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The suit and the woman went up the concrete stairs to an office door beside the loading dock and went inside. A single light over the door went on, casting a glow on the two men in windbreakers who stood directly outside.
“Hold your positions,” Nolan said. “Let’s give them half an hour to settle down.”
The man in the suit was Robby Jessop, a shady defense contractor, who was likely using this warehouse to stash contraband weapons. Locating Jessop was the best lead CSaI had uncovered in their search for Bart Bellows, and Nolan didn’t want to blow this opportunity.
He lowered himself to the ground and stretched out on his belly. On a night like this when the moon was half full, he wouldn’t be seen with the naked eye. His dark cargo pants, jacket and dark knit cap blended into the shadows. But he wasn’t taking any chances. One of the bodyguards might be smart enough to have night vision goggles of his own.
If it was the last thing he ever did, Nolan would find Bart Bellows. Over a month ago, the old man and his handicapped van had disappeared without a trace or a clue. His driver had been shot and killed, leaving no witness.
Nolan believed the old man was still alive. If Bart’s enemies wanted him dead, they would have acted long before this. They’d kidnapped Bart for a reason and would hold him until they got what they wanted—whatever the hell that was.
The lack of apparent motive made CSaI’s search intensely complicated. Bart had lived a long life and had ticked off a lot of scary people. Operating under the assumption that his abduction was related to his former career in the CIA, Nolan and the rest of the men in Corps Security and Investigations fought their way through a tangle of bureaucratic red tape to get secret documents declassified. They tracked down dozens of agents who could brief them on current situations that stemmed from Bart’s former cases.
Nolan’s best contact turned out to be a spy named Omar Harris who had his Irish-American father’s sense of humor and his Afghani mother’s courage. Omar gave him Jessop’s name and told him that the defense contractor was involved in smuggling weapons and the opium trade in Afghanistan. It was Omar who arranged for Jessop to be at the warehouse outside Austin tonight. The defense contractor thought he was meeting with a warlord who would pay a cool million for their next deal.
Instead, Jessop was going to run into the three-man offense of Nolan, Coltrane and Cavanaugh—three former military men who had served with pride and distinction until they’d been recruited by Bart Bellows for his elite security company.
Poor little Robby Jessop didn’t stand a chance.
Through his night vision goggles, Nolan scanned the area. The guard at the north side of the building was smoking a cigar. Both of the men nearest the warehouse door were texting on their cell phones.
None of them were paying attention.
All were distracted.
Taking them down would be cake.
“Are we ready?” Cavanaugh asked.
“I’ll take the two men on the north side of the building,” Nolan said. “You boys take care of the other side.”
“What about the two by the door?”
“We’ll use a flash-bang to get their attention, and then converge on them.”
Nolan rolled onto his back and checked his weapons. The most dangerous part of this mission would be when they entered the warehouse. They were all wearing Kevlar, but Jessop would be waiting for them.
“Use your stun guns,” Nolan said. “We’re not here to kill anybody. We came to talk. Okay, let’s rock and roll.”
He crept through the night. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, heightening his senses and masking the ever-present ache from old wounds. He’d learned to endure the physical pain from injuries he’d suffered five years ago in Afghanistan, when his platoon was hit by a chopper strike and a roadside bomb. The emotional hurt was deeper, more intense, unrelieved by the passage of time.
Five years ago, Nolan Law had been a different man. Handsome and strong, his life had been filled with promise. His beautiful, loving wife had been pregnant. God, he missed Tess. He missed the son he’d never held in his arms, missed the life he should have had.
Nolan shook his head, pushing aside the regrets and the memories. There was no going back. He wasn’t that man anymore. Joe Donovan was dead.
Chapter Two
Nolan circled the warehouse. The man on the far north side sat on the ground with his back leaning against the building. His gun was holstered, and his eyes were closed. Nolan deepened his nap with a blow that rendered him unconscious and then fastened the guard’s wrists with a plastic tie.
The guy with the cigar was an equally easy takedown using a stun gun and a threat. “Make one sound and I’ll shoot off your kneecap.”
Nolan picked up the guard’s gun—a sleek black repeating rifle in the newest generation of M40s. The fine weapon illustrated how being well-armed didn’t matter as much as being well-disciplined. Any of the men in CSaI were capable of protecting a perimeter with nothing but a slingshot and a pocket knife.
As he moved to the corner of the warehouse, he heard a whisper from Cavanaugh, “We’re in position.”
“Do it.”
When fired, a flash-bang emitted smoke, made a loud explosion and a blinding burst of light. The grenade-size device was more effective when used in an enclosed space, but the noise and flare would provide enough of a distraction for them to move on the guards at the front of the building.
Nolan averted his gaze so he wouldn’t be blinded. As soon as he heard the bang, he ran at the guards. Before they could drop their cell phones and aim their weapons, the two men in dark windbreakers were down.
Nolan issued orders. “Cavanaugh, stay here, watch these guys. Coltrane, inside.”
At the door to the warehouse, Nolan didn’t hesitate. He kicked open the door, lobbed a smoke bomb inside and dove out of the way.
A volley of bullets from an automatic weapon sprayed through the doorway.
He heard the woman scream.
There was a lot of coughing. Another spurt of gunfire. More coughing.
Nolan and Coltrane used their infrared goggles to keep their vision clear. Coltrane held his rifle. Nolan had his stun gun and the guard’s M40. They charged through the door into the warehouse.
It wasn’t necessary to map out their strategy beforehand. They were both experienced military men who knew how to secure a building. Nolan went toward the right. Coltrane went left.
The warehouse was poorly lit with only a few bare bulbs. Through the smoke, Nolan saw an array of wooden crates, none of them stacked higher than his waist. Robby Jessop batted at the smoke and fired blindly. The woman had curled up on the concrete floor beside a desk.
“Who the hell are you?” Jessop yelled. “What do you want?”
Hiding behind crates, Nolan got within ten feet of Jessop before he made his move. It would have been tidier to zap him with the stun gun, but he wanted Jessop to be coherent and able to talk. That was the whole point.
When Jessop turned away from him, Nolan moved fast. He delivered a rabbit punch to the kidneys, tore the weapon from Jessop’s hands and knocked him face down onto the concrete. When he had Jessop’s wrists secured, he pulled him up and marched him through the warehouse.
“Don’t hurt me,” Jessop wailed. “I can pay. Just don’t hurt me.”
He was a coward. Good. He’d be too scared to hold out.
It had already been agreed that Coltrane would take the lead in the interrogation. His specialty was infiltration into enemy situations. Not only did he know what questions to ask, but he was smooth enough to convince Jessop to trust him.
Nolan wasn’t so glib, and his physical appearance was anything but charming. He didn’t frighten little children, not anymore. But the facial reconstruction after his injuries had been extensive. He looked like a man who had been to hell and carried the scars.
While Cavanaugh kept watch over the six guards, Nolan brought Jessop around to the other side of his Caddy and shoved him down on his butt. “Don’t move.”
“I’m telling you,” Jessop whined, “let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”
Nolan traded places with Coltrane, taking custody of the woman in the tight red dress. He pushed his goggles up on his forehead and looked down at her. “You got a name?”
“Becky Joy.” She glared up at him. Her eyes were red from the smoke bomb. “I have nothing to do with this guy. He was just a date.”
“Take the woman,” Jessop offered. “She’s yours.”
Angrily, she reacted. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to say who I belong to.”
“Settle down.” Nolan clamped his fingers around her wiry upper arm. “You won’t be hurt.”
Coltrane circled Jessop, who was sitting cross-legged in the dirt with his wrists fastened behind his back. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His shoulders shuddered as he gasped for breath. Jessop wasn’t fat or skinny; he was as soft as a lump of pink clay. His formerly pristine white shirt was smudged and spattered with tiny drops of blood from a cut at the corner of his mouth.
In a calm voice, Coltrane lulled the defense contractor into a state of cooperation as he talked about the business of supplying weaponry for America and its allies in Iraq and Afghanistan. Without accusing, he hinted that maybe Jessop sold some of his guns to insurgents or warlords. And maybe, just maybe, there was a connection with the opium trade. “But mostly,” Coltrane said, “you’re providing supplies for our troops. You’re a patriot.”
“That’s right.” Jessop licked at the blood in the corner of his mouth. “You’re military, aren’t you?”
“What was your first clue?”
“The way you boys stormed into the warehouse. You’ve been trained. I can tell.”
Disgusted, Nolan looked away. This marshmallow knew nothing about the military, except that he could make money selling guns. Coltrane’s gentle approach was trying his patience.
“There was a guy in Iraq you might have known,” Coltrane said. “Wes Bradley.”
“Sure. He was one of my contacts.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Maybe six months ago,” Jessop said. “Why? Are you looking for him? Is he the guy you’re after?”
“Could be,” Coltrane said.
Wes Bradley had been one of their primary suspects for the attacks on Governor Lockhart until they discovered that he’d been dead for over two years. Someone else was using his identity.
After Bart’s abduction, they tested blood that supposedly belonged to Bradley and found a DNA match in the military database for Victor Bellows, Bart’s son. But there was a problem with this identification. Victor had been stationed in Iraq and had been MIA for four years.
“I’ll talk,” Jessop said. “What do you want to know about Bradley?”
“Describe him.”
“Over six feet, thinning brown hair. Not a bad looking guy but he has those crazy eyes. Know what I mean? Those pale blue eyes that seem to stare right through you.”
Coltrane produced a high school photo of Victor Bellows. “Is this Wes Bradley?”
Jessop nodded. “He’s older now, but that’s him.”
It was confirmation. Victor Bellows—Bart’s only son—was involved in his father’s abduction. Either Victor was the kidnapper or he knew who was holding his father.
“I’ve got another question,” Coltrane said. “Do you know Bart Bellows?”
“I’ve heard the name.” Jessop’s manner shifted. He was edgy, not eager to talk about Bart. “He’s a billionaire, right?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” Coltrane said. “We’re not here to enforce the law. But if you don’t cooperate, we’ll tell the CIA and Homeland Security about the weapons you’re holding in this warehouse.”
“If I talk, what do I get?”
Coltrane glanced over his shoulder at Nolan. “What can we offer?”
Nolan took out his cell phone. He had Omar Harris on speed dial. “As soon as I make this call, the CIA closes in. They’ll confiscate your weapons, but that shouldn’t be a problem for a patriot like you. These guns won’t end up in the hands of insurgents or thugs. All I can give you is fifteen minutes head start before I make the call.”
Jessop’s eyes darted. “That’s not much.”
“Take it or leave it.”
His mouth quivered. “There’s something big going down. It has to do with a case Bellows investigated in Afghanistan. It’s going to happen soon.”
“When?” Coltrane demanded.
“The next couple of weeks. Washington, D.C., is the location.”
Nolan felt a dark chill. Tess and his son lived in Arlington, too close to the threat. He held up his phone. “I need more. That’s too vague.”
“What do you mean?” Jessop wriggled, trying to free himself from the restraints.
“Something?” Nolan scoffed. “Something is happening in Washington? That’s about as useful as telling me that Santa Claus is coming to town. If that’s all you’ve got, I’m calling the law.”
“Don’t, please don’t,” Jessop begged. “I have a name. Just listen to me. The name is Greenaway.”
A blade of ice sliced into Nolan’s chest. Greenaway was the man who destroyed his life. Five years ago, Greenaway had threatened Tess and his unborn child. If he resurfaced, she was in imminent danger.
He had to find out more, had to stop Greenaway.
From the corner of his eye, Nolan saw the woman in the red dress moving. Too slowly, he turned toward her.
A gunshot exploded.
Blood spread across Jessop’s chest. He fell to his side in the dirt.
The woman dropped her gun. Where the hell had she been hiding that weapon? Her dress was so damn tight that she could barely walk. She raised her hands. “You can arrest me. I don’t care what happens.”
Nolan hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared. “Why?”
“Jessop killed my mother. The bastard deserves to die.”
But not yet. Not when Jessop had information Nolan needed.
The possibility that Greenaway was involved changed the focus of Nolan’s search for Bart. He needed to be in Washington, D.C., as soon as possible, and he had to make certain that Tess was safe.
THE OFFICE FOR Donovan Event Planning was a small storefront near Ballston Common Mall in Arlington. After dropping Joey off at day care, Tess arrived at a few minutes after ten in the morning. She hung her burgundy coat and the jacket of her black pantsuit in the closet and went to the sleek Plexiglas front desk where she sat and closed her eyes for a two-minute meditation.
Getting herself and her son ready in the morning took a lot of energy. Though Joey liked playing with the other kids at his day care, she always felt a twinge of guilt about leaving him. It had never been her intention to be a single mother.
She inhaled through her nostrils and exhaled through her mouth. In her mind, she pictured a blue horizon above a still body of water. Clouds blew in, and the sky and sea faded to the white of a blank slate. A fresh start.
