He’d already fucked up the start of their relationship, although Scarlett had a hand in the fiasco. He should never have made love to her until she’d known the truth about everything that was going on. Parker was right—for all his crazy adventures over the years he was a rule follower. Even now he was under strict orders not to tell Scarlett about Angel being missing and feared dead. He planned to change that as soon as the situation allowed—when he was sure she wouldn’t race off to her friend’s rescue with zero regard for her own safety.
He’d finally figured something out.
Scarlett felt the same way about Angel as he did about his old teammates. Her fierce sense of loyalty was part of the reason he’d fallen for her. Fallen like a HALO jump without a chute. Whether he survived or not was going to depend on whether or not Scarlett caught him. His odds were fifty-fifty, if they found Angel alive and well. They dropped precipitously after that.
The pilot circled around a small landing pad at an airfield twenty miles south of the marine base at Quantico and set the bird down without a bump. Parker jumped out first and handed Rooney down the steps. Matt didn’t know how he’d feel if it were his pregnant fiancée on the job—but he knew Parker wouldn’t be leaving Rooney’s side for this part of the op. They had to stick to being teams of two to watch each other’s back anyway. There were too many people they didn’t trust. Plus, only he and Rooney were legitimate agents of the law and this thing could explode in their faces if they weren’t very careful.
He unclipped his seatbelt, then caught Scarlett’s arm before she went out the door. Her hair had been calmed by a black woolen knit-cap Parker had pulled out of his overnight bag. Her pretty eyes couldn’t be disguised, though she could probably pass for a teenage boy if you hadn’t seen her naked.
Lucky him. He grinned.
“What?” she shouted suspiciously over the beat of the rotors.
He didn’t know what he’d planned to do, but in that moment she looked so in need of not just a lover, but a friend, that he pulled her toward him and took her mouth. Maybe it was foolish, maybe he was letting his guard down, but he couldn’t help himself.
She pulled back. “What was that for?”
“Merry Christmas, Scarlett.”
She swallowed. Emotions raced through her eyes like sparks from fireworks. “Happy Christmas, Matt.” She kissed him then. Quickly, fiercely. Then climbed down, and he was beside her in an instant, steering her away from the dangerous tail rotor, urging her into a crouched run toward the car that waited for them.
Frazer had arranged for his Bucar, a big black Lexis, to be dropped off at the airfield. Matt got in the driver’s seat, and Parker checked it for explosives.
Tracking devices were moot. The whole point of this exercise was they wanted the bad guy to know where they were—or at least to think they did.
The temperature had dropped, the damp, cold air replaced by a low pressure bringing frost from the north. December had decided to hit the deep freeze again just in time for Christmas. Dew froze on the grass, ice sparkled on the trees—it was pretty, but didn’t lighten the tense atmosphere. They drove in silence, the car handling well on the slick roads. Not far from the FBI Academy, Parker handed Scarlett her cell phone. Matt watched her in the rear-view.
Rooney turned on the dome light. Scarlett spread her carefully constructed script over the knees of her borrowed yoga pants.
She dialed the number Parker had assured them was Dorokhov’s personal cell phone, put the call on speaker.
“Who is this?” The voice was gruff, angry, heavily accented in Russian.
It was four AM on Christmas morning. Most people over the age of twelve would be annoyed at being woken so early.
“My name is Scarlett Stone. I believe you’ve been looking for me.” The plan was not to let Dorokhov speak. “I talked to someone yesterday who passed on information that you need to know.” Her voice shook, but she carried on, determinedly. Matt wanted to wrap his arm around her shoulder but she was in the backseat with Rooney.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He said you’d say that.”
“What do you want?” The tone was impatient and angry.
She was giving him too much room to maneuver. “I’m offering you this information in good faith as an apology for what I did. I made a mistake. I was stupid and foolish and I’m sorry and want to make amends. Meet me at seven AM near the Vietnam Memorial and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Tell me now, on the phone.”
“I can’t.” Her voice cracked. “Three hours. On one of the benches along the path.”
“No.”
Shit. Everyone held their breath. The tension in the car ratcheted up five thousand percent. If he threatened Angel’s life or hinted he still held the other girl, Scarlett would know the truth and all bets were off.
“On the steps of the Capitol Building, facing the Mall. Somewhere I can see everything going on. Is your FBI boyfriend still with you?”
Scarlett’s gaze flicked over him. “Not anymore.”
“If I see him there the meet is off and I will report the incident along official channels.”
Rooney was telling Scarlett to wind the call up with gestures and signals, but she hung onto the phone like she’d been hypnotized.
“Aren’t you afraid of me? Of what I might do?” asked Dorokhov.
Matt froze.
“Honestly? Yes, I’m afraid.” Don’t feed the monster, Scarlett. “I wish you were shamed and ruined the way my father was. I wish you were dead. But I’m not powerful enough to fix this on my own. I need my life back.” She hung up the phone and everyone started breathing again.
* * *
The knowledge that Richard Stone’s daughter and FBI Special Agent Matt Lazlo had not only survived the destruction of his boat, but had also tracked down Ken Maidstone and spoken to him before he died made him so terrified he couldn’t speak. Goddamn. He’d thought Maidstone had been dead before he left. He hadn’t stuck around in case one of the neighbors had heard the gunshot, which had sounded far too loud despite using a suppressor.
He and Maidstone had gone through the academy together, and he’d helped Maidstone’s wife get out of a DUI once, years ago. He’d persuaded his friend to fudge Stone’s polygraph as an interrogation tool. Up until after he’d pulled a gun on his buddy, Maidstone had actually believed Stone was guilty. The evidence had been overwhelming—all planted of course.
When he heard they’d found the former polygraph examiner alive, and then found the missing federal agent’s fingerprint on the phone at the crime scene, he’d actually thought his colleagues were on their way to arrest him. Instead, higher ups were trying to figure out whether or not the ex-SEAL had gone rogue.
The good news was that if Lazlo or the Stone girl already knew his identity, they’d have screamed it to the world and he’d be wearing metal cuffs with a matching bracelet.
So they didn’t know. Not yet.
He ran his hand around the inside of his shirt collar. The fact he lived alone meant disappearing in the early hours of Christmas morning wouldn’t be questioned. His odd work hours had been another offense in a long list of grievances his ex-wife had fed the judge. She’d cleaned him out in a divorce after discovering a stripper from a DC bar had been giving him all the joy she’d been refusing. She’d thrown him out of their nice four-bedroom home and he’d moved into a smaller place.
Considering he’d put up with her nagging and moaning for more than twenty years, he didn’t know why the judge hadn’t given him a better deal. He was the one who regularly risked his life for his country. She was just a stay-at-home mom who didn’t know how to cook and certainly didn’t know how to clean. She was a freeloader, but because society punished men like him, she got what she wanted and he got the dregs.
Thankfully she hadn’t known about his bank accounts in the Caymans.
He’d been enjoying his newfound freedom as a single man, crui
sing along toward retirement, which was only three lousy years away. Richard Stone’s stupid bitch of a daughter had made him rapidly reassess his plans.
The good news was he’d always been careful. Planting false trails. Muddying the waters. Aside from that money in the Caymans, which was in a shell company, there was no evidence that pointed directly to him. He’d made sure of it.
He didn’t consider himself a spy. He’d been blackmailed into it. They both had.
Looking back sixteen years, they should have just taken their punishment. Instead they’d believed the false promise of a one-time deal combined with making some seemingly easy money. It had been ridiculously appealing. Once they’d done it, they were owned by the devil. No backing out without going to jail.
He’d earned a lot of money in a short space of time but he couldn’t spend it. There had been too much scrutiny to do anything except wait. Too much pressure in the hunt for the traitor who was selling out the FBI and getting people killed. The cash had sat in his bank account, growing, waiting for him to hang up his badge and take off for the sun-drenched beach.
It had taken him two years to extricate himself from that bastard’s grip, but ironically Dorokhov had come up with the idea of how to get the feds off his trail—blame Richard Stone, who was always poking his nose into the case even though he’d been transferred out of the section months earlier. Then he’d arranged blackmail material on Dorokhov himself and turned the tables, forcing the Russian to leave the country.
He’d learned from his mistakes. Never made them again. And worked his ass off for little appreciation. But the Bureau wouldn’t see it that way. They wouldn’t remember his years of service, they’d just remember his one, terrible mistake.
He wasn’t going to jail.
Only two people on the entire planet knew of his relationship with Dorokhov. Both had to die.
Sweat ran over his clammy skin, though the temperature had plummeted. He’d been in the office for hours, monitoring the situation, but he needed a break. The streets were empty. The quiet lull before dawn. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, something else he could enjoy without guilt as a single man. He pulled out his phone and looked at the photograph he’d taken earlier that day, of the old woman sleeping so peacefully in her room in the nursing home. He could easily have killed her. He’d be doing Lazlo a favor. But he’d learned from a master that the most important thing in getting someone to do what you wanted was leverage. The knowledge that he’d gotten unseen inside that room would scare the shit out of the former SEAL, divide his loyalty and hopefully make him back off. Otherwise he’d have to get rid of the guy.
As he stared at the screen poised to send the picture, the burner buzzed to life. He answered but remained silent.
“The Stone girl just called Dorokhov to arrange a meeting in three hours.”
“Where?”
“She asked for the Vietnam War Memorial. He told her the steps of the Capitol Building. He didn’t tell me why she wanted to meet. Just told me to get the car ready.”
Sergio Raminski was a liaison he’d cultivated with false promises of riches when Dorokhov had returned to the States. If Dorokhov found out the young man had betrayed him, Raminski was a dead man. And he knew it.
Thoughts raced through his mind. Why did the Stone girl want to meet Dorokhov? Maidstone must have told her something before he died—but what? If it were just his identity he’d be arrested by now. Unless…she was going to use the knowledge and the threat of exposure to get her friend released.
“Where’s the other girl?”
“In the trunk of my car. She’s drugged. I want to defect. Now. This morning. Before Dorokhov finds out I’ve been feeding the Americans information.”
He blinked as he realized with sudden clarity how he could make this work, but he had to act fast. “Meet me at Fletcher’s Cove. I’ll make arrangements.” He hung up.
Chapter Seventeen
In her work Scarlett was confident and logical. Math and physics did not lie. Properties of chemical elements did not spontaneously change. They were a constant you could build upon. The challenges lay in the ability of humans to unlock their secrets. Strangely, espionage seemed to work in the same way. The truth was what it was. But figuring out that truth, interpreting that information correctly, was the key to unlocking its secrets.
She fingered the homemade transmitter that still sat in her jacket pocket.
Being in league with a cyber-security expert gave them access to information that would make any government conspiracy theorist pee their pants. Parker had given her and Matt a second laptop with a program that tracked all the target’s cell phones—as well as their own. Plus, official bureau cars and private vehicles fitted with GPS units that were registered to their list of suspects.
They’d stopped at the “office” on the way through Quantico, and Rooney and Matt had picked up body armor and spare ammo. Now, standing in the visitor parking area, Matt thrust a vest at her, so she got out of the car.
“Under your sweater,” he ordered.
She took off her black turtleneck, put the vest on over her t-shirt. He helped with the straps, making sure it fitted snugly. As nice as it was to have his hands on her, the vest was the most uncomfortable thing she’d worn next to Angel’s high heels.
The thought of her friend brought a pang. They’d been through so much together. Scarlett hoped Angel hadn’t been traumatized by her ordeal. She looked at her phone, which was still in her hand. She wanted to call her, but it was the middle of the night and Angel would hopefully be asleep. No way would Matt let her deviate from the plan.
She struggled back into the sweater feeling as if she’d gained thirty pounds, then pulled on her jacket.
“Take the battery out of the phone for now. Let’s not make ourselves easier targets than we already are.” Matt watched her carefully. It was a little embarrassing he read her mind so easily. She removed the battery and slipped the cell back in her pocket.
A few more hours wouldn’t make any difference in talking to Angel, in fact, given her temper it might be best.
“Oh, shit.” Parker peered into the backseat where he’d rested his laptop while he geared up.
That didn’t sound good.
“Just got a hit on the money trail from an account in the name of R. Branson to an account in the name of Ken Maidstone.”
Scarlett felt as if she’d been punched in the chest. “That smug son of a gun. Sitting in that office and telling me to be a good girl. Bastard.”
“Another hit. Same account. Five thousand US dollars wired to a bank in Mexico this morning. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Marquez.” He checked the chamber of his weapon and slipped it into a holster at his side. Then he did the same with another weapon that he attached to his lower leg.
“For the hit on Richard Stone?” asked Matt.
Parker shrugged and handed Rooney a spare clip.
“Five thousand dollars?” Scarlett’s insides felt scrambled. “That’s all it costs to kill someone?” She placed her hand on her stomach to stop the unsettled sensation that made her want to throw up. No time for human frailty. She was playing with the big boys now and they seemed impervious to weakness. They all carried weapons. She’d never even touched a gun, let alone fired one. Her dad had been going to teach her. At the back of her mind she still hoped he would.
Parker shrugged. “People have killed for less, especially when it’s a lawman in a federal facility. They’d happily do it for free. Okay. We’re ready to go.” Rooney and Parker were picking up her bureau vehicle, which she’d left here. “We’ll get eyes on Branson as he’s our number one suspect and lives in DC itself. You guys ready to follow Regan?”
Matt nodded. Checked his watch. “If the guy’s on the level he’ll head straight for the Center to gear up as soon as Frazer finishes the call.”
Scarlett checked her watch. Frazer was calling the guy in fifteen minutes.
“He’ll probably do that regardless.” P
arker stated. “Keep in touch using the burner cells I gave you earlier and trust no one.” He threw Scarlett a sad smile. Then they were gone. It was just her alone with Matt and the idea made her heart give a little leap.
Foolish heart. They were on a mission.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her voice was small. They were so close to figuring this out. Please let them figure it out and let her dad survive both his attack and the cancer. She’d closed her eyes and squeezed her hands into fists. She hadn’t even realized she was praying until a big, warm hand covered hers. She opened her eyes. “Thank you for being here.”
One side of his lips quirked and there was a fierce light in his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” She opened her mouth to argue but he read her mind. “My mom would want me to help you. If she knew.” He cleared his throat and looked away.
Scarlett climbed up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. They were both dealing with tragedies regarding their parents. Both needed a miracle.
“Time to go.” Matt put her away from him. He was focused on the mission, and Scarlett didn’t want to distract him. They headed toward Woodbridge where Regan lived.
Scarlett kept her eye on the dots on the screen. “Weber’s on the move.” He worked at the academy. Her heart was pounding, and they hadn’t done anything yet. They couldn’t follow everyone because of their lack of manpower and need for secrecy. It was more a divide and conquer approach, process of elimination. Still, that worked in science too. “So is Regan.”
Matt nodded, jaw tight. Concentration levels high. “Which way’s Regan headed?”
She gave him directions and they followed at a safe distance. Ten minutes later, Regan’s Cherokee pulled into a low building set well back from the road. Matt drove past and pulled over further along the road.
“That’s an FBI facility?” she asked.
“Can’t tell you.”
She laughed. “Classified, huh? You’ll just have to wipe my brain with a MIB flashlight at the end of all this.”
Cold Light of Day Page 22