“Thank you, Douglas.” He addressed it. “A smaller envelope, please, and paper.” Matterson accommodated and Noble wrote, his script faltering for a moment with indecision, then he quickly finished and slid the paper inside, giving it a lick to close it. Keeping his back to the hall, he pulled the satchel forward, digging, bypassing the ship’s log for his most prized possession. He took a breath before he pulled out the broad book, then discreetly tucked it into the pack with the note. He pressed the self-seal and wrote across the seam. He nudged it toward Matterson. “Immediately, if you please.”
Matterson frowned, nodded, accepting slowly. “Is everything all right, sir?”
He chanced a look back over his shoulder. The hall was empty. “I hope so.”
He ordered dinner sent to his room, then strode to the elevator and rode the lift to his floor. He hurried to unlock his door and feel a little safer. He sealed himself inside, falling back against the polished wood and letting his satchel drop off his shoulder. He should have bid online or by proxy, but he’d wanted the log in his hands, to feel and read it. That was his downfall. His insatiable need to read history penned by those who lived it. He pushed off, removing his jacket and hanging it neatly in the closet. He was closing the door when he realized his room had been ransacked.
Nor was he alone.
He rushed for the exit, throwing it open. The blue-eyed man stood on the other side and with a hand to his chest, shoved him back in.
“Don’t be a child,” he mocked, accented, Slavic.
“It was a legal transaction. You couldn’t afford the bid. You must live with that.”
“I don’t plan on it.” He shut the door, then pushed Noble toward the center. He bumped the man behind him.
Noble looked around. His suitcases were upended, the linings cut. He possessed what they wanted, so why destroy his belongings? “Who are you people? What is the meaning of all this?”
The second man slid a gun from inside his jacket, the barrel long and narrow. “You are smart, it will come to you.”
Noble retreated a step. Guns? Over an antique?
The blue-eyed man swept up the satchel, but his pleased expression fell when he upended Noble’s case on the table and scattered his belongings. Disappointment rose to anger in those cold blue eyes as he lifted out the ship’s log, rewrapped the linen, then immediately deposited it in a dark gray pack along with his Web phone. “Where is the diary?”
How did they know of the—Was the bidding against him all a ruse? And to what end? Because he couldn’t think of a single reason why they pestered him for the ship’s log unless they knew the truth. These were not unintelligent men, he realized, and he understood their true target. It did not matter. He’d been entrusted with the translation and could not reveal even having possession of it. He said nothing.
The blue-eyed man sighed heavily. “This could all have been much easier, Sheppard.”
He knew his name? “You have the ship’s log, now go.”
“I’m afraid that is unacceptable.”
The man circled the hotel room, one last inspection, and Noble wondered if he could reach the door before they shot him. Clearly, they didn’t come to leave empty-handed. “I don’t know anything about a diary.”
“If that’s so…” From behind his back, he withdrew a long knife. Lamplight showed blood on the black blade. “Then you’re no use to us.” He neared. “Are you?”
THREE
The Craw Daddy
New Orleans
Sebastian smoothed the cloth over the polished wood bar, laid out cocktail napkins, then with a little drama, set the tall Hurricane drinks in front of the two young women.
“Oh-my-God.” The petite blonde looked from the broad glass to him and back.
“Go slow, darlin’,” he said. “That’s a lot of liquor for a speck like you.”
“I’ll have to drink all of it then, since no one has called me a speck since I was a baby.”
Her partner-in-crime glanced at him, then her friend, and leaned into say, “Girl. Are you flirting?”
Sebastian laughed. The blonde shrugged and sipped while her pal drained half the potent drink in seconds. He stepped back, winking at the brunette with far too many tattoos for one so young. “Careful, your virtue’s at risk now.”
She giggled. “No men, just a girl’s night.”
“Never pass up an advantage staring you in the face, I say, but she’s right,” the blonde said. “It was a pinky swear.” She threw him an apologetic smile as she left the stool. The girls jiggled and bounced through the crowded bar, searching for a prospect to break that “no men” oath.
Sebastian leaned back against the counter, watching the crowd. The joint was jumping. He’d dragged a pair of street entertainers in for a session before the mike. They were jazzing the crowd and he loved seeing all those smiles. Servers moved quickly between the tables, and Jasmine caught his eye, then nodded at two college kids a little too drunk too early.
He glanced at his watch. No clocks in his place. The Craw Daddy closed when the crowds thinned and in New Orleans, that was somewhere around three A.M. He heard the order-up ringer and went to the kitchen. Grabbing a tray, he slid on the heaping plates before he turned back into the crowd to deliver it. Jasmine rushed to take it from him and he shook his head. The tray was massive and he held it above the crowd, working his way to the rear.
She popped out a tray stand. “You look like you could use a drink. You doing okay?”
He set the tray down and let her take over. “Stop asking me that. I’m fine.”
“We’re related, it’s my right to annoy you. “Before he could say anything, his sister focused on the customers, laid a plate of steaming crawfish and a pot of warm butter in front of a man. “Hi. I’m Jasmine. Y’all’s first time to N’Orleans?”
Sebastian went back to the bar, cleared the empties, mixed a half dozen cocktails, then started refilling the ice chests. His newest employee, Pip, a young Filipino, nudged him out of the way.
“Go stir something, Mr. Fontenòt, you get impatient again.”
“Are getting impatient,” he corrected, backing away. “But very good.”
Pip beamed. They had a pact. Pip had a work visa, but Sebastian insisted he improve his English and work toward citizenship. That the compact man could cook like a pro and mixed a mean martini worked in his favor, but being a martial arts expert made him handy when the crowds got wild. And they always did.
But Pip was right. Jasmine, too, but she’d picked at him longer and it was just irritating now. He considered himself easygoing, but since Singapore—he had to think of it as one entity or he’d count off each moment trapped under a house for three days—his tolerance for four walls and a roof was stretching thin. There weren’t enough hours in the day for all he wanted to do. Only problem, his plate was full and it wasn’t satisfying.
He heard a sharp whistle and searched the restaurant. Jasmine nodded to the front windows and the gold Expedition emptying of his friends. Time to regroup, he thought, tossing off his barkeep’s apron as he entered the kitchen and crossed behind fry cooks and servers. It was a pleasant madness, cooks sliding orders on the pickup shelf, servers loading up, and sous chefs prep chopping. He gripped one teenager’s shoulders, physically moving him out of the way, then he slipped out the rear and into the hall. He passed the staircase leading to his place above and opened the door to the street.
“Nothing’s changed for you, huh?” Max said, cha-chaing his way inside.
“The last hurricane tried.” The loud music drummed against the dry wall, the clank of dishes and shouting coming from behind him. “Never a dull moment till closing.” He greeted everyone, getting hugs from the women, then he inclined his head. They followed to the second floor. He didn’t have a problem abandoning Jasmine. She ran the place when he wasn’t around and it was half hers anyway. He’d seen to that while he was still in the hospital in Singapore.
On the second floor, he crossed t
he apartment to throw open the French doors of the rear balcony. He stopped short when he saw the table heavy with platters of shrimp, crawfish, and half the menu’s appetizers.
“My sister’s great,” he said.
“’Bout time you admitted it, sugar,” he heard as Jasmine slipped inside with a tray, giving Max a wink, then crossing to the table. “The butter would have chilled.” She set out the steaming crocks, then tucking the tray under her arm, she greeted the team. She got chatty with Viva and Safia for a bit, then headed back. “Have a pitcher of ice-cold Hurricanes downstairs if anyone’s interested in something stronger,” she said on her way out the door.
“Keep an eye on the college boys,” he yelled down, then gestured to the table. “Eat. There’s crawfish étouffèe.”
Viva sprang to action. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Thank you.” She slid into a chair, and plucked a bite of peeled shrimp, tasting. “Divine. Almost orgasmic.”
He chuckled, Sam hanging back for a second as Riley and Safia joined her. Killian was MIA, using his alter ego Dominic Cane for the DEA, and Alexa, he suspected, was chasing after their daughter. Doctors Without Borders had Logan’s time with Tessa…hell, he forgot where she was this time. The Congo? He slid into a chair. Drinks poured, and poured again as they dined, dunking shrimp in spicy cocktail sauce. Sebastian preferred hardening his arteries by drenching fresh cracked crab in butter. They didn’t come up for air for fifteen minutes, finally settling back to dine slower.
“Got to pace myself around here,” Riley said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Oh the hell with that,” Safia said, peeling a crawfish, then shoving it into her mouth. She moaned, mouthed, “You’re a god,” then ate more. He winked and took a sip of his beer.
“We’re out of business and it royally sucks,” Max said, passing a bowl of Cajun dirty rice.
“No business license, then no insurance, and without a clearance, certainly no work in Europe,” Sam said.
“So we vacation.” They all looked at Riley. “The D-oh-D, Homeland Security, they won’t change their tune. Not anytime soon. There’s a lockdown and it’s tight.”
“McGill said the same thing,” Sam added. He glanced up from cracking crab and shrugged. “I thought he could yank some chains, but our last op with him was off the books, and he wouldn’t speculate. Hell, after he learned they pulled our chit, he wouldn’t consider digging and warned me not to hunt right now and to just wait it out.”
Even McGill’s doors were slamming, Sebastian thought. The Suit copied everything they’d had in Georgia, and it was a small blessing McGill’s Venezuela file wasn’t on the jet’s computers and stashed in a safe deposit box. But it was damn clear Beckham was on to something highly sensitive or they’d still be in business. He sipped his beer, then said, “What did we stumble into then?”
They stopped eating, except Viva.
“Hell if I know,” Max said, grabbing the pitcher and refilling beers. “Mills won’t talk to us, so that means Ground Zero came down on him, too.”
Safia gestured with her fork. “The Pentagon is sealing any link to Beckham. It was his op the Chechens were gunning for, I’m certain of it. Satellite imagery has a MiG dropping five-hundred-pounders on the return north.”
The room went quiet.
“Are you shitting me?”
Viva made a sour face at Max. “I should hope not.”
Safia fished in a tote bag, then handed Max satellite photos.
Sebastian peered at the target hit. “We were on the other side of the mountain by then,” he said, thinking, if we know, so does Beckham. “There’s nothing left after a thousand pounds of explosives, but on the Georgia side, it’s a military road into Chechnya, a supply route.”
“Bombed often, too,” Max said, flipping through the photos. “Russia invaded Georgia for that stretch of real estate.”
“So the Russians were hiding something and blew it up?” Sam said sourly. “I’ll alert the media.” Viva nudged him, then offered a peeled shrimp.
“When Lania Price was a field agent,” Safia said, “her theater was Moscow. She tracked KGB.” Her brows knit. “After Kincade’s involvement, maybe Beckham’s cleaning out their bad assets, tying off some old ops.” The silence stretched and Safia sat back, staring at her lap. Riley slung his arm over the back of her chair, tipping his head to whisper something private.
“Ya know…I don’t have a problem with believing Kincade worked both sides. I knew that early, but now I’m re-thinking every op with him. Believe me, the Company is too.” She frowned harder. “But I can’t help wondering if I helped him shuffle weapons or something worse.”
“He accomplished a lot of good,” Max said and Sebastian elbowed him.
“He crossed the line,” Safia snapped tightly and the room grew quiet again. “Sorry. Guess I haven’t gotten over being betrayed by my boss who set a bomb to kill me and killed thousands instead.” Across the table, she met Sebastian’s gaze. She’d called in a squad of Marines from the embassy to help dig him out and according to Logan, because of internal bleeding, he’d had about two hours left to live by then. He’d be a corpse if not for her help. Instinctively, he flexed his fingers, rotated his wrist. He had several pins holding it together now. The scars were still a little bright. When he looked up, Safia’s gaze was on his hand, her expression growing from guilt to anger.
“It’s okay not to forgive,” Viva said into the silence, and Safia frowned at her. “My mother was murdered in front of me because of a vendetta against my father. He’s slowly rotting in prison for it. Like Kincade—who I didn’t like when I met him,” she clarified with a glance around the table. “My father had years to end the feud, but did nothing. So imagining him alone with only his mistakes for company…that so works for me.” She broke a bread stick, then offered half to Safia. She smiled, accepted, and they knocked them like swords.
“Maary mother,” Riley said. “This could be a dangerous friendship.”
Laughter erupted around the table and Viva blushed, then tipped her chin up. “Safia trusted me when you guys didn’t. And I didn’t do so bad my first time, did I?”
“You were fantastic and I sent her in,” Safia defended, then looked pointedly Sam.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “She isn’t trained like you or Alexa.”
Viva reared, gunning for a fight. “So…all that weapons practice, rappelling, dogfighting in the choppers was what—? Busywork?”
“Careful, buddy,” Sebastian warned.
“Field experience overshadows training,” Sam argued.
“Killian was stuck in the Ukraine with a commercial flight delay,” Safia said. “And the Georgians couldn’t offer air support into Chechnya. We were against the wall, no pilot, and you guys either hoofed your own butts out of there or Viva did. What would you have done?” Her expression dared anyone to contradict her decisions as D1 Ops Commander.
“I stand corrected, ma’am,” Sam muttered, silencing the debate. Viva and Safia smacked palms, gloating.
But Sebastian didn’t need anything more. Viva proved her mettle in spades. “Mills lied.” They looked at him, half of them scowling, and he leaned forward. “Or at the very least, he’s holding out on what else his captors wanted. Anna Mills was North Atlantic communications, and all classified transmissions are stored. Without access and pass codes, it’s impossible to get in and she left the Company years ago.” Riley opened his mouth to speak, but he put up a hand. “I’m not dismissing that because Vince was a sonar technician aboard a nuclear sub, all classified, also years prior.”
The submarine sonar specialist had turned his Navy service into a money-making career. Unlike government contractors like KBR or DynCorp, Mills was his own company. “We read the schematic proposal. It’s calibrated to accommodate the salt diversity in deep arctic water.” Sebastian left his chair and crossed to the desk. He grabbed a file, flipped it open, and ran his finger down the page till he found the information. “Sonar doesn�
�t work well in arctic temps. The salt content, the extreme water temperature, and floe shift play havoc and distort signals.” He looked up. “He’s developed a temperature and salt sensitive calibration that makes them much more accurate to map the ocean floor.”
Riley’s features tightened. “Bad guys are searching underwater. They’d need the calibration codes definitely, and they beat those out of Mills. You’d have to be familiar with the sonar system, but after that, it’s practically robotic and self-contained.”
“Double duty,” he said. “Take him for the sonar to cover needing something else from Mills. Any ideas?”
“That won’t get us tossed in jail? No,” Max said. “But this isn’t making me warm and fuzzy. Not with Beckham in the middle of it.”
“Me either,” Sebastian said. “It feels like a shell game.” One crime to cover another.
“Then we’re asking the wrong questions,” Viva said. “Radio, sonar, a listening post. What did both Mills and his wife hear that anyone would want?”
“You can’t honestly believe all that was over a transmission they pulled out of the air nearly three years ago?” Max looked as skeptical as he sounded. “That’s a stretch.”
All they had was speculation. “Try this on…CIA, NSA, DOD…whoever, they let us go in after Mills blind, with no assistance because they didn’t want anything on the books. Beckham was already operating covert in Russian occupied territory. If the rescue went belly up and came back to bite them, then Dragon One gets the blame.”
The team went silent.
“A scapegoat?” Sam’s expression darkened. “I’ll buy that. Beckham was a dead man till we got there. He knew it, too. He suffered some heavy-duty torture. I’ll bet all the intel we gave Vasili was sanitized of anything pointing to him.”
“It had to be to maintain his cover,” Safia argued. “Mitch is counterintelligence. Always has been.”
“They weren’t counting on us to succeed,” Sebastian said. “They shut us down so we wouldn’t go hunting.”
Damage Control Page 5