Close Quarters

by Emma Harrison

  Vaughn checked his watch. It was seven-thirty.

  “I will be there,” Dominic said. Then the line went dead.

  “Elena, you are a genius,” Vaughn said, walking around the table so he could see her. His fingertips started to tingle the way they always did when he knew he was about to make a collar—as if he already had the suspect in his grasp. He couldn’t wait to see the look on that smug Dominic’s face when he brought him down.

  “I know,” Elena replied, shrugging nonchalantly but cracking a smile.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say genius,” Barry protested, leaning back in his seat. “I mean, anyone could have designed that tap.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” Elena shot back.

  “Hey, I’ve invented plenty of things you never even would’ve—”

  “Guys!” Chloe shouted, cutting them short. “Can we focus here?”

  Elena and Barry shot each other scowls like a couple of feuding kindergartners, but they did as they were told and shut up.

  Chloe turned to Vaughn. “One of us got a good night’s sleep. One of us wouldn’t be able to run a mile without collapsing.”

  “So I guess I’m going in,” Vaughn said, feeling slightly guilty leaving his partner manning the desk. But sometimes it just worked out that way.

  “I discussed it with Betty this morning, and yes, that’s the plan,” Chloe told him, shoving a pencil she was fiddling with through the top of her braid. She leaned over her computer and clicked a few windows closed with her mouse. “You’ll go, find a secure spot out of sight, and snap some photos. We have to get Dominic on film accepting the weapons. Any exchange of money would be good to catch as well.”

  “And, of course, the sellers’ faces would be nice,” Elena said.

  “We’ll have a backup team within two blocks,” Chloe continued. “Once you get the transaction on film, call backup and they’ll take care of Dominic and his contacts.”

  Vaughn nodded. “I’m going to need to blend in.”

  “Way ahead of you,” Barry blurted out, jumping up from his chair excitedly.

  “You’re gonna love this,” Chloe said under her breath.

  Barry walked over to the closet and pulled out what basically looked like a large wad of rags on a hanger. He held it up and away from him as he carried it over to Vaughn.

  “I’m going as a hobbit?” Vaughn asked, eyeing the brown, green, and gray clothing.

  “A homeless man,” Barry corrected him. “It’s a rundown neighborhood—an abandoned building. They probably won’t even notice you, and if they do, they’ll just think you’re a squatter.”

  Vaughn forced a smile as he carefully took the hanger from Barry. It weighed a ton. “Why so heavy?”

  “These guys wear lots of layers,” Barry said matter-of-factly. “It’s a warmth thing. I took a bunch of pictures when I was out patrolling with my brother yesterday, you know, for authenticity—just in case you needed to go undercover. And guess what? You do!”

  “Yeah, you definitely outdid me this time, Barry,” Elena said with a smirk. “You designed a high-tech pile of dirty laundry.”

  Barry narrowed his eyes. “Thanks, Barry,” Vaughn said. He started to fold the clothing, if it could be called that, over his arm and caught a whiff of the most vile stench he’d ever encountered.

  “What is that?” he asked, scrunching up his face and trying not to dry heave. It was a good thing he hadn’t eaten yet today.

  “You’ve been living on the streets,” Barry told him. “It has to be authentic.”

  “Does it have to be that authentic?” Vaughn asked. The stench hit the back of his throat and actually caused his vision to temporarily blur. “Couldn’t I be a homeless man who just visited a shelter and got cleaned up?”

  Barry’s face fell. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Chloe said, slapping Vaughn on the back. She moved away quickly, however, when she realized she was within sniffing range. “Elena, why don’t you show Vaughn what you have for him?” she suggested as she stepped to the opposite end of the table, holding her breath.

  Elena reached for the Jack Daniel’s bottle and handed it to Vaughn. He tipped it to the side and looked it over skeptically.

  “Okay, I know you guys want me to be authentic, but I don’t think I should be drunk for this job,” he joked.

  “It’s a camera,” Elena told him. “It’s not alcohol, just colored water.”

  Vaughn unscrewed the cap and swigged. Yep, just water. But upon further inspection, he couldn’t find anything cameralike about the bottle—no lens, no buttons, nothing.

  “I give up,” he said, handing the bottle back to her.

  Elena tightened the cap and held the bottle up sideways with the black-and-white label facing Vaughn.

  “Keep an eye on Jack’s face,” she instructed him.

  When Elena unscrewed the cap again, Jack Daniel’s face slid away, revealing a tiny lens beneath. Vaughn blinked and leaned in toward the lens, impressed. He never would have noticed it if Elena hadn’t pointed it out to him.

  “That’s amazing,” he said.

  “It gets better,” Chloe told him.

  “Don’t move,” Elena said. Then she blew a breath into the bottle and Vaughn heard the tiniest, softest of clicks. Instantly his face, up close and personal, with one nostril the size of a small planet, appeared on Elena’s computer screen.

  “What the—”

  Elena tilted the bottle toward Vaughn. “See that tiny chip on the inside of the bottle?” she asked.

  Vaughn peeked through the back of the bottle, and sure enough, there was a flat computer chip on the glass, hidden by the label on the front.

  “It’s heat sensitive. You breathe into the bottle, and as long as you’re not dead, it’ll trigger the camera.”

  “If he were dead, he wouldn’t be breathing,” Barry pointed out.

  Elena rolled her eyes. “I just meant he’d have to be above room temperature to—”

  “Aren’t we always?” Barry challenged her. “I mean, unless we are dead, in which case we’re not breathing.”

  “Exactly my point!” Elena argued. “Why do you have to—”

  “Okay! Okay! We’re splitting hairs here, people,” Chloe said, throwing her hands up and stepping between the two techies. “We need to get Vaughn ready.”

  “We also have a regular video camera for you in case you get yourself in a position to use it,” Elena said, holding out a silver digital camera the size of her palm.

  “Thanks,” Vaughn said, plucking it out of her hand. “This I know how to use.”

  “Okay, let’s get to work,” Chloe said, returning to her computer. “We have a lot to do.”

  “Time to get dressed?” Barry asked, raising his eyebrows and nodding toward his odiferous creation.

  Vaughn grimaced. “Let’s save that for last.”

  * * *

  Vaughn sat on the steps of the crumbling building next door to the pizzeria where Dominic and his contact were set to meet. The sun beat down on him from above, and he started to wish that Barry hadn’t gone for quite so many layers. Breathing through his mouth to avoid his own stench, he leaned back on his elbows, going for a lazy pose and stretching out to keep cool. All the while he kept watch on the next building. Waiting.

  A white van pulled up at the corner, and two men dressed in brown coveralls emerged from the front. Wearing baseball caps pulled low, they walked around to the back of the van and opened the doors. A third figure stepped out, but this one was obviously a woman. Her hair was stuffed up under her cap, and she was wearing glasses. Together, the three started to unload wooden crates onto the sidewalk.

  “We have two men and one woman unloading a white Dodge van, license plate number Charlie Harriet Charlie two two five,” Vaughn said into his remote mike. Anything he said would be picked up by the backup team and by Chloe and the others back at HQ. He could hear both Chloe and Agent Green, the leader of the backu
p team, in his tiny earpiece.

  “Roger that,” Chloe said.

  Vaughn lifted his bottle to his lips and breathed into it a few times, snapping photos of the men and the woman, of the van, of its license plate. He didn’t recognize any of the suspects from his distance, but Chloe and Elena might be able to enhance the photographs and find them on the CIA’s database.

  The suspects brought the crates into the pizza place through a side door, making several trips until the van was empty. Then the woman came out again and closed up the vehicle. She was turned partially away from him, but Vaughn saw her lift her wrist to her mouth and speak into it. A remote microphone.

  “Female suspect wired with audio. Not sure about the other two,” Vaughn said.

  “Okay. Give it ten minutes, then move in,” Chloe responded.

  Vaughn checked the clock tower across the street as the woman made her way back inside. He was to wait the ten minutes in order to give the suspects time to make sure the place was clear. Then he’d sneak in through the basement door he’d checked out earlier. It was unlocked, and thanks to a small bottle of oil Barry had supplied him with, it was now also not squeaky.

  Vaughn waited impatiently as the minute hand on the clock inched forward. At 8:54 he pushed himself up from the stairs, then loped around to the back of the brick-walled pizzeria and ducked along the wall under boarded-up windows.

  The basement was dark, musty, and cold. Metal shelves along the walls held dust-covered vats marked TOMATO SAUCE and FLOUR. It took Vaughn’s eyes a moment to adjust as he made his way over to the bottom of the stairs, where a mouse skittered across his path.

  “I’m in,” Vaughn whispered. “Going radio silent now.” He reached up and pushed a flat button on the tiny mechanism beneath his bottom layer of clothing—a legitimately ancient CBGB T-shirt. Where Barry had found it, Vaughn had no idea. He heard the hum of the signal go dead in his ear, effectively shutting out Chloe and Green. If he got close enough to the action, their transmissions might give him away.

  Vaughn looked up toward the open doorway at the top of the stairs. He saw no movement and still heard no voices.

  So far so good, he thought. He placed his foot on the bottom step, which let out a loud creak.

  Vaughn instantly drew his foot away and waited, his heart pounding.

  Nice one, he told himself, shaking his head. He tried again, this time keeping close to the wall, where the stairs were reinforced and sure to be at their sturdiest. Moving slowly, he made it all the way up the steps without another scare.

  Checking around the corner, Vaughn saw that he was now in the kitchen. Most of the major appliances had been torn free from the walls and carted off, leaving dangling electric, gas, and water lines protruding from ragged holes in the tile. A window was cut out of the far wall, built there so that the chef could pass dishes through to the servers in the dining room. Vaughn saw a shadow move on the other side of the window and jumped back for a moment. He pulled out the tiny video camera Elena had given him and set it to record. If he could get the thing positioned on that window ledge, he could tape everything that went down in the next room.

  A quick rap sounded on the front door, and Vaughn heard rustling and footsteps moving away from him. This was his chance. He slipped out of the doorway and over to the serving window. The three suspects all had their backs to him as they answered the door. Vaughn positioned the camera near the corner of the ledge, trained on the crates piled in the center of the dining room. He quickly ducked down again, pressed his back against the wall, and pulled out a small monitor. He flipped it on and smiled. There, framed perfectly in the shot, were Dominic and the three suspects from the van. Whatever happened in that room, he was going to get it all.

  Vaughn glanced across the kitchen toward the back door to his left. Ideally he should get the hell out of there now and let the camera do its job. He didn’t need the device—it was transmitting a signal directly to Elena’s computer back at the hotel. But moving now was too risky. If the dealers heard any noise, they’d be on him in less than a second, and even with Barry’s disguise, Dominic would obviously recognize him. He was going to have to keep quiet and wait it out.

  “You brought the cash?” one of the men asked.

  On his tiny screen, Vaughn saw a woman enter the room carrying a briefcase, which she handed to Dominic. He placed the briefcase on one of the few tables that was not toppled over or broken, popped open the latches, and lifted the top. Vaughn had to restrain himself to keep from whistling. There had to be a couple of million dollars inside.

  That Cartier heist did La Rappresaglia well, he thought, gripping the tiny monitor.

  The men inspected the contents of the briefcase while the woman held back, hovering near the crates. She kept her back to the camera, almost as if she sensed it was there.

  “Let us see what you brought,” Dominic said.

  One of the men walked over to the first crate. He picked up a crowbar from the lid and started to pry it open, while the other man went to work on the crate nearest Vaughn. The first man quickly popped the top of his crate free and tossed it aside, revealing two sleek air rifles, each fitted with distance-targeting systems. The guns had been packed carefully in shredded paper. The seller stood up, smiling in Dominic’s direction.

  It was almost over. All they had to do was make the exchange. Then Vaughn would break radio silence, call in Green and his team, and victory would be theirs.

  Then, right before Vaughn’s eyes, the woman whipped a gun out of her coveralls and shot the first man right in the chest. Vaughn’s heart hit his throat as the man’s eyes widened in surprise. He clutched his chest and fell forward, toppling over the open crate. Vaughn realized at once that it wasn’t a bullet that had hit the man, but a tranquilizer dart. Still, all hell broke loose in the next room. The second man went at the woman with his crowbar as Dominic stood there, momentarily stunned. The woman easily fought the second man off, knocking him unconscious with the heavy lid from one of the crates. She had perfect moves—professional moves—moves Vaughn had learned in his first weeks at the Farm.

  “Don’t even think it,” the woman said, pulling a pistol from an ankle holster. Her back was still to the camera as she trained her weapon on Dominic, who was now headed for the kitchen—for Vaughn’s hiding place. Vaughn clenched his teeth, watching Dominic on the screen even though he was no more than two feet away, just beyond the door that led to the dining room. Dominic clutched the briefcase to his chest as he stared at the gun.

  “Who do you work for?” the woman demanded.

  “L’Italia,” Dominic answered. “I work for my president. President Ramero Toscana.”

  “I know who you supposedly work for,” the woman said, her tone intimidating. “But who do you represent here today? La Rappresaglia?”

  Vaughn’s mind reeled. What the hell was going on here? Who was this woman, and who did she work for? The FBI? The NSA? Why hadn’t his team been informed that someone else was on this case?

  “No!” Dominic protested. “La Rappresaglia is an enemy of the state. I don’t—”

  “Enough!” the woman barked.

  In a flash, she crossed to Dominic and whacked the briefcase out of his arms. It came flying into the kitchen and hit the wall across from Vaughn, popping open and spilling cash everywhere. Dominic threw a punch at the woman, but she ducked, grabbed his arm, and twisted it behind him. As she slammed him up against the wall Vaughn was leaning against, the whole partition shook. Dust spilled down from above, settling over Vaughn and his monitor. Vaughn felt a scratching in his throat, a tightness in his chest as he breathed in the debris. His eyes watered. He tried to hold back, but it was no use. He was done for.

  Coughing harshly, Vaughn ran and grabbed the video camera.

  The woman’s cap had fallen off in the scuffle, and silky brown hair now tumbled out. In a split second Vaughn took in her full lips, her high cheekbones, her bewildered eyes behind her glasses. She was young. His eye
s traveled to the floor and he saw that the second man she’d subdued was Mr. Blond. They were the couple from the bar at Trick.

  “Who are you?” the young woman demanded, never loosening her grip on Dominic.

  Vaughn blinked. Then he ran.

  He slammed through the back door to the pizzeria, shedding his long, heavy overcoat and yanking his sweater off over his head. Leaving a trail of clothing behind him, Vaughn ran as fast as he could, but he could feel the woman bearing down on him. His many layers slowed him down, but thanks to Barry, he had a plan for just such a situation.

  Vaughn made a left on the next block, scurried up a set of steps, and burst into the gym attached to St. Agatha’s Roman Catholic Church, which had long ago been converted into a homeless shelter. Just as Barry had promised, the place was packed with people dressed exactly like Vaughn. He dove into the crowd around the kitchen, where breakfast was being served, raced past the volunteers at the ovens and stoves, and went out another door to Hoyt Street, where his getaway car was parked.

  Vaughn peeled out and pressed the button on his mike. “Move in! Move in! Two suspects down, two more at large. The woman may be in or around St. Agatha’s on Hoyt Street.” He took a deep breath, hating what he was about to admit. “Dominic Rizzio’s whereabouts unknown.”

  “Copy that. We’re going in,” Green replied.

  Vaughn pulled back and slammed the heel of his hand into his steering wheel. He ripped the microphone and earpiece off and tossed them on the floor, then popped open the glove compartment to fish out his cell phone to call Chloe.

  What the hell had just happened?

  And why was his heart suddenly flip-flopping like crazy?

  To: reginald.wilson@creditdauphine.com

  From: sydney.bristow@creditdauphine.com

  Subject: La Rappresaglia

  To confirm my phone message, mission failed. “Homeless man” interfered with operation—suspect in possession of high-tech video surveillance camera. True identity unknown.