by Tarah Scott
He leaned back against the cushion. “All right. How about Amanda, then?”
Jesse hadn’t forgotten Amanda. For the thousandth time she wondered how she could get her autistic sister underground and keep her there unnoticed. Amanda couldn’t live just anywhere. She needed medical and behavioral specialists, and around-the-clock care.
She’d checked with Harris that morning and he’d reported she was fine at Houghton House. If anyone could take care of Amanda, Harris could. For the thousandth time, Jesse sent a prayer of thanks for the night she’d saved Harris’ ass in that Boston bar. The Vietnam vet was the best thing that had ever happened to Amanda.
“How did it happen?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Tom.”
She winced, then jammed her eyes shut in hopes of damming up the tears that had a long way to go before hitting dry ground. He sighed, and she steeled herself as he said, “They delivered her to the Senator in pieces.” Jesse gasped, but he went on, “OIA didn’t want to give FARC anymore ammunition, so they kept it out of the papers.”
“FARC,” Jesse sneered. She snapped open her eyes. “The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. What a fucking joke. They’re nothing but a terrorist group selling to the highest bidder, and right now that’s Perez and the cocaine trade.”
“Too bad the Senator didn’t keep out of it,” Tom said. “Nothing’s changed as a result of his efforts to curtail the cocaine trade. The only reason the U. S. government set up Plan Colombia in the first place was to pacify the bleeding hearts here in the States. They had no intention of burning the cocoa fields, and the Colombian government's efforts to fumigate the fields have done more harm to legal crops than to the Colombian drug trade.”
Jesse frowned. She liked Senator Hamilton. When he’d gotten wind of the Colombian cartels’ construction of a submarine beyond that of the supersub discovered last year in Ecuador, she’d felt the U. S. was going to do step up their efforts to stop the drugs making their way into even the elementary schools.
She forced back the memory of the day her father died of a drug dealer’s bullet in the schoolyard where he taught seventh grade history, and said, “Senator Hamilton's discovery of the cartel’s submarine is important.”
Tom’s eyes hardened. “When President Uribe declared a state of emergency as a result of Plan Colombia, the kidnap rate in Ecuador increased over twenty-seven per cent in four years—and nothing’s changed since. The Senator might as well have handed the Colombians the knife that killed his daughter.”
Jesse stared. “No good deed goes unpunished?”
The Professor reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a package of Chesterfields and a gold lighter. He shook out a cigarette, lit it, then slipped the pack and lighter back into his pocket.
After a long drag on his cigarette, he blew it out and said, “Your case is locked down tight. OIA knows we’re friends and has been waiting for you to contact me.” He gestured to the seedy room. “Hence, the need to meet here.”
Jesse caught his arm. “We’re not going to meet again until this is over.” She ignored the thought that this might be the last time she saw him. “I’d rather die than drag you into this.”
He grinned. “I don’t think it’ll come to that.”
She wasn’t so sure. “What happened to Nielson? I can’t figure out why he was out of communication range when I called from Colombia.”
The Professor blew out a puff of smoke. “Blue Leader is on extended leave.”
Jesse started. “What does that mean?”
“He and his wife are out of the country.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Which means you won't get any help here in the States. I wish you’d contacted me from Colombia—which is where you need to be.”
“Lanton is holding on the cards,” Jesse murmured.
“The Cayman account and phone call transcripts are a damn good hand,” Tom agreed.
She gave a morbid laugh. “Hard to believe my call giving the all clear is being used against me.
“Having your second call edited to make your threat sound like it was directed at him is damning evidence. A pro edited the recording. Even I can’t recover the original. Everyone is buying the story,” Tom added. “The way I see it, you have three options. One: Get out of Dodge.”
Jesse shook her head. “Not an option.”
“Two: You can grab Lanton and force a confession from him.” The Professor lifted a brow.
Jesse laughed despite herself. “I’ve considered it.”
“A confession without concrete proof will be dismissed as coercion. After all, you are the liar, traitor, and murderer.” Tom drew on the cigarette and exhaled smoke through his nose. “Three: Trace the money trail from Green Leader to Perez.”
“That’s my only choice,” she said.
“Good. You work the Colombian end. I’ll work from the U.S. So far, I'm hitting dead ends.” A glint appeared in his eyes. “But I’m betting FARC keeps well-documented transactions for blackmail purposes.”
Jesse snorted. “Leave it to one genius to know what another genius does, no matter the language or side of the law they’re on?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Genius is genius.” He fished in his pants pocket and withdrew a cell phone. “Here’s a secure phone. I’m the only one with the matching decryption, but remember, even though they can’t eavesdrop, they can still trace the call, so use this only when you absolutely must.” He handed her the phone.
Jesse flipped it open. It looked like a standard Motorola model, including the power-up logo on the display. A small measure of comfort washed over her at the prospect of hearing Tom’s voice again in the near future. “How do I turn on the encryption?”
“Encryption automatically engages. My phone is number one on speed dial. My number is a private secure line. Leave your standard message on the machine. I’ll get to a safe location and call you back as soon as I can, but it might take a day or more, so be sure to check for missed calls. Call me back. If I don’t answer after one ring, hang up and we’ll repeat the procedure until we connect.”
Jesse powered down the phone, flipped it closed, then slipped it into the right front jeans pocket. “If you don’t hear from me, that means I couldn’t get anything, and had to disappear.”
She saw the alternative in his expression; or I’m dead.
“Am I to disavow any knowledge of your actions?” he asked, and she knew he wanted to voice what had been left unsaid between them far too long.
“After all I’ve gone through, if my efforts go to waste, I’ll likely return from the dead and haunt you.”
“There are worse fates,” he replied softly.
She rose and flashed an affectionate smile. “I know the perfect girl for you.”
He stood and waved off her suggestion. “I don’t need a matchmaker.”
But he did. At six-foot one, one-ninety, with a strong jaw and kissable lips, he would please any woman. Having skipped childhood and adolescence, he’d gone straight into OIA and missed all those boy-girl things that turned into men-women things. He needed a matchmaker more than anyone else she knew.
“Keep telling yourself that,” she teased.
He chuckled and drew her into his arms. “Maybe after I finish my thirty years.”
Jesse returned his hug and planted a kiss on his mouth. “When this is all over, we’re taking a long vacation in Hawaii.”
He squeezed and released her. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
She smiled as she stepped back, then headed for the door. He was right. She needed more luck than any person had a right to expect. Her father used to say there was no such thing as luck. Grit got a person through.
The sweet smile Amanda reserved for those she loved once again flashed before Jesse’s mental vision. She had to expose Lanton and clear her name. For her sister and for the father who never asked, bu
t depended on Jesse to take care of her sister when he knew he wouldn’t be around to watch out after his two daughters, for Green Team, for Martinez, and for Maria.
Chapter Seven
Night always came slow in the city. After leaving the club, Jesse had taken four cabs and two subway rides in a grand circle through Manhattan, and now strode uptown on Seventh Avenue toward her hotel. A shadow flitted across the mouth of an alleyway on her right as if the night hid some creature in the rat-infested darkness. A woman’s cry erupted from the alleyway.
Straight on. Leave town. Get to Amanda. This isn’t your business. Despite the admonition, she slowed and scanned the littered street. Empty. Sunday night on New York’s midtown west side turned into a ghost town. She loved that about this part of the city—until now.
“Where’s a cop when you need one?” she growled.
In a better part of town, her mind responded.
“Let go!” The woman’s cry reverberated between brick buildings lining the alley.
Jesse turned and headed back. She paused at the corner of the building and peered into the alley as she fished a hair-tie from her jeans pocket. Always be prepared was the Girl Scouts motto. Or was that the Boy Scouts? She pulled her hair back in a ponytail, her gaze locking onto several large figures headed deeper into the murky depths located among the dumpsters. One man half dragged, half carried a thin, struggling form into the shadows.
Jesse slipped off her gold bracelet, stuffed it into her pocket, and unsnapped the front catch on her Oscar d’Larenta bra. She never wore such items while on assignment. An assailant could grab the front of a bra or snag a bracelet and pin her in a flash. She yanked the bra straps down her bare arms, glad now for the heat wave that had prompted her to wear a tank top, and dropped the bra on the ground. She glanced heavenward. The half moon hung too low in the sky to be of any help once the men got much father into the alley. Jesse sighed and stepped away from the building.
“Hey!” she shouted.
The men whirled in unison like predators on a hunt. One man had an arm clinched around the woman’s breasts and a hand clamped over her mouth. The others fanned out in a gauntlet between Jesse and the woman.
The hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck tingled. Had the men been a typical street gang, they’d be jostling one other and joking over who would be the first to fuck her. She started to turn back toward the street, but stopped when the girl let out a muffled scream.
She flailed as her captor yanked her off her feet and backed away. “Get lost, lady,” he growled at Jesse.
She silently cursed. The men could be Lanton’s boys and still take down an innocent victim along with her. She advanced, counting five men in addition to the one with the woman. Fair enough. Of course, a single gun could prove a problem even for her Ten Shin Ichi Ryu training. Just like the good old days in Bethesda. A hop, skip and jump from Langley, and one short step from hell. She halted fifteen feet from the men. The tallest measured six-one, the rest were toadies, under five-eight.
One stepped from the group and moved to her right. “Baby doll,” he made kissing noises, “come join the party.” He stood close enough for her to unman him. “You’ve come this far,” he said. “There’s no turning back now.”
How right he was.
The one held the girl backed against the wall, while the remainder of the pack advanced. Cowards, Jesse telepathed. She hated bullies. The thug spun the girl to face him, pressed her against the wall, and groped her breasts. She batted his arm, whimpering loudly.
Three men rushed Jesse. She lashed out with a kick to the man on her right. The familiar crunch of leg bones vibrated beneath her sneaker. He fell with a shriek. She sidestepped the center man, landed a forearm to his back. As he stumbled past, she seized the back of his collar and propelled him downward using his own momentum. His face hit asphalt and he lay immobile in pooling blood.
The thug on the left who had called her baby doll swung a fist. She blocked, forearm to forearm, then wrapped his arm in hers and yanked up. His elbow popped. He dropped to his knees. She pivoted, side-thrust-kicked between his shoulder blades. He bounced off the wall and crumpled onto littered pavement like a limp dishrag.
Jesse scanned the alley. Three down, two to go. One man had melted into the shadows. Mr. Six-One circled her. This one knew something—or thought he did. Toothless took a step forward and gave a low, gravelly laugh. She stood stock-still.
A male voice behind her boomed from the mouth of the alley, “What’s going on?”
Toothless’ gaze broke from her face for a fraction of a second, then he shot forward, punching.
Jesse blocked, blocked, blocked, stepping backward. He tried a roundhouse. She ducked, snapped a punch to his groin. He doubled over. She leaped into the air, right leg extended. Her foot caught his jaw. His head snapped back and he crumpled backwards into a trash bin.
She whirled to face the fool who had yelled, and cursed at sight of the six-foot-three figure pounding down the alley toward her in cowboy boots.
“You idiot!” she shouted. “You could have gotten me killed.”
“What is—”
The cowboy fell back a pace as Toothless burst from the shadow of the dumpster. The thug rammed his shoulder into the cowboy’s ribcage, and a ‘whoof’ of air erupted from his lungs as the two men crashed to the ground. Jesse started toward them, but a muffled cry came from the pitch darkness deeper in the alley. She whirled and squinted, but could discern nothing. With a muttered curse, she glanced over her shoulder to see the cowboy stumbling to his feet beside his prostrate attacker.
“Let’s go!” he yelled, backing up, but Jesse started down the alley. “For God’s sake, lady,” he said with a pronounced southwestern drawl, “are you nuts?”
A low growl, then a woman’s shriek issued from the dark ahead. “Bitch,” a man hissed, and a slap followed.
The cowboy halted his retreat, then started toward Jesse.
“Get out!” she shouted, desperately searching the darkness.
She strained to hear panting or the muted sounds of a scuffle, but only heard the echo of cowboy boots on asphalt. Thug number one lay moaning with a broken leg, number three and Toothless were still out cold. Number Two, the man she had driven into the pavement, had vanished, leaving a blood puddle.
“You want to die here?” Jesse snapped as the cowboy neared.
The hair rose on the back of her neck. She whirled left, but a streaking shadow cut her off from the cowboy. She lunged, but was too far away to reach the thug before the cowboy swung, landing a punch to his attacker’s ribs. Jesse spun even as she felt the disturbance of air behind her. A foot whooshed a hair’s breadth past her face. She pivoted, kicking high, and caught Number Two’s bloody face across the temple. She swung full circle, and landed facing him. A side-thrust-kick to his chest sent him crashing onto his back. The girl shrieked and the cowboy sprinted toward the sound.
“Stop!” Jesse bolted after him.
Idiot. She should leave him to his stupidity.
He halted. She skidded to a halt twenty feet away. No one but the cowboy stood at the dead end. She turned. The lit street at the far end of the alley might as well have been California.
The cowboy turned and advanced. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
Jesse kept her attention on the dense shadows along the walls.
He stopped beside her. “Who are you?”
“Shut up!” she hissed, and crept forward. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she sing-songed. Jesse whirled and knocked a hand from her shoulder before the grip had time to close. “Look, Tex, do us both a favor and shut up. Do that and you might live—” She halted at the unmistakable sound of a gun’s hammer being pulled back.
Chapter Eight
“Get down!” Jesse snaked a foot around the cowboy’s ankle and yanked. He struck the pavement like the Jolly Green Giant.
“What the—” he began as she dropped to a squat beside him.
; He tried to get up, but she seized his shoulder and bent toward his ear, catching a whiff of Drakar as she whispered, “There are two left. One has a gun. Don’t move.”
He tensed under her hold. “A gun? Why didn’t they use it before?”
How to explain? It’s likely they’ve been instructed to take me alive, so the head of one of the most secret government organizations in the U.S. can torture me for information that will incriminate him?
“Who knows?” she replied, wondering what he would think if he knew he was their target. No witnesses would be Lanton’s order, which meant, of course, any unfortunate passers-by.
What do you think of fate, Cowboy?
She waited through a minute of silence.
“Maybe they left,” he whispered.
“I didn’t hear them leave.”
“Surely they won’t kill us,” he said.
Jesse snorted. “Right. Stay here.” She started to push up, but he grabbed her arm.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
She grasped his hand and disengaged his hold. “Look, Tex—”
“Cole,” he corrected.
“What?”
“The name is Cole.”
“All right, Cole. Keep cool. I’m going to try to flush them out.”
She rose and listened. A man moaned somewhere near the street-end of the alley. Jesse crept to the building on her right. Hugging the brick, she took one careful step toward the street before the sound of another trigger being pulled back caused her to freeze. A CO2 air-gun spit. She dropped to the ground as a tranquilizer dart snagged her upper arm before it struck the wall and bounced off.
“What the hell?” Cole exclaimed.
Jesse grabbed her arm and felt slick wetness trickling toward her elbow. “Damn.” Depending upon the drug contained in the dart, she could pass out in a second, or in an hour. Cole shifted, and she realized he was rising. “Stay down!” she ordered, and crawled to him. Her left palm came down on tiny pieces of glass. She bit back a cry.
At Cole’s side, she whispered, “Come on.” She fought a stab of dizziness. Halfway between her and the street stood a cluster of dumpsters. “Let’s see if we can make it to those trash bins.”