by Dean Atwood
Blaire nearly jumped out of her seat and her heart began pounding when her mobile phone rang. On the BMW’s screen, a number appeared on the caller id, which she recognized as QT’s private mobile phone. She hovered her finger over the touchscreen before pressing the accept button after three rings.
“QT, why are you calling me on your private phone again? Is something wrong?” she tried to say as calmly as possible.
“Listen to me very carefully. There’s a white SUV that’s four cars behind you on Route 29. I’m two cars behind him. He’s coming after you.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is no time to play innocent. The man who shot your boyfriend and tried to shoot you is coming after you to finish the job. I have no idea why he’s trying to kill you, I only know you better do something quickly, if you want to survive.”
Blaire checked her rearview mirror. The white SUV was now three cars behind her. “He wasn’t my boyfriend. He was on a task force with me … Why were you spying on me like a jealous boyfriend?”
“Really? You want to discuss this while someone is about to murder you? We can debate it later, assuming there is a later.”
Blaire looked in her mirror again. The white SUV was now two cars behind her. “How do I shake this guy? He won’t shoot at me on 29, will he?”
“You don’t want to find out. Now, listen to me. You’re less than a mile to the turn for the route 29 bypass. Don’t stop at the Hydraulic Road intersection. Run the light if you have to, and when you get to the exit, stomp on the gas and take it as fast as you can. I’m going to try to take the guy out from behind.”
“OK, but where do I go then?”
“Do you remember where we stayed for the weekend a few months, ago?”
“Yes.”
“Go there. I’ll reserve a room and meet up with you as soon as possible.”
“QT … I’m scared.”
“You don’t have time for that. Focus on what you have to do to escape. You’re almost to Hydraulic, gun it now!”
The traffic light at Hydraulic Road turned yellow when Blaire was fifty yards away from it. She pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and passed on the right side of a car. By the time she reached the light, it had already turned red — but she didn’t stop. Perpendicular to her on the right, the driver of a blue Toyota was part way through the intersection. He slammed on his breaks and blew his horn. The car behind the Toyota smashed into the back of it and pushed it into the intersection, blocking the right lane. The man in the white SUV attempted to go to the left of the wreckage to bypass it, but Quinton followed him and slammed into the right side of the SUV’s bumper. The vehicle spun in circles. It went through the median and smashed into two cars headed in the opposite direction from QT and Blaire.
Blaire heard the crashes but didn’t slow down or look back. Once she reached Interstate 64 West, she checked her mirror again, and when she didn’t see the white SUV or QT behind her, she slowed down to ten miles over the speed limit.
She picked up her iPhone and considered what to do next. She could call her NSA supervisor or Special Agent Warren. But, what if one of the intelligence agencies was behind the hit? She couldn’t think of any reason why they’d want Jeremy and her dead. Did it have something to do with Project Typhon or Jeremy’s dirty dealings? What about QT? He’d admitted he was spying on her and suspected something was going on between Jeremy and her. He’d never acted like a jealous boyfriend before. But then again, she’d never given him reason to before Jeremy came along. QT had warned her about the man in the white SUV. He was protecting her. He couldn’t be involved with the shooting, could he?
One thing was certain, the NSA would be tracking her location as soon as they found Jeremy, even if it was only to confirm she was alright and to interview her about possible motives for Jeremy’s assassination. With a pained look on her face, she opened the window and held her mobile phone out, ready to dispose of it. The phone felt like a permanently attached appendage. Throwing it away would be like cutting off her own arm or leg to escape from a bear trap. She couldn’t bring herself to discard it, so she did the next best thing. She opened her glove box and removed a small tool, which she kept stored there. While driving down the highway, she fumbled with her iPhone until she removed the battery. For the first time since she could remember, she was unplugged, but at least she still had the option to reconnect when she determined it was safe to do so.
Blaire let out a sigh of relief when she saw the sign for the Crozet exit. She might not be any safer on the less traveled roads than she was on the highway, but she’d feel less vulnerable. She was beginning to understand what it was like to be the prey being stalked. She liked being the stalker a lot better than being the prey.
Chapter 9
Q uinton cruised at 75 MPH on Interstate 64. If he went any faster, the police might pull him over for speeding. He could show his badge and talk his way out of a ticket, but it would slow him down, and he’d be put in a position of having to lie to law enforcement about why he was speeding. Where the hell was BS? He didn’t think she was that far ahead of him. He’d lost a little time when he’d spun out the white SUV, but he thought he was going fast enough for her to be within sight by now. Perhaps, she’d panicked and was driving superfast or maybe she’d exited the highway and hadn’t followed his instructions.
He picked up his private mobile phone from the console and called her. It immediately went to voicemail. He left a short message. “This is QT. I’ve delayed the man in the white SUV. Call me.”
Either she’d ditched her phone or was deliberately ignoring his call. He decided the best course of action was to continue to their designated meeting place and hope she was there.
He traveled another two miles before his FBI phone rang. It wasn’t Blaire.
“Hello, boss,” Quinton said.
“Are you out to lunch, now?”
“I finished eating and I’m going to interview someone for the embezzlement case.” He surprised himself at how easily he lied to his boss.
“Are you anywhere near Rivanna Station?”
“No, I’m on 64 West.”
“Then you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“An FBI Agent was killed by a sniper at the JUIAF.”
“Anybody we know?”
“No, his name was Jeremy Glover. He’s the guy I was telling you about this morning. The one assigned by the Richmond office to be on the multiagency task force. Have you heard from Blaire today?”
“I talked to her before lunch. She said she was in a meeting.”
“Well, somebody saw her leave the building with Glover, and now she’s gone from the facility.”
“I’ll try her mobile phone when we hang up.”
“You can try if you want to, but her supervisor has already attempted to call her and got no answer. The NSA is tracking her phone as we speak.”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but she must’ve had a good reason for leaving.”
“I need you to change your plans and go immediately to Rivanna Station. I’m putting you in charge of the murder investigation. The embezzlement case will have to take a back seat.”
“Does the FBI have jurisdiction?”
“Damn right we do. This is one of ours who’s been killed.”
“Won’t US Army Counterintelligence want to be involved, since the crime was technically committed on a US Army base?”
“They’ll want to be involved, but I already have the go-ahead from the Richmond office to take the lead in the investigation.”
“OK, I’ll get off at the next exit and go to Rivanna Station. It’ll take me at least a half hour.”
“I’m on my way to the crime scene. I’ll meet you there.”
Quinton hung up and then slapped his hand on the steering wheel. “Damn,” he said as he took one of the emergency vehicle turnarounds and reentered route 64 headed back to Charlottesville. He had to figure out a way to cont
act BS. If she arrived at the meeting place and he wasn’t there, no telling what she’d do next. Morning coffee at Mudhouse with the lieutenant seemed like a week ago. He selected a number from his contact list and dialed.
The phone rang four times before she answered, “I’m Mad. Who’s this?”
“It’s QT.”
“QT? Why are you calling me this soon? I didn’t give you my number because I wanted a call buddy. I told you to call me in case of emergencies only."
“I wouldn’t have called unless it was important.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I owe you an apology?”
“For what?”
“I didn’t believe you this morning, but I do now.”
“Believe me about what?”
“About the guy watching my house.”
“What changed your mind?”
“A man in a white SUV killed an FBI agent and tried to kill Blaire.”
“Interesting.”
“I’ve been put in charge of the investigation. Have you seen the man with the scar today?”
“No, I haven’t seen him, but I’ve learned a few things about him.”
“What things?”
“I can’t tell you on the phone. It’s too easy for an intelligence agency to listen to your calls.”
“We’re both using untraceable phones.”
“It doesn’t matter. Somebody could be listening.”
“Alright, when and where can we meet?”
“Tomorrow, at your place — unless a surveillance team is there. If it’s unsafe I’ll call you to arrange another meeting location.”
“This is urgent. It can’t wait.”
“It’s tomorrow or never, your choice.”
“OK, you win. But, if you see him before tomorrow, will you at least call me?”
“I can do that.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“I did something stupid … I ran your prints and face against the FBI files.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that. What’d you find?”
“I found Lieutenant Madeline Frances Casey, who died five years, ago and whose personnel files are locked tighter than a drum.”
“Madeline Casey did die five years, ago.”
“Perhaps, when we meet up, you can explain why you look so good for a corpse.”
“I told you not to delve into my past. If they think Madeline Casey has risen from the dead, both of us will be in danger.”
“I disconnected from the computer before they could trace the inquiry to me.”
“That’s highly unlikely. They’ll trace it to you and when they do, they’ll contact you to find out why you inquired about me. You better have a believable story ready to tell them about why you were checking into my background.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve inadvertently put you in danger.”
“It’s my own fault. I should’ve been more careful.”
“Will you still meet with me tomorrow morning to talk about the assassin?”
“… I’ll be there, but I’m not happy you stirred things up. You may have just gotten me killed — or worse.”
Chapter 10
U nder normal circumstances, the summertime drive to the Wintergreen Resort Lodge was relaxing but it was difficult for Blaire to enjoy the scenery while survival was foremost on her mind. Over the next forty minutes, she replayed the day’s events in her head, trying to remember anything out of the ordinary that could explain what had happened.
When she’d returned home in the wee hours of the morning, she’d been exhausted. If somebody had been watching her house, she hadn’t noticed it. In particular, she didn’t remember seeing a white SUV. There was one unusual thing she recalled that hadn’t registered until now. She’d seen the weird woman, who QT referred to as Lieutenant Mad, near their townhouse at almost two in the morning. The woman was sitting on a bench across the street, and it had looked like she was typing on a laptop. What would a lowlife like her be doing with a laptop? Why hadn’t she been asleep on the bench or wherever else the homeless spend the night?
QT had been in bed when she’d unlocked the door and come into their place. He’d left the kitchen light on for her. She’d lied to Jeremy in the status meeting about going straight to bed when she’d arrived home. Although she’d wanted to crawl into bed, she hadn’t gone right away. She’d felt dirty and decided to take a quick shower. It must’ve awaken QT because when she’d squeezed in beside him, he’d put his arm around her and cupped her breast in his hand.
“You smell good,” he’d said and kissed her on the neck.
She’d placed her hand on his to encourage him to continue. At first, she’d responded out of guilt, but as their lovemaking had continued, she’d become extremely aroused. They were usually good together in bed, but this morning the lovemaking with QT had been so intense, they’d both peaked quickly and finished together in a burst of uncontrollable shaking.
“What’s gotten into you,” he’d said. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“It was a grueling day at work,” she’d said. “I needed to relieve the stress.”
“Glad I could be of service,” he’d said and rolled onto his side with his back to her.
That had been the extent of their conversation. She’d barely fallen asleep when it had been time to get up again. The homeless woman had been gone when she’d left for work, and she didn’t remember seeing anything out of the ordinary on the way to the JUIAF. She should’ve been more observant, but how could she have known what was about to happen?
She reached over to the console and stroked her powered down iPhone, like a person coddles an injured pet. When she reached the road that spiraled up the mountain, driving demanded her full attention. Reluctantly, she removed her fingers from her comatose iPhone and gripped the wheel with both hands to navigate the curves.
It was only a few miles, but it seemed like the drive up the mountain was taking forever. Finally, she reached the signpost, which had an arrow pointing left to go farther up the mountain to Devils Knob Golf Course, and one pointing right to go to the Mountain Top Lodge for check-in. She turned right and entered the parking lot.
She sat in the car for a minute, staring through the windshield, without really thinking about anything. Everything that had happened seemed surreal. She wished she could turn back the clock to a time before her troubles had started, but wishful thinking never accomplished anything. She picked up her wounded phone and opened the car door. She started to walk toward the lodge, when she noticed the bloodstain. Going inside the lodge, wearing a blood-stained t-shirt with NSA printed across the front, wouldn’t be the brightest thing to do. Fortunately, she hadn’t removed her overnight bag from her car the previous night. She unlocked the trunk and retrieved a casual blouse from the bag. Leaving the trunk up to partially block her, she removed the bloody t-shirt and replaced it with the blouse she kept in the bag for emergencies. Satisfied that she was presentable, Blaire went to the check-in counter.
She tried to turn on the easygoing charm that was her trademark, but it felt forced and insincere when she started small talk with the clerk. “Good afternoon,” she said. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I’m surprised there aren’t more cars in the parking lot.”
“We’re expecting arrivals later today for a business conference. It’ll be full tonight. How may I help you?”
“Do you have a reservation under the name of Quinton Target?”
The keyboard keys clicked as the clerk entered the name. “Yes, I have it. You’re staying for a single night, right Ms. Target?”
“As far as I know, it’ll be for one night.”
“May I have your credit or debit card, please?”
“Wasn’t the number given to you when the reservation was made?”
“Yes, but we need to verify it at check-in.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have my credit card. I left my purse in my husband, Quinton’s car. He m
ade the reservation.”
The desk clerk looked at her suspiciously. “When will Mr. Target be joining you.”
“He’s supposed to meet me in a few hours. But, you know how men are when they get busy, they aren’t very reliable.”
Blaire was lucky the clerk was a woman. Bashing men was always a sure way to bond quickly with other women. The clerk smiled and said, “You’ve got that right. When my boyfriend is hanging out with his friends, he loses all track of time and his commitments to me.”
“If you give me a key to get into our room, Quinton will give you the card when he arrives.”
The clerk smiled. She coded the electronic key and handed it to her in a paper pocket that had the room number written on it.
“Thank you so much,” Blaire said.
The clerk looked behind her and then turned back and said, “Wait a minute.”
Blaire’s heart skipped a beat. “Something wrong?”
“There’s a message for you. Here you go,” she said and handed her a folded piece of paper.
“Probably an excuse from my husband for being late.”
“Men,” the clerk said. “They’re like little boys. You can’t depend on them.”
“I don’t know why we put up with them.”
“Do you need help with your luggage?”
“No, I only need this overnight bag for now. Quinton has our other suitcases.”
Blaire headed to the lodge room, using the map the clerk had given her as a guide. Quinton was going to have sticker shock when he saw his bill for $275 per night, but Blaire didn’t worry about it. Her family was rich — she’d never had to worry about money.
She entered the room and looked out the window. It was a beautiful setting, which she would’ve appreciated, if she wasn’t there to hide from a murderer. She sat on the bed, unfolded the message from QT, and read it.
When you arrive, call me on my private mobile phone.
She looked at the old-fashioned landline phone resting on the nightstand. She debated whether to call QT from the hotel phone or bring her iPhone back to life to call Special Agent Warren.
