Fatal Secrets f-2

by Allison Brennan

  Sonia frowned at Trace. “If you’re worried about a reprimand, I’ll tell them I lied to you like I lied to the rest of the team.” She hadn’t wanted to be dishonest, but she felt as if she had no choice. Her boss wouldn’t have authorized this stakeout on the word of a pint-sized illegal immigrant.

  Trace slammed his fist on the ground. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “I’m sorry.” She stared through the binoculars at the dark house. She didn’t want to hurt Trace, but he hadn’t been in the trenches long enough to know how brutal this business was. That the buying and selling of humans was even thought of as a business angered Sonia and kept her focused on the prize: slapping cuffs on Jones and getting him into an interrogation room.

  “No you’re not. You think you’re protecting the team, but you’re only hurting yourself. Don’t be the martyr, Sonia. You’re too damn good. I’m a big boy, and I could have told you to fuck off, or told Warner that Vega didn’t give you this intel. I backed you up because I trust your instincts. I just don’t want you to be blinded because-”

  Their earpieces came to life.

  “Beta Two reporting three vehicles approaching from the west at approximately forty miles per hour, headed toward the residence.”

  Beta Two was stationed at the fork, and there were only two private homes off this road, one being a vacation home belonging to a Silicon Valley executive who came up here quarterly.

  Adrenaline flushed her system and she was ready to rock and roll. This was what she lived for. It was 0100 with a near-full moon.

  “ETA?”

  “Ninety seconds to our post.”

  “Stand down. Do not engage-Beta Four, circle-”

  She was cut off mid-sentence. “They’re Fibbies,” Beta Two said.

  “What?”

  “Grille lights just went on. Red, white, and blue.”

  Sonia slammed her fist against the nearest tree trunk. She watched the road and seconds later red and blue lights flashed intermittently through the trees lining the private road off Lake Amador Drive. She heard someone-it sounded like veteran Joe Nicholson-say, “She’s gonna fuckin’ blow like Mount Vesuvius.”

  “Wish I could see it,” his partner replied.

  “Wish I were on vacation.”

  They were talking about her, and they were right. She had had more problems with the fucking FBI than any other law-enforcement agency. And now they’d blown her operation. How did they get wind of the stakeout? Why didn’t they call and find out if anyone was investigating Jones? They acted as if they were the only federal law enforcement in the country. Jones was ICE territory, and Sonia was going to make damn sure the FBI knew it. Innocent children were going to die if they screwed this up.

  She watched as three black Suburbans drove onto the wide, circular drive in front of Jones’s towering home, lights flashing, screeching to a halt as if they were in some B movie.

  Federal heads were going to roll. Sonia would see to it. Personally.

  She issued orders to her team, then turned to Trace. She was about to tell him to stay put, but shut her mouth. He was no longer a rookie, having been with her team for two years. “Ready?”

  He nodded. “Don’t be rash.”

  “This isn’t the first time the Fibbies have screwed up one of our ops.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that, but don’t forget: more flies with honey, right?”

  “I don’t want to catch them, I want to swat them.”

  She and Trace ran low to the ground toward the residence. They were a good hundred yards or more off, but made it to the rock-strewn edge of the drive through sparse foliage without being seen by the feds. They halted behind a boulder where they could watch the action. Doors opened and at least eight Fibbies oozed from the interior, black bulletproof vests with bold white letters proclaiming their authority: FBI.

  Homeland Security trumped the FBI every time, and she’d make sure the idiots who had driven into her stakeout damn well knew it.

  They were dressed in black tactical gear, and she pulled her hat from her pocket that identified her as ICE, peeled down the flap on Trace’s back revealing the same acronym, and clipped her badge to her belt. Trace did the same. She motioned to her partner and mouthed “On three.” They emerged from the large, decorative rocks only feet from the nearest agent. If she had been one of the bad guys, she’d have an ideal head shot. Hell, with her weak hand she could have taken out three of them without breaking a sweat. Incompetent jerks. Did they know who they were up against in Xavier Jones?

  She strode toward three agents surveying the layout. One black-vested agent tried to stop her, flashing his badge and saying, “Ma’am, we’ll have to ask you to speak with-”

  She pointed to her badge, glanced at the name sewn onto his vest. “Who’s in charge, Ivers? Elliott? Richardson?”

  “I-”

  A black-haired agent approached. Sonia recognized Sam Callahan, Sacramento FBI’s SSA for white-collar crimes. Political bribery and money laundering. What was he doing here when Jones’s crime was far more international-and deadly-in scope? “Callahan. Surprised to see you here.”

  “Right back at you, Sonia.” He nodded at Trace. “Anderson.”

  She couldn’t hold back her frustration. “You just destroyed nearly two years’ work! Is covert not in your vocabulary? We’re in the middle of a major investigation. Did you just not feel like contacting us?”

  Callahan straightened and reddened. “We have a subpoena.”

  Subpoena? “For what? No one cleared it with me. This is my operation-we’re dealing with immigration and human trafficking here, out of your jurisdiction.” She was just getting started. “Dammit, Jones probably has people watching this place. And I know he has security-” she gestured toward the security cameras her team had identified three days before. “You blew it, Callahan.”

  She started to kick the door of one of the SUVs, then pivoted before her boot made contact. She was pissed off, but she’d take out her frustration on the racquetball court later.

  What was she going to tell Andres? She pictured his troubled face, his warm brown eyes, begging her to find his sister. Andres had been here, at the Jones house. He’d seen the gate, had known about the mermaid fountain-completely out of place in the foothills. This was where Sonia had to start looking for Maya.

  She needed to talk to her informant, Greg Vega, but she couldn’t jeopardize him, not when they were this close. He’d missed two scheduled contacts, and she desperately wanted to pull him now, but her boss made it clear: no hard evidence, no witness protection. Toni Warner was playing hardball with Jones’s key man because Vega was certainly no saint. Complete immunity and witness protection would only be worth it for ICE if they got something, or someone, big in return.

  The passenger door on which Sonia had nearly taken out her anger opened. A man stepped out, clearly in command as evidenced from the quiet that descended among the other FBI agents. Unlike the rest of the feds in black SWAT gear with FBI-logo jackets, this man was dressed like a wealthy corporate attorney in a sharp charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, and dark blue tie. He filled the suit beautifully, but looked like he’d be more at home wearing a black flak jacket and carrying an M16.

  The suit shut the door and stared down at her with eyes so dark brown she couldn’t see the pupils. Sonia unconsciously straightened. He wasn’t as tall or big as she’d first thought-just over six feet and 180 pounds was her guess-but his commanding presence made him appear larger. She noted that he wore a double shoulder holster; on one side, the standard-issue Glock; on the other a definite nonissue HK Mark 23, a.45-caliber pistol that was used by U.S. Special Operations Forces.

  Who was this guy?

  “Callahan,” he ordered, “walk the radius, make sure the perimeter is secure before we serve the subpoena.”

  “There’s no one inside,” Sonia snapped. “And no one’s coming with you and your clowns parked like we’re having a damn party.”


  “Now,” he said.

  Sonia glanced at Trace and jerked her head toward Callahan. He joined the FBI team dispersing to search the immediate perimeter.

  “You blow my investigation and start issuing orders?”

  “I have a subpoena,” he said.

  “Give it to me.”

  His expression changed almost imperceptibly with a mere hint of a smile. “It doesn’t have your name on it, and I didn’t hear you say please.”

  Sonia hated to be ridiculed. “There are lives at stake! Do you think this is a damn joke?”

  His face hardened. “Follow me.”

  He turned and walked toward the edge of the driveway, beyond earshot of the remaining agents, expecting her to follow. She did, if only to explain that she was at the top of the chain of command. And though she knew she’d been “rash” (as Trace would say), she wasn’t about to apologize.

  When they were out of sight of his team, he turned and glared at her. His body was so rigid and still, she suspected he was made of stone. For the first time, Sonia saw true impassioned anger in someone other than herself. She resisted the urge to take a step back.

  “There was obviously a serious lack of communication between our agencies. If I had known ICE had a covert operation, I would have pulled back. But I am this close”-he put his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart close to her face-“to nailing Jones on money laundering and racketeering, and frankly, I don’t give a damn how that bastard goes to prison, as long as he’s locked up for the rest of his pathetic life.”

  Sonia swallowed and took a deep breath. Money laundering? “I understand your enthusiasm,” she said, failing to hold back her anger, “and I don’t give a rat’s ass how we nail Jones, but there are huge concerns here of which you aren’t even aware! Jones is suspected of orchestrating a full twenty percent of our human trafficking problem in the U.S. I have a lead on a missing girl who is supposed to be here tonight!” That wasn’t completely true. It was only the men who had taken her in the first place. But Sonia desperately wanted Maya to be here as well. Chances were slim, but it was not an impossibility.

  She was just getting started. “You send Jones away for laundering, that does nothing but cause a minor ripple in his organization. Another pervert will step in and take over. It’ll never stop until we nail every leader of every port in every country. It’ll never stop until we have all the names. Jones is the key to that information. He’s the middleman who knows everyone!”

  No matter what she did, how many of these bastards like Xavier Jones she threw in prison or deported or interrogated, there were a dozen more ready to take their place. The cycle was endless. As Renault said in Casablanca, human life is cheap. Children bought and sold like grain, stripped from their families and sent all over the world to be the toys and property of the rich, the depraved, the desperate.

  She turned her back on the man in charge. She didn’t even know his name, but she didn’t care. She had to find some way to reach Vega, to make sure he was safe, to push for the hard evidence so she could protect him and his wife. What was the FBI’s raid going to do to her inside man? Was Jones going to think one of his people turned? Would he look at Vega? Would he increase his surveillance on his own people?

  “Sonia-”

  She whirled around and glared at him. The stony look was gone. It was replaced by something that bordered on compassion.

  “How do you know my name? You’re new here. I don’t know you.”

  “Your reputation precedes you. Which is, frankly, the only reason I’m not writing you up.”

  Writing her up? For calling him to the carpet because he walked into the middle of her stakeout?

  “You don’t have the authority, or the grounds.”

  He looked amused. That irritated her. She remembered Trace’s comment. More flies with honey.

  “Look, Agent …” she waited for him to fill in the blank.

  “Hooper,” he said.

  “Hooper. I have a witness to protect. Your operation here is jeopardizing him. You need to leave.”

  He didn’t say anything. She almost lambasted him for being rude, then noticed that he was listening to his earpiece, his expression unreadable. Into his sleeve he said, “I’ll be right there.”

  “Not without me.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. He was looking at her with … what? Pity?

  Her stomach flipped with the all-too-familiar sensation of being watched, analyzed, and dissected. She didn’t know him, but he knew her. How much did he know? Her past wasn’t a deep, dark secret, but it certainly wasn’t something discussed around the watercooler.

  He nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to work with anyone else.”

  His temper had deflated a fraction and some of her steam dissipated. Still, she felt like a bug, the antennae twitching on her head, picking up a danger signal.

  She just wasn’t sure if it was from arrogant Agent Hooper or something else. Something far more dangerous than the FBI.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Xavier Jones was a businessman in all aspects of his life, from personal to professional. Every decision was weighed carefully, but quickly: did it benefit him and add to his power base? Minimizing risk was his strength, and in his businesses, both legal and illegal, risk was part of the game.

  He would not allow anyone to jeopardize what he had built, especially a child.

  Xavier caught Greg Vega’s eye and tapped his watch, then pointed to the cockpit of his Learjet. They’d been delayed leaving Mexico; now all he wanted was to land and take care of the schedule changes that had come up after the Zamora kid disappeared. Vega left the cabin to talk to the pilot.

  Xavier leaned back into the leather seat and sipped his cabernet. It had been a productive trip. He’d finalized an agreement that would continue the flow of merchandise through his network instead of diverting a portion to a competitor. He persuaded the seller by highlighting Sacramento’s many benefits-ease of access by plane, boat, and truck; not as heavily monitored by authorities as major ports like San Francisco and Long Beach; and since most of the merchandise left the area within forty-eight hours, the centrally located city provided another layer of protection to those involved. Once his plans were clearly presented, almost everyone Xavier spoke with agreed that his location was ideal. And no one had more experience.

  Vega returned and sat across from Xavier. “We’re east of Fresno. Twenty minutes and we’ll be descending.”

  “Good. Any word on the kid?”

  “No. I have feelers out everywhere. He seems to have disappeared.”

  “No one disappears. He’s hiding. Find him.”

  As far as Xavier was concerned, the kid knew nothing, but when Marchand found out he had escaped, the man became livid. Xavier feared little in a business that bred violence, but he was more than a little wary of Noel Marchand. Xavier was cold; he had no qualms about killing those who interfered, but it was never personal, and he took no pleasure in murder. Marchand, however, enjoyed it. It wasn’t just business with that man.

  “You contacted Child Protective Services?”

  “Yes, sir. I looked at all possible kids before we left town,” Vega said. “He wasn’t there. I swear, Mr. Jones, he’s nowhere. He probably got lost and died in the woods.”

  “If you say that one more time, I will shoot you myself. Until we find his body, he’s alive. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  More likely the brat had made it into the city and was living off the streets. There was an extensive runaway population in Sacramento, a big city that pretended it was a small town. The kid spoke no English, had never been to America, and was distrustful of people in uniform. All that played in Xavier’s favor. If the police picked up the kid, he wouldn’t talk. And if he did talk, he didn’t know anything of true value. It had been more than a week, and everything he might have learned had all been changed. Xavier had never set eyes on the kid, and even if he fingered one or more of Xa
vier’s men, Xavier wasn’t worried. He picked men who had families for a reason. They would remain silent.

  It was Marchand who was turning this minor annoyance into a major headache.

  “Finding the Zamora kid is our number-one priority. When you find him, you know what to do.” Xavier sipped his wine, then asked, “How’s Kendra?”

  Vega paused. “Doing well.”

  “The baby is due soon. A boy, you said.”

  “Next month.”

  “Wonderful. I hope this is resolved by then so you can spend time with your family. If the situation is taken care of to my satisfaction, I’ll give you time off to spend with Kendra after she gives birth.”

  Again, silence. Xavier smiled at Vega, satisfied that his message had gotten through. The slight panic in the eyes, the resolve settling across his hard face: Vega was solid and would do the job he needed to do.

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones. I appreciate it. It will be handled.”

  “Is my driver waiting?”

  “I’ll check. Excuse me.”

  Vega went to the rear of the plane and Xavier took out his planner, making a meticulous and coded annotation regarding the Saturday-night exchange. The merchandise should have arrived tonight, which was earlier than Xavier preferred, but the storage facility was secure.

  He closed his planner and returned it to his breast pocket, then leaned back in his seat. He had just closed his eyes when his business line beeped. He answered.

  It was Paul Haas, his accountant. “Are you in town?”

  “We’re about to land.”

  “The feds are all over your house.”

  Xavier sat straight up, his blood pressure rising. “Why?”

  “They got a subpoena. Your financial records.”

  “Financials? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen the subpoena. It’s probably taxes.”

  “My taxes are clean.”

  “I know, I know, but-”

  Xavier interrupted. “Do they have an arrest warrant?” He would not go to jail, even for the night. It was a disgusting place filled with pathetic and sick petty criminals. He would have his pilot turn the plane around and go back to the border. They had plenty of fuel, and he had more than enough money to keep the U.S. government at bay while he fought back.