Deadly Holidays

by Lisa Phillips

  “Who is behind all this carnage?” Adrian was convinced now that Charles St. Germaine knew the identity of the man. “He tried to have you killed. Who is he?”

  “Wasn’t killed, was I?”

  “Not for lack of him trying. He sent Zimmerman halfway across the country to destroy a building you’d have been in if I hadn’t sent word your life was in danger.”

  “Yeah, heard about that. Another dirty FBI agent messing things up.” He glanced at Megan, then back at Adrian. “I figure one is just a sign that all of them are the same. Infected.”

  “Not worried he’ll try again?”

  Charles said, “I’ve made my peace. Maybe you should call Frampton and tell him to make his.”

  Adrian folded the file shut and swept out the door, Megan right behind him. He said, “He doesn’t leave until I’m done,” to the Marshal standing beside the door. The man probably bristled at being given an order, but Adrian didn’t wait around to see. He went straight to the desk of the closest agent by a phone.

  “I want a real-time check on Rear Admiral Frampton. I think the blackmailer is going to go at him again, try and kill him.”

  “Okay.” The agent snapped up his phone and dialed a number written on one of the papers on his desk. After a few seconds he said, “No answer.”

  He tried three different numbers, the agents on duty.

  Adrian said, “Keep trying. Call local police if you have to and get them there.”

  There were both Marshals and FBI agents on detail protecting Frampton at the safe house where he’d been stashed. Not even Adrian knew the location. They were either already dead, or at the least, they’d been pinned down and were unable to answer the phone.

  He turned back to the interview room where Charles sat.

  Through the glass of the window Adrian watched the man’s mouth turn up into a sick, humorless smile.

  “Walker.”

  He turned back to the agent at the phone. “What is it?”

  “I had local cops dispatched to the scene. There was a unit a mile away.” His face was grim. As though he disliked the taste of what he was saying rolling off his tongue. “One of them answered the phone. He said it’s nothing but carnage. They’re all dead.”

  Megan slipped her hand into his.

  “He’s sending over pictures now. Says they were all shot twice, chest and head. Marshals, our agents and the Rear Admiral are all dead.”

  “Professional hits.”

  The agent nodded his agreement.

  “He’s not messing around anymore,” Megan said. “He’s serious about taking out anyone who knows about him.”

  Adrian squeezed her hand, but spoke to the agent, “If we get any evidence at all, it won’t point to anyone local. Likely it’ll be former military, maybe foreign.”

  The agent’s eyebrows rose. “So how do we get evidence on this guy?”

  Adrian had been forced to parse out information so far. If he said the words “vice president” he would get laughed out of this office—especially considering he had no proof. “The blackmailer has gone unchecked for this long because there has been little to no evidence on him, or anything he’s done. We have to figure out the answer to that question so we can nail him.”

  The agent glanced over his shoulder at the captain, still in the interview room. A man who’d known this was going to happen. “But now we have someone connected to him in custody, right?”

  Megan said, “He isn’t going to give up the blackmailer’s name, if he even knows it.”

  Adrian said, “I have an idea about that.”

  “Wha—”

  He twisted to look over his shoulder at the marshal. He called out in an unmistakable, loud voice, “Cut that scum bag loose. I want him out of my sight.”

  **

  “Wait until I open your door.” Mint climbed out of the car he’d rented under an alias that couldn’t be connected to anything. He rounded the car and checked every angle on the street, then all rooftops.

  Only then did he open her door, one hand close to the gun strapped to his hip.

  “You’re doing it again.”

  Mint scanned the area. He continued to do it as he shut the door behind her. When she started toward the bank, he laid one hand on the small of her back.

  “Malone.”

  Use of his real name was enough to catch his attention. Not his first name, which he’d told her his father used. “Yes, Emma?”

  She ascended the huge marble steps to the front door of the bank. “Are you ever going to stop assuming a threat will, at any moment, spring from behind cover and take us out?”

  “It’ll take you out.”

  “Not if I dive at you and cover you.”

  Mint didn’t even want to address the ridiculousness of that. Which one of them was trained former military anyway? “If you’re asking whether I’m going to stop protecting you from potential danger, the answer is no.”

  “Even when this is done?” She stopped at the front door and glanced up at him.

  “I’m thinking when we have kids I’ll need to hire a team. And it’ll be easier if we homeschool. Less variables.”

  She swung around, tipped up on the balls of her feet and kissed him, square on the lips. “I love you.”

  She didn’t argue with him. Didn’t make his life more difficult. She wanted to be part of the tactical decisions he made so that she could understand his motivations. What she didn’t do was tell him his fears were silly, or try to convince him to figure out how to turn them off.

  “Love you too.” He glanced at her. The hand she’d placed on his cheek was her left. Her eyes strayed to it, as they often did these days when she pulled this exact move. Taking in the understated diamond on her left ring finger.

  What followed was a softening of her gaze, the subtle shift of her lips. A fresh realization of exactly what that meant. To both of them.

  But they were still out in the open. Exposed. He pulled the door open and ushered her in.

  She shot him a smile. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  He followed her into the bank, a smile tugging on his own lips. Mint hadn’t smiled all that much before she came into his life. There hadn’t been reason to, so why bother expending the energy it took to even pretend to be happy? Now there was reason.

  She was teaching him to enjoy his life. Because she was a part of it now, it actually worked. Hopefully he was teaching her to be more cautious. More aware of her surroundings. They would get to self-defense and weapons training soon enough.

  The bank manager was summoned.

  Emma said, “I’d like access to my safety deposit box, please.”

  The place she’d stashed all the communications she’d had from the blackmailer and everything else she’d thought relevant from that time. The files of recorded phone calls were with Aaron Jones. He was dead now, a patsy for the blackmailer. The financial records she kept were for a dead senator.

  Pieces of this puzzle.

  The manager checked her ID and confirmed she had the right passcode—which reassured Mint this place knew what they were doing. It was too easy to fake ID and steal a key.

  He trailed her down hallways. Yes, he looked like a bodyguard, but did he care? She was alive. And she was going to stay that way until they were ninety-whatever and they died in their sleep at the same time. Corny, maybe. His life goal? Definitely. He didn’t care what it said about him. Mint was private security, and she was the most important client he would have for the rest of his life.

  The manager used his own key. Emma used hers. The manager slid the long rectangular box out, and then moved out of the room. “Take your time.”

  Emma watched over Mint’s shoulder until the man was gone. He put his hand on her shoulder, just because she’d appreciate it. And because he could. Having her was like winning the best prize he could have—

  “Mint.”

  He shook off the daze. She’d distracted him, and distractions were going to get her kille
d. He needed to focus. “What?”

  Her eyebrows lifted.

  He lowered his voice. “Sorry. What is it?”

  “The box.” She tipped it in his direction. “It’s empty.”

  Chapter 5

  Steve chased the shooter down the street. The man had jumped into the same car Steve had spotted earlier watching the house. Couldn’t pass up the chance to kill all four of them? Whoever the guy was, he’d balked at the last minute. Apparently not prepared for the level of force that immediately retaliated back at him.

  The car sped away. Steve slowed to a stop and hung his head, breathing hard. But why stop at all? It wasn’t like he had business returning to the house. The cops would show up and he would only get arrested.

  Steve pulled out his burner phone and texted Bradley.

  Anyone hurt?

  A few seconds later he got a reply.

  Just bruises.

  Steve stowed the phone and headed for Mrs. Cromwell’s house. It was better than standing still on the sidewalk and wishing he could go back to Rachel. Make sure they were all okay. Bradley would be fussing over Alexis. He would take care of his sister as well, but Steve couldn’t deny he wanted to be there.

  Then again, he also wanted to walk right to the vice president’s house and bang on the door. Finally have it out with the man. Would William Anderson call the cops when Steve showed up? Probably. He also had a contingent of Secret Service on site who would stop Steve before he even got close.

  Lost cause.

  They weren’t going to let him punch the VP square in his smug face. As much as Steve wanted to do exactly that. Maybe more. Couldn’t happen.

  Then again, they claimed he was a threat. A killer. Why not make that real clear and just kill the guy? Make himself nothing but a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  He’d certainly done enough awful things in his life, even if they weren’t unlawful. He’d been an active CIA agent for years. Trained. He’d gone on missions precisely like the one responsible for the vice president’s foray into blackmail and murder. Did that make either of them right? No. Life wasn’t black and white, right or wrong. There were so many shades of gray. Good people did bad things and bad people did good.

  Steve was only responsible for his own actions and reactions.

  Instead of going back to Mrs. Cromwell, he walked all the way to the vice president’s house. So much walking he was going to have sore legs tomorrow. But that was the way in Washington DC. You either drove everywhere and ended up stuck in traffic, or you walked.

  Outside of the Secret Service’s surveillance perimeter, Steve crouched. His watch said it was a little past midnight. His fingers were chilled, his nose going numb with the cold of December.

  He waited there long enough to ascertain the Secret Service were sticking to a pattern he knew. Steve pulled a device out of his backpack, and turned it on. It would temporarily disable the heat sensors. He’d have to work around the security lights, but Mrs. Anderson didn’t like them on all the time at night. They were often turned off altogether to prevent the flash from turning on because a squirrel crossed the sensor beam.

  And how did he know that?

  The person who’d been tasked with attempting to test the security set up at the VP’s Washington residence was him.

  One of Double Down’s many physical security tests. And it seemed like they hadn’t made many changes since then, despite the comprehensive report Steve had issued to the Secret Service about the security at the house, giving him intimate knowledge of the setup. Steve figured they should’ve tweaked at least something. Considering he was a fugitive.

  Steve scaled the brick wall and used the cover of bushes and trees to make his way to the back of the shed. He checked that his device was still working, disabling the security cameras. Soon enough, whoever was on security would check. They would figure out what the problem was and sound the alarm.

  He waited until the right break in rolling patrols and sprinted to the outside wall of the house. Steve used a lock pick kit to enter the French doors that led from the patio on the west side of the house into the vice president’s study. So the man could look at the trees while he contemplated the fate of the country—or how to victimize more people.

  The desktop was bare. Steve would only have seconds at most, so he went straight for the safe. A couple of jewelry boxes. A zippered pouch containing…probably a few hundred. File folders. He took pictures of the contents to look at later.

  At the back was a leather bound book. A photo album. Steve flipped through the pictures and found they were of William Anderson’s parents. Their mission where they’d preached the word of God in a small Venezuelan town.

  Until that town was massacred.

  They smiled for the camera. Small children surrounded them, all happy. William stood tall beside his father. On the other end of the row of four Anderson’s was another boy, smaller than William. A younger brother?

  That wasn’t something that had come up in the background checks. Not the ones anyone had run on the VP’s history. Steve took a photo with his phone. Could be relevant.

  He kept flipping, aware that time was quickly running out. More photos of their family. The church people. William and another boy, a Venezuelan. Best friends? Steve took a few more pictures with the camera on his phone.

  Two connections. People who knew everything about what the vice president had gone through? Confidants. Accomplices. One possibly his brother, the other a Venezuelan. Assuming they were still alive—though he’d never heard anything about a younger brother—and able, they could be in league with him. Or prepared to testify against him.

  He stowed the belongings back in the safe and put everything back in its place. Was there really a brother out there, somewhere? The Venezuelan could have grown up to be El Cuervo. He was dead now, but Steve had been tasked with helping him escape that restaurant. Someone the blackmailer had wanted safeguarded.

  Halfway to the patio door, he saw a flash of movement. Steve hugged the wall, out of sight. Not a roving patrol whiling away the night hours. This person moved with purpose. With intention. Who was it, and where were they going?

  A scream rang out. Not from outside, this came from somewhere in the house. Yelling followed. Then the muffled shouts of multiple Secret Service agents. Steve stayed where he was. An escalation from “normal” to there being a situation would mean everyone was on alert now. He didn’t need to rush this and end up being spotted trying to get off the property.

  He moved in a steady pace to the patio door, intending to slip out. The door opened. Steve drew the curtain and ducked behind it in one move. The light flipped on inside the room. He took one slow breath and let it out silently.

  Then he eased the handle down and moved outside.

  Air blew in, a cool breeze that shifted the curtain.

  “Freeze!”

  Steve fired a couple of shots. He aimed high, so they’d hit the ceiling and not a person, and then he ran. Pumped his arms and legs and raced across the grass to the wall. He jumped, still running, and his trailing leg slammed the wall. He ignored the crack of pain and flipped his body over the wall.

  He raced into the street a second before he realized those blinding lights coming at him were a car. The far corner glanced off his hip, spinning him around with the momentum. He landed on his backside in the street and rolled. But not before he caught a look at the driver.

  Rachel.

  A shot rang out.

  The Secret Service agent who raced after him had jumped the wall.

  Steve clambered to his feet and kept running. Mostly just trying to escape the mess that he’d made of his life.

  **

  Rachel blinked. Her foot slipped off the brake, and the Secret Service agent raced in front of the car. Too fast for her to do anything.

  Could she have hit a fed on purpose? The way she’d hit Steve. Rachel touched her head to the steering wheel between her hands. What had she been thinking anyway, coming h
ere? Apparently the same as Steve, except for the fact he’d wound up being chased by an armed agent. She only wanted to talk to William Anderson. Demand the reasoning behind the fact she’d been shot at tonight.

  Her hip still hurt from when she’d flung Alexis to the floor.

  Today was turning out to be a day for bruises. Enough to make her stiff tomorrow at the office. If she managed to make it back home tonight.

  Rachel pressed the gas and drove into the vice president’s property. She showed her ID. When the guard said it wasn’t a good time she said, “Nonsense,” and kept driving past him. Maybe he wouldn’t shoot at her car. Or arrest her.

  She’d discovered in the past few years that rather than attempt to persuade people she was in the right place—and that she knew what she was talking about—it was more effective to pretend you knew exactly where you were. “Fake it till you make it” was a valid option in Washington politics. Too bad it had spilled over to other parts of her life.

  She parked away from the front door so she didn’t block anyone important. It occurred to her that Steve could have hurt someone. She hoped not. She wanted to believe he wouldn’t do something like that, but these were exigent circumstances. He’d been effectively pinned against a wall. Accused. Implicated. Some of it he’d actually done. Some of it he would take the blame for, simply because of who he’d been before she met him. She’d found out as much as her clearance level would allow, and had actually uncovered information on a couple of missions he’d been involved in as an officer for the CIA.

  It had only made her prouder.

  A ham-sized fist pounded on her window, jolting her out of her Steve-daze. “Ma’am.”

  She cracked the door and climbed out, shoving him out of the way with the door. “It’s Senator, actually. Rachel Harris.”

  “Of course.” Like that was obvious to him. Was she supposed to know who knew her and who didn’t?

  Before he could say anything else, she demanded, “What happened here tonight?”