“Captain on deck!” the duty officer shouted.
Macready turned to see a relatively short man with a grizzled beard stride into the hangar, hands clasped behind his back. Dark eyes under bushy eyebrows took in the entire hangar as he went, briefly locking on Macready before moving on. He headed straight for the Ka-52 and stood watching as the mechanics attached the laser. Macready felt a growing sense of unease and turned to the sailor he’d been speaking with.
“No one sick or injured,” he growled, “so I better get back.”
The man nodded and continued with his work. Macready headed for the door the captain had come through. Less than halfway there, he heard a voice call out behind him.
“Lyeytyenant!”
Macready stopped and turned, dread twisting his stomach in a knot as the captain approached. He stood at attention and saluted.
“At ease, lyeytyenant. Walk with me. I can see you are eager to get back to your post.”
“Yes, Captain. I stand watch in half an hour.” Macready fell in step.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” the captain said. “Was someone injured?”
“So I was told,” Macready said. “Apparently, someone’s idea of a joke on the new person.”
The captain’s mouth turned up in the barest hint of a smile. “Ah, yes, your first deployment at sea. You’re a virgin.”
“One way of putting it.”
Macready stepped ahead of the captain and opened the door. The captain stepped through and stopped to wait.
He motioned at Macready’s hand. “No medical bag?”
Before Macready could think of a reply, the captain walked away. Worried, Macready crossed the deck behind him a moment later. Just as he reached the door leading forward, Macready glanced up. On the deck above, Dudayev stood at the rail looking down at him.
Chapter 26
July 27—Seattle
The bus had already left Issaquah in the rearview mirror. Which meant North Bend was the next town of any consequence. I peered down the aisle out the windshield to gauge how close we were. A sign flashed past my window announcing a mile to the first North Bend exit. I grabbed my bag, made my way to the front of the bus and leaned over the driver’s shoulder.
“I need to get off at the next exit,” I said in his ear. I motioned out the windshield.
“You need to sit down, sir,” the driver said without taking his eyes off the road. “Our next stop is Ellensburg.”
I zipped open the bag, grasped the pistol inside and held the bag next to him with my other hand. “Don’t make me use this.”
His gaze shifted to the bag, the road, and back again one more time to verify what he thought he’d seen was, in fact, a gun.
“Family emergency,” I said. “I just need to get off. I’m not trying to make trouble, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to anyone.”
He nodded and tried to make light of it, but his hands trembled on the steering wheel. “So, what’d you do, rob a bank?”
“The money? No, actually. It was a reward from Uncle Sam.”
He looked doubtful, but apparently believed I would use the gun because he took his foot off the accelerator and let the bus coast just past the ramp entrance. He pulled onto the shoulder and braked to a gentle stop. I shoved a pack of bills into his coat pocket as he levered the door open, and bounded down the steps before he could object. I didn’t bother backtracking, breaking into a jog across the grass strip to the exit ramp. Behind me, I heard the hiss of airbrakes and the rumble of the engine as the bus pulled away. As much as I wanted to believe in the kindness of others, I’d threatened the driver with a gun. He probably had 911 on the line already, but I hoped the money in his pocket had made him pause.
Even at a brisk pace, the walk past the outlet mall and over the river into town took fifteen minutes. Bypassing the first motel I saw, I walked east another four or five minutes. I passed a hole in the ground that had been a pizza joint before a gas main exploded and destroyed it, and a few minutes later came to another motel at the edge of the main drag out of town. A single story horseshoe-shaped building framed a two-story building accented with Tyrolean kitsch facing the street. A lighted sign that said “Office” in Gothic letters pointed to a side door. The motel was no more Swiss than Mount Si, the motel’s backdrop, was a peak in the Alps. A hedge, white picket fence, shrubbery and a few small trees set the building back from the sidewalk, someone’s attempt to give the place a homey feel.
Inside, an overhead fluorescent fixture cast sickly light on a worn linoleum floor the color of ground-in dirt. A wood paneled counter ran half the length of the room. Two vending machines hummed against one wall. Racks of tourist brochures obscured another. Behind the counter, an open door led to a dim back office. Light reflecting on the door from the room flickered, and sounds of canned studio laughter floated softly through the doorway. Stepping up to the counter I craned to see if anyone was back there. A silver bell sat on the counter. As I reached for it, a voice called out from the inner office.
“No need for that. I’m coming.”
A rail-thin man in his sixties who looked as if he’d been tonsured emerged, blinking in the bright light. “Just yourself?”
I nodded. A nameplate pinned to his plaid shirt just above the breast pocket said “Chuck.” He looked more like a Charles.
“How many nights?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know. Just tonight I guess.”
“Cash or credit card?”
“Cash.”
“Forty-nine and tax for the room. Plus a hundred-dollar damage deposit. Check-out’s at noon.” Chuck handed me a room rate slip that asked for my name, address, phone and car license plate number.
I fished in my pocket for some bills and counted out eight twenty-dollar bills then signed the first name that came to mind—Brian Whitney—a Freudian slip if I ever saw one. Another appointment I’d have to reschedule. I’d completely forgotten my Monday session, but then I’d been in NCIS’ custody. I listed a fictitious box number on the address line and pushed the form back across the counter. Chuck barely glanced at it before slipping it into a file drawer. He counted out my change and handed me a key attached to a plastic tag imprinted with the name of the hotel and room number. I thanked him and walked across the parking lot to the room.
A low-watt compact fluorescent in an overhead fixture cast the same feeble pall over gray industrial carpet that had about as much give as the asphalt outside the door, maple veneer wood paneling and dark blue flowered bedspread, a design theme that evoked the ’60s. A closer look at the worn bed cover suggested the room may not have been refurbished since then. A small round table and two chairs had the look of an office supply store special. Focusing on the dreary décor didn’t make my situation any less depressing. I dropped the duffel on the table, sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone.
Easy tasks first. It was an ADD thing. Big jobs looked overwhelming, resulting in inertia. By breaking them down into smaller tasks, they became manageable. I called Jeri. I doubted it made sense to anyone except me, but I wanted my job if I lived through this. As stupid as it sounded, I’d rebuilt my life a day at a time delivering newspapers, surviving the shame of losing a son, a job, a wife by hiding from the light, working the graveyard shift. I needed the job. Fortunately, Jeri had a seemingly endless list of able-bodied young adults—either hotline volunteers or suicide survivors—ready and willing to do anything for her, including taking over my route for a night or two. She knew me well enough not to ask questions. But she did remind me of something else I’d forgotten.
“Brian says you missed an appointment this week,” she said after a pause. “He’s been trying to get hold of you.”
“Crap,” I blurted. “Sorry.”
“Not like I haven’t heard worse.”
“I’m in a bind here, Jeri. Would you mind getting back to him for me and letting him know I’ll reschedule when I can?”
“You will
reschedule.”
“I promise. It’s just…”
“I’ll take care of it. But you’re going to make this up to me, Blake. I want to see you back in group. And you’re taking extra shifts on the hotline next month.”
“Okay, okay. You drive a hard bargain.”
Her voice turned serious. “Stay safe, Blake.”
Next, I checked the voicemail box for my normal cell number. I had one message, from Charlie at SPD. I called him back on his personal phone.
“Who’s this?” he answered.
“It’s Blake. I got your message.”
“Where the hell have you been? Jesus, Blake, you are in a world of hurt!”
I held the phone away from my ear and could hear the shouting just fine.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours,” he went on. “There’s a BOLO out for you, for chrissake!”
“Already?” I blurted.
“Oh, no. Now what have you done?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Why’s SPD looking for me?”
“Not just SPD. NCIS, too. They found their missing agent. Turned up in the morgue.”
My stomach fell. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.”
“That’s what they all say. You need to come in.”
“I can’t. There’s some other stuff I have to take care of.” For a brief moment, I thought of telling him about the hostage situation at Peter and Chance’s house. But even if he believed me, he’d send patrol to check it out, not SWAT. If Dmitrov and his thugs caught even a whiff of bacon, they’d probably kill one of the hostages as a message to me before they got out. I had a day to figure it out, but I needed to be able to move unimpaired.
“Charlie, you’ve got to help get NCIS off my back. I need time.”
“I don’t have to do shit for you, pal. Time for what, anyway?”
“Look, I didn’t kill anyone.” Not lately. I thought furiously. “When was the guy killed?”
“Night before last. Same night that other guy got shot.”
“And the body just turned up? They’ve been looking for the guy all this time.”
“Mix up at the morgue. Busy night the other night.”
“You’re sure he was killed the same night?” That wasn’t much help since my only alibi was my paper route. “How’d the guy die?”
“GSW is all I know.”
“Well, there you go. NCIS tested me for gunshot residue and took prints to match with the gun that killed D’Amato. Nothing.” The line was silent. “C’mon, Charlie, help me out here.”
“I might be able to pry some information out of the M.E.’s office. Might, Blake. No promises.”
“I’ll take it. Anything at this point.”
“What the hell is going on?”
I shook my head as if he could see through the cell connection. “It’s not good. You don’t want to be involved, Charlie. This is my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
“Goddamn it, Blake! You are not a cop, or some one-man posse. You know we take a dim view of vigilantes. Turn yourself in. I’ll do what I can to keep you from spending your life in jail.”
“Thanks, but no. Just see what you can find out from the M.E. Get NCIS off my back.”
“You owe me.”
What else was new? After years of the shoe being on the other foot, my tab with Charlie had grown exponentially recently. I laced my fingers behind my head, lay back on the bed and stared at the random pattern of miniature mountain ranges on the popcorn ceiling. No matter how many different scenarios I ran in my head, the movie ended the same way, with all of us dead. Once Dmitrov had what he wanted, we would become liabilities. I couldn’t do this by myself, but I had no one else. Peter and Chance were family. Molly, too, though we were no longer married. But I had few friends. Professional friends had jumped ship when I’d been accused of stealing from a client at my old firm. Family friends had sided with Molly when we’d broken up. I’d already ruled Charlie out. He didn’t look the other way when it came to the law.
One name rattled around in the back of my head until the racket was so loud I couldn’t ignore it—Reyna. I didn’t know if we were on speaking terms. I didn’t know what we were. Three times she’d come into my life, which is about how many times it took anything to sink into my hard head. By then I knew I’d fallen in love with her, but we’d parted badly, just like the first two times. Though she was in D.C., she was the one person who could help me think this through, plan a strategy. And she was Navy; she might know what was going on.
It took me another twenty minutes of reaching for the phone and setting it back down before I got up the courage to dial her number. After midnight her time. I’d probably wake her. To my surprise, she picked up on the first ring.
“Yes?” Her tone was hesitant, but not sleepy.
“Reyna, it’s Blake.”
“Where are you?”
“In Seattle. Why?”
“No, I mean right now. Tell me where you are, exactly.”
I frowned. “I’m in a motel in North Bend. What’s going on?”
“Name? Room number?”
I rattled them off to her.
“Sit tight. Do not move from that spot. I’ll get back to you. Do you hear me? Stay there.”
“Okay, but it would help to—”
She’d already hung up. I wondered if I’d done the right thing. Not even so much as a “hello” and she’d been all over me about my location. We hadn’t spoken in months, and she was navy. A trap? Had she sent NCIS to pick me up? I chewed on a nail, got up and retrieved Charlie’s Sig from the duffel. I turned out the lights and sat at the table, fretting.
A little more than twenty minutes later, a sharp rap on the door sounded like a gunshot. An exaggerated startle response kicked my ass a foot off the chair. My pulse redlined and my knees turned to jelly. I ducked at the sound of glass shattering, more gunfire, and the sight of a man’s silhouette holding a gun, flashes of orange flame spitting from the barrel, bullets thudding into me like pile drivers. My breathing was fast and shallow. Pranayama! I forced myself to take deep, slow cleansing breaths and went looking for the happy place in my mind that kept the flashbacks at bay. Peter Pan. Tinker Bell. Fairy dust. Flying… Molly had made me happy. Cole had made me happy. But my happiest place were the dreams I had of flying, soaring above green meadows in the sun with no wings, no engine, weightless in a blue sky. The thump of my heart slowed, grew quieter.
I pushed myself to my feet and went to the door, pressing the pistol against my thigh to keep it from shaking. Too much television made me reticent to check the peephole. Too easy for someone on the other side to see the darkened lens and put a bullet into my brain. Instead, I grabbed the door handle, twisted it and yanked it open quickly, using it as a shield. For a moment, nothing moved in the silence. Then a shadow stepped through the doorway.
I stepped around the door and raised the gun. It wavered despite a two-handed grip. “Don’t move.”
“Blake?” Reyna’s voice. She flipped on the light switch and shut the door.
“Reyna? How did you get here?”
She peered at me from under a shock of dark hair. Her beauty had taken my heart prisoner a long time before, and now the jailer was back to ensure the cell door was securely locked. She took a step closer and swung a dainty hand hard and fast. I didn’t see it coming until it was far too late, the crack against my cheek as loud as another pistol shot. The imprint of her fingers burned on my skin.
I rubbed the spot. “What was that for?”
“For probably costing me my job,” she said. “For not calling me. For … for everything.”
“I did call you. Just now.”
“You know what I mean.”
“What? I’m the only one who can dial a phone here? You’ve got fingers. I should know. Your prints are permanently branded on my face.”
She stepped toward me and rose up on tiptoes to look at my face. An expression of concern rapidly turned to mockery as she moved back. “Po
or baby. Suck it up and tell me what the hell is going on, Blake.”
“What do you mean I cost you your job? Why are you here?”
She walked to the bed, sat on the end and gestured toward the chair. I took it.
“Two agents from NCIS walked into our office yesterday morning and grilled me about a missing agent. They wanted to know what my involvement was. I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.”
“Why would they ask you?”
“You tell me. They came at me because of my involvement with you. They think you had something to do with their agent going missing. And, guilt by association, they think I’m involved somehow.”
“I swear I didn’t know.” I paused. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”
“Farley put me on leave. What was I supposed to do? Damn it, Blake! It’s my career!”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it! And in case you didn’t notice, I’ve got a few problems of my own.”
She examined the carpet before responding. “Something to do with the two goons watching your house?”
“They’re not watching it anymore. They took Peter and Chance hostage.”
She sighed and met my gaze. “I was afraid of that. Another man—their boss, I think—met them outside, and they all went in. They hadn’t come out when you called.”
“They’re going to kill them, Reyna.”
“You don’t know that. Tell me what’s going on.”
I told her everything. D’Amato carjacking me, then dying in my back seat. His high-tech job and the items he’d had with him. The vow I’d made to protect the girl in the photo. The gun he’d left behind tracing back to the missing NCIS agent. The Russians’ interest in D’Amato, and consequently me. How I’d tried to find the girl, and found a possible lead tortured and killed instead. My decision to drop out of sight until the Russians used Chance and Peter as leverage. Reyna took it all in silently, letting me tell it my own way without interrupting.
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