by Radclyffe
“Thank you. And turn the cameras off in that room, please.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned, said something to one of the other officers, then keyed a door inside the security center and disappeared. A moment later one of the other guards escorted Cam through the same door and down another hallway to a windowless ten-by-ten room furnished with a plain steel table in the center. The metal folding chairs on either side of the table were bolted to the floor, as was the table. Soldered O-rings at various intervals along the table’s edge provided anchors where restraints could be secured.
Cam sat with the table between her and the windowless door. Five minutes later a stone-faced guard escorted Jennifer Pattee into the room. She wore a nondescript gray jumpsuit that zipped up the front and shapeless slipper-shoes on her feet. Her dark hair appeared clean but hung in a loose tangle around her shoulders. She wore no makeup and, despite the shadows under her eyes, appeared alert and unintimidated. Her hands were shackled with steel handcuffs connected by a short length of chain, attached to the leather belt around her waist. Her ankles were free. When she sat in the chair opposite Cam, the guard attached the chain connecting her cuffs to the table. She could clasp her hands on the edge of the table but could not reach as far as her face or across the space between them.
The guard left silently and Cam stood, took off her coat, and laid it over the chair beside her. She sat back down and looked at Jennifer. “Tell me again about the man who delivered the virus to you.”
Jennifer Pattee was a beautiful woman—luminous blue eyes, photogenic features, and a voluptuous body. Even in shapeless prison garb, she sat as if posing for a photo op, a seductive smile on her face. Her gaze slowly slid from Cam’s face down her body and back again. “I know you haven’t forgotten. You don’t look like the kind of woman who forgets anything.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Cam said calmly. “I just don’t believe you. The way I see it, the only way you can help yourself is to help us.”
“I certainly would if I could,” Jennifer said. “After all, that’s my job. I signed on to the White House Medical Unit so I could help take care of the president. Why would I want to do anything to jeopardize him or my oath?”
“From where I’m sitting,” Cam said conversationally, “you were in a perfect position to do exactly what you did—report the president’s movements while moving in his inner circle unobserved and totally trusted. When the time was opportune, strike a death blow—or try to.”
“You’ve seen my record. It’s spotless. There’s nothing to suggest I would ever do anything like that, because I wouldn’t.”
“Who is the man in the diner who gave you the virus?”
“I don’t know,” Jennifer said. “This is a mistake.”
“You were prepared to shoot a federal agent. You drew a gun on Agent Daniels.”
“I felt threatened. I wasn’t sure what she was going to do. I have the right to defend myself, just like any other American citizen.”
“You support the right to bear arms.”
“Of course. I support the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.”
“Is that what they taught you when you were homeschooled in Idaho?”
For just an instant, the expression on Jennifer’s face flickered to one of uncertainty before her look of confidence returned. That look said there was something there. Jennifer hadn’t expected them to know or care about that fact—which meant it mattered.
“I learned what every child learns in school—reading and writing and arithmetic.” Jennifer smiled. “And the Pledge of Allegiance.”
“Who did you go to school with?” Cam asked.
Jennifer’s brows drew down. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“I think it might have to do with a lot of things. Where did you go to school? At home or at the training camp?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. Who did you go to school with, Jennifer? The sons and daughters of other righteous Americans who support the right to bear arms, even against the government?”
Jennifer laughed. “There’s no law against being homeschooled, Director Roberts.”
“No, there isn’t. There is a law—quite a few of them, actually—against attempting to assassinate the president of the United States.”
“I certainly didn’t do that. I’m the victim here. I had no idea what was in that package.”
“You know we can keep you here as long as we want, and until you start telling us the truth, we will.”
“I’d like an attorney.”
“I’m sure you would. We’ll see that you get one.” Cam rose and folded her coat over her arm. “Someday.” Cam moved to the end of the table and paused. “I’m sure you have family you’d like to contact. As soon as you begin cooperating, you’ll be able to do that.”
“I’m not interested in making a phone call. But I appreciate the offer.”
“Have a good night, Ms. Pattee.”
“It’s Lieutenant,” Jennifer said coolly. “Lieutenant Jennifer Pattee, United States Navy Medical Corps.”
“Good night, then, Lieutenant. We’ll speak again, soon.”
“I’ll look forward to your visit.”
*
Blair sipped her wine and observed the woman wending her way through the crowd toward her. Heads turned to follow the sleek silver-blond beauty, and Blair smiled as she drew near. Turning as her best friend slid onto the stool beside her, Blair leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for coming so soon on such short notice.”
Diane Bleeker waved an elegant hand. “No thanks needed. I’m always up for a night out on the town.”
Blair laughed. “I don’t think I said that.”
“Yes, but we’re at Francine’s. What else would we be doing?” Diane gave the bartender a sultry wink. “Chardonnay, please. And not the house brand. Something daring and bold.”
The bartender, a handsome Latino with liquid dark eyes and an appreciative grin, nodded. “I think I can come up with something for you.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“Now, now,” Blair murmured. “Don’t get his hopes up.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think of it. I’m just keeping the rust off in case I ever have any reason to use my wiles again.”
“Uh-huh.” Blair laughed. “And how is Valerie these days?”
Diane’s urbane expression softened. “Wonderful, when I see her, which is never enough. She’s always off doing some big secret thing that I can’t know about. That whole business is very tiresome.”
“Yes,” Blair said, turning her half-empty glass on the highly polished black granite bar top in front of her. “Isn’t it.”
Diane crossed her legs, her green silk skirt sliding midway up her thigh, drawing appreciative stares from men and a few women nearby. She lightly clasped Blair’s forearm. “Is that what this impromptu visit is all about? Has Cameron done something loathsome again?”
Blair’s chest filled with affection. Diane understood her and would support her, even while gently goading her to consider the real reasons behind her actions. “Don’t take her part in this.”
Diane pressed a hand to her breasts, the diamond and gold bracelets on her wrist sparkling against the champagne silk of her shirt. “I just said I knew she’d done something horrible again. How is that supporting her?”
“It’s not what you said, it’s the way you said it. And I know you’ve always had a soft spot for Cam.”
“Darling,” Diane said. “I have a soft spot for handsome women, and you have to admit, she is that.”
“Yes,” Blair said softly. “She is gorgeous.”
Diane’s hand slid down to Blair’s and squeezed gently. “So,” she said, no sarcasm in her tone, “what’s happened?”
Blair sighed. “Oh, just more of the same. Some things have come up security-wise, and Cam wants me kept under wraps. Under glass, more like it.”
“
Oh, not that again. Is she back on that wanting to keep you safe at all costs kick?”
“Don’t make light of it,” Blair said grumpily, knowing she sounded petulant.
“I don’t mean to. Only, at the risk of losing my oldest and dearest friend,” Diane said, “sometimes I agree with her. I want you safe too, and I’m not married to you.”
“Diane,” Blair said, “you’ve known me longer than anyone except Tanner. I’m a lot more cautious now than I ever was before, and nothing ever happened even when I was running around half-crazy with no protection at all.”
“Well, we were all young and foolish. But, you know, it was a different world then. Sure, there were always risks, but Blair”—Diane softly stroked Blair’s cheek—“sweetheart, people have tried to hurt you. And there are threats now that we never even thought about when we were young. We didn’t have to think about it because they weren’t so close to home.”
“Believe me, I know what the threats are. And I’m not young and wild or crazy any longer.”
“No, you’re not, and I know that. So does Cam.”
“She didn’t talk to me about it.”
“Oh. Well.” Diane sipped her wine and nodded at the bartender, who waited with an expectant look on his face. “Excellent.”
He leaned forward, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “I thought you’d like that. You look like the sort of woman who appreciates something bold and a little daring. I do.”
“Oh, so do I,” Diane said. “I bet you and I probably appreciate the same things in women too.”
He shook his head with mock sadness. “Oh well. Enjoy the wine.”
She gave him a brilliant smile and turned back to Blair. “Well, there goes my chance for a wild evening. I guess you and I will just have to make our own fun.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I really love you, then.”
Diane leaned over and kissed her cheek. “It is.”
Chapter Eleven
Sky pulled the blinds on the single window facing the parking lot in her motel room and booted up her computer. She connected the hotspot, changed the encryption, and went online. The first thing she did was check her work e-mail. A dozen e-mails from her ATF counterpart over the last forty-eight hours, increasing in frequency during the last day. The message was pretty much the same in all of them, starting out with “Haven’t heard from you, check in when you can” and progressing to “Where the hell are you? Need to confirm okay.” She deleted those, scanned the many irrelevant bureaucratic updates, and deleted those too. Nothing else seemed urgent, and she closed the mail program.
Next she opened one of the protected files to requisition the funds Loren would need for the gun buy. Running an undercover operation could take years and cost hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of dollars to supply the cash the undercover operatives needed to build cases against the organizations they infiltrated. Operatives orchestrated drug buys, made weapons purchases, and bankrolled porn, all in the name of securing their cover stories.
Then the real work began—in order to safeguard an undercover operative’s identity, handlers had to keep the number of those-in-the-know to the smallest number possible, which meant doing a lot of the case-building themselves. Every bit of evidence needed to be recorded, analyzed, and cataloged. Photographs, tapes, transcripts—everything had to be dated, referenced, and, in most cases, reviewed with the state’s attorneys to ensure they were building the kind of case that would lead to federal convictions. As the lead agent, Sky oversaw all of the evidence collection, cataloging, and requisitions.
Sky had been burned before, trying to make charges stick against gang members. Idaho’s anti-gang law looked good on paper—allowing for enhanced sentences for gang-related offenses—but proving the gang affiliation could be difficult. She’d seen convictions under similar state laws overturned, and that wasn’t going to happen this time. Not after all the time, money, and resources they’d poured into Operation Bitterroot. Or the years of her life Loren McElroy had sacrificed. The case Sky wanted, what every federal agent wanted, to make against criminal gangs—including paramilitary organizations like FALA—was a RICO case. She needed evidence that showed a pattern of gang member behavior that included several offenses covered by the RICO Act—drug dealing, weapons trafficking, money laundering, prostitution, murder—the staples of gang life. McElroy had done a good job of compiling evidence so far, but this gun buy would be the lock.
Not that she was under any illusions about ending gang activity, no matter how many leaders they caught in their net. Racketeering charges carried the stiffest sentences and were likely to cripple the infrastructure of an organization from the top down, but the gangs and mob organizations were like hydras, many-headed. No one had yet been able to wipe out one of these groups. A new leader always seemed to spring up before the old one had reached his cell, but at least they could slow them down.
Sky ran half a dozen undercover operatives at a time, and she made sure each of them was as secure as she could make them. No one could predict what might happen out in the field, and an operative had to be ready to react swiftly and inventively when their cover was challenged. But she never sent any of them out there alone. She was always available and might end up hand-holding some of the newer ones, talking to them a dozen times a day in the beginning. Loren was an exception. Part of Loren’s deal was she wouldn’t meet anyone face-to-face—not even her handler. Sky had objected at first, but Loren’s assets were so unique she’d been forced to accept the terms. The agency wanted Loren. Period.
Loren followed the rules—barely. Her reports were thorough, but she often neglected to relay her plans until after the fact. She generally made her requisite contacts with Sky, phoning in at more or less the expected intervals, but she never called for advice or backup. Loren was a lone ranger, and that behavior pattern was often a red flag, an indication an operative was going native—being seduced by the lifestyle and losing touch with their mission. It was too soon to tell if Loren had succumbed to the allure of the outlaw life, but one thing was certain—she needed backup now, whether she liked it or not.
Sky’s phone rang and she checked the readout. After a second’s debate, she answered. “Hello, Dan.”
“Jesus H., Dunbar. Where the fuck are you?”
“I’m on vacation. Skiing in the Bitterroots.”
The silence was as heavy as a fist.
“How’s SoCal?” Sky asked, picturing Dan’s broad face turning as red as his carrot-top.
Dan cleared his throat. “Lonely. I need you back here. We might have visitors from the East Coast.”
Sky doodled on the back of a fast-food receipt. Dan Bussy was a good guy, an experienced ATF agent who’d made some high-profile drug busts along the Mexico-California pipeline in the last few years. But he was nervous—always envisioning disaster scenarios. Worse, he was a stickler for regs. Sky tended to color outside the lines. A lot. Theirs was a bumpy marriage, but the powers that be had declared they would run this one together.
“Don’t think I can do that. I’m booked in here for a while.” Sky circled the initials LMM she’d penciled in bold. Loren Markham McElroy. “What’s the word from back east?”
“Not sure just yet, but our territory might be overlapping someone else’s. Like Homeland.”
Sky’s pulse jumped for a fraction of a second before she clamped down on the adrenaline surge and regulated her heartbeat. Not much caught her off guard, but the prospect of a bigger operation got her blood racing. “I’ll leave you to set up a meet from your end.”
“Fine—but answer your damn e-mail.”
“Yes, dear.” Sky scratched out Loren’s initials, annoyed that McElroy had surfaced in her unconscious. She usually had much better control. An image of the dark-haired agent leaning back on the counter, seemingly relaxed but her rangy body seething with energy, shot a bolt of excitement through her middle. Another foreign and unwelcome sensation. Sky crumpled the paper and tossed it in the
wastepaper basket. “Keep me informed.”
“Yeah. Like you do me,” Dan grumped.
“Sorry.”
Dan sighed. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Me too.” Sky disconnected, retrieved the tiny ball of paper from the trash, and flushed it down the toilet. Homeland Security. That could only mean the militia was into more than gun buying. And she was right here at ground zero. Now more than ever, she needed to be sure McElroy was solid.
She went back to her computer, filled out a requisition for a hundred thousand dollars for the gun buy, and sent it off to the regional office. The coffers were full this time of year, and she didn’t anticipate any difficulties. She shut down the wireless, closed her laptop, and grabbed her coat. She planned to have something to eat at the diner, and then it was time to meet the boys and girls at the Ugly Rooster.
*
Cam left the federal holding facility and headed down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Treasury Building and her office. No point in going home to an empty apartment. She checked her phone as she walked. No message from Blair. She could call Stark and ask as to Blair’s whereabouts. Stark would keep it between them, but she pocketed her phone, hunched her shoulders against the wind, and kept walking. Blair had the right to her privacy—as much as that was possible for someone who was the constant object of press attention and observation by a security detail. When Blair was ready to call, she would.
Why she’d left wasn’t much of a mystery. Blair had heard she was the subject of the strategy meeting that afternoon, and she likely knew of Cam’s opposition to her joining the campaign junket too. There were no real secrets in Washington, not even in the White House. She didn’t blame Blair for being angry—especially since she couldn’t honestly tell Blair she was sorry for trying to sway Eisley and Lucinda from including her in the early schedule. She hadn’t called the meeting, but she’d been happy for the chance to try, one more time, to keep Blair out of the hot zone.
Cam badged her way past the guard at the door and made her way down the silent and mostly deserted halls to her impersonally furnished government office. She had to set personal issues aside for the time being. Stark would see that Blair was safe tonight. The best way she could ensure Blair’s safety, and that of the president, was to discover who had orchestrated Jennifer Pattee’s plan to attack the president.