Mouse nodded, excitement shining in her eyes. “I’ve tracked the money to a shell company with French papers, but it’s going to take some time to unravel exactly where this is coming from.”
Fletcher’s phone rang, jarring them all. He glanced at the screen. “This is the hospital. I asked for updates on Cattafi. Fingers crossed it’s good news.”
Sam watched him answer, and his face drained of color. “Are you sure?” he said. “Son of a bitch. Start running the name, right now. Find out who it is. You hear me? And send me the picture. Call me immediately when you know.”
He hung up. “Cattafi threw a code blue. They’ve managed to bring him back. He’s still in the coma, but he’s breathing. Apparently, a doctor no one recognized came to see him just before he tried to croak. Put her name down as Margaret Preston. Problem is, there isn’t a doctor named Margaret Preston at GW. I’m going to have heads over this.”
“Wait, Fletch. An impostor doctor got in to see Cattafi? How?”
“Marched right in. They’re sending a photo.” His phone dinged. He opened the email.
There was a good shot of the impostor’s face as she exited the room, taken from the nurses’ station. It was grainy, but clear enough to work with. The doctor was small, gray-haired, stooped a bit.
He turned the phone around. “Look familiar?”
Sam had to strip away the hair, the demeanor, the attitude. Once she did, she saw someone she recognized. The hair was wrong, but the face was unmistakable. “That’s Robin Souleyret.”
“Yes, it is,” Fletcher replied. “And she just tried to kill Tommy Cattafi.”
Chapter 38
Foggy Bottom
Dr. David Bromley’s lab
ROBIN SAW THE glint of the weapon, immediately went into a defensive posture, crouched, ready to spring. She didn’t hesitate; her fist struck out, nailing her assailant in the throat. With the other hand, she smashed her wrist against his forearm, knocking the gun loose. She whipped around and planted her left leg behind the gunman’s right knee and shoved. He went over on his back—it was a he, she could smell the acrid scent of his sweat and feel the thick hair on his arms. He scrambled backward and landed heavily on his back with a curse—French, she thought dimly, did he just say putain?—then shot from flat on his back to his feet with breathtaking speed.
He came at her, both hands free now, confident in his skill, not even glancing for the gun she’d held. She took two punches, one to her cheek, one to her forehead, before she could turn to the side and kick him. He went for her leg and missed, but caught her sharply on the neck, right in the notch by her carotid, hard enough to make her see stars.
He had a momentary advantage, and he knew it. He grabbed her by the wrist and flung her against the wall. She caught herself before she slammed headfirst, curled her body for the impact. Hit the wall with a dull thump, pain shooting from her shoulder.
He launched after her, teeth bared, his face so close she could see the small vertical lines that bisected his upper lip. Got his hands on her neck, but that was just where she wanted him. She went limp for a moment, surprising him, then turned in his arms and shoved hard against the wall with her legs, sent them toppling backward across the room. She beat him back to standing, but he was quick, right there. She didn’t stop, turned and crashed an elbow into his throat and, without waiting to see the effect it had, threw her head back in a reverse Glasgow kiss.
She tagged him square in the nose, felt the crunch of the cartilage and a fine mist of blood warm down her back. He started to sag, and she jammed her right heel into his knee, which bent backward in an unholy way.
He screamed. The one-two head-knee combination was enough to stop him in his tracks. She felt him going down, sprang away so he didn’t land on her, and calmly picked up his gun. A Beretta, with suppressor attached. Had it not, she wouldn’t have had the luck she did to disarm him so quickly; the suppressor added just enough weight to make the gun off balance if you weren’t gripping it tightly. She knew; she’d been disarmed once in the same way, not expecting the weight of the weapon to shift in her hand when her arm was hit.
She was breathing hard. It felt like the fight had taken years, not minutes.
The assassin was down, hands around his ruined knee. He wasn’t crying, and she was impressed. She knew he must have been in an incredible amount of pain.
She stood near him, the gun trained on him, listening to a clever assortment of invectives in French. She’d been right; he had called her a putain and a salope, and suggested she do a few rather base things with her mother, father and grandmother.
She kicked him in the nuts and said, “Baise-toi, connard. Who sent you?”
“Nique ta mère.”
She laughed, the adrenaline starting to fade a bit, leaving her light-headed. She spoke in French. “You’re a nasty one, aren’t you? I don’t think I will. Tell me who sent you, or I’ll pull the trigger. And if you know anything at all about me, you know I’m not kidding.”
He shook his head. She debated for only a moment, then smoothly fired. The gun kicked gently in her hand, and the man’s leg erupted in blood. He howled.
“Now both knees are shot. I’ll give you one more chance. Tell me who sent you.”
He was crying now, the pain and the shock of the gunshot too much on top of the fight. She took no pleasure in this conquest. He wasn’t a worthy opponent. She’d taken him down too easily, too quickly.
“Quit crying like a little girl and tell me who you work for.”
He shook his head and she started to move the gun. His eyes tracked it, moving slowly from his leg, to his groin, to right between his eyes.
“Who?”
“Denon,” he said.
“James Denon?”
“Oui. Have mercy, sister.” He was finished. He shut his eyes, ready. His throat convulsed once as he swallowed.
“Merci,” she whispered, and with a small frown pulled the trigger twice more.
* * *
Riley showed up five minutes later. He found Robin sitting on the floor of Bromley’s front office, the suppressed Beretta in her lap, a look of surprise on her face.
He dropped to his knees beside her, gently plucked the gun from her hand. She let him. She was tired. So tired.
Riley looked worried, but she hardly noticed it. She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep. The blood from the man she’d shot smelled of copper and iron, hot smoke, and when she finally relaxed against the wall, allowed herself to step away from warrior mode, she saw the whole lab was coated in a fine yellow smog, like bile.
Seeing the mess, Riley roughed her up, yanked her to her feet, whispering harshly in purple-veined words. “What are you still doing here? You need to leave. Now. You’ve been compromised. The police know you’ve been to see Cattafi. He coded right after you left. You’re a suspect. What the hell were you thinking?”
Riley’s fury brought her back to herself. “I didn’t touch Cattafi. Rather, I touched his hand, but he was already gone. I didn’t do anything else.”
“The police don’t think so. They think you went in disguised and shoved something into his IV. We need to get you safe, right now.”
“It’s fine, Riley. I’ll just tell them what happened.”
“And this?” He swung an arm out and she saw the detritus of the fight clearly for the first time—furniture toppled, paintings askew, the ruined husk of the French assassin on the floor opposite her.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Riley so angry. It made her want to kiss away the frown lines between his brows. She settled for touching his jaw lightly.
“I didn’t have a choice. But I found out something before he died. He told me James Denon had sent him after me. How is that possible? I thought Denon was on our side?”
“I don
’t give a rat’s ass about Denon. Let’s go. We need to get you out of the city.”
“If I run, they’ll think I’m guilty. There’s another body here. The guy who ran the lab, Bromley. He was shot earlier, though it’s been made to look like a suicide. Note and everything. He was already dead when I got here. Promise.”
She gave him a wry smile.
Riley’s green eyes glinted dangerously, then he threw his hands in the air. “So help me God, Robbie. Listen to me. If you don’t run, I’ll think you’re mad. Get moving. Down the stairs. Now.”
She resisted the urge to be flip and snap to in a salute. She cast a last glance at the body of the Frenchman, and holstered her Glock. Riley pocketed the Beretta, and they slipped out of the office toward the stairs.
This wasn’t how her day was supposed to go. Then again, she assumed Amanda had felt exactly the same way when faced with the silver power of the knife.
They got out of the building without notice. Riley marched her down the street and into his truck. Reached over and fastened her seat belt. She felt hollow and strange, the way she always did after a massive adrenaline rush, and a few choice bruises were beginning to throb. She pulled down the visor, looked in the mirror. She had the beginnings of a nice black eye; she didn’t remember receiving that particular punch.
“Where’s your car?” Riley asked.
“Back on I Street. At a meter.”
“Lola will get it. I’m taking you to my place. You’re too damn hot to go home now.”
He yanked the gearshift into Drive, and she put a hand on his leg. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice.”
He looked at her strangely. “You always have a choice, Robin. He could have been of use to us.”
She retracted the hand, watched the cloud of red follow. Sat up straighter. “He wasn’t. He killed my sister, and there wasn’t any reason to keep him alive.”
“Except he didn’t kill your sister.”
The world around her pulsed red, red, red.
Chapter 39
Fletcher’s house
SAM’S PHONE RANG. It was a 202 exchange, but she didn’t recognize the number. She answered, anyway.
“Dr. Owens? Agent Owens? Uh... This is Peggy at GW. We talked earlier about Dr. Bromley?”
“Doctor is fine. Thanks for getting back to me. Were you able to find him?”
“No, ma’am, because my info was wrong. He got back into the country yesterday, and he should be at his office. I tried calling over there, but no one answered. He might have gone home because of the jet lag, but I know he likes to do some work right away when he gets back, just trying to catch up, and sometimes he turns off the phones. I left a message on his cell for him to call you, but if you really need to talk to him now, you might just head on over there and try to see him in person. If I talk to him, I’ll tell him to expect you.”
“Peggy, you deserve a raise. Thank you for following up.”
She told Fletcher.
“Good. We’re heading there now,” he said.
They sent Daniels to join the surveillance team looking for Robin Souleyret, and sent Mouse on her merry path to follow the money trail, with extreme injunctions to keep her mouth shut. She’d assured them she wouldn’t say anything to anyone—she knew which side her bread was buttered on—and had given Sam the key to the encryption codes so they could access the SD card’s multilevels of security in Fletcher’s office.
Sam was sorry to see the girl go. She was smart and funny, and had added a bit of needed levity to the day, despite the horrifying information she’d uncovered. She made a good teammate.
In the car, Fletcher got on the phone with Hart, who’d tracked down the gray Honda that had been lurking around the Cattafi crime scene, so Sam took five minutes to write up her notes, trying to prioritize. The information they were uncovering was coming fast and furious, and she wanted to be sure they had all the threads together. They needed to find Amanda’s laptop, which Sam was certain had more information on it. They needed to know who the SD card was meant for. Sam assumed it was Girabaldi, but perhaps it was for Robin Souleyret.
Why kill the renters? Why kill Amanda? Why try to take out Cattafi? And who the hell was manufacturing the superbug?
There were too many whys floating around. So much information, so many threads. They needed Bromley, needed to understand what, exactly, he and Tommy Cattafi were up to, whether they had indeed developed a vaccine against the superbug. They needed the samples Amanda had smuggled into the country themselves. They needed to find out where the hell Robin Souleyret was hiding in plain sight; Daniels’s tail had reported in that she was not at her residence. The afternoon was slipping away, and Sam was starting to get tired.
She made Fletcher stop at Starbucks so she could grab a large coffee. She offered to get him one, but he demurred, running into the market across the street for a Diet Coke. While she was in line, she called Xander.
“Where are you?” He sounded stressed, and she felt bad. He needed her. She knew just how hard this morning must have been for him, and here she was, completely caught up in this case.
“We’re at the Starbucks in Foggy Bottom. There is so much going on with this case I can barely keep it straight. Are you okay?”
“I am, but, Sam, I need you here. As soon as possible.”
He wasn’t kidding, and he wasn’t asking. She recognized his tone; he was in operational mode. Something bad was happening. “I’ll come right now. I’ll have Fletcher drop me off. He can survive without me for a while.”
Xander got quiet for a minute, then said, “No, actually, stick with Fletcher. Stick to him like glue. He can keep you safe. I trust him.”
His tone made her anxious. She stepped closer to the window, edging herself between the glass and the wall, looked outside. Living with Xander, who was a Ranger through and through despite the fact he no longer worked for the government, had instilled a sense of danger in her. She was more wary, had a different level of focus as she moved around the city, was more attuned to her surroundings. She immediately began watching to see if anyone was paying attention to her. From what she could see, no one was. She pitched her voice low. “What’s wrong, Xander? What’s going on?”
“Remember the code I gave you for your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Turn it on and call me back.”
The “code” was an encryption key that allowed her to make secure calls. He really was into something. She did as he asked, inputting the code, waiting for the dial tone to beep at her three times to indicate it was encrypted and active, then called him back.
“Okay, I’m secure. Xander, what in the world is wrong?”
“The man I killed this morning was a pro. We thought he was hired to kill my principal, James Denon.”
“You thought?”
“It’s looking like he wasn’t the target, that someone on his staff was. The problem is, we’re missing one of his people. We’re looking for her now. French national using the name Juliet Bouchard. She came in with his team three days ago, but she wasn’t with them when they were flying home, and she’s not listed on any manifests leaving the country. Nor does she have a visa on file. I’m pretty sure she’s behind the assassination attempt.”
Sam felt a punch of recognition when she heard the name. “Bouchard. Bouchard. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“You’ve heard of this woman?”
The barista at the counter called Sam’s name. “Hang on a sec, my drink’s ready.” She grabbed the coffee, dumped in cream and sugar, enough to give her a real boost, then headed back out onto the street, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. She used her bottom to push open the door.
“Sam? Talk to me.”
“I’m here, babe. I’m just thinking.” She set her coffee on top o
f Fletcher’s vehicle, opened the door. And then it hit her, where she’d seen the name, and her blood went cold. The list of Amanda’s aliases. Juliet Bouchard was one of them.
“Xander. I know who she is. And I know where she is.”
“Tell me, right now. I need to lock her down.”
“You’re too late. The woman’s real name is Amanda Souleyret. And she’s in the morgue.”
* * *
Sam put Xander on the speaker and filled him in on everything she knew as Fletcher drove them to Bromley’s office. He absorbed the story, asking only one question.
“Do you have any idea who might have killed Souleyret?”
“There’s only one suspect right now. Her sister, Robin,” Fletcher answered.
“The spook? Great. Where exactly is Robin Souleyret?”
Sam glanced at Fletcher. “That’s what we want to know.”
“Listen, can you do some background on Denon, see if he has any official ties to Souleyret or the State Department? Might save us some time, if we can find the name of the company Amanda was investigating in Denon’s files,” Fletcher said. “Look at Regina Girabaldi, too.”
Xander whistled. “That Girabaldi?”
“Yes. She’s into this, we just don’t know in what capacity.”
“I’ll add her to the mix. Listen, though the threat level might have gone down if Souleyret is dead, someone killed her, and until you find the sister, I won’t be sitting easy. I’m not kidding when I say keep Sam close, Fletcher.”
“You know I will,” he replied. “We’re at Bromley’s office right now. We’ll touch base when we get out.”
“One more thing. Bouchard—Amanda Souleyret—she suggested Denon hire me and Chalk to do his protection detail here in the States. Souleyret may have involved us for some reason, and if she did, I intend to find out exactly why. We’re looking into everything he’s done since he set foot on our soil. She may have involved you on purpose, too, Sam. Made sure you’d be called in to work this case. Please be careful.”
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