by Ellen Butler
“I beg your pardon?” he snarled.
“I don’t think the tech in that van is going to blow his cover to arrest the two average folks sitting here, minding our own business.”
“Who said he would do the arresting?”
“What do you mean . . . Oh, I get it,” I said, catching on. “You’ll send the cops.”
“Do you feel like hanging out in a holding cell for the night?”
I sucked in a breath. “You wouldn’t.”
“Listen,” he ground out, and I could feel the tension across the line. “I’m in the middle of a sting which is going to go down any minute. If I have to send the cops to throw you in the clink for a night for my own peace of mind, I will do it in a heartbeat. Capisce?”
“Fine, you don’t have to go all caveman on me. We’ll go quietly. I didn’t want to stay here anyway.”
“I’m leaving word with the agent in the van. If you’re not gone in five minutes . . .” he threatened.
“I get it. I get it.”
He hung up without a goodbye.
Rodrigo finished chewing and swallowed. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“We need to leave. They’re watching the house.”
Rodrigo’s shoulders slumped. “Seriously? The FBI gets all the fun.”
“If we don’t go, they’ll send around a blue and white to arrest us.”
“Arrest us for what?”
I shrugged. “Who knows. Peeping Toms?” I pointed to the binoculars. “Drugs. Theft. They’ll make something up, and we’ll spend the rest of the night trying to straighten it out. Trust me, it won’t be worth . . .”
A bearded man wearing athleisure, dark sunglasses, and a ball cap got into the Charger, backed it out of the driveway, and parked in front of Karen’s car. He then climbed into Karen’s BMW, fired it up, and drove into the open garage. The door rumbled down behind him. A moment later, a tall African-American man wearing a three-piece suit exited through the front door and got into the Caddy. My coworker and I ducked down in our seats as he drove away.
We shared a look.
“I guess Karen’s gettin’ some action tonight.” Rodrigo made a suggestive gesture.
I rolled my eyes. “Men are pigs.”
We scooted back up in our seats. Rodrigo started the car and rolled away from the curb. I made the peace sign with my fingers at the white van as we drove past.
Chapter Twenty-three
MIKE
“All clear. She’s leaving now,” Sean, the tech in the van, reported.
“Thanks.”
“If they return?”
Mike sighed and rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that K.C. would be stubborn enough to return, and considering the FBI had put the house on the watch list, he didn’t want her anywhere near it. “If they come back, send the police out for a neighborhood drive-by. Seeing the cops should oust them.”
“Roger that.”
Mike turned his private cell off and walked back into room 122, where two agents hovered around a set of computer screens, visually checking the hotel’s security camera feeds, along with the FBI’s own cameras they’d installed yesterday. In half an hour, LadyBlue and NKBarbie would meet in the Regency room, a lounge area hosted by one of the big security companies that offered refreshments, cookies, Wi-Fi, comfortable couches, and chairs for guests to kick back and log on in between sessions. Two agents were already installed in the lounge—one female greeting guests at the hostess table as they arrived, and a male agent played Minecraft on a computer near an orange couch where LadyBlue would sit when she arrived. A handful of other guests were scattered around the room.
“Any changes?” Mike scanned the various monitors.
“Nothing yet.” Amir sat in front of one of the screens, sucking a lollipop.
“Shayna, it’s time,” Mike told the undercover agent.
Shayna, a young blonde with a nose ring, wearing Converse sneakers, jeans, and a Metallica T-shirt, drew on a beat-up, red backpack.
Amir held out a black box to Mike that contained two tiny wireless earbuds and put on a pair of headphones.
Mike, wearing business casual slacks and a polo, took his earpiece and tucked it in place. “Check, one. Check.”
“You’re good,” said Amir.
Shayna reached for the second earpiece and ran her sound check.
The conference brought professional security specialists and IT techies from around the nation. It also brought Blackhat hackers, some who had legit jobs and others who didn’t. You watched what you said and to whom, because you really didn’t know what type of person might be sitting next to you at a panel session or workshop. It was the type of conference where most people paid in cash instead of credit cards and never used the hotel’s free, open Wi-Fi. Therefore, people visited the Regency lounge because it offered secured Wi-Fi.
Mike, a black laptop briefcase in hand, entered the room.
The agent at the hostess table smiled at him. Her nametag read AMY, which was not far from her real name of Ashley. “Good afternoon, do you have a reservation?”
“Yes. Michael Brandt.”
“I see you’ve prepaid for one hour. Every additional hour is twenty-five dollars. We take cash or credit. Here is your password for the Wi-Fi, Mr. Brandt.” She handed him the information and gestured. “You can use station twelve, over there. And help yourself to the refreshment table.”
“Thank you, Amy.” Mike took the paper from his colleague and moved into position at a chair near one of the exits.
Shayna arrived a minute later, repeated the charade, got a cup of coffee, and took up a position opposite the orange couch.
They didn’t have long to wait before a blue-haired woman wearing a Chicago Cubs ballcap, white jeans, and black T-shirt arrived. Her eyes darted around the room. When Amy addressed her, she dropped her phone and fumbled to pick it up.
“Sorry, sorry, butterfingers,” LadyBlue mumbled. “What did you say?”
“Don’t worry, honey. You just need some coffee,” Amy said with her sweet southern drawl. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I have a confirmation number here on my phone.” LadyBlue tapped her cell. “It’s nine-two-one-th-th-thrree-fffour,” she stuttered.
“That’s our girl. Finnegan confirm,” Amir said over the coms.
Mike scratched his left ear.
“We have confirmation.”
LadyBlue dropped the phone again.
“And she’s a bundle of nerves,” Shayna murmured.
Mike put a prop phone to his ear and spoke, “Ashley, see if you can calm her down.”
Ashley turned her beauty pageant smile on LadyBlue, leaned forward, and whispered, “Just act natural. We’ve got you covered. Stay calm and remember the sign. Once you give it, your part is over.” She switched to a normal voice and passed a piece of paper to LadyBlue. “You can sit at station sixteen. It’s that orange couch, over there.”
LadyBlue took up residence at her assigned seat and her thumbs went to town, tapping away on her phone. Contrary to what Hollywood would have you believe, a lot of investigative work involved sitting around and waiting. It was not a job for impatient people. LadyBlue’s leg bounced in constant rhythm as the minute hand slid past the hour. One of the patrons left. Five minutes. A woman in a red suit arrived and checked in. Ten minutes. LadyBlue’s leg continued to bounce and her thumbs worked the phone at warp speed. Fifteen minutes.
“He’s late,” Amir stated the obvious.
“Give it time,” Mike murmured.
Another woman arrived in skintight leggings and a long peach blouse and began asking Ashley questions about the lounge. As Ashley handed the woman a flyer explaining the fee structure and hours, a heavy-set man arrived, wearing tan cargo pants, a black T-shirt, flip-flops, and a blue Tampa Bay Devil Rays ballcap. He moved past Ashley’s table, searching the crowd for a moment before zeroing in on LadyBlue.
“Everyone on alert. We m
ay have our target,” Mike mumbled.
He stopped at the orange couch. “LadyBlue, right?”
The leg stopped bouncing and she stood. “You’re late. I’d almost given up on you.” She took off her Cubs cap.
“That’s the signal. Move in!” Amir cried.
In moments, both NKBarbie and LadyBlue were removed from the lounge in handcuffs. They were put in separate vehicles. LadyBlue, not wishing to be revealed as the informant, requested to be arrested along with NKBarbie, whose real name turned out to be Jethro Finster, from Mississippi. Mike had LadyBlue released at the airport with her bags and a first-class plane ticket to Boston, compliments of the FBI.
Meanwhile, NKBarbie had the pleasure of being escorted to an FBI holding facility at the regional field office. Agents confiscated everything in Finster’s hotel chamber, including the laptop he’d locked in the room safe.
Mike had put a lot of effort into catching this guy. He prayed it would pay off. An hour later, he and Amir packed the last bit of surveillance equipment away. Snapping the locks shut, he loaded the heavy case on the luggage cart.
“I think that’s the last,” Amir said.
“Shayna has Finster’s laptop and is heading to the field office,” Mike reminded him.
“Want me to start working on it?”
Mike produced a wan smile. It would take hours to break through Finster’s computer security. “You did good today, Amir. Get something to eat first.”
“I know a great place to get Crawfish Étoufée. Want me to pick up an order for you?”
“Sounds good. I’ll meet you at the office. I’m just going to do one more sweep of the hotel and check my messages.” He pulled out his cell phone.
“See you there.” Amir pushed the loaded cart down the hall toward the elevators.
Chapter Twenty-four
I expected Rodrigo to head back to the highway so we could go home; instead, he turned the corner and stopped a block away, out of sight from the Troika Star house and FBI van.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing. I just want to see if Black Charger sticks around.”
“Did you see anyone else in the house?”
“No.”
“If they’re doing what you think, he’s probably in for the night. Now, I’m starving, so let’s get something to eat on the way home.”
Rodrigo passed me the chips and the unopened water bottle. “Here. An appetizer.”
“Rodrigo, c’mon, I’m starting to get hangry,” I whined. I wasn’t that hungry, but frankly, I didn’t want to test Mike. I think I’d pushed his limits for the day and didn’t doubt he’d follow through with his threat.
However, my colleague seemed unfazed by my plea. “Just a few more minutes. Don’t worry, they can’t see us.”
I shifted, checking the street . . . drummed my fingers . . . ran arguments through my head that might convince Rodrigo to get moving and came up with nothing more than what I’d already said.
“Fine,” I huffed, “you can sit here and play your games. You’re on your own. If they arrest you, don’t call me.” I grabbed my phone and opened the Uber app.
“Get down!” Rodrigo’s seat whipped backward.
I had a bad feeling and followed suit. A moment later, the FBI’s white utility van passed us, going at a fast clip. We waited in our reclined position, with mirror faces of fear and horror, to see if he would come back. After a minute, I prairie-dogged my head to take a look around and found nothing out of the ordinary—no van, no cops, no swat team bearing down on us.
“He’s gone. I think it’s safe to come up for air. The guy in the van must not have noticed us.” It seemed we had dodged a bullet.
“Wonder where he was going in such a hurry.” Rodrigo’s seat popped upright.
“Maybe he didn’t bring his mammoth Slurpee cup to use as a bathroom.” Fear laced my response with sarcasm. “Whatever the case, that was a close call. And it’s not out of the realm of possibility he did see us and is sending local PD. I’d rather not get another call from my friendly neighborhood fed. In other words, let’s get the hell outta here while the gettin’ is good.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right. That was a close call.” He started the car and checked the rearview mirror. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
I turned to see what he was looking at. Karen’s white BMW paused at the stop sign, turned, and rolled up the street toward us. As it passed, my gaze met the unnerving, eerie blue stare of the driver.
Even though the ballcap was still in place and the dark beard hid the defining characteristics of his face, he hadn’t replaced the sunglasses.
I’ll never forget those spooky eyes as long as I live.
“That’s not Karen.” Rodrigo glanced at me. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
To my horror, the BMW’s brake lights came on. The car crept to a halt at the stop sign ahead of us and remained there.
My heart jolted into action. “Get us out of here. NOW!”
Rodrigo must have felt my panic because he jerked the car into gear and it jumped forward.
“Don’t stop! Go around, go around!” I hollered.
Rodrigo buzzed around Karen’s car.
Silver metal flashed in the sunlight. “Gun!” I yelled, pulling on the seat release again and falling backward.
Rodrigo, in a panic, swerved, hitting the opposite curb. The passenger side mirror shattered. “What was that?”
“Bullet! Go! Go!” I planted a hand on Rodrigo’s knee and pushed his foot to the floor.
We careened around the corner and out of the neighborhood. He blew through the stop sign at the T-intersection and bounced us over the train tracks. Thank the lord there wasn’t a train coming.
“It’s too bad that FBI guy left.”
No joke.
I dialed Mike’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. “Mike! It’s Jablonski! Rivkin! Whatever his name is. He just left the house in Karen Ferngull’s car. The FBI van left. He’s got a gun with a silencer and shot out the side mirror of our car and he’s following—watch out for—” I shouted.
Rodrigo zipped around a slow-moving minivan, just barely missing an oncoming car. The phone flew out of my hands as he whipped back into the correct lane.
Gripping the “Oh Shit” handle, I said with slow deliberation, “It doesn’t help if we get killed in a car accident.”
“We’re fine. Everything’s okay,” Rodrigo assured me through his teeth.
Well, if we get pulled over by a cop, at least Rivkin will leave us alone.
“Want to tell me why this guy is shooting at us?”
“Me. He’s shooting at me.” My hand searched blindly for the phone on the floor behind Rodrigo’s seat. “His name is Naftali Rivkin. Ex-Mossad. He broke into my home to steal Senator Harper’s phone. He posed as a Capitol police officer and is believed to have been part of the team that assassinated Harper. Intel said he’d left town.”
Rodrigo processed that. “I guess intel was wrong.”
“We just need to lose him. Once we do that—ah, got it” —my fingers captured their prey—“we’ll figure out our next step.”
“He’s fallen back. He’s not chasing us.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, Rivkin had fallen behind two cars and wasn’t making an effort to pass them. We had to stop at the major intersection at Route 1. I kept my eyes on the mirror to make sure Rivkin didn’t sneak out of his car. The light turned green, as did the light down the road.
“Punch it. Go around this slow poke. If we can get through the light and he doesn’t make it, we can get on the highway and lose him.”
Rodrigo followed my directions, revving forward through a break in the traffic, then cutting back into the lane in front of a semi to get onto the I-95 onramp. The light behind us turned red, but I couldn’t see around the semi to determine if Rivkin made it.
The Subaru buzzed onto the highway. Rodrigo moved us to the far-left lane a
nd put the lead out. The southbound traffic on the opposite side crept at sloth pace. Luckily, we were going north, against traffic, and the flow moved at a fast clip. A flash of white rolled into our lane three cars back.
“I think he’s following us.” Rodrigo voiced my fears. “What else do you know about this guy?”
“Rick said there’s a price on his head.”
“You’re saying, this guy is like an assassin—"
“Wait a minute.” I slapped my hand on the dash. “There’s a price on his head.”
“Uh, Karina, it’s not like we’re Dog, the Bounty Hunter. We don’t have the skills or know-how to take him down. Remember, right now . . . he’s chasing us.”
“No. But I might know someone who can.” Relieved he’d forced me to put the number into my contacts, I phoned Joshua.
“Go for Joshua.”
“Josh, guess who?”
“Karina? What’s going on?”
“Didn’t you say there was a price on Rivkin’s head?”
“So to speak.”
“What does that mean? Is there or isn’t there?”
“Unofficially, the Israelis have a million-dollar bounty on him.”
“Whoa.” I checked the rearview mirror again. “If I bring him to you, will you cut us in on that?”
“Uh, Karina? Have you been drinking?”
“Rivkin is following me right now.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re on 95, heading north. We just passed over the Occoquan bridge.”
“Jesus! There’s too much between here and D.C. You’ll never make it. I’m calling local PD to intercept you.”
“No, wait, don’t do that.” The BMW remained three cars back in the line of sight, but not aggressively following. “I think . . . I think he’s stalking us. He’s driving a car that’s not his own. He’s waiting for us to make a move. Go home, or somewhere off the grid where there aren’t any cameras. I don’t think he’s going to risk an accident on the highway.”
“Hold on. I’ll call you back in a minute.”
“What are we doing?” Rodrigo shifted into the center lane to pass a slower car in the left lane. A minute later, Rivkin pulled the same move.