Baby Battalion

by Cassie Miles

  “Joey wanted the game, and I got it to test and see if it was age appropriate, which it definitely wasn’t. Way too violent for a four-year-old. But I kind of enjoy blasting my way through an army of zombies.”

  The image of lovely Tess with a blaster tickled him. She’d always had a sense of humor; it was one of the reasons he fell in love with her. “You’re a good mom.”

  “Because I kill zombies?”

  “You know why.” She was responsible about what Joey should be exposed to, but she also was fun. “Anyway, Coltrane said there are two people in the house.”

  “Victor?”

  “Probably not.” It wouldn’t be that easy to locate Victor. Bart’s son had been clever enough to take on a new identity and evade discovery in the Middle East for years. He was good at staying under the radar. “I’m not a hundred percent sure Victor is even in this area.”

  “I thought you had a credible source,” she said.

  “Unfortunately, he was killed before he could give us details.”

  Jessop had told them that something big was going down. Victor, using his Wes Bradley alias, and Greenaway were going to be in Washington at the same time. From the start, Nolan hadn’t liked the shape of that situation. If Victor was allied with Greenaway, Bart was in extreme danger.

  He headed north following the navigational directions. The GPS voice programmed into the Hummer sounded like a staff sergeant he’d had in the Marines. He turned the volume low so he wouldn’t snap to attention and salute.

  For the most part, Bethesda was an upscale area—the kind of place where an exclusive private school would be located, but he didn’t expect Elliot to be living in a mansion. The guy was a janitor at the school, not a rich preppie.

  Tess said, “Victor is supposed to be highly intelligent, right?”

  “Right,” he said.

  “If he happens to be in the house with Elliot, I think he’ll notice a big white Hummer pulling up to the curb.”

  “Point taken. I’ll park a couple of blocks away and walk closer.”

  “And what about me?” she asked.

  “You stay with the car.” As soon as he spoke, he knew that plan wouldn’t fly. “But I can’t leave you alone and unprotected.”

  “I have to come with you and Coltrane.”

  She sounded far too cheerful about the prospect of facing danger. Her attitude reeked with courage and initiative. It was exactly for those reasons that he’d known he couldn’t tell her that he was still alive. Tess wouldn’t have been content to arrange occasional clandestine meetings, nor would she be willing to give up her identity and hide in witness protection.

  His wife looked like a delicate porcelain doll, but she was a scrapper, not afraid to fight for what she wanted. Taking on Greenaway and his network of distributors was beyond the scope of half a dozen government agencies. He and Tess didn’t have a chance against them.

  “I taught you how to use a gun,” he said.

  “Indeed, you did.”

  “Do you remember?”

  “I don’t go to target practice on a regular basis,” she said. “But I’ve kept my skills up. I’m a single mom. I’ve had to protect Joey.”

  Drily, he said, “I wasn’t aware that marksmanship was part of the single mom’s handbook.”

  “Now you know our secret. Rabid dogs are nothing compared to a pack of single mothers. Threaten our kids, and we’ll rip you to shreds.”

  Without another word, he took the gun from his ankle holster and handed it to her. From the corner of his eye, he watched as she checked the clip and balanced the heft of the automatic in her hand. Her competence was evident.

  Tess might turn out to be the best partner he’d ever had.

  At a bland one-story house in a neighborhood of similar structures, Tess prepared herself to approach. Their plan was simple. Coltrane would enter through the back door while she and Nolan came through the front.

  Heat sensing images showed the two occupants of the house sitting side by side, probably watching television. The level of danger seemed negligible, but she still felt a rush of adrenaline through her veins. Taking action was a thousand times better than waiting to be attacked.

  This morning when bullets were flying, she’d been nearly paralyzed by fear. And now? Not so much.

  Her hands weren’t shaking. She didn’t feel faint. The opposite was true. She felt strong and fierce, as though she could take on the world. Was it because she knew Joe was alive and her period of mourning was over? Or was she so furious that there wasn’t room for fear?

  Either way, she was in control of herself as Nolan picked the lock at the front of the house and coordinated his move with Coltrane on the hands-free phone. They timed their entry, both coming through the door simultaneously. She followed Nolan, holding her automatic with both hands.

  Though tempted to yell something like “on the floor, scumbag” or “die, zombie, die,” she kept her mouth shut while Nolan and Coltrane subdued a man and a woman, using zip ties to handcuff them.

  The two occupants of the house were an unattractive couple. Elliot had the kind of thin, dirty blond hair that always looked greasy. His shoulders were skinny and he had a potbelly. In spite of the winter chill, he wore a grungy sleeveless T-shirt that displayed the tattoos on his upper arms—several variations on skulls, daggers dripping blood, snakes and spiders. He didn’t seem frightened by the assault. His eyes were close-set and mean.

  His girlfriend was much younger, probably in her twenties. Her eyes were dull, nearly lifeless. Tess wondered if the girl was on drugs.

  Coltrane did the questioning. Both Elliot and the girl were sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Coltrane loomed over them—big and threatening. Was this the same guy who played tea party with his twin girls? He had transformed from loving dad into harsh interrogator.

  She knew that all the men in CSaI were former military. They had all seen combat. They were all trained experts. But seeing Coltrane and Nolan in action was a bit unsettling.

  At first, Elliot played cute, pretending that he didn’t know anybody named Victor. “I’m going to sue your ass,” he said. “You can’t bust into my house and push me around.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Coltrane said as he drew an eight-inch serrated blade from a sheath on his belt. “We’re not cops. We don’t have to follow the rules.”

  Nolan touched her arm. To Coltrane, he said, “I’ll take the lady into another room. She shouldn’t have to see what you’re going to do.”

  As they moved into the hall, she whispered, “He isn’t really going to do anything horrible with that knife, is he?”

  “No, the threat is enough.” He pointed her toward the end of the hallway. “Let’s take a look around. See if we can find any evidence.”

  Throughout the house, the décor was decidedly weird. Busy patterns with flowers and swirls covered the curtains and furniture, reminding her of a design her grandma might like. But grandma would never abide such a mess. Dust spread across every surface. The carpets looked like they’d never been cleaned. One of the bedrooms was marginally cleaner with twin beds that were neatly made.

  She stood at the foot of the beds. “It looks like they tried to tidy up in here.”

  “Victor might have been keeping Bart in this room.” Nolan pointed to the pattern of wear on the carpet. “You can see how the beds were moved farther apart. Maybe that was to make room for Bart’s wheelchair.”

  “Good observation. Do you think he left us a message?”

  “Maybe.” He dug into his back pocket and took out two pairs of disposable latex gloves. “Put these on. There’s no point in leaving our fingerprints.”

  “Are you calling the police?”

  “The CIA,” he said. “Coltrane already notified Omar Harris. He ought to be here in ten or fifteen minutes.”

  Nolan circled the bed close to the inner wall of the room, studying the wall to see if Bart had managed to write a clue. He looked between the mattress and the b
ox spring, felt along the floor. “Nothing. If Victor brought his father here, he did a thorough job of policing the evidence.”

  From the front room, she heard Coltrane growling his questions. The girl yelled at him. The screeching tone of her voice cut through Tess. She didn’t like this part. “We should look in the other bedroom. I doubt that Elliot was as careful as Victor.”

  They picked through the mess in the bedroom. The stink of unwashed sheets rose from the bed. She hated to think of Bart being held captive in a disgusting place like this. The wicker trash can was full to overflowing. Breathing through her mouth so she wouldn’t be hit with the smell of a rotting banana peel, Tess tipped the contents onto the carpet.

  There were several amber vials—containers for pills. She held one up so Nolan could see. “I don’t know much about drugs.”

  He took it from her and read the prescription label. “It’s a painkiller. I’m guessing that Elliot and his lady friend like to get high. Let’s check these out.”

  All the vials came from the same pharmacy. The patient names were different. She asked, “Did they steal this stuff?”

  “Stole it. Bought it. Who knows?”

  She turned one of the vials over in her hand. “This one is from a different place. A drugstore in Freedom, Texas.”

  The patient name was B. Bellows.

  Bart had been here.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nolan returned to the room where Coltrane was still trying to extract information from Elliot and his girlfriend. He pulled Coltrane aside and showed him the prescription vial with Bart’s name. The evidence was undeniable but didn’t do them any good unless Elliot knew where Victor had gone next.

  They needed to change the pace of their questioning. Coltrane had intimidated the hell out of Elliot and his girlfriend. Nolan would step in and supposedly offer them a way out.

  He hunkered down so he was eye to eye with Elliot and showed him the prescription vial. “You’re in serious trouble. This belongs to Bart Bellows. Do you know who he is?”

  Elliot sneered. “Victor’s old man.”

  “Bart was CIA. He’s got friends in high places—friends in the CIA, friends in NSA. They’re going to make you talk.”

  “I don’t have to say anything. I know my rights.”

  “Let me tell you a little something.” Nolan lowered his voice. “There are no lawyers at Gitmo. That’s where you’ll be headed. Think about it.”

  Nolan patted Elliot on the back and stood. When he’d entered the house, he’d left the front door standing open. The December air had dropped the temperature in the house to an uncomfortable chill. Both Elliot and his gal pal were shivering.

  Casually, Nolan sauntered to the door. Across the street, he saw Christmas lights twinkling on the eaves of a one-story bungalow that looked a lot like this one. The people who lived in that house might be a nice, normal family with a mom and dad and a couple of kids, maybe even a dog. Their biggest worry might be whether to have ham or turkey for Christmas dinner.

  To Nolan, that seemed like heaven. A nice, normal life with no worries, it was all he wanted for himself and Tess and Joey. As he turned, he caught her gaze. The glimmer in her eyes didn’t look like anger. It was a different kind of heat—at least that was what he told himself. He needed to believe that she was attracted to him. When he tried a grin, she turned away.

  He closed the front door. When he came back toward their two prisoners, he took a knitted afghan from the sofa and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. She had only a couple of girly tattoos of flowers and rainbows, nothing like the skull-and-dagger horror show on Elliot’s upper arms. The only creepy one was a brown spider on her wrist just above the place where the zip tie fastened.

  He pointed to it. “Is there a story behind this?”

  Elliot warned her, “Don’t tell him nothing.”

  Nolan noticed the same tattoo on Elliot. “Matching tats.”

  She looked up at him. Her pupils were dilated. Her lower lip quivered. “Elliot got the tattoo for me.”

  “Shut up,” he yelled. “You dumb broad, shut up.”

  “Not so dumb,” Nolan said. “Your girlfriend is getting smart. She’s cooperating. She’s not going to end up in Gitmo. Not like you.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Not me,” Nolan said. “I’m a nice guy. But these other feds, they can make you disappear. Understand?”

  “I get it,” Elliot grumbled.

  “What do you want? It’s your choice.”

  “Don’t turn me over to the CIA. I’ll cooperate. But this still isn’t right. I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  At the minimum, Elliot had harbored a fugitive and aided in a kidnapping. “You’re ready to talk. That’s good.”

  “Why should I take the fall for Victor? He’s rich, had everything handed to him on a silver platter.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Nolan said. “First, I want to hear what the lady says about her tattoo. I’ve seen spiders like that. It’s got a marking on the back that looks like a violin. We used to call them fiddlebacks.”

  “It’s a brown recluse spider,” she said.

  Like the Recluse Gang. The boarding school boys had chosen a moniker that referenced a spider known for powerful venom. Cute, real cute. “Are you part of the gang?”

  “Honorary member,” she said. “There were only eight of them, you know. Like eight legs on a spider.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  She shook her head. “Just Elliot and Victor.”

  “Did you meet Victor’s father? His name is Bart.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with him,” she said. “But one time, I sneaked into the room. He was sleeping.”

  “Is that when you took the vial of painkillers?”

  “There were only two pills left,” she said. “I threw the bottle away so nobody would know.”

  That explained how Victor had overlooked such an incriminating piece of evidence. He hadn’t paid enough attention to Elliot’s addict girlfriend.

  There was one more question Nolan needed to ask. “Have you ever heard the name Greenaway?”

  She thought for a few seconds and then shook her head. “Nope.”

  He turned to Elliot. “How about you?”

  “I got to explain something to you,” he said. “You’re wrong about Victor. He’s taking real good care of his dad.”

  Nolan covered his disgust and disbelief with a tight smile. Victor had abducted his father. He’d set a bomb in a day care and had murdered Bart’s driver. There was nothing sympathetic or righteous about his actions. “Tell me about Greenaway.”

  “I know he’s a bad dude. If I ever hear him getting close, I should run.”

  “Was Victor in touch with Greenaway?”

  “Not a chance. He was hiding from him.”

  That wasn’t the story Nolan had expected. If Victor hadn’t come to D.C. to meet with Greenaway, why the hell was he here? “Do you know how to get in touch with Victor?”

  “I never did,” Elliot said. “Over the years, he’d just show up on my doorstep. He’d stay for an hour or a week. I never knew how long. He’d leave me some cash, and then—poof! He was gone.”

  Nolan had heard enough. He stepped away from Elliot and his girlfriend and pulled Coltrane aside. Standing near the front door, they conferred.

  “You got a lot out of them,” Coltrane said.

  “After you softened them up. I’m not sure how much we can believe. Did you contact Omar Harris?”

  Coltrane nodded. “He’ll be here soon. We should talk to Harris about the rest of the Recluse Gang. Victor might be staying with one of the others.”

  “And get Amelia on it.”

  “You think she’ll have better luck than the CIA?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Nolan said. “I’ll leave you to it. I should take Tess back to the Pierpont House.”

  Coltrane grinned. “How’s it going with you two?”

/>   He wasn’t sure how to answer that question. The other guys in CSaI didn’t know his real identity, but they were sharp enough to know that he was hiding something in his past. Someday, he hoped to tell the truth, to reclaim the life he’d lost. But not yet.

  “I like Tess. A lot.”

  “You’ve got my blessing,” Coltrane glanced at her and winked. “I was real surprised when I saw her come running in here with a gun. There’s some depth to your little party planner.”

  Nolan signaled to her, and she quickly joined them.

  “What’s next?” she asked.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Coltrane said. “You should get some sleep. Tomorrow could be a big day.”

  “It absolutely is a big day. There’s the caterer and the printer and the florist and the Alamo cake.”

  Nolan added, “Not to mention saving Bart’s life.”

  “Sorry.” She cringed. “My priorities are out of whack.”

  “You’re thinking of everything. That’s good.” He reached toward her, then thought better of the gesture and tucked his hand in his pocket. “Either way, we need sleep.”

  He opened the door for her, and they retraced their steps back to the Hummer. The night air was bracing but not invigorating enough to jump-start his brain. Though he wanted to start a real conversation with her, the right words seemed out of reach.

  “The weatherman says no snow for Christmas,” he said.

  “Global warming,” she mumbled.

  “I wouldn’t mind a nice day in the seventies.”

  She stopped short and tilted her head to look up at him. The glow from a streetlamp burnished her hair. “You don’t have to force a conversation. I’m accustomed to long silences.”

  “Because I disappeared, right?”

  “Because you died.” Her lips thinned into a hard, straight line. “There’s a significant difference. Dead means never coming back. Oh, wait! That’s not what it means at all.”

  “I get it, Tess.”

  “I don’t think you do. It’s clear that you’ve been operating at your peak, running CSaI. Did you even think about me?”

  “Every hour of every day.”

  She started walking again, walking fast. He kept pace beside her. He could have told her about the pain—physical and emotional. And he could have apologized. Again.