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“She’s blacked out in the system.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can’t do my job, because someone doesn’t want me to know who she really is, and what she really does.”
“Oh. That is rather odd. What do you think, she’s some sort of agent? A spy? We are in D.C., after all.”
He looked serious all of a sudden, put a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. “That would be my guess. I don’t know what agency she’s from, whose side she’s on. What I do know is ten minutes after I got to work this morning, I was told that there’d been a meeting scheduled at State, and my presence was requested. Either I’m about to be relieved of this case, or they’re going to send me on a wild-goose chase.”
“Fun times, my friend. You always catch the coolest cases.”
“Which is why I was thinking, maybe if you have a look-see, I’ll have a better sense of what’s happening. I don’t know what a spy would be doing having a fight with a kid in med school. It’s probably just domestic, like I said, but...”
“No worries, Fletch. I’m happy to help, as always.”
Her cell phone rang. She apologized, pulled it out of her pocket. Glanced at the screen, saw the call was coming from Quantico. John Baldwin. In a way, he was her new boss.
“Fletch, forgive me, I have to answer this.”
He held up a hand. “No worries. Go ahead.”
She stood and walked outside, determined not to disturb everyone around her with the call.
“Baldwin?”
His deep voice sounded stressed. “Sam, good morning. I hope you’re doing well.”
“I am. Out of the house and everything, having breakfast with Fletcher. What’s up?”
“Ah, that’s good. I’m glad you’re already with him. Has he told you about the murder near your house last night?”
She grew wary. “He has. Plus I saw parts of it—the sirens woke me. Why?”
“The female victim, Amanda Souleyret? She was one of ours.”
“She was FBI?”
“Yes. A longtime undercover agent, working...well, what she specialized in is most likely irrelevant, considering. I was told this looks like a domestic situation.”
“That’s what Fletcher said.”
“Such a shame. No one even knew Amanda was in the US much less that she was dating someone here. I don’t know how she found the time. She works primarily overseas, as an investigator for a French company called Helix International. Have you ever heard of it?”
Now Sam really was on alert. “As it happens, I have. They’re in the same business as Xander, albeit on a much larger scale. They do everything from close protection to industrial investigations.”
“That’s right. Amanda is—she was—a very talented agent, capable of handling most anything thrown her way. She’s been on an undercover op that’s stretched for over a year. Anyway, there’s a briefing scheduled at ten at the State Department. Fletcher’s already on the guest list. They wanted me there, but I’m flying out to Denver in an hour. Just between you and me, we might have another Hometown murder.”
“You’re kidding. That’s two this month alone. He’s accelerating.”
“Yes, he is. I have to get out to Denver and see what’s happening. Can you go to State in my stead? See what they have to say, take notes. Call me after, fill me in?”
“Of course,” she said coolly, but her mind was going a thousand miles an hour. Why her? Why not pull someone from the Hoover Building to go, someone on Baldwin’s direct staff? What did she have to offer this investigation? Especially if it had been bumped to this level, which felt awfully strange for a domestic case. Why would the State Department want to stick their oar into a lovers’ spat gone horribly wrong?
She kept her mouth shut, though. When she’d agreed to come on board Baldwin’s team, he’d been very clear that sometimes she’d be getting her hands dirty in all facets of his investigative life. It’s why he wanted her in particular, someone he could trust, someone who understood the way things worked, but was an outsider.
“Great,” Baldwin said. “I’ve already called in your DOB and social, just be sure you have your driver’s license on you. They’re on alert today, as you can imagine. I’ll call you when I land in Denver and you can brief me.”
“Sounds good. Talk to you then.”
She hung up, hugged her arms around her body. A kid on a skateboard zoomed past her, calling out to a friend behind him, the small transparent wheels clattering on the sidewalk, the answering shouts. Cars whizzed by, people walked the streets with smiles on their faces.
Carefree. Careless. Too young to realize how precarious life truly is, too involved in their own moment to imagine what could happen.
She went back inside. Fletcher had finished his sandwich, and her croissant, too.
“Sorry, I was starving,” he said. “I already ordered you a new one.”
“We better get it to go.”
A shadow crossed his face. “Gotta go to work?”
“Actually, we have to go to work. I just got called in on your murder. You better take me to that crime scene pronto.”
Chapter 8 (#ulink_f30ca7a7-8e8b-59ea-8b5a-7158b29c1792)
Teterboro Airport New Jersey
XANDER WHITFIELD SLOUCHED in the chair at the gate, shades firmly in place. While he looked like a sleeping tourist trying to catch an uncomfortable nap before his flight, he was on high alert.
He watched his partner, Chalk, move through the room near the principal, waiting for the nod telling him it was time to move. They had a loose box around their principal—a wealthy British industrialist named James Denon, who didn’t want it known he had a protection detail on him while he visited his interests in the States—and his people. Their job had been to blend into the crowd everywhere the team went.
So far, they’d done well. Not great—they’d had one small mishap when Chalk turned the wrong way for a moment and the principal had gotten too far ahead of them—but good. Xander wasn’t entirely thrilled with this lurking-from-afar crap, but sometimes the principal got to make the call. Once the doors to the plane closed, he and Chalk would be done and on their way, thousands of dollars richer and with a glowing recommendation to boot. Just what they needed to get their new company off the ground.
This part of the operation was the trickiest. Whipping out their weapons at an airport was a surefire way to get noticed. If a bogey were to make a move now, they would have to counter it with subtle, quick and meaningful brute force.
Xander was fine with that. It had been ages since he’d been in an honest-to-God fight. He wouldn’t mind sinking his fists into a bad guy’s face.
It wouldn’t happen today. The job had been simple, straightforward. James Denon was well-liked by his people, his company and his country. There had been no signs of trouble all week. The people who hated him were half a world away, and the trip had been on close hold, so they had no idea he was in the States.
They’d timed their arrival well. The wait was short; after only fifteen minutes, their principal’s flight was ready. This was the beauty of Teterboro, New Jersey’s private airport. The crowds were smaller, the people waiting for private flights and charters. The usual program—parking, security, long wait times at the gates—wasn’t at all the same.
Good for the principal, but more difficult for Xander to fit in. They’d been lucky today; there was a group of private high schoolers being ferried to Canada, and they were creating quite a bit of distraction. Enough for Xander to find a spot along the periphery and look like one of their chaperones, exhausted already by their energy.
Behind the mirrored lenses, he watched the small crowd. Their principal began making his way toward the doors. Xander gave Chalk the nod, stood, stretched. Moved toward the double glass doors to the tarmac, gave things a look-see. All clear. He spoke quietly into his hand mike. “We’re a go. Plane’s here.”
Chalk, standing four feet away, touched the principal on the shoulder, gestured unobtrusively toward the door. Xander kept watch while the principal and his people dutifully paraded out the door, across the tarmac and into the plane.
Five minutes later, it was done. The flight attendant had closed the door, and the plane pulled away, engines purring.
“A final all clear,” Xander said, and felt the tension of the past few days leak away.
Chalk strolled toward the exit, and Xander followed, cautious to watch their backs. No reason to get made just because the operation was over.
They met up in the parking lot. They had rented two cars. They’d take them back to JFK, drop them and the job would officially be over.
“That went well,” Chalk said.
“It did. And now he’ll tell all his friends. Let’s get to JFK. I want to go home.”
Chalk’s phone rang. He answered with his usual, “Hoo-rah.” A moment later his face turned white.
Xander instinctively put his hand on his weapon at his belt, a sweet little SIG Sauer he preferred for close-up work.
“What is it? What happened?”
Chalk didn’t answer, just made a helicopter with his finger and about-faced smartly, back toward the private terminal. Xander stepped next to him. A moment later, Chalk hung up.
“That was Denon. They’re turning the plane around, some sort of mechanical problem. Looks like you and I aren’t done just yet.”
They were at the entrance now, and there was a lot of activity inside. Xander saw four airport employees running toward the back doors. The private schoolers were gathered together at the southern end of the room, pushing toward the windows, staring, one of their chaperones waving her hands to get them to stay put.
Xander ignored everyone around him but Chalk, tuned them out, lasered his focus. “What’s the issue, did he say?”
“No. He’s justifiably concerned.”
“Think it’s directed at him?”
“I don’t know, but we better be ready for anything when that plane lands.”
“If it is, they knew we were on him. They waited until we left to make a move.”
“That’s pretty fucking sophisticated. I haven’t seen a tail, or anything to indicate we were being observed.”
Xander nodded. “Me, either. Could his itinerary have leaked? He’s a good target, we both know that. The threat assessment showed plenty of people who want him dead.”
“If so, someone inside his senior staff or the folks he met with did it. No one else knows he’s here.”
They jogged through the doors, went straight to the back and out onto the tarmac. With the hullabaloo, no one thought to stop them. So much for being inconspicuous, though.
“Sam is going to skin me alive if I don’t get home tonight.”
Chalk shot him a grin. “Cheer up, lover boy. If our principal goes splat, you can get right on the next plane south.”
“If our principal goes splat, we’re done for. You take the terminal, I’ll meet the plane. Cover my six.”
He would be totally exposed, but there was no help for it. Chalk disappeared into the shadows behind him, and Xander stood with the other employees, his arms crossed, staring toward the empty tarmac. He listened hard to the charter employees. Apparently, the engine lights had flashed red, and the pilot wasn’t about to try a transatlantic flight with possible trouble. It could be a simple mechanical issue.
Xander had a feeling that wasn’t the case. Just a small frisson of something, up the back of his neck. He scanned the area. Murmured, “All clear,” into his mike.
A few moments later, the Gulfstream came into view.
Xander stepped to the side, out of earshot, and phoned James Denon, who answered sounding rather panicky. “What’s happening? They won’t tell us what’s happening.”
“We’re here, sir, we’re waiting on you. There’s nothing apparent on the ground. Are you all right?”
“I am. What in bloody hell is going on?”
“They’re saying it was an engine problem. Chances are, that’s all this is. You just sit tight once they land. If they force you to disembark, make sure you come out last. I’ll be waiting for you at the foot of the stairs. We can follow the same protocol as before, staying out of sight, but right now, I think we should stick close.”
“I agree. Something feels off.”
“Roger that, sir. You hang tight inside as long as they’ll let you.”
Xander hung up and casually turned, scoping the building behind him. He still had his shades on, eyes roving right, then left. He couldn’t see Chalk, which was good. His adrenaline was surging, running hard through his body, so hard his hands were fighting the urge to shake. Breathe, Xander. Breathe.
The Gulfstream touched down, a small puff of white smoke rising from its tires. It headed toward the terminal, then suddenly altered course and began taxiing toward the southern hangar instead of the terminal. A radio crackled on the hip of the employee standing nearest him.
“This is Gulfstream 890. Got another warning light, we’re leaking oil. Gonna head directly into the hangar. We’ll disembark the passengers before we go in. Better find another plane, looks like we’re going to be out of commission for a while.”
There were sharp curses from the assembled crowd, but Xander ignored them.
The hangar.
A hundred yards away.
Xander had eyes on it, but he wasn’t close enough to scope it properly. He scanned the building rapidly, looking for anything out of place. There was something, near the roof, twenty degrees to the right. A shadow. As he watched, the shadow pulled back slightly, and there was a flash. A mirrored flash.
His adrenaline shot into overdrive, and he clicked on his comms unit.
“Chalk, buddy, we got a shooter on top of the hangar.”
“Roger. Can you take him?”
“I need to get closer, and higher. If I start heading his way, he’ll know I saw him. You’re gonna have to end around, let me get into position.”
“There’s a metal ladder behind me, runs up the side of the terminal building. The two buildings are about the same height. Should be the right angle.”
“This might draw some attention to our client.”
“Better attention than dead. I’ll cover Denon, you take the shooter. Out.”
Xander heard the whine of the engines. He was out of time. He broke with the employees and quick-walked to the edge of the terminal. Went up the ladder, wishing like hell he had his M4. He’d have a better chance of taking the guy out that way.
His mind was preternaturally calm, clear, crisply assessing everything. Wind speed, atmosphere, angle. The lack of a load in the SIG, the best place to take the shot. Up on the roof now, and of course there was very little to hide behind.
He’d lost eyes on his target, but he scooted to the north edge of the roof, and found him again. The assassin was low now, crouched against the concrete buttress. Relaxed, but ready, a M2010 ESR trained on the crowd below. Xander recognized a professional at work, and his heart sank.
Xander clicked his mike. “I’m in position. Son of a bitch has an M2010.”
