Fatal Truth: Shadow Force International

by Misty Evans

  The library’s bank of computers was near the front desk and she didn’t have a library card. The evening clerk was a young college kid busy putting books away and didn’t even notice her slip into a seat.

  The password was easy to guess and she was on the Internet in seconds. Less than a minute later, she stepped back outside and dialed the number for Rock Star Security.

  Chapter Twelve

  _____________________

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  “LINDSEY?” SAVANNA PULLED up short. The girl was in her chair at the stylist booth. “What are you doing?”

  Gone were the headphones normally around her neck. Gone were the skinny jeans and cheesy T-shirt. “I, um…” she sputtered, running a hand down the green power suit she was wearing. Her face was made-up, the stylist in mid-tease with a lock of Lindsey’s hair. Both women stared at Savanna, frozen.

  Lindsey tried for a smile. It fell flat. “You’re here.”

  One of the runners, a kid younger than Lindsey who was showing the evening’s script to her, backed away and took off for parts unknown.

  “Of course I’m here,” Savanna said. “Coldplay wanted increased security tonight, so I got held up at the gate getting everyone badges, but it’s sixty minutes until show time. I need to get ready. Why are you in my chair?”

  “Well, you and your bodyguard took off with that other man and then you didn’t show up by the time I got here.” She glanced at the stylist as if looking for backup. “Which believe me, was no easy task since that stupid limo driver kicked me out. She held a gun to my face! Can you believe it?”

  Coldplay was suddenly next to Savanna. “A gun?”

  Lindsey nodded, all cat eyes and too much lipstick. “I reported her. She was a psycho. I’m so glad you weren’t in the limo, Savanna!”

  A gun. The limo driver had held a gun on Lindsey? Holy shit.

  “She? It was a woman? What did she look like?” Coldplay asked. “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “Duh, she looked like a limo driver, black coat, white shirt, a hat. The usual. She wanted to know what your name was and then ordered me out of the car. The limo service is investigating.”

  Savanna shot Coldplay a look. His face gave away nothing, but his body—oh, boy. Rigid as steel, the menace radiating off him enough to make Savanna want to take a step back. What was up with that? Was the limo driver after her or Coldplay? “Long-lost girlfriend?” Savanna asked him.

  Coldplay’s Adam’s apple lifted and fell. He didn’t look at her. The Rock Star bodyguard with them, a beefy guy who went by the name Poison, tapped his back. “I’m on it,” he said, pulling out his phone and fading into the background while typing.

  Lindsey shifted in the chair, directing her focus back to Savanna. Several people had gathered on the fringes. “When I arrived and you weren’t here, Savanna, someone had to fill in, and…well…”

  Savanna felt a spark of anger flare to life during the ensuing silence. “Well, what?” she forced herself to say.

  The hair stylist started teasing again as if pretending she couldn’t hear the conversation. Lindsey’s voice went whisper-quiet even though there was no way the gathering crowd couldn’t hear her. “Mariah killed the Westmeyer investigation and asked me to take your place tonight to do the Hopland segment.”

  “She did what?”

  Lindsey sat up straighter. “I wrote the script. I talked to Dr. Hopland today like you were supposed to, and now, I’m the one who’s going to interview her on tonight’s show along with her counterpart, Dr. Tegeler, who claims post-traumatic growth is not a result of stress or trauma, but a result of personality traits. You’ve had a rough day and Mariah wants you to take some time off. I’m filling in.”

  Savanna took a step forward, anger morphing into a strange kind of fear. Cable news was a cutthroat business, and although she’d built her show into an award-winning program, she could lose her show to this woman in an instant. Lose control of her own show to the network.

  All the work she’d done over the past five years came down to this single moment.

  A warm hand fell on her arm, holding her back and snapping her out of the gripping fear. Coldplay gave her a knowing look and a squeeze.

  She got his message. This wasn’t Lindsey’s doing. The president had gotten to the network’s owners. If he couldn’t stop Savanna with the threat of bodily harm, he was going to take away her platform.

  She didn’t shrug off Coldplay’s hand even though she desperately wanted to. “It’s my show,” she ground out, the same feeling of helplessness she’d experienced at fourteen when she’d had to quit the Olympics, slamming into her full force. “Mariah can’t kill the Westmeyer investigation.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so adamant about that stupid drug company being a cover for something else,” Lindsey said. “Besides, people are tired of hearing about drug company scandals. They want their pills, end of story, and the fact that Westmeyer Industries is funding the president’s election coffers is hardly news.”

  This was why Lindsey would never make a good investigative reporter. She didn’t have the nose for a story or the deep motivation to hunt for one. Savanna took a breath and forced her voice to soften. “Lindsey, you’re great behind the camera and I appreciate all the work you’ve done on Hopland, but you don’t have experience in front of the camera or with reporting.”

  “Wrong.” Lindsey’s face morphed into something else. Something mature and confident. “I anchored a campus news show in college. An award-winning news show. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready. You really should go talk to Mariah.”

  For half a second, Savanna entertained the idea of physically hauling Lindsey out of the chair. She checked herself; the woman had done nothing wrong. She was ambitious and Savanna couldn’t fault her for that, but the sting of betrayal soured on her tongue. Had this been Lindsey’s plan all along? To get in good with Savanna and end up in front of the camera?

  Good play, Lindsey, but this isn’t over. Savanna raised her chin, shrugged off Coldplay’s hand, and went to find the show’s chief executive.

  Coldplay fell into step beside her as she forced the crowd that had gathered to part and let her pass through.

  “You should consider a temporary retreat,” he said, once they were clear.

  Savanna’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she hustled out of the dressing area and entered the hallway leading to the executive offices. God, she’d spent so much time here, she didn’t know what she’d do if she lost it all. This was her life, her everything, and she’d killed herself time and time again to make sure she was giving the American public a good show. A real show. If she lost this now…

  A hard lump formed in her throat. I will not lose my own show.

  In the hall, several people passed by her and Coldplay, some lifting their brows at the sight of her—or maybe him; he was an imposing figure—and then their gazes darting away just as quickly.

  They know. All of them. Word about Lindsey’s new assignment had spread fast.

  “You’re kidding, right?” she muttered to Coldplay as they passed a key grip. “Lindsey doing my show? What are they thinking?”

  He waited for a janitor to pass by with a mop and bucket, then lowered his voice to match hers. “They aren’t going to let you do the story about Westmeyer if the president got to them. You could lose your job. Maybe it’s best to throw in the towel tonight and still have a job tomorrow.”

  He didn’t understand. She couldn’t explain. Not without revealing the deep, dark secret she’d kept hidden away all these years. The reason she’d gone into investigative reporting in the first place. The reason she needed to bring the truth to America every week.

  But maybe she could at least convey why this was so important to her.

  Stopping to face him, she rubbed the back of her neck where the knot was still tight. The hallway was relatively empty now, except for the janitor who was scrubbi
ng at a stain on the floor. “This show is my voice to the American public. They trust me. If I back down every time someone threatens me, if I only do foo-foo reporting and overdramatize stories that have no real impact, I become nothing more than a talking head. I no longer have value as a journalist. I lose my voice, and in turn, the American people lose theirs. So while it’s true that I might get fired, I’d rather be fired than give up my integrity. Do you understand that?”

  He closed his eyes for a second as if debating with himself. “Yeah, I get it.”

  She started marching for the end of the hall again. He followed. Lights shone behind the frosted glass door of the chief executive’s reception area. As Savanna burst in, Mariah’s receptionist glanced up, eyes widening. “Savanna. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  “Hi Chrissy. I need to talk to Mariah. ASAP.”

  “I’m sorry, she’s in a meeting.”

  Sure she was. “How convenient. Give her a message for me, will you? I’m doing the show tonight, and although I’m happy to report the Hopland segment, I will be revisiting the Westmeyer investigation next week.”

  Turning on her heel, Savanna marched back out the door to where Coldplay waited in the hall.

  His voice was low as he spoke. “While I appreciate your gumption, and I’m all for standing up for your job, I think we’re going to have to leave the show to Lindsey anyway.”

  “Why is that?”

  He moved so fast she barely had time to react. Grabbing her, he whirled her around to pin her against the wall as something smacked into the green paint above their heads and plaster rained down.

  THE NEWS NEVER slept and neither did the studio. Eight o’clock in the evening and there were dozens of people filing around, chasing leads, prepping for the next on-air segment, positioning cameras, lights, and microphones.

  So when Trace had cataloged the janitor as he and Savanna made their way to the executive office suite, he hadn’t thought it out of the norm for the guy to be present in the hall. When a business was open 24/7, cleaning people didn’t have the luxury of working without employees being in their way.

  The man was dressed in a gray-blue jumpsuit with a name badge hanging from his neck. The thing that had pinged Trace’s brain to take another look as he stood just outside the door to the executive office waiting for Savanna to do her thing was the way the guy moved the mop in his hands.

  Mopping, vacuuming, shoveling…it all had to do with weight distribution. Much like throwing a punch or handling a rifle on the move. The upper body had to move while the lower body stayed grounded.

  The janitor, who was really an assassin, had probably never used a mop in his life. He hadn’t even bothered to wring it out before going to work on the stained floor, dumping a large puddle of water on the tiles, which he then tried to mop up.

  As the first cluster of bullets embedded themselves in the wall above his and Savanna’s heads, Trace had already covered her and was in the process of shoving her back into the office suite. “Take cover,” he commanded as he pushed her inside and touched the comm unit in his ear to notify his fellow SFI members he was engaging the enemy. “Shots fired. Northwest section of office building, top floor.”

  Someone radioed back that they were on their way, but Trace’s brain was focused on the immediate threat. Eliminate.

  In one fluid motion, he slammed the office door shut to protect Savanna and the receptionist, did a roll, and avoided the next spray of bullets whizzing by his head by a slim margin.

  It was no small-caliber gun the man was using, but also not anything as big as an M4. Just a handgun he’d had hidden in the baggy pocket of the jumpsuit.

  Trace felt the weight of his own gun under his arm but he didn’t need it. With lightning speed, he advanced on the man, picking up a plant in a Grecian urn and tossing it at him. The man jumped back and stooped into a crouch to fire off another round as the urn exploded near his feet.

  The water on the tiles had turned the floor under the man’s feet slick. He lost his balance for a split second, needing to right himself before he could once again aim for Trace’s head.

  Trace already had a nearby table in his hands, the brochures it had held falling like rain onto the floor. The cherry wood was solid and heavy but wouldn’t deflect a 40-caliber round. What it did do was provide another distraction as Trace heaved it at the man.

  The assassin had no choice but to get out of the way. Once again, the water was his undoing. His work shoes squeaked as they skidded out from under him when he tried to jump sideways. He slammed against the opposite wall, firing random shots, the table missing him by inches.

  End it. Trace grabbed a framed picture of the network’s owner off the wall just as the door at the end of the hall opened. The assassin glanced over to see who was joining them, ready to shoot, and Trace let the picture fly, Frisbee-style.

  The sharp edge of the metal frame met the man’s neck, laying it open. It crashed to the floor, shattering glass. Blood gushed from the assassin’s carotid artery and he fired one last random shot into the ceiling as he grabbed for his neck and fell to his knees. Still holding the gun, his mouth worked but nothing came out as he toppled over and twitched twice before he was gone.

  Emit Petit stepped through the open door, kicking away the dying man’s gun and standing over him for a second, looking at the blood and broken glass. He raised his gaze to Trace. “You killed him with a picture frame?”

  Trace shrugged, adrenaline fueling his limbs with a warm, pleasant hum. “Guns are so yesterday.”

  One of his fellow Rock Stars, now called Megadeath, sidled up to Emit and stared at the damage. “Nice,” he said to Trace with a crooked grin on his face. “You’re gonna have to teach me that trick.”

  “Coldplay?” a shaky voice said from behind him and Trace turned to find a white-faced Savanna standing in the doorway. Peeking over her shoulder was the receptionist.

  Emit stepped over the body, careful to avoid the blood and the lingering water on the tiles. “When you give your statement, it was self-defense and you were protecting our client. For now, I’ll clean this up and take care of the red tape.” He tossed the keys to his Escalade to Trace. “Take Savanna to HQ. Poison’s outside. He’ll go with you and we’ll regroup shortly.”

  “Oh, God,” Savanna said, her focus on the dead man. “He tried to kill me. To kill you.” Her wide eyes rose to meet Trace’s. “For real this time.”

  The receptionist slapped a hand over her mouth and disappeared back inside the office. Trace heard the sounds of her vomiting as he reached for Savanna and positioned his body to block her view. There was only one way out and it involved getting her across the blood, water, and dead assassin, but she didn’t need to burn the image into her brain.

  He’d seen so much of this type of thing, he was immune to it. Someone like Savanna wasn’t. “Ms. Bunkett is unavailable for tonight’s show,” he called to the receptionist. “She’ll be in touch when she’s ready to resume her duties.”

  Several people appeared in the doorway at the other end of the hall, Megadeath blocked their entrance. Petit was already dialing the authorities.

  Trace took Savanna’s hand and brought her in close. “Time to go. Stay next to me and do exactly what I say.”

  She nodded weakly. Her fingers were ice cold, her teeth chattering. She’d been through too much in one day.

  And the day wasn’t over.

  Chapter Thirteen

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  THE ROOM WAS warm, a fire going in the fireplace, but Savanna couldn’t stop shaking.

  Beatrice draped a soft blanket over her shoulders. It radiated a comforting heat as if it had been warmed in a dryer or lying on a radiator. “It’s the shock,” she said. A second later, she handed Savanna a cup of tea. “Drink this. It will take the edge off.”

  Snow fell lightly outside; the lights of DC spread out below. Coldplay had a
ssured her the windows were bulletproof and no one could see inside, but Savanna turned away from the view and sipped her tea anyway, a strange exposed feeling sending another ripple through her taut nerves.

  Beatrice’s office was different at night. The gas log fireplace burned in one corner and soft light pooled on her desk from her desk lamp. A set of antique floor lamps gave the rest of the room a warm glow.

  Even with the blanket and tea, Savanna couldn’t warm up. “I’ve never been shot at,” she said, still feeling out of sorts.

  “Welcome to the club.” Beatrice sat at her desk and started typing on her computer keyboard. “Unnerving, isn’t it?”

  “Someone tried to kill you?”

  “More than once. Hopefully, never again. I don’t like it.”

  She was so deadpan, Savanna almost laughed. “I don’t care for it either.”

  Beatrice glanced over and the two shared a smile.

  The door opened and Coldplay burst in, Emit Petit on his heels with a folder in his hand. “Cops cleared us,” Emit said. “The bullets lodged in the walls and ceiling helped, along with the receptionist’s testimony.” He slapped the folder down on Beatrice’s desk. “Guy’s name was Russo. Lenny Russo. He’s been employed by the janitorial service and working at the station for the past six weeks. Background check dies out three years back.”

  Coldplay stopped in front of Savanna and her insides warmed instantly.

  “How are you doing?” he said, touching her shoulder.

  The shaking subsided. “Better.” And she was. The sight of him calmed her nerves in a way the blanket and tea never would. She’d spoken to the detective who’d taken her statement after the traffic accident. Probably the same officer Coldplay and Emit had just finished with.

  Beatrice tapped the mouse pad, never taking her eyes from the screen. “So Russo was a plant to keep eyes on Savanna.”