Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2)

by Stella Barcelona

  She’d have given a year of her life—or more—to have curled up in his arms and fallen asleep there. Problem was, if she did, she’d wake up a different person, and she’d be giving up far more than time off her life. She’d be losing everything that mattered. When his ragged breathing eased, when her own body stopped trembling from the intensity of her orgasm, she shifted away from him and eased herself off the bed.

  “Stay.”

  “No.” She stood, glancing at him as she bent to snag her panties and camisole.

  He was on his side, head resting on his hand, eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Dammit, we have to talk. Really talk.” He moved fast, sitting up, then standing, and walking to her side. “This is insane.”

  With her other hand, she grabbed her laptop, and continued walking towards the door. “There isn’t anything to talk about. We had sex. End of story.”

  “Why were you crying?” His voice was low as he stepped closer to her, concern etched in his dark eyes.

  Oh hell. Could the man see through a silk blindfold? “You’re imagining things.”

  When he lifted his arms to reach for her, she stepped away from him. “I felt your tears. I tasted them on my lips. Your hands were shaking when you touched me. Dammit, Sam. Talk to me.”

  She opened the door.

  “Coward.”

  Ouch.

  She turned to him as a blast of uncontrollable anger simmered up through her veins. “You have no right to call me names. No right to pass judgment on me on any matter. As a matter of fact, if you weren’t so good at sex, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you. Do you understand that if you weren’t such a good fuck, we wouldn’t even be having this much of a conversation?”

  Ah. There. His anger was back. Cheeks flushed red, he drew a deep breath, shook his head, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Don’t act like what we just did means nothing. I know what a meaningless fuck feels like and I’m willing to bet, at this stage in your life, you do too. It doesn’t feel like what we just did. I know it, and you know it. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty damn certain that when you masturbate you don’t goddamn cry and your hands don’t shake.”

  Only when I remember you.

  Which is something you will never know.

  Never.

  As she slipped out of the bedroom door, she glanced back at him and said, “Wouldn’t you love to watch and find out?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Five degrees Celsius. Not freezing, but the light breeze made the damp air cold on H.L.’s face. The sky was gray. Glancing over his shoulder as he walked on the Ile St. Louis, he made sure no one followed him.

  He should be enjoying the walk to the apartment on the Ile de la Cite, relishing the cold air as he mentally relived the highlights of the day before. The bomb blast of Wednesday afternoon and its aftermath had been stunning, even viewed from his safe place. The moment of eerie silence afterwards had been electrifying. The screams thrilling.

  Of course, at first, he had reacted to the event not as H.L. but as his public persona. He’d behaved appropriately post-explosion, yet dignified and calm. He’d been articulate and tried to make others feel safe, all the while rejoicing on the inside.

  For the rest of the evening he’d celebrated a job well done. Returning to his hotel room, he was just in time to catch the first news report. They had it on every channel, and he flipped between stations as he settled in for a working evening. It was gratifying to see how much coverage the event garnered. He was damned proud of what they’d achieved today. Damned proud.

  Later, a nightcap of bourbon had been followed by one of life’s great pleasures—a blow job from a beautiful, young woman, who knew precisely what to do with her hands, mouth, and teeth. Watching the television news as she sucked him dry, he was as excited by the graphic images of death and chaos as he was by her mouth.

  Afterwards, alone, he’d slept his deepest sleep of the New Year, in his dreams reliving each moment of the day. He’d woken up feeling wonderfully alive. Economic analysts opined about a possible yearlong slowdown in the economy, due to the blatant attack on the ITT. They stated it was now apparent the ITT would be ineffective at stopping the current wave of terror.

  He’d been ecstatic.

  Like a meteor crashing to earth, at precisely 9:15 in the morning, his feeling of self-satisfaction had ebbed when he logged into the ITT database and read pleadings that had been filed that morning. Two motions had been filed, both consisting of requests to expand the ITT record and both as unique as they were unexpected.

  The court had responded promptly to the filings. They were set for a hearing at noon, before the continuation of Duvall’s examination.

  Now, stepping into their working apartment for his mid-morning meeting with J.R. and M.C., H.L. did so with an awareness of bright yellow caution flags fluttering in his thoughts. They weren’t foremost on his mind. They were there, at half-mast, a constant reminder they were now navigating a delicate operation.

  H.L. reminded himself he was up for the challenge. If what they were doing wasn’t tricky and complex, it was boring.

  The heat was turned up in the small apartment. The living room felt stuffy, all the more so due to J.R.’s incessant smoking. Drapes were drawn. The three large screen televisions played news coverage, much of which showed the bombing from the prior day. Volume was muted.

  M.C., sitting at a table with his laptop open, sipped tea from a delicate cup. J.R., on the couch, basked with pride at success of the bombing and the murder of Judge Devlin’s wife.

  “The press reported that Judge Calante died during the night,” M.C. explained, as H.L. poured piping hot coffee into a mug. “The alternate judge from Colombia will take his place. The Colombian prosecution team, already in shambles from the Boulevard Saint-Germain bombing, has tendered two resignations. That leaves only the lead prosecutor in place for the proceedings next week. Judge Devlin, of course, has returned to the United States to make plans for his wife’s funeral. Alternate Judge Amanda Whitsell will take his place. Among bystanders there were twenty-two fatalities and numerous other injuries.”

  “All well and good. We may have injected fear into the proceedings and the world,” H.L. said, standing as he sipped his coffee, facing the two of them. “But today is a new day, my friends. The landscape for us is changing, and not for the better.”

  J.R. lit a cigarette off one that was almost burned to the filter, casting H.L. a questioning glance. “How so?”

  “Two electronic filings caught my attention this morning. Both are motions to expand the record. The first is from the French prosecution team, expanding subpoena requests for telephone records. They are seeking to enlarge the time frame and reach more telecommunication companies.”

  M.C. frowned. He took off his glasses, then pulled a cloth out of his pocket and started cleaning the lenses. He looked up myopically, as his hands were busy with the task. “But the discovery period has been closed for weeks now. Hasn’t it?”

  H.L. nodded, then shrugged. Well-steeped in the world of trials and court rulings, he knew judges often changed their minds. “Doesn’t matter. If the French provide a good enough reason, the ITT judges will grant the request. Given the urgency of the proceedings, and the power of the ITT, the phone records could be produced within twenty-four hours. Give analysts a few more days to look at the information, and clues could be developed.”

  “After today there is only one more day of proceedings in Paris,” J.R. said. “Why would the French have the right to expand the record now?”

  “While we’re almost through in France, this ITT trial has three more weeks,” H.L. explained. “With the permission of the court, the parties can introduce documentary evidence into the record at any time, as long as it is appropriately authenticated.”

  “I don’t think we have anything to fear from phone records,” M.C. said. Tortoise-shell glasses freshly wiped and clean, he placed them on his face, adjusting them as he glanced again at his la
ptop screen.

  “You don’t think?” H.L. asked. His imaginary yellow caution flags were hoisted higher as he heard the uncertainty in the voice of the man who was in charge with managing the details of their business. “I want absolutes, dammit. I want you to tell me we have absolutely nothing to fear, on any level.”

  M.C. gave him a cool look. “You can lose that imperious tone with me. I can’t give absolutes and I won’t say something just to make you feel good. We’re operating in a world where sometimes a phone needs to be used. That is the harsh reality of dealing with terrorists.” He gave an eye roll, as though the people they used as tools weren’t worthy of the name. “More often than not, they are in their twenties and their phones are as much an extension of them as their hands. Give a twenty-eight year old a task and he can’t resolve it without using an electronic device.”

  Silence fell heavily among the three men as J.R. drew a deep drag on his cigarette. He ground the butt of it into an ashtray and didn’t light another. He stood, folded his arms, and glanced at M.C., then H.L. “While I have made every effort to minimize our risk, the truth is everyone has something to fear in phone and data records.”

  “We should not,” H.L. said. “We’ve taken every precaution. Believe me, if I could always communicate with you via telephone, I would. The stink of your cigarettes is something I’d rather not experience.”

  J.R. shrugged, lighting another cigarette. “I believe the motion by the French prosecutors to expand the record has the potential to be a problematic development.”

  “Yes.” H.L. nodded. “It depends on the depth of the search, the data that’s produced, and how experienced the forensic experts are who are looking at the data. It also depends on who might be questioned about the phone records.”

  “Yes, to all of that,” J.R. said. “But would you please stop and think like a human being for a goddamn second? Keep it simple, stupid. This motion represents a change to the status quo. The real question is why now? What are they really looking for, and what provoked it? And for this commonsense approach, you should be calling me Mr. Brilliance.”

  H.L. fought the urge to wrap his hands around the man’s neck and throttle him.

  “I’ll have to talk to our contact,” M.C. said, somehow remaining calm. “We need more details.”

  “In due time,” H.L. said. “We have to assume that telecommunications and cyber exchanges are now subject to being intercepted by Black Raven.”

  M.C. nodded in agreement. “Will the court grant the subpoena request?”

  “We have to assume yes and do damage control from there,” H.L. said. “Assume the worst. Assume there is some link somewhere in phone records to someone who might reveal who we are. Where we are. What should we do about that?”

  “Send out a strong message so that no one talks,” M.C. said. “Scare the crap out of them so they keep their mouths shut.”

  J.R. smiled. “I have that covered. Plans are in place here. Remember, we have access to the prisoners in France and London. By the time we get to Columbia, we should have access there, if we need it. So far, we do not have access to prisoners in the United States.”

  “Duvall?” H.L. asked.

  “Of course. He is our weakest link. But we have to decide quickly.” J.R. glanced at his watch. “The transfer to the proceeding will take place at 11:00 a.m.”

  “Do it,” H.L. said.

  J.R. returned to the couch, a humorless smile playing at his lips. “I have to use a phone.”

  “Is it a burner?” H.L. asked.

  “Yes. Untraceable,” J.R. said. “And after I use it once, I’ll destroy it. There is no way this phone call can be linked to us.”

  H.L. nodded, and J.R. made the call. When someone answered, he said, “Duvall. Stat. Kill him with whatever option I’ve given you that is most expedient. Be sure to cut out his tongue.”

  When the call was over, J.R. disconnected the call, tore the battery out of the casing, and stepped on the phone with the hard heel of his shoes. Gentle eyes looked as though he’d just had a conversation about something as benign as flowers. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and tapped one out. Lighting it, he glanced at H.L., and took a deep drag. “You said two electronic filings caught your attention. What was the second?”

  “Samantha Fairfax made a request of the ITT Judges to interview Vladimer Stollen.”

  J.R. sat up straighter. “Well, holy hell. I predicted she’d pick up where Stanley Morgan left off. But you two ignored me.”

  “Past time to stop her.” M.C.’s matter of fact statement was made without tearing his attention from his laptop screen.

  H.L.’s discomfort grew. Control seemed to be slipping through his grasp. A feeling he wouldn’t tolerate. “No. We didn’t ignore you. If you recall, our attempt at damage control with the cyanide poisoning didn’t work as planned. Rather than focus on the Amicus team, or her, we must continue with our efforts at targeted randomness. Those efforts are working. Duvall’s murder this morning, and continued pressure on the families of participants in the proceedings, as we planned.”

  “I disagree with your suggestion that we can’t target individuals,” H.L. said. “Our acts of terror may as well be productive. If we were worried the judges were going to listen to Morgan, we should be equally concerned that Fairfax knows everything that Morgan knew, and we should be concerned that the judges will listen to her. As Amicus counsel, she is the impartial voice of the United States.”

  “Her reason for talking to Stollen now?” M.C. asked, his tone reflecting growing concern.

  “Her motion didn’t contain details. I’ll learn more during the argument today and we’ll learn more if our contact manages to give us a communication. Given the climate we created with yesterday’s bombing,” H.L. answered, “I’m concerned this motion might have some headway.”

  “And if you’re simply considering Fairfax’s role as limited to Amicus counsel, with only the tools that participants in the ITT proceeding have at their disposal,” M.C. clicked at the keyboard of his laptop as he spoke, then turned the screen to H.L. and J.R., “you are sorely underestimating her capabilities.”

  Trepidation burned H.L.’s insides as he looked at the photo on the computer screen. On the monitor, M.C. had pulled up images of Zeus Hernandez of Black Raven carrying Samantha Fairfax away from the explosion. There were multiple images. One was a video. M.C. played it.

  Hernandez’s jaw was set, his serious eyes grim. He looked like a man who was physically strong enough to conquer anyone, and the intensity in his dark, fathomless eyes suggested he could be damn creative as to how he did it. As he ran with the woman in his arms, there was tenderness in the way he cradled Fairfax to his chest. H.L. stepped closer, staring at the screen. His stomach churned. He hadn’t seen it last night. Oh, he’d looked at the footage and the images of Hernandez with the beautiful blonde in his arms. The images had been hard to miss. But he hadn’t focused on them. Hadn’t stared at them in isolation. He’d been so damn thrilled at how the explosion had been successful he hadn’t realized the depth of what he was looking at, the image of a powerful man who so obviously was carrying something that mattered to him.

  “Hell.” H.L. didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t thought of the possibility that Jesus Hernandez and Samantha Fairfax could be working as a team the very instant he’d seen her motion to interview Stollen.

  “We have to assume Black Raven is the impetus for the motion to interview Stollen. Yesterday I said I was worried that having Hernandez on the scene, with Black Raven working the bounty hunt and with access to ITT data, was going to be problematic. Rather than relaxing last night”—M.C. shot them both a hard glance, as if the man knew how they’d both spent their evening, and disapproved—“I did some research on Black Raven, including analyzing the records of last year’s Senate hearings examining the tactics employed by the company to rescue Barrows.”

  With growing unease, H.L. listened as M.C. provided
information about the strength of Black Raven, the growth of its cyber-capabilities after the company rescued and hired Barrows, and his well-founded suspicion that the government now used Black Raven as a resource. After what seemed like an eternity, M.C. fell silent.

  “So you’re saying we should assume that Black Raven is integrated with data from U.S. Intelligence agencies?” H.L. asked.

  “I’m saying that my most trusted sources indicate that the government has contracts with Black Raven that are classified. We have to assume that DHS, NSA, and other agencies now outsource collection and assimilation of cyber data, and the most likely outfit that is getting the contracts is Black Raven. Because of Richard Barrows.”

  “It was a yes or no question.” H.L. waved away some of J.R.’s smoke.

  “No one I know seems to know the agencies that have outsourced or the scope of the contracts.” M.C. leaned forward, his gaze bouncing from H.L. to J.R. “So we should assume the worst. Assume yes. And for now, the problem isn’t simply Black Raven’s access to God knows what kind of data. The problem is that Fairfax, Hernandez, and Barrows are very likely working as a unit. Fairfax has access to the Black Raven body of knowledge, and she can use the ITT proceeding to gather data for Black Raven. Her motion to interview Stollen is, no doubt, a joint effort. She, Hernandez, and Barrows are likely the impetus behind the French motion for expansion of the record. It is only a matter of time before the ITT, Barrows, and Black Raven are all breathing down our necks.”

  M.C. shifted in his chair. “Stopping the ITT proceedings was and is a great goal for our continuing enterprise. However, stopping anyone who might start looking at us, with the capability of finding us, is a fundamental prerequisite to our self-preservation,” M.C. said. “We must stop Fairfax, Hernandez, and Black Raven.”