The camera was to her back and pointed more toward Carmen, but she tried to keep her body between the all-seeing eye and what she was doing.
Moving swiftly, she removed the drive and tape dispenser from her pocket. She tore off a piece of tape and stuck it to the side of the flash drive, and then popped the cap from the top of the cubicle’s metal support, pretending to use the flimsy wall to catch her balance. She taped the flash drive inside the square tube and returned the cap with a snap.
If the security guard downstairs was paying close attention, she was screwed.
Down the elevator, across the tiled lobby, her limbs were stiff, muscles jerky as if her body’s timing was off.
What she needed was sleep. And food. She’d had a quick bowl of cereal before leaving home earlier, but now her stomach protested. But she was wired, as if she’d been taking on coffee straight from an IV all morning.
The security guard nodded as she passed through the turnstile. No shouts, no weapons. Her back tingled in anticipation until she made it safely through the glass doors.
An icy wind blasted through her jacket, chilling her to the core the instant she stepped into the sunshine. Maybe she had a few more hours before everything blew up in her face. Enough time to make some calls.
A few rows down from her car, Scott’s Jeep still sat in the parking lot. He’d been surprised by her late night, but she’d been equally surprised by his early morning.
She knew nothing about him except that he had been a Marine—no secret given the round sticker on his car’s rear window that glinted in the sun—and he was training for field ops. And that a guy like him could have any woman he set his amazing blue eyes on. She highly doubted he’d ever want her.
Especially now that she was poised to blow the whistle on Duncan and possibly topple Aggressor. Holy shit. She sat in her car for a minute until she stopped hyperventilating.
Preoccupied by the morning’s revelations, she made it home on autopilot and dragged herself up the stairs to her second-floor apartment.
She dropped her huge purse on the kitchen counter—she never went anywhere without her laptop and a change of clothing in case she stayed at work overnight, so a big bag was mandatory—and opened the fridge. No way was she coherent enough to risk cooking something. Opting for a peanut butter and banana sandwich with cinnamon, she collapsed onto a stool and devoured the delicious mash-up that had been Dad’s favorite.
Comfort food was exactly what she needed right now, even if the memories it brought back made her chest hurt.
Five minutes later, she pushed away her plate and stumbled into the bedroom, feeling loopy from fatigue. She needed to call the FBI and make an appointment or whatever, but if she talked to someone now, they’d write her off as drunk or on drugs.
Even fully sober they might not believe her story. What if they accused her of trying to set up Aggressor to cover her own illegal activities? They’d say she spoofed Duncan’s account to make it appear that he’d assigned her those clients, using company time and resources to pull it off.
But she had Jay. Surely if they both told the same story, the FBI would at least investigate.
Returning to the kitchen to retrieve her cell phone, she dialed Jay. The call went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, she left the phone on the counter and stalked to her room.
Two hours. That was all she needed. Enough sleep to take the edge off. After donning her favorite sleep shirt—a super-soft cotton T with the words TALK NERDY TO ME across the front—and a pair of pajama pants, Valerie brushed her teeth, set her alarm, and barely made it under the comforter.
Strange, vivid dreams filled her head, but disappeared from her mental grasp the minute she woke to a loud knock on the door. The clock showed she’d only been out for forty-five minutes. She closed her eyes and groaned.
Who the hell could be at the door? She never had unexpected guests. Or expected ones for that matter. If it was a door-to-door salesman, she might seriously contemplate murder. Sliding her feet into slippers, she threw on a sweatshirt to hide her braless state and padded into the living room.
Her cell phone rang. She paused in indecision.
Another impatient round of banging came from the door. Valerie stepped up and peeked through the viewer. Two men stood on the outdoor landing in blue FBI windbreakers, badges on chains around their necks. Her stomach took a dive. How did they know…?
Ring ring.
She yanked open the door, unable to hide the frown on her face, or the shiver that ran through her from the cold wind’s assault.
A tall, trim man with close-cropped brown hair stepped forward. “Ms. Sanchez?” He was not quite handsome with sharp cheekbones, a thin nose, and gray-blue eyes that matched the winter sky.
Valerie didn’t respond, just waited. Her phone went silent.
His eyebrows narrowed. “I’m Special Agent John Dresner, FBI.” He flashed his ID at her, and then gestured to the stocky Black man next to him. “This is Special Agent Curtis Williams.”
His credentials appeared real enough, but what did she know? “What can I do for you?” she asked. Had she called them in her sleep?
Her phone dinged to alert her to a new voicemail.
Agent Dresner crossed the threshold, forcing her to take several steps back. “Valerie Sanchez, you’re under arrest.”
Scott’s alarm interrupted the faint music he’d fallen asleep to after less than an hour of snoozing in the back of the Tahoe. “She’s up and on the move already?” he grumbled to the empty cargo space, pausing the tunes. Maybe he should get a dog. At least then he wouldn’t be talking to himself.
The fog of sleep lifted quickly. Two men wearing FBI windbreakers and dark slacks stood on the open-air landing in front of Valerie’s apartment. From a hundred yards away through binos, Scott watched as she opened her door wearing a Virginia Tech sweatshirt and striped pajama pants.
Her rumpled, yanked-from-sleep appearance ignited his protective instincts. She sure as hell didn’t look like a threat to the nation’s security.
Except Hollowell had proof. She’d taken the bait.
But why now? Not only had she been clean since her father went to jail over a decade ago, but she knew Aggressor performed routine investigations of their employees to look for anything suspicious, anything that made them vulnerable to extortion. Excessive debt, an extramarital affair, exploitable habits like drugs or sexual fetishes. The same things the military and government agencies looked for when performing background checks for top-secret clearance.
The only thing they’d found on Valerie was the offshore account. But wouldn’t someone with her skills know how to mask her ownership? Scott didn’t understand how all that computer shit worked, so he had no idea, but she didn’t strike him as an idiot.
The two men entered her apartment.
Scott’s job was basically over. After less than a week of round-the-clock surveillance, she would be out of his life for good. With one hand, he started to clean up, placing his Nikon in his backpack, along with a couple of CLIF bar wrappers.
He kept the binoculars trained on her doorway, his body heavy as a tank.
It wasn’t her he’d miss. Definitely not. But he’d miss the work, the chance to return to his roots. In Afghanistan, he’d spent days at a time camped out in one position, he and his partner isolated from the rest of the platoon in the middle of enemy-controlled territory. Scott ate, pissed, and napped in the prone position, undetected thanks to his ghillie suit and sloth-like movements as he observed a group of terrorists to determine their habits and rank structure.
Surveilling Valerie had been a hell of a lot easier and light years more comfortable. But still good practice.
Outside, the agents exited the apartment with Valerie in tow, her hands shackled. The white guy had her large blue handbag slung over his shoulder, one hand on her, the other near his service weapon.
The FBI agents reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the parking lot where
their nondescript, tan bureau car waited in a “no parking” zone.
Ten yards from the car, the fair-haired fed doubled over and dropped to his knees. The ear-splitting report of a high-caliber shot shattered the air.
“What the fuck?” Scott reached for his rifle, heart in his throat.
All he got was air. He’d gone without his long gun for this op because if a cop found him sitting surveillance, he’d have a hard time explaining away the Barrett.
Valerie dropped to her knees and lowered her head. Instinct, but not a good one.
“Run, goddammit.” Launching himself over the flattened back seats and through the passenger door, he took off running.
The Black FBI agent pushed Valerie behind a cement pillar and shielded her as he returned fire. Scott couldn’t see the sniper, but he had to be in one of the upper-floor apartments in the adjacent building. The roof wasn’t flat, and the trees were too bare to conceal anyone this time of year.
Crouched low, the agent jerked back with a cry and gripped his shoulder.
“Valerie!” A man called from the sniper’s roost, his voice loud and distorted, coming through a bullhorn. “Run.”
Christ, no. “Not now,” Scott said under his breath. “He’s trying to draw you out.” His heart pounded wildly as he pumped his arms. Shit, shit, shit. His side started to cramp, his progress far too slow even though he ran flat out.
In the distance, sirens wailed. Valerie kneeled next to the downed agent, placing herself firmly in the sniper’s crosshairs.
But he didn’t fire.
The still-conscious fed rolled onto his side to reach into his pocket, then handed something to Valerie. A few seconds later she had her wrists free. She lifted the injured man to a sitting position against the pillar and pressed her palms to his wounded shoulder.
“Run,” the sniper said again, clearly using a bullhorn so she could hear him. “Get out of here before the police arrive. I won’t be able to hold them off too.”
She sent a puzzled look toward the disembodied voice, but held firm.
What the hell was going on?
The agent jerked and slumped to the ground, followed by an immediate boom. Valerie screamed and dove out of the line of fire.
Goddammit.
When Scott was fifty yards out, Valerie spotted him racing along the grass that lined the side of the parking lot. With a final glance toward the sniper’s hideout, she snagged her bag and sprinted toward her car.
Valerie dodged the growing crowd of bystanders huddling around the corner of her building as she tried to catch her breath.
Sirens cut through the feeling of cotton in her ears. The police would be here soon.
Her steps faltered. Shouldn’t she wait for them? They’ll arrest you. Her head throbbed and tears blurred her vision, but she could make out the man in the green jacket still racing toward her. Valerie almost tripped over a neighbor who was hunkered down behind a large truck, cradling her baby against her chest.
“Are you okay?” she asked. She didn’t know the woman’s name, but she’d seen her around.
“What’s going on?” the blonde asked, her voice shaky.
“Someone’s shooting. Stay here.” Valerie moved past them. “I have to go.”
“But the police…”
Bile rose in her throat. As she approached her car, the doors unlocked with a pop. Her heart hammered so hard she could hardly draw breath. Both agents were dead. She was splattered with blood.
And she’d run away.
Valerie’s stomach contracted painfully and she dry-heaved. Oh, Jesus. What was she doing?
Keep moving!
She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the door. Green Parka stood still, watching her. Something about him was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t make out his features from this distance. All she knew was that she couldn’t let him catch her. She’d learned to trust her instincts over the years, and hers were screaming that he was not a friend.
She threw herself inside the car, pushed the button to start the engine, and peeled out of the parking lot on squealing tires without looking back.
The steering wheel was cold, but she gripped it hard to keep her hands from shaking as she joined the afternoon traffic pouring out of the nearby business parks and heading toward the freeway onramp. She checked her mirrors obsessively, but no one appeared to be following her. Not that she was an expert in counter surveillance.
Not anymore. Papá had taught her a few things, but she was rusty.
Separating from the congestion, she continued another mile down the wide road that led to one of Fairfax County’s mega strip malls. She had to ditch the car. If the cops weren’t looking for her already, they would be soon.
No one in the massive, car-logged parking lot took any notice of her as she parked and used baby wipes she kept in her glove box to rid her face and hands of blood. Still trembling, she turned her sweatshirt inside out to hide the stains and popped the trunk. She scavenged a granola bar, gloves, fleece cap, and a bottle of water she kept for blizzards and other emergencies. If this didn’t qualify, nothing did. She shoved the snack and water into her tote bag, tucked her hair up into the beanie, and donned the gloves.
She dropped her keys onto the driver’s seat, shut the car door, and let her palms linger on the Prius. Her first new car, bought to celebrate a big jump in income when she took the job at Aggressor. God, how had things gone so wrong?
Scanning for threats, she wiped tears from her cheeks and walked away from the car, hugging herself against the biting wind that cut through her inadequate sweatshirt.
Within minutes she was just another pajama-wearing patron at Walmart.
Chapter Four
Zachari, CA
Two weeks later, Sunday, 4:40 p.m.
Scott had been following Valerie since she left Virginia two weeks ago, and she still hadn’t led him to her co-conspirator, who Hollowell now believed was Suresh. Seeing as how the guy had gone dark the same day Valerie split, it wasn’t a stretch. Hollowell probably had to pull his own teeth to get himself to admit it, though. He’d been so fucking sure she was working alone.
But the old man’s suspicions of Valerie appeared valid. Everything pointed to her guilt. In addition to the offshore account, someone had been willing to kill to help her escape the feds, and she’d immediately taken off for Zachari, California—about sixty miles north of Los Angeles—with a destination in mind. No hesitation, despite no obvious link to the town.
And yet, after trailing her for two weeks, he still had a hard time believing she was guilty.
The turncoat was too fucking nice. She tipped delivery drivers well. She drove too fast in the beat-up Accord she’d purchased in West Virginia, but she didn’t tailgate or cut people off or honk at stupid drivers. She held the door for people and thanked them for doing the same. It wasn’t forced with her either, it was clearly unconscious habit.
Or maybe she was too fucking hot, and he was the dumbass who turned stupid around a pretty face.
Which made him laugh. Up until he glimpsed her spark on that last day in Virginia, she’d been the quiet girl in baggy clothes hiding behind a large computer monitor, a messy ponytail, and a foreign language of proxy servers, backdoors, sniffers, and other geek-speak.
But computer nerd or not, the woman helping her elderly landlady unload groceries—keeping up the ruse?—had been transformed. She’d carved out side-swept bangs that balanced her oval face, and her dark brown hair fell in a shiny sheet past her shoulder blades, reflecting red and blond highlights in the setting sun. She was sexy as hell in slim jeans that hid lean, athletic legs, and a sweater the wind had molded to her killer rack.
Christ, she was guilty of espionage, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her tits.
But he also couldn’t stop thinking about the fear and confusion on her face when the sniper started shooting, and again when he told her to run. Scott would bet good money that she hadn’t been in on that day’s massacre.
Which didn’t make her innocent. Getting involved with the criminal underworld made her culpable. Given her history, he’d expected her to be smarter.
Scott adjusted his position in the recently purchased beater of a cargo van. Across the street, she gave the older woman a gentle hug before striding to the detached-garage-turned-guest-house. The small rental exactly matched the main house, right down to its white trim, green wood siding, and stone porch.
Valerie—now going by Victoria Reynoso—had done a nice job of covering her tracks but she clearly didn’t realize her efforts were useless. Scott didn’t have much to offer the world, but he knew how to be invisible.
And how to wait.
Down the street, the feds were watching too, operating out of a two-story motel called The Dolphin, which had probably been built in the fifties and never refurbished. Since he wasn’t in contact with them, he’d made up his own names for the agents to amuse himself as he watched them spy on Valerie.
He’d noticed Hurley first. Later, he’d added Roxy, Billy, Van, Rip, and Oakley, though they did a pretty good job of staying covert. He supposed they had some experience.
They wanted Valerie to lead them to Suresh—and possibly her buyer—before bringing her in, and Hollowell wanted Scott to stay on as backup and to keep him in the loop. Fine with him. Better they capture both traitors.
Assuming she was meeting up with Suresh at all. A smart woman would cut ties and start fresh.
Scott scratched the beard he’d been growing since they took to the road. After so many years in the Marines, shaving was a habit, but his scruffy face changed his look completely. Combine that with the blond highlights the sun had given his overlong hair, sunglasses, and board shorts, and Valerie hadn’t looked at him twice. He was just another transient surfer parked at the beach across from her cottage.
The surfers figured he was just another guy living out of his van. Which, basically, he was.
Dangerous To Love Page 209