by J. D. Tyler
He half expected Nick to be asleep, but he when he stepped into the room, the other agent was gazing out the window at the morning sunshine. The dark, brooding expression on the man’s face was at odds with someone who was alive to enjoy another day, but that was to be expected.
Recovering physically and emotionally from the wrath of a serial killer—one who’d been someone they’d trusted—was no bed of roses.
Making himself known, Dalton knocked lightly on the door frame. “Hey. In the mood for some company?”
Nick swung his gaze toward the door and a smile curved his lips. “With the guy who saved my ass? Anytime.”
“Hey, I happen to prefer your ass in one piece. Not that I spend any time at all contemplating your butt, ya know.” He took a seat, eyeing his friend, noting that despite the man’s chuckle, the humor didn’t quite reach his dark-blue eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Better every day. Ready to get the hell out of here,” he said with feeling.
“I can imagine. How are you handling what happened? No bullshit.”
The bullshit rose to the surface anyway, and Nick visibly struggled with shades of the truth before admitting, “I’m not. I have great drugs, and Lena.”
“That’s dangerous. You need to work through the mess in your head, Nicky. For real, with a therapist’s help. Slapping a Band-Aid over it—”
“I know, okay?” the other agent snapped. Then he relented, stark pain replacing the irritation of seconds before. “I know, just…not yet. I’m not ready to talk with some stranger about my feelings and shit about what went down. One day, maybe, when I’m out of here and back on my feet.”
Dalton eased up on his friend. “All right. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”
“Thanks.” He changed the subject. “So, what’s going on with you? Any compelling new cases?”
“Could be. I’ve got a meeting with Noah this morning. He was pretty secretive about it when he called my cell phone last night, so it’s sensitive. He did mention some possible undercover work, said I might be out of touch for a while.”
Nick’s dark brows drew together. “How long of a while?”
“Like, pay my bills, turn off the electricity, and hold my mail. That long.”
The other man whistled through his teeth. “Damn. And he didn’t say what it’s about?”
“Not yet. But I couldn’t leave without checking on you and saying goodbye.”
“Hey, none of that crap,” Nick said with a scowl. “It’s not goodbye, it’s until later.”
“Right.” Dalton grinned. “When I get back, the beer and barbeque is going to be at your place. It’s the least you can do in repayment for services rendered.”
Nick snorted, and then winced a little, holding his healing abdomen. “That’s a plan I can get behind.”
“Good.” Dalton paused. “Have the doctors given you any idea when you can go back to work?”
“I’ll be out for a few more weeks. The thing is…” With a sigh, his friend ran a hand through his thick, black hair. “I’m not sure I’m going back.”
Dalton’s heart sank, though he couldn’t say he was surprised. “Don’t rush into any decisions, please. We need you at the Bureau.”
“I won’t. It’s just that I’m not certain my head’s going to be in the game anymore. I’m thinking of making a change.”
“What kind of change?”
“I’ve always wanted to run my own security business,” he revealed. His mouth kicked up in a small smile. “Protection services, black ops, that sort of thing. Maybe it’s time to give some serious thought to being my own boss.”
“That’ll be a lot of work, but if anyone can do it, you can. I have to admit, the idea has definite appeal.”
“More than you know.” Nick arched a brow. “I might even lure you away from the Bureau as well, who knows?”
Dalton snorted. “After the past few weeks, I’m starting to think that might be possible. Tell you what, if you go through with your plans, I’ll definitely keep that in mind—if that’s an invitation.”
“You don’t even have to ask.”
As they chatted, Dalton mulled over the proposition. He wasn’t ready to leave the FBI, but then again, it would take a while for Nick to see his business go from inception to reality. He had more than enough time to decide.
Soon, it was time for him to get to the office. His friend was starting to nod off anyway, barely able to keep his eyes open.
“Hey, I’m gonna let you get some rest, okay?” he said as he stood.
“Damn, I can’t seem to stay awake more than an hour at a time.” Nick made a face and then eyed Dalton. “Be careful out there.”
“I will, don’t worry.”
They shook hands and Dalton took his leave, wondering when he’d see the other agent again. The man would most likely be long healed and well into his plans for his future by the time Dalton made it back to the city.
The drive to the federal building that housed the FBI’s offices took only minutes, even with traffic. Once he’d parked, he showed his badge to security and rode the elevator up to their floor.
The first person he encountered was Jack Elliot, the young, redheaded agent who was Nick’s partner. The guy had seemed a bit lost ever since his mentor had been laid up, and Dalton had been too wrapped up in his own cases to check on him very much. He felt kind of guilty about that, too.
Jack was sort of…naive. Green, sure, in the sense that he was a newly minted Fed, but a little innocent. Open and friendly. Maybe too much so for the stresses of this job, but it was early days yet. The Bureau would either toughen him up, or eat him alive.
“Morning,” Jack said in greeting, giving him a smile. He was seated behind his desk, hands wrapped around a huge Starbucks latte.
He paused and gave the other man a grimace. “You’re entirely too cheerful for this early in the day.”
“Don’t worry, everyone else is positively foul this morning, so you’ll be right at home.” His green eyes danced with humor.
“Good to know. What about Noah?”
“The foulest in the land,” he assured Dalton with a smirk.
“Awesome. We have a meeting right now.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.”
He left Jack chuckling behind him and strode the short distance to Noah’s office. Unlike the agents under his command, whose desks were all situated in the open with barely any privacy, Noah had an enclosed space with a door. It wasn’t enormous, but some days Dalton thought he’d kill to be able to close everyone else out.
Knocking on the door, he peeked around the door frame to see his boss look up and wave him inside. Noah was on the phone, and if his scowl was any indication, his day hadn’t improved any since his arrival.
“I don’t give a flying rat’s ass what that fucking reporter said,” Noah seethed, gripping the phone so tightly it was amazing it didn’t crack. “I stand behind the actions of my agent. He followed proper protocol, and if the criminals would stop breaking the goddamned law, I’d be mixing drinks behind a bar in the Caymans instead of putting up with this bullshit!”
Wincing, Dalton pulled the door closed behind him and took a seat in front of Noah’s desk.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t give two shits that Mendoza’s crying about being roughed up when he was being busted for selling more than three million dollars’ worth of cocaine! He tried to run, for Christ’s sake! Fuck it, I’ve gotta go. Bye.” Noah slammed the phone back into the cradle so hard the coffee sloshed over the rim of his mug.
“That kind of day already?” Dalton eyed him warily.
“Yeah.” His boss sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh, swiping a hand down his face. He was quiet for a moment, the anger draining and weary reflection taking its place. “When did us good guys become the bad guys? Why do we even bother?”
“I know, right?” He snorted. “Sometimes I watch the news and I just think, why don’t we pull all of the cops an
d Feds off the street? Leave everybody to it, then let God and the devil sort the rest?”
“But we can’t.” A rueful smile tugged at Noah’s lips. “Retreat to fight another day and all that crap.”
“That’s about the size of it. I like to think most folks appreciate what we do to try and keep them safe. It’s the damned media that keeps the hornet’s nest stirred up. Sometimes I think smartphones and social media were two of the worst things ever to happen to society.” He paused as his boss grunted in agreement. “So, what do you have to discuss with me?”
Pulling a manila folder out of a stack, Noah slid it across the desk. “Ever heard of a group called the Red Mantle?”
“Nope. Should I have?” Taking the folder, he opened it. Inside were printed notes and headshots labeled with names of more than twenty men.
“Not necessarily. They’re an ultra-conservative group that follows a leader called Master Isham. One of Isham’s main underlings is a man named Methan. Intel says they follow the way of the robe, and their mission is to protect their followers who helped the godly escape from the unholy, corrupt Roman republic.”
Dalton stared at him. “Say what, now?”
“In English? They’re a bunch of whackadoodles.”
In spite of the serious nature of what Dalton sensed was coming, he laughed. “Yeah, I got that part. Give me an example, in English.”
“Pretty much, we’re all heathens to them. By we, I mean society in general. The way western civilization is run, especially how women are considered equal these days and even hold positions of power.” Noah paused significantly.
“Ruh-roh,” he intoned. “And now we’re involved in investigating them? I can see where this is going already.”
“Smart boy.”
“Is Senator Warren in danger?”
“Now, as a strong female candidate for the first female president in U.S. history? Possibly. If Leslie Warren wins, in all likelihood they’ll be planning something against her, and eventually other women in power as well. They may be nuts, but they’re the worst kind of crazies—the kind that really believe in their cause and will do anything to see it furthered, even resort to violence.”
“Shit.”
Bending his head over the file, Dalton spent a few minutes skimming through the notes. He’d read those more in depth later, but for now it was the photos that held his interest. There were several top men in the group, but Methan’s cold stare held him captive. Shiny black hair fell over his forehead to his collar, and dark eyes glittered like onyx. His features were Mediterranean, though the notes said he was American by birth.
An involuntary shudder snaked down Dalton’s spine. This man would be a dangerous adversary.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked Noah.
“Infiltrate the group. Get as close to Methan as you can, learn their plans, gather the evidence we need to put them away for good.”
“It won’t be that simple. This man?” He tapped Methan’s picture. “You can bet he trusts no one, and neither will his men.”
“That’s where our contacts come in. We’ve got a man who can get you a meeting and a recommendation with one of Methan’s underlings. Bottom rung. You can work your way into his good graces from there.”
Dalton frowned. “There’s not much time. The election’s just weeks away.”
“They might not strike that soon. We won’t know until we get someone in there to monitor their movements.”
“Am I going in as myself, a Fed who shares their beliefs? Or should I have total cover?”
Noah hummed as he thought about that. “The first idea would’ve been great if we had time to set it up. We could’ve had you publicly reprimanded for a so-called mistake or something, had you say a couple of things against women in power to lend credibility with the Red Mantle. God knows that wouldn’t take much for the media to pounce on the shaming of another cop and for people to swallow it whole.”
“For sure.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“We just don’t have that kind of time, though. Full cover it is, and I want you wearing both a transmitter and a tracking device at all times. You’ll be monitored from a distance and we’ll be able to pull you out at a moment’s notice if need be.”
“Great. I love spy gear.” He practically wrung his hands with glee. “Do I get a pen that shoots poison darts? Or a car that can drop an oil slick?”
“Rein it in, James Bond. This is just information gathering, nothing more. No cowboy heroics, no bullets flying or blowing shit up. Got it?”
“Damn, you know how to harsh a guy’s buzz.”
“Get out of my office, dumbass.” His laugh ruined the cranky tone he’d been going for.
“Noah? Thanks for the chance.”
“Don’t make me regret this. Stay safe.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Gathering the file, Dalton eased out of Noah’s office, shutting the door behind him. Then he took the folder to his desk to begin studying the group in earnest—Methan in particular.
This wasn’t going to be a picnic. But when the time came, he’d be more than ready. Whatever they were planning, he was going to put them behind bars where they belonged.
No matter how long that took.
CHAPTER TWO
Several months later…
The shit was all going down tonight.
This was it. With a whole lot of luck, the takedown he’d been waiting for months to see through was going to happen.
Problem was, he was flying way too damned blind.
Dalton paced the floor of the dingy hotel on the fringes of D.C., waiting for his instructions. Did Methan trust him enough to allow him close to the action on this mission? For months the leader had relegated Dalton to the sidelines, assigned him to crap detail that included being the driver and lookout. Sometimes he’d be ordered to gather information and report back when he knew damned well Methan already had the answers in the first place. His “assignments” were obvious tests.
The leader hadn’t allowed him to attend the planning meeting for tonight, either. He hadn’t been able to get within a mile of the place. So much evidence, lost. Not to mention the opportunity to warn Noah of the specifics of how the group planned to take out the newly elected president at one of her parties or inaugural balls. Would they try for her tonight, at the Fierenze Hotel, if she decided to stop by the ball?
But the president and her agents weren’t stupid—they were prepared for just such a possibility, always ready to whisk her away at the first hint of trouble.
President Leslie Warren. The first woman to be elected as president of the United States, and bane of the Red Mantle’s existence.
As far as the tests directed at Dalton, they weren’t unexpected, but that didn’t make them any less frustrating. He’d gotten little on the group that the Bureau didn’t already know. Anyone could stage or participate in a public protest, and there was a fine line between a group spouting off hatred via good old freedom of speech, and turning that into actual wrongdoing. He needed real evidence of homeland terrorism, not just talk.
Tonight, he’d get that evidence, call in reinforcements. Bring down Methan.
A knock interrupted his thoughts and he palmed his Glock, easing up to the door as silently as possible. Peering out the peep hole, he saw Pohl standing outside, shifting from foot to foot, an impatient expression on his face. Unlocking the door, Dalton let him in and stepped aside.
“Is everything a go?” he asked, shutting the door behind Pohl.
“Would I be here wasting my time with you if it wasn’t?” the other man snapped. He paused, eyeing Dalton from head to toe with contempt. “I’m not sure you’re ready for this, recruit.”
God, he longed to plant his fist in the bastard’s face.
“I’m more than ready,” he shot back, narrowing his eyes. “Am I going to be standing around holding my balls again, or am I going to have a real job?”
“You’re either eage
r or you’re too stupid to keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told.” The other man cocked his head. “Which one is it?”
“I believe in our cause. I can make a difference and I have the skills back up my claim. How am I supposed to empower our people, make the heathens see the error of their ways, with my hands tied behind my back?”
His brief, impassioned speech nearly stuck in his throat, and it failed to impress Pohl much. The bastard snorted and rested a hip against the beat-up dresser, crossed his arms over his chest.
“You’ve got the fire, but we’ll see if you can back it up with action. You’re going in to the hotel tonight.”
Dalton straightened, heart kicking against his ribs. He hoped his sudden stab of nerves didn’t show on his face. “No shit?”
Fucking finally! Are you guys getting this? I sure as hell hope so.
“Yeah. You’re gonna stick with me going in, then we’ll split off.”
“How are we gaining access inside the hotel? The place is going to be swarming with security.” He didn’t have to fake the disbelief in his voice. It was an issue he’d puzzled over from the first hint of tonight’s op.
“There’s a maze of old, forgotten steam tunnels that run underground through the city. They aren’t used anymore, and most of them are blocked off. One runs under the hotel, to the basement, and we’ve made a hole where it was walled up. We’ll enter through there, neutralize anyone who gets in our way, and move on to the upper floors, to the ballroom.”
Neutralize. Kill innocent people. Dalton fought not to be sick. This was the most horrible part of undercover work. Dalton wouldn’t be killing anyone except the terrorists, but he might not be able to protect others who got in the line of fire.
“Who’re our targets?” Pohl gazed at him like he was an idiot. “Specifically, I mean. Is there a list?”
“Of course there is.” The other man tapped his own temple. “It’s in here. You think I’m dumb enough to write that shit down? For your part, all you need to know is, anyone who’s not on board with our way of thinking will be eliminated. Women have no place in government, or in any position that belongs to a man. They won’t step down, they get taken out as well.”