Vicki Hinze - [War Games 04]

by Kill Zone (epub)

  “Wait a second.” Jazie flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t Bruce know that?”

  “Not necessarily,” Morgan said. Mark Cross had been doubled and hadn’t known it. Amanda West hadn’t known it, either, until she’d come face to face with her double. “It’s possible he didn’t.”

  “It’s happened before?” Jazie said.

  Morgan didn’t answer. She tilted her head. “If this switch happened, did it happen before or after Laura’s murder?” Morgan redirected focus. “Was the double here with Laura while Bruce was in Iraq? Or was Bruce here and the double in Iraq?”

  “If the double was in Iraq,” Jazie said, “that opens a whole new can of worms.”

  “Yeah, it does.” Taylor Lee agreed, her expression more sober than Morgan ever remembered seeing it. “Can we determine what classified information he accessed during the time in question? He could have passed a storehouse on to G.R.I.D. for Thomas Kunz to black-market.”

  The truth in that turned everyone somber.

  Commander Drake lifted her pen. “I’ll pass our concern about that up the chain of command. No choice, considering the powers that be won’t reveal to us why Bruce was in Iraq. They’ve made it clear that our priority is solving Laura’s murder and proving Bruce’s guilt or innocence—the Bruce we have in custody.”

  Jazie grunted at the limited scope of their involvement. “Kunz wouldn’t let a double sit in jail. He’d want him active, getting intelligence G.R.I.D. could sell. Greed motivates Kunz, right?”

  “Greed and causing harm to the U.S.,” Commander Drake clarified. “Historically, he has let doubles sit in jail, Jazie. His own double was in Leavenworth for months before we knew he wasn’t the real Thomas Kunz.”

  “Well, yeah, but that’s different. While we thought we had him, he was free to do his thing. We wouldn’t be watching him because we thought we had him.”

  Commander Drake arched an eyebrow. “And what’s to say he doesn’t have a valid reason for doing the same thing with a double for Bruce Stern right now?”

  “With Kunz you really can’t tell, Jazie.” A chilling fact Morgan had learned when profiling the man for earlier missions. He was of German descent and hated his country’s dependence on America with such a passion that he’d do anything to destroy it. He had proven his resolve by compiling an international network of the most powerful multinational group of terrorists any nation on the planet had encountered in all of recorded history.

  “Never underestimate or second-guess him. You’ll end up with egg on your face every time,” the commander said. “Or with a bullet in your head.”

  Shuddering inside, Morgan shifted the conversation to solutions. “So we have a few important questions to answer quickly,” she said, and then recapped: “Was Bruce Stern doubled? If so, is he or his double in the brig? Did he or his double kill Laura?”

  “He wasn’t there,” Taylor Lee reminded her. “None of the men resembled Bruce, and I expect a double would.”

  “Okay, we need evidence to verify that,” Morgan conceded. “And we need to know if the killers committed Laura’s murder with or without the assistance of the G.R.I.D. assassins. If G.R.I.D. assassins did assist in Laura’s murder, are they the same assassins Intel expected to assassinate Jackson at the marina, or are they different assassins?” Her mind continued spinning out questions at a dizzying rate. “Either way, are those assassins here in Magnolia Beach? And were they targeting Jackson or Bruce or, if he exists, Bruce’s double?”

  Taylor and Jazie nodded in unison, mentally exhausted from the lack of sleep but gearing up to keep pushing for the truth.

  “All very good and significant questions,” the commander said, looking at Morgan. “See if your team can answer them—the faster, the better, for all the obvious reasons.”

  With hard evidence. Morgan filled in the blank. The commander had come to respect their special abilities but explaining them and substituting them for hard evidence was not acceptable to her or to the honchos. “Yes, ma’am.”

  At nine thirty on Tuesday morning, Morgan left Providence and drove the twenty miles back to her home in Magnolia Beach. She used the drive to plan. Before reaching her neighborhood, she had her next actions lined up and ready to execute.

  Scooping up the newspaper, she walked inside, tossed her keys on the kitchen counter, dropped her handbag onto a bar stool, and toed off her shoes. Then she phoned Taylor Lee with instructions to rest up and then take a second look at the Stern home, this time seeking physical not psychic evidence that Laura’s murder had occurred there—the subtle stuff those without her gift might have missed.

  “You got it,” Taylor Lee said, then ended the call.

  Morgan dialed Jazie, waited for her answer, and then said, “Catch a few hours of sleep, Jaz, then get with Darcy Clark on those G.R.I.D. operative photos taken at the Magnolia Beach harbor. If the marina assassins are in Magnolia Beach—”

  “Jackson Stern has a bulls-eye target drawn in the center of his forehead, regardless of whether they’re after him or Bruce or Bruce’s double.”

  “Yes,” Morgan agreed, not at all surprised Jazie had gotten a firm grip on it so quickly. She was sharp. Often underestimated by her peers—as many beautiful women, especially blondes, were—but very sharp. “To keep him alive, we all need to know it. That includes him.”

  “Two hours and I’ll be on it.”

  “Thanks, Jaz.” Morgan disconnected, dropped the phone into its cradle, and then hit the shower. She’d been itching for hours from the wet suit and was eager to get the salt water off her skin.

  Weary to the bone, she had to make herself get out of the shower before she’d drained the hot water tank. Stepping out, she toweled off and then fell into bed and sank into her pillow, drawing the covers up to her neck. God, she was tired. Her mind whirled, and she tried to force it to shut down. She had to shut down enough to sleep for two hours—the whole S.A.T. team did, or the potential of misinterpreting their impressions doubled. If she had a prayer of determining whether Bruce was Bruce or a double, she needed sleep.

  An image of Jackson formed in her mind. Sensations of that attraction, that erotic tingling, came with it. “Not now, damn it.” She flipped over onto her side, forced the image out of her head, and remembered to set her alarm, then settled back down on her pillow. Sleep, Morgan. Sleep …

  Her lids grew heavy. She closed her eyes. The images of Jackson popped right back into her mind. Strong, physical images and even more potent intuitive ones.

  Gritting her teeth, she tried to shake them off, failed, and, muttering, gave into them to get rid of them. His expressions, the tight leash he kept on his emotions, the childlike vulnerabilities that roused that strong sensation of him facing the world alone. It, more than even her potent physical attraction to him, tugged at her heart and seeped in deep.

  Oh, you’re in trouble here, woman.

  The knowing settled into her mind and took hold. She shunned it, turning back onto her other side, then straightened the tangled covers. You know what? I don’t care.

  Don’t care? You don’t care? How can you not care? This is your professional credibility you’re messing with here.

  She punched her pillow and settled back in. This is my life, and it’s more important. I like him, okay? He’s the first man in a long time who has attracted me.

  Captivated is more like it.

  Whatever. I’m not going to play coward and turn away from it. It’s just too damn rare.

  You’re making a mistake, Morgan. A huge, huge mistake.

  Maybe. But maybe not. She yawned, letting out a heartfelt sigh. If it is a mistake, it won’t be my first and I’m

  sure it won’t be my last. Either way, the attraction is. It just is. So deal with—and go to freaking sleep!

  The doorbell rang, and then rang again.

  Morgan dragged herself awake, far from ready to get up. Groaning, she glanced at her bedside clock through bleary, burning eyes. “10:15?�
�� Barely an hour.

  She tossed back the covers, cursing under her breath, then grabbed her robe from its hook inside the closet door. “Oh, man. Of all days …”

  She slung on the silk robe, which seemed ridiculous considering she wore a wracked out Dallas Cowboys T-shirt she’d slept in since her college days at A&M.

  The doorbell rang a third time.

  “I’m coming.” In bare feet, she hustled to the door and then peeked through the viewfinder, but didn’t see anyone outside. A package maybe? She unlatched the deadbolt and swung the door open, then looked down her wide front porch.

  Jackson Stern sat slumped, his head propped in his hands, dozing on her porch swing.

  “Dr. Morgan?” A little boy about six stood at the foot of her steps, wearing jeans, a striped shirt, and his baseball cap tugged down over his ears, shading his eyes. “It’s me, Justin.”

  “Hi, Justin.” She swept her tussled hair back from her face. “Did you ring my doorbell?”

  “Uh huh.” He nodded hard enough to crack his neck. “There’s a man sleeping on your porch.” His words whistled through a gap where his front teeth should have been. “My mom says strangers could be crazy or vinaigrette, and I got worried. So I wanted you to know he was there.”

  Vinaigrette? She thought, translated. “A vagrant?” His mother would have heart failure if she knew he’d come over with a strange man on the porch. Too many perverts on the loose.

  “Uh huh.” He scratched his neck. “I think so. It started with that sound anyway.” He sighed his frustration. “I forgot.”

  “It’s okay, Justin.” She tried not to smile. “I know what you mean. Thanks for watching out for me, but I want you to be safe. Next time you see a stranger here, tell your mom and have her call me instead of coming over yourself, okay?”

  “Okay, Dr. Morgan.” Justin took off running back across the street to his home.

  Jackson sat up. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but salad dressing is new to me.”

  Watching Justin go inside, Morgan grinned. “There’s consolation. You could also be crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy,” Jackson said, “but another night like last night, and I think I’d probably welcome the reprieve.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re safe from that.” Unless God was napping, she’d pretty much bet on it. She walked down to his end of the porch. The shaded slats were cool under her feet. “Good morning again, Jackson.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, then hauled himself to his feet. “I, um, didn’t know where else to go. Can’t go to the boat, to Bruce’s, and—”

  “It’s no bother,” she lied. Odds of her getting back to sleep were nil, but he looked so lost. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said and meant it. “Come on in, and I’ll make us some coffee. Do you drink coffee?”

  He nodded. “Thanks.” He walked over and passed her to enter the house.

  Morgan wondered what had happened but sensed nothing. He was focused on her home. She looked at it through his eyes. Cluttered but clean, with a menagerie of cushy and comfortable furnishings that weren’t at all pretentious. She sensed the word welcoming come to his mind.

  Pleased by that, she lifted a hand. “Kitchen is this way,” she said, and then led him through the entry and living room, across an open-columned hallway—dining room to the left, study to the right—and to the sunny yellow kitchen that overlooked the bay. Beyond the wide windows and the lawn, the water glistened, sun-spangled and inviting. “Have a seat. Your choice.” She motioned to the bar and to the oak table and chairs beyond it.

  He chose the bar and sat on a stool with a little grunt.

  “Sorry to wake you.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I didn’t expect your little guardian to come over and ring the bell.”

  “Chivalry is alive and well, at least in pints.” She smiled. “I’m surprised you aren’t asleep.” She paused and leaned against the counter. With Laura and Bruce, how could he sleep? “Mind won’t shut down?” she asked, opening the door in case he needed to talk.

  “That, too, but honestly I haven’t had the chance to test it. The VOQ was booked.”

  That she hadn’t expected. “I don’t understand. Taylor Lee reserved and confirmed your room before you went over.”

  “She did,” he said, letting her off the hook. “It was a clerical error on their end. No room at the inn, or at any other inn anywhere around. The desk clerk looked for an hour. All the way up to the Alabama state line. But even the fleabags were booked solid.”

  “Ouch.” Morgan winced. “Holiday weekends can be that way.” Considering his circumstances, this really sucked. In the last twenty-four hours, he hadn’t been able to catch a break with a net and both hands. “I’m so sorry, Jackson.”

  “Me, too,” Jackson responded earnestly.

  Morgan filled the coffeepot with water, put in a filter, and added gourmet Columbian grounds. She loved good coffee.

  Jackson continued, “But at least someone left a bag for me at the desk.”

  Alarm slammed through her. “A bag?”

  “It’s okay. It’s just clothes and personal items,” he swiftly assured her. “It’s my black duffle off the Sunrise. I left it out on the porch by the swing.”

  Her mind relieved, she turned back to his motel dilemma. “You should have come over right away.”

  “I did.” He shrugged. “But you weren’t home yet, and I didn’t hear you come in.”

  A little embarrassed, he leaned an arm on the bar. “Guess I dozed off pretty quick. It’s a comfortable swing.”

  That would embarrass an operative. They, like other Special Forces folks, were trained to perform and be ready for anything at all times. Interesting. “A local woodcarver made the swing. He custom designs them.” When she’d driven up, she hadn’t seen Jackson on her porch, but she hadn’t left the light on, either. And he had been on her mind, so even if she’d intuited him, she would have automatically attributed it to him being in her thoughts and dismissed it. She flipped the switch to turn on the coffeemaker. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, but if I could take a shower, I’d appreciate it. Salt water makes my skin itch.”

  “Sure.” She started to direct him to the bathroom, but wanted to address something else first. “Jackson, I’m sorry I had to shoot you.”

  “I know, Morgan.” Betrayal still stung, but it wasn’t directed at her. It was directed at the system. “In your shoes, I would have executed the order, too.”

  Their eyes met and held. Her pulse quickened. “Thank you.” He hadn’t had to be gracious. And he wasn’t being kind because she was investigating Bruce and Laura’s cases. He genuinely understood. “Are you always so gracious?”

  “Honestly, no, I’m not.” He paused to glance out on the water, gather himself. “But you’re not the enemy in all this. I know that. You’re just doing your job.”

  “It’s a little more than that for me, Jackson,” she confessed, having no idea why. “Laura came to me for help. I need to know if I missed something that caused her death.”

  “Don’t borrow guilt,” he advised her. His tone said he’d been there, done that, and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. “Enough finds us on its own.”

  “I need to know the truth.”

  “Yes.” He understood completely. “So do I.” He didn’t blink or look away. “If we’re going to sort through this and stop whatever Kunz plans, we need each other, Morgan.”

  Knowing he was right, she nodded. “The shower is down that hallway,” she said. “First door on the right.”

  “Thanks.” He left the kitchen, retrieved his duffle from the front porch, and then headed into her guest suite.

  Minutes later, she heard the water running. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she sat down at the bar and resigned herself to the fact that more sleep was not in her immediate future. Oddly, with Jackson there, she didn’t feel groggy, or weary, or tired. She felt aware. Aware and alert and alive.

&n
bsp; Oh, that’s a wickedly bad sign, woman. You’re going way

  over the line. So far over it, you can’t even see it anymore. He could be working with Kunz.

  That’s ridiculous. Joan had debriefed him. If he had been a Kunz operative, it would have come out then. It hadn’t. She had nothing to fear from him.

  Except maybe your heart. And making a damn fool of yourself.

  Shut up.

  The phone rang. Morgan slid off the stool and answered it on its second ring.

  “Hey,” Taylor Lee said. “Sorry if I woke you—” “I wasn’t asleep.”

  “Oh, well, okay. Anyway, I’ve been thinking.” “About what?”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Are you on a secure line?”

  All three of the phone lines into Morgan’s house, including her fax line, were secure lines. “Yes.” She moved back to the stool. Her stomach growled. When had she last eaten?

  “You need to order a DNA sample on Bruce, the one in the brig.”

  “Hasn’t one been ordered already?” Morgan sipped from her cup and resisted the urge to hold it against her forehead to see if the heat would help dissipate a dull ache that fear and doubt about Jackson had put there. “Surely Darcy did that.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Taylor Lee said, clearly surprised. “I just checked.”

  “Odd.” With Darcy’s total recall, she usually didn’t miss a thing. So why hadn’t she run a DNA on Bruce? “Why do you want it run?” Morgan asked Taylor Lee. Had she drawn the same conclusion?

  “To positively ID him, the guy in the brig. So we know if he’s Bruce or a double.”

  Obviously she’d gotten her two hours and was already back at it. Morgan relayed orders. “Have Dr. Vargus go to the correctional facility and pull the blood himself. Warn him to not relinquish possession of it to anyone, or to let the sample out of his sight even for a second. He’ll have to do it all, including run the test at the lab himself.”