have you go over things that happened well before the crime, as it’ll help bring out the more salient details you might miss otherwise.”

  “Cognitive interview techniques,” Piper said.

  Sydney, in the middle of arranging her pencils, eraser, and sketchbook on the table, looked up. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I remember things exceptionally well. It’s from a book I read on investigation techniques in college.”

  “Not quite what I’d expect from someone of your age.”

  “I like to read. So, where would you like me to begin?”

  She was, Sydney realized, remarkably calm, although Sydney sensed a fragileness about her, as though it were all a façade that would crack at any moment. For that reason alone, she didn’t want to say the word murder, and so simply replied, “An hour before . . .” and let her fill in the blank.

  “I was getting dressed, getting ready to visit my friend Bo. I sort of had a crush on him, so I put on my best black jeans.” Her face relaxed, as though the memory was pleasant, and, in comparison, it probably was. And without Sydney even directing her, she supplied the necessary details that Sydney would normally ask about. “It was around eight in the evening, and the weather was cold outside, in the upper forties. I remember thinking I should have brought a coat, but once I got on the bus, I wasn’t cold anymore.” She detailed the remainder of her activities, how she stole a pack of cigarettes, and then believed the man had called the police on her, adding that “I thought I saw him—the guy from the bus—talking to two men as I walked down the street toward Bo’s. It wasn’t him, though. I—I walked past them, not thinking that, well, anything was off. I mean, something was, but not anything like this. And then I went inside the shop where Bo works. He lives over it. That’s where I was when he was shot. I didn’t see that.”