It had been the end of childish dreams. The end of stupid make-believe. The beginning of cold, hard reality.
Even now her dad might die. The spy might not be revealed and Matt might be pretending to care about her just because of the case.
Ten to seven.
Jon Regan looked at her. “Ready?”
“She’s not actually meeting Dorokhov.” Matt stood.
“Then what the hell are we doing here?” Regan sounded pissed and confused.
“Watching. Waiting. It’s a ruse.”
Regan’s eyes narrowed. Mouth tightened.
Scarlett’s burner cell buzzed insistently in her pocket. It was set to silent.
It was Rooney on the line. “Branson hasn’t moved, but a light just came on in the bedroom window. Car’s here. Phone is here.” But he might not be. They both knew it. “Clarkson is in his office at the Washington Field Office and Weber is at Quantico.”
“Does no one in the FBI have a life outside work?” she asked. Her father had. Until it had been stolen from him.
“Apparently not,” said Rooney ruefully. “Parker has gone to see if he can verify Branson is in the building, hopefully without getting shot or arrested.” She hung up.
Matt’s cell vibrated in his pocket. Scarlett watched him. His eyes went wide as he checked the screen, then he swore and dialed another number on his other phone. Opening the rear door of the surveillance van, he stepped out into the freezing cold air. He paced restlessly, back and forth, out of sight of the Capitol Building. Patience wasn’t his strong suit. He was speaking quietly but urgently into his cell. Scarlett followed him outside, desperate for fresh air.
He covered the receiver and spoke to both her and Jon Regan who’d followed them out. “Just got a photograph of my mother sent to my email, telling me to back off.”
Oh, God. She’d never imagined they’d go after a comatose woman to get what they wanted. “Is she all right?”
“I’m having them check at the nursing home right now. Then I’ll get security on it.” His knuckles were white. He put the cell back to his ear and paced. Every muscle tense. She knew he wanted to race over there and protect his mother. She was forcing him to stay here.
For the thousandth time she wished she’d gone about this differently, not involving anyone else. But after all these years, Dorokhov and the spy had both disguised their tracks so well she’d never have uncovered the truth alone. Someone was always going to get hurt, but Scarlett would rather it be her than an innocent bystander.
Her cell rang again. She assumed it was Rooney with another update. When she pulled the vibrating cell out of her pocket, she realized it was her personal phone not the burner. She didn’t recognize the number. Matt wasn’t paying attention, he was trying to make sure his mother was safe. An image was downloading. For some reason she was expecting the same picture Matt had just received. Instead, a blurred image of a young woman curled up in the trunk of a car appeared. Blonde hair was visible despite the blindfold. She zoomed in on the screen and her heart raced beneath her bulletproof vest. It was Angel. Jesus. Scarlett looked at the newspaper that was placed beside Angel’s head as some sort of proof of life. She couldn’t see the date, but she sure as hell could see the photograph of the blast scene at Quantico Harbor.
She frowned. That wasn’t possible. Angel had been released the night of the party, before the explosion… Had she been taken again? No. No way would the FBI security detail have allowed a congressman’s daughter to be kidnapped twice. She froze and stared at Matt’s back. Shock blasted through her body. He’d lied. Of course he’d lied. He’d told her what she wanted to hear to gain her cooperation. Oh my God.
She felt cold. Detached. She understood why he’d lied to her. Why they’d all lied to her. She wasn’t a team member. She was an outsider. She got it. She was used to it even. But the betrayal felt like a sharp knife in her back.
Matt caught her gaze. She smiled, hiding the bile that had crawled up her throat, waited until he turned to do another lap of pacing. As soon as he did, she slipped quietly around the van, out onto the path that led to the Capitol Building. Then she started to run, because the man who held her best friend captive was coming here in just a few minutes, and if she begged him, on her knees, maybe he’d let Angel go.
* * *
Goddamn it. Matt couldn’t believe he hadn’t foreseen this. Threats and manipulation were standard fare in these sorts of cases, and he didn’t intimidate easily. But if anything happened to his mother he’d never forgive himself. His heart was pounding. The timing was crazy. Dorokhov was due to arrive any moment. He doubted it was a coincidence.
Finally the nurse on duty got to his mom’s room. He could hear her breathing hard, as if she’d been running. “She’s here. She’s fine. Hallelujah.” She sent him a photo of his mother sleeping undisturbed in her bed. Thank God.
“I still want you to call the cops. I received an unauthorized photograph of her with a very definite threat to her life—” He turned around. Scarlett wasn’t there. He assumed she was in the van “—from that location.” He walked over to the van and came face-to-face with Regan, who had an odd expression on his face. He looked past the man. No Scarlett. What the hell? Then he spotted her running up the path to the Capitol Building. Oh, shit. He snapped the phone shut and started to run, found himself slammed to the ground, arms pitched high behind his back.
“Use your head, fool. If Dorokhov spots you, he’ll bail and this won’t mean shit.” Regan was hurting the crap out of his arms, hissing in his ear. Then Matt realized that was because he was still fighting the man and forced himself to relax. “Let her talk to him. We’ve got eyes and ears on them both. There are five FBI agents within a thousand feet. She’s a smart woman. She isn’t going to do anything stupid.”
Matt gave him an are-you-fricking-kidding-me? look.
“Think with your head, Lazlo, this is exactly what Frazer wanted to happen and you know it. That crafty sonofabitch is probably the one who called her out there.”
“I want to know who made that call.” Matt drew in a deep breath. Not that easy when he was flattened by two-hundred and twenty pounds of muscle. “And get the fuck off me.”
“Promise you’re going to get in the van and behave yourself?”
“Yes, sir.” Matt was feeling lethal on the inside, but not at Regan. He needed to talk to Parker, needed to know about the call that had made Scarlett race away. If it was Frazer he was going to punch the guy out for manipulating him, boss or not.
He also needed to check where all the players were. The plan hadn’t changed. Scarlett should be relatively safe since Dorokhov had to maintain some sense of decorum given the location. He was on camera from twenty different angles regardless of FBI surveillance, and surely he knew that.
Regan let Matt up. He brushed the icy dew off his pants and Regan indicated Matt go ahead of him into the van. On the surveillance monitors Matt watched Scarlett hurry down the path. He was going to tan her ass when he got hold of her, assuming he didn’t choke to death on fear first.
He dialed Parker, simultaneously checking the laptop screen for the locations of their suspects and watching Scarlett.
No one had moved. Why the heck did he feel like all hell was about to break loose? He scanned everything frantically, searching for answers. Then a large, black limousine, bearing the white, blue, and red striped flags of the Russian Federation, cruised up Pennsylvania Avenue.
Parker finally answered the damn phone. “Branson is in his kitchen along with his wife, stuffing the turkey—that’s not a euphemism.”
“Scarlett just got a call on her cell. Who was it?”
Matt heard Parker tapping few keys. “Came from a burner. An image was sent from DC, and…ah, shit. We’re busted. It’s a photograph of Angel in the trunk of a car with today’s newspaper.”
Shit.
“Dorokhov is here,” Matt told the other man.
“Branson didn’t personally send that im
age. I was watching him at that exact time. But we were working on the assumption the Russians had Angel LeMay. Do we sit on him or come to you?”
“Even though the evidence points to him, Branson feels wrong.”
“Yeah. That’s what my instincts are telling me too.”
The other phones hadn’t moved from their offices. Matt didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all. Dammit. “Stay on him. Let’s see this through.”
Matt hung up, then held his breath as a driver opened the limousine door. The burly figure of Andrei Dorokhov pulled himself out of the back seat. The ambassador looked around in the pre-dawn quiet.
“Remember.” Regan smacked him in the chest. “First and foremost he’s the representative of Russia on US soil. Do not create a diplomatic incident that loses all of us our jobs and starts World War III. Under-fucking-stood?”
Matt nodded, but every step the sonofabitch took toward Scarlett was one step too close.
* * *
Scarlett physically shook as she stood at the bottom of the Capitol Building steps and watched Andrei Dorokhov walk toward her. His face was haggard, eyes bloodshot, hair dirty-blond and greasy. Thick stubble covered his cheeks and jaw. He was gruffly handsome and exuded a sense of forcefulness that sent a shiver through her entire body. He had her friend in the trunk of a car—maybe even that car. The idea made her want to throw up. What had he done to her?
He nodded toward a bench. “Come. Sit.” He indicated she go first. The only person close-by was the homeless guy who was covered by a thin blanket at the far end of the steps. He had long, filthy dreadlocks, which stuck out the top of the blanket, and he hadn’t moved an inch. Maybe he was dead. More likely, he was one of Dorokhov’s bodyguards, planted early to protect the man.
Ha! Like she was a threat. She sat, keeping most of the bench between them. She cleared her throat. “I wanted to apologize for what I tried to do the other night.”
“Tried to do?” His voice rumbled, and she smelled alcohol on his breath. He’d definitely been drinking.
Damn—what could she say to that? She could hardly say, oh, no it was the FBI who actually bugged you, not me. Despite everything, she was a patriot. She had no more desire to betray her country than her father had. “What I did. Unsuccessfully.” Very unsuccessfully.
He snorted out a laugh. “You Americans.” He shook his head. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t press charges? Espionage is not something we treat lightly.” His gaze was shrewd, assessing as it traveled over her.
She pinched her lips together, then blurted, “I want my friend released. Unharmed.”
His eyes narrowed. He looked like a snake about to strike, and Scarlett was careful not to make any sudden moves.
She rushed on. “Before Mr. Maidstone died he told me there were photographs.”
Dorokhov’s chin came up, eyes full of crimson fury.
She’d been bluffing, but obviously she’d hit the jackpot. Her heart banged in her chest. Her fingers clenched each other for comfort.
“I want those photographs.” He stood, and she tried not to cower before him.
Scarlett was terrified, but she couldn’t afford to let it show. “I want my friend back. Release her, and I’ll tell you where the photographs are.”
His hand shot out, and he grabbed her round the throat. “Tell me now.”
She was aware of several things happening at once. Pain streaked from her ears to her lungs, down her throat, as his iron grip tightened. The sound of running feet behind her, the vision of two men getting out of the Russian’s limousine and running toward them, hands reaching into their jackets.
Then Dorokhov seemed to come back into himself, and he loosened his grip, turning it into a caress, though her neck was sore as hell. “Get me the photos, and I’ll find you the girl.” He stepped back with his hands raised as if in surrender, and everyone stopped moving. And then, as the first glimmer of dawn shimmered on the eastern edge of the horizon, Dorokhov’s head exploded.
* * *
A fierce sense of satisfaction rushed through Raminski as the bullet hit its target dead center. He would have gone for the girl too, except there wasn’t time. He had to get out fast. He ran down the stairs and through the Mezzanine gallery. Out the same way he’d come in.
The sight of the guard’s body beside the security desk had him skidding to a halt across the floor. What…?
The first bullet hit him in the upper leg and shattered bone like a rocket. He went down hard, the rifle sliding across the floor.
Blood pumped frantically from the wound. He dragged himself toward the rifle knowing he wasn’t going to get there before the next bullet hit. It was the other leg this time, the pain just as excruciating. He rolled onto his back, panting, so he could see the face of his murderer.
The American. The FBI agent.
His hands tried to stop the bleeding. “Why?” he asked. “Haven’t I done everything you asked?”
* * *
“You did, Sergio. I’m sorry.” He pulled the trigger again—headshot this time.
The FBI agent put the handgun that had killed the guard beside the dead Russian and placed the guard’s gun back in the dead man’s palm. He wore latex gloves beneath a thin, woolen pair. He moved carefully, making sure he didn’t track blood with him. The feds would arrive shortly and see that the night guard had discovered the sniper who’d killed Ambassador Dorokhov trying to escape and died in a shootout.
Terribly sad. Very brave. The guy deserved a medal.
Raminski would take the fall as a disgruntled employee—maybe rumors would circulate that the Russians themselves had offed Dorokhov but wanted to make it look like the Americans did it, only to be foiled by Barney Fife.
The threat of war would be averted, and he’d use the ensuing storm to disappear from view. One last loose end to tie up, and he’d already baited that trap.
It might not be the perfect crime, but it was pretty damn good. He slid out into the shadows and the coming dawn.
* * *
As soon as Dorokhov grabbed Scarlett, Matt started running. He didn’t care about the mission or the spy or anything, just getting Scarlett away from that fat, ugly sonofabitch so he couldn’t hurt her—and possibly beating the crap out of the asshole for laying hands on her—diplomatic immunity be damned.
He was done following orders.
He leaped over hedges and hurdled small walls, realizing he should never have listened to Regan or Frazer. This was a stupid plan, and they were no closer to figuring out who the traitor was than they had been yesterday morning. Scarlett’s original idea had been more sensible—and that had fucking sucked too.
His feet pounded the ground, and he was aware of Jon Regan in close pursuit. Then he saw Dorokhov’s bodyguards get out of the car, and the homeless guy roll out of the bench where he slept and jump to his feet, weapon in hand, and Matt pushed harder. No way was he about to let the Russians grab Scarlett. No goddamned way.
His arms pumped, lungs burned, but he was still fifty feet away when a rifle shot rang out. He ran harder. Blood sprayed in a wide arc and Dorokhov toppled over.
“Get down!” he shouted, the words echoing off the hallowed stone above him. The homeless guy grabbed Scarlett and pushed her to the ground, behind a low stone wall. Matt finally recognized his boss. He dove for cover next to them, breathing hard. Jon Regan plowed in beside them. They all lay there panting, catching their breath. Dorokhov’s body twitched on the sidewalk, gruesome. Frazer was on his cell, calling in emergency response teams from the local cops—hopefully getting backup that would find the shooter and not arrest them on the spot.
Frazer ran in a crouch toward the Russians—FBI creds on display, pointing toward the north side of the Mall where the shot had come from, and indicating they keep low.
The Russian bodyguards looked toward their fallen comrade who was obviously beyond anyone’s help and climbed back in the vehicle, which was probably the safest place they could be right now.
>
“You okay?” Matt asked Scarlett. He turned her toward him. She nodded but seemed unable to speak. There was blood on her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb, but her eyes were wide and pupils dilated. In the totally freaked-out-zone. The fingermarks on her neck made him glad the asshole was dead, but not like that, not in front of Scarlett. The realization she could have been killed as easily as Dorokhov made him sick to his stomach.
He grabbed Jon Regan by the collar. “Who ordered that initial surveillance?”
Regan bared his teeth. “I can’t be here, Lazlo. If I’m called to testify on the stand then my TacOps career is finished.”
Matt didn’t let go. This was bigger than any of their careers. “Tell me who ordered it. Was it Branson?”
Regan shook his head. “It’s fucking classified.” Then his gaze shifted to the prostrate form on the concrete. “Shiiit.” He seemed to realize how big this thing had blown. “The request came from the WFO.” Washington Field Office. “Guy Clarkson applied for the wire tap for eyes on Dorokhov.”
“Wouldn’t that sort of thing usually come from the counterespionage section?”
“Sure, but not always. Plus, Clarkson and Branson were always tight. Branson used to run requests through Clarkson all the time. Things he didn’t want an official paper trail to.”
Could Branson be using Clarkson as cover, or was it the other way around?
“There’s no way it’s him…” Suddenly Regan didn’t sound so sure. Sirens started screaming all over the city. “I was never here.” He took off back to the surveillance van and Matt let him go. They had nothing to lose by making this investigation official now. The spy already knew they were looking for him. He’d be set to run if he wasn’t long gone already.
Frazer came back.
“We need someone to head over to the WFO to talk to Clarkson,” said Matt. “Regan just told me that’s who ordered the surveillance on Dorokhov. He also said Clarkson often does ‘favors’ for Branson. They’re both still firmly in the frame.”
Cold Light of Day Page 24