Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9)

by Laura Griffin

  “I’m not even sure it is business,” Tara said, glancing at the manicured lawns up and down the street. “A lot of people say that when they leave town, whether it is or not.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  She pulled up to a stop sign and spied him several blocks north turning into a driveway. She noted the street name and kept going.

  “Try to connect with Jeremy again,” she said. “That’s a good angle. See if you can get him to tell you what Liam’s relationship is with the victim. He’s hiding something, I can tell.”

  Tara circled the block so she’d end up north of the house where Liam had stopped. She spotted him getting out of his truck, and she pulled over under the shade of a tree. He walked up to the front door of a Georgian two-story with black shutters. A blond woman stepped out. Liam pulled her against him and kissed her.

  “And what are you going to do?” M.J. asked.

  Liam followed the woman inside. The door closed, and Tara realized her heart was racing.

  “Tara?”

  “When I get the chance, I’ll corner him,” she said. “See if I can get some answers.”

  LIAM WAS ON edge tonight, and it wasn’t just the job.

  It was the setting, the timing, the distractions. And the fact that the threat to his client had recently been elevated.

  He forced himself to forget all of that as he scanned the faces. He needed to stay in the moment—observing, collecting impressions, making eye contact. His stare made people uncomfortable, and that was fine with him.

  Liam skimmed the tables in the ballroom, starting with the two closest to the stage. He was looking for suspects. His definition: anyone who caught his attention for any reason at all. Anything from a nervous glance to a forgotten backpack could signal trouble, and years of working in terrorist hot spots had taught him to trust his instincts.

  Applause from the audience as the tuxedo-clad MC finished his introduction. The guy stepped back from the microphone, and Jim Willet, candidate for lieutenant governor of Texas, stepped up to the podium.

  Liam ignored his client and watched the audience. Look, assess, progress. Look, assess, progress. The mantra flowed through his mind as his gaze moved over the faces. Tonight’s crowd included campaign donors and business cronies, along with dozens of bored-looking spouses. It also included reporters and party loyalists and—possibly—the author of a recent letter to Jim Willet that promised to put a bullet between his eyes.

  Liam finished his survey of the audience and turned his attention to the podium.

  Liam hated podiums. He hated stages even more. They created too much space between him and the protectee. Tonight’s compromise had been to move the podium to the side of the stage, ostensibly so the audience would have a better view of the slide show while they ate undercooked pasta and rubbery chicken marsala. The real reason was so that Liam could station a man in the wings, just eight feet away from the client.

  He scanned the crowd again, zeroing in on the man he’d labeled the Fidgeter. Ever since the dinner plates disappeared, he’d been messing with something in the pocket of his suit jacket. Liam caught the gaze of one of his men across the room. Lopez nodded. He’d noticed the guy, too, and was in a position to respond if anything happened. Such as what, Liam didn’t know. But Jim Willet had his sights set on the second-highest political office in the nation’s second-largest state. Rumor had it he ultimately had his sights set on the White House. Whether he got there would be a matter of planks and platforms and the pendulum swings of a fickle electorate.

  Liam didn’t give a shit about planks or pendulums. His job was to keep the protectee alive long enough to let the voters decide.

  He checked the faces again, looking for tells. The relevant stats were embedded in his mind. A political attack in the U.S. would most likely be the work of a lone actor. It would be at close range, less than thirty feet. The most likely weapon was a handgun, which was why Liam always pushed for metal detectors. But campaign managers and sometimes the candidates themselves usually balked. Metal detectors created an “atmosphere of suspicion” that wasn’t conducive to people getting out their checkbooks. Usually, Liam had to settle for ID checks at the event entrances, which carried the risk of someone sneaking in a weapon.

  It wasn’t that difficult, and tonight’s event was a case in point. Aside from the six men from Wolfe Security, Liam knew of at least one spectator who was packing heat.

  He glanced at the door in the back of the room. Tara stood in the shadows, invisible to the hotel staffers streaming back and forth. But she wasn’t invisible to Liam. He’d felt her presence like an electric shock from the moment she slipped into the ballroom. He couldn’t see her face now, but he knew she was watching him. Still. Her gaze had been on him since she’d first come in here.

  He watched her from the corner of his eye. She was pure fed today, in a tailored dark suit and low heels. Sexy, yes, but not nearly as hot as when she’d shown up at his house in combat boots looking ready to kick his ass. He liked the way she’d pelted him with questions. And he liked the way she’d gotten her feathers ruffled when he’d refused to answer.

  The SWAT thing fascinated him. He’d never met a woman so overtly physical, and he liked it. A lot.

  “Wolfe, it’s Lopez.”

  He adjusted his earpiece. “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve got a request here for a change of exit route.”

  “Negative. Plan is we’re out through the kitchen.”

  “I know, but she wants it changed.”

  “She” was definitely Willet’s campaign manager. It was the same song-and-dance with every PR flak on the planet. They wanted their guy in the crowd, mingling with the masses and getting photos snapped by the paparazzi. Liam wanted him as far away from both groups as possible, but he didn’t always get his way. His standard compromise was a public entrance, complete with all the red carpet and fanfare the PR team could muster, and a private exit via an undisclosed route. Event endings were more dangerous than beginnings, so the last part was nonnegotiable.

  “Tell her it’s not happening,” Liam said.

  “I did, but—”

  “Tell her again.”

  “Copy that. You want me and Chapman to sweep the exit route?”

  “Soon,” he said. “Wait until after he does the fishing bit.”

  “Roger.”

  A rumble of laughter from the crowd as Willet delivered a punch line.

  Liam scanned the faces. Look, assess, progress. Look, assess, progress. He couldn’t get distracted, not even by Tara Rushing and the pistol on her hip.

  But he was distracted. That was the problem. Like that first day back at the ranch, it took no time at all for her to get under his skin. There was something about her, maybe her go-to-hell attitude or her sexy mouth. Since the moment he’d seen her, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Even now, while he was working, he was all too aware of her shadow in the back of the room.

  Liam gritted his teeth. His job required total concentration, and Tara was screwing with him.

  Focus.

  He went through the faces again, every last one. He looked at posture, hands, eyes, searching for tells. The odds were stacked against him. He couldn’t move faster than a bullet, so it was all about seeing and reacting before the bullet ever left the gun.

  Liam noticed the woman making a beeline across the ballroom.

  “Yo, incoming,” Lopez said over the radio.

  “I got her.”

  Willet’s campaign manager halted in front of him. “Who authorized this change of plan?”

  “What change is that?” Liam scanned the tables again.

  “The limo’s supposed to pick him up in front. We’ve got the CBS affiliate here.”

  Laughter boomed as Willet delivered his best fishing joke. Liam nodded at Lopez. Time to sweep the exit route.

  “Did you hear what I said? CBS is here!”

  “That doesn’t concern me.”
<
br />   “Well, it concerns me. They want film for ten o’clock.”

  The Fidgeter was at it again. Liam watched him. He couldn’t decide whether he was jonesing for a cigarette or waiting for a phone call.

  Thunderous applause as Willet stepped back from the podium. The candidate smiled and gave his double thumbs-up.

  “Exit clear,” Lopez said over the radio.

  “Roger that.”

  “Uh, hello? Are we having a conversation here?”

  He looked down at her. “You’re distracting my team, Greta. Don’t do it again.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Do I need to remind you who signs your paychecks? I freaking hired you people!”

  The audience got to their feet, still clapping, as Willet waved and walked offstage. Liam moved for the exit, watching faces and hands. He glanced at the shadowy corner of the ballroom.

  Tara was gone.

  M.J. FOUND HIM at the general store. That’s what it was called—just GENERAL STORE painted on a wooden sign mounted above the door. Hand-painted words in the window gave slightly more information: BEER BAIT AMMO.

  Jeremy stood in the ammo aisle, and M.J. circled around to approach him from behind. Just for fun, she tried to be stealthy about it, but he turned to face her as if he’d seen her coming.

  “Hi.” She smiled up at him, determined not to be intimidated by his stony expression. Or the fact that he towered over her by at least a foot. “We meet again.”

  He nodded.

  “Smells good. Is that fried chicken?” She cast a glance over her shoulder at the deli counter where people were lined up for takeout. “Wow—bait, ammo, chicken, and hushpuppies. Is there anything you can’t get here?”

  “Cash.”

  She turned to look at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Only ATM in town is at First and Main.”

  She tipped her head to the side and smiled. “Good to know. Thanks.”

  He stared down at her without a word. Instead of fatigues, today he wore an olive-drab T-shirt with jeans, along with a leather bomber jacket that didn’t quite conceal his gun.

  “So.” She turned to face the shelf he’d been looking at. It was stocked with bullets and shotgun shells. “What are you up to this nice Sunday evening?”

  He reached for a bottle of CLP oil. “Not much. You?”

  “Oh, you know. Just getting some snacks for my motel room. The diner’s been flooded with press people.”

  He gazed down at her, and for the second time since she’d met him, she noticed he had pretty eyes. They were pale blue, almost gray, and if he bothered to smile once in a while, he could actually be a chick magnet.

  She glanced down at the gun oil in his hand. “Need some ammo with that?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched as if she’d said something funny. “I’m good.”

  They walked toward the cash register, and M.J. grabbed a pack of Skittles. “So, you mentioned Liam’s out of town. What’s up at the ranch?”

  “Not much.”

  “What, no keg parties while the boss is gone?”

  He shot her a puzzled look, and she felt her cheeks warm. Yes, she was grasping at straws here, but this was like talking to a statue.

  “Thought I’d hit the range,” he said, finally throwing her a lifeline.

  “You mean Liam’s range? You guys practice at night?”

  They reached the counter, and he gestured for her to go first. She watched him, waiting for an answer, as the cashier rang up her candy.

  “Pistol range,” he said. “It’s indoors.” He paid for his gun oil, and M.J. waited at his elbow, hoping he’d get a clue, but either he was oblivious or he didn’t want company.

  He held the door open, and they stepped into the cold night air.

  “Sounds fun,” she said. “Think I missed it on the tour.”

  He stopped and stared down at her, his brow furrowed slightly.

  The silence stretched out, and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  “You want to see it?”

  “Sure, I’d love to!” She beamed up at him. “I have to qualify soon, and I haven’t been in a while. You mind?”

  “No.”

  “Great, then. I’ll follow you.”

  She jumped into her car and breathed a sigh of relief. “Jee-zus,” she muttered, cranking up the heater and rubbing her hands together. She’d met some nontalkative men in her life, but this one was practically mute.

  He drove a Ford F-250 in gunmetal gray, and she followed it back to Liam’s ranch, scarfing handfuls of Skittles as she wondered how the hell she was going to get anything useful out of a guy who barely spoke.

  On the other hand, just visiting the ranch again was useful. Even if Jeremy told her nothing of value, she’d get another chance to check out the living quarters of one of their prime suspects. And, as Tara had said, another chance to investigate Liam’s connection to the victim.

  She followed Jeremy through the gate and up the curving road through the pines. Instead of hooking a left toward the main house, he turned right and led her to a corrugated-metal building painted forest green.

  M.J. parked her car and got out, glancing around. The building was tucked into some trees, and she hadn’t even noticed it on the previous trip. Rock music emanated from inside, and a floodlight switched on as Jeremy stepped toward the door. M.J. glanced up.

  “Motion sensitive,” he said, pulling open the door.

  The inside was loud and bright and smelled of sweat. In the room’s center was a boxing ring, where two tattooed, shirtless men in sparring helmets were viciously going at it. They paused what they were doing to watch as M.J. followed Jeremy to a back room.

  “Those guys live on the ranch?” she asked.

  “Temporarily.”

  “How many are here right now?”

  “Four.”

  “Where’s everyone else?”

  “We’ve got teams in Austin, Dallas, and Aspen.”

  He reached another door and tapped a number into a keypad, then ushered her into a room.

  “Whoa,” she said, stopping short. All four walls were lined with glass-fronted gun cabinets. “There must be, like, a hundred rifles in here.” She walked over to the nearest cabinet to check out a heavy-duty rifle that looked like an A-15. The guns in the neighboring case she definitely recognized—all were MP5s like she’d trained with at Quantico. She did a slow 360-degree turn. “Damn, it’s like an armory in here.”

  He cracked a smile. “It is an armory.”

  “And all this is for you guys?”

  He shrugged. “There’s a lot of us. We run training camps in the fall and spring. Usually fifty people at a time.”

  He was starting to loosen up. Maybe being surrounded by his favorite toys put him at ease.

  M.J. glanced around. “What is that—knives, too?” She walked over to a table where tactical knives were lined up by size. She reached out and traced her finger over a long black handle.

  “That’s a Ka-Bar knife, standard Marine issue.”

  She heard the pride in his voice. “You know how to use it?”

  “Sure.”

  She glanced around at the cabinets. “What’s your favorite handgun?”

  He looked at his feet for a moment and rubbed his jaw. Then he crossed the room to a small access-controlled cabinet and took out a pistol.

  “An H and K MK23. It’s a favorite in the spec ops community.”

  “Nice,” she said, knowing it was an understatement. She wasn’t really a gun person, but anyone could see it was a beautiful weapon.

  “It’s an ultra-rugged gun, takes a lot of wear and tear. And you can’t beat it for accuracy.”

  He flipped it over in his hand and passed it to her, grip out. She hesitated.

  “Go ahead.”

  She took the sleek black weapon. It was heavier than her Glock, but for a large pistol, it felt pretty compact.

  She glanced up as he walked into yet another room. She foll
owed. It was the practice range, and it consisted of six stations, each equipped with a storage shelf and ear protectors. Paper targets were clipped at the far wall, all human silhouettes.

  She looked around, sponging up details to share with Tara. Tara was a gun person, and she’d love this room. Everything was state-of-the-art, even the earmuffs.

  “Looks like Liam spares no expense,” she said.

  “Tools of the trade.” He was standing in front of a shelving unit packed with boxes of ammunition. Probably a slight step up from what they carried at the general store.

  “You ever bring clients out here?” she asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Catie Reyes?”

  He glanced up from the ammo. He knew she was here to pump him for information, and so far he’d been cool about it. Maybe he had nothing to hide. Or maybe he was just bored playing war games out here in the woods without any women around.

  He walked over and plunked a box of ammo onto the shelf beside her. “She came out a few times.”

  “Was she any good?”

  “At shooting? No.”

  She gazed up at him, waiting for more. What was Catalina Reyes good at? M.J. wanted details to add to what she already had on Catalina’s background—which was a lot like her own.

  Like M.J., she’d grown up in the Rio Grande Valley and worked to put herself through school—in Catalina’s case, the University of Houston. Her first job had been in the HR department of an oil company, where she’d worked her way to management. Eventually, she’d left to start a staffing company that provided temp workers to businesses around Houston.

  As for personal details about the victim, M.J. didn’t know many, although her home revealed a few. Catalina had lived in a perfectly landscaped two-story house painted neutral beige with taupe shutters.

  M.J. liked neutral. She understood it. Neutral was classy, an informed choice. Neutral signaled to Catalina’s neighbors that she’d cut her ties to the Valley, leaving behind pink adobe and yard art. It showed them that they could rest easy, because she wasn’t really Mexican but one of them.

  But there was a lot more to Catalina Reyes than what she showed the public. M.J. was sure Jeremy knew plenty about the woman’s private life, and she was determined to get him to talk.