A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  She held her breath. She’d just dropped a bombshell.

  “Greenway International?” That came from Bradley Thompson, the CIA’s associate deputy director. He surged forward in his chair. “Are you talking about Sir Jeremy Greene?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thompson shot Carson a look. “You do know who he is, don’t you?”

  Carson found himself bristling for no other reason than Thompson having been a major pain in the ass since they’d been forced to work together—in the spirit of interagency cooperation, of course. While Washington had given him the leadership position, the decision hadn’t stopped Thompson from trying to assert his authority every chance he could, the cocky bastard.

  “I read newspapers,” Carson responded testily.

  “You should read the reports we’ve had on him,” Thompson retorted. “The cleanest thing about him is his Savile Row suits.”

  While Balakirev was a shadowy figure in the underworld of gun-running and smuggling, Kendra knew that Greene was another matter entirely. The Brit graced the business and society pages. He’d had been born into money and had amassed even more. Twenty years ago, he’d been knighted. He’d dined at the White House; slept in the Lincoln bedroom. The public probably believed that sort of prestige made him a good guy. In reality, it just meant he was politically savvy and smart. And his connections hadn’t prevented him from being scrutinized by the CIA, Israeli intelligence, Interpol, and Britain’s own MI5.

  “He’s been suspected of money laundering, drugs, human trafficking, and,” Thompson added significantly, “weapons smuggling.”

  Carson’s mouth tightened. “Our mission is Balakirev.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” snapped Thompson. “Greene changes everything. He’s the big fish. Washington will want to hook him.”

  There’d never been anything resembling friendliness between the two men, but Thompson’s implied threat stripped away the pretense of professional courtesy. The very air in the conference room seemed to shimmer, a desert heat of hostility.

  Kendra watched the men shift their positions. Those still seated now pushed themselves to their feet. The FBI agents joined Carson, while the CIA agents flanked Thompson, like two packs of dogs sizing up each other, ready to fight for their territory. The representatives from the NSA and NSB took a step back, separating themselves from the upcoming confrontation.

  They were Switzerland.

  And I’m a fool, Kendra thought wryly, stepping between these two powerful foes. “We may be able to hook both Balakirev and Greene.” Dangling that carrot made her, once again, the focal point. This time was worse, though, because at least one of the pairs of eyes on her was furious, and they belonged to her current boss.

  “What are you talking about, Agent Donovan?” Carson demanded. The snap in his voice made her flinch.

  “When I realized that Sir Jeremy owned the warehouse Balakirev was using, I took the liberty of tracing his whereabouts. He—”

  “Why?” Carson interrupted, his eyes bright with irritation and suspicion.

  The question threw her for a second. Recovering, she said, “I recognized his name from an agency report I’d read.” In fact, she’d read the report eleven months ago, but her memory had never been an issue. While it wasn’t quite eidetic, it came pretty damn close. “Greene filed a flight plan from Heathrow yesterday. His private jet touched down at JFK this morning at three a.m. He was picked up by a limousine and taken to his penthouse on Park Avenue.”

  Thompson stared at her. “Greene’s in New York?”

  Carson scowled. “He has nothing to do with our mission, which remains Balakirev.”

  Kendra didn’t need him to emphasize the Russian’s name to know that Carson was warning her. Jesus H. Christ, this was probably how it felt to find yourself in the middle of a minefield. Her stomach churned. One wrong step . . . “Greene is scheduled to be at the Brooklyn warehouse today at four p.m.”

  Thompson sucked in a breath. He looked like a man who’d just found God. “How’d you know that?”

  “He uses a smartphone.”

  Carson didn’t look like he’d found God—he looked coldly furious. But at that bit of information, he snorted. “For a smart man, that’s pretty stupid.” Even he knew that wireless technology, no matter how many layers of security measures one stacked on, could be infiltrated. Especially by somebody like Kendra Donovan.

  “Not stupid—arrogant,” corrected Kendra.

  There was a short, heavily charged silence. Thompson threw her a speculative glance—it wasn’t the first one he’d given her in the past eight months—before turning his attention back to Carson. “If we can get Greene on record consorting with a known terrorist, that’s a fucking big deal. If we can hook him, we could blow apart not only Balakirev’s operation, but a hundred more like it. We’ll need him alive.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer before pulling out his cell phone. As he moved off to the far end of the conference room, the stony-faced CIA agents broke away to stand near their leader.

  Carson gritted his teeth. Diplomacy may be the watchword in Washington these days, but he knew Thompson was just salivating to take over the operation. His operation.

  He turned back to his own agents. “If we’re going to take them both down, we need to work fast. Sheppard, get me the blueprints for that warehouse. I want the layout, security. Two teams, plus FBI SWAT. Donovan, coordinate with HAZMAT.” He swung away, striding toward the door, and slid a fiery glance at Thompson. “I’ll call Langley.”

  No, Kendra thought. There was no way they were going to keep her from the front lines when this operation went down. She raced after Carson. “Sir. Sir?”

  Carson gave her an impatient look. “In case it’s escaped your attention, Special Agent Donovan, we don’t have a lot of time here.”

  “Yes, sir. I want to be in on the final phase of the operation.” Kendra fixed her gaze on his. “I’m not a computer geek,” she reminded him, and again had to fight to keep her voice steady. But she was tired, so damned tired of having to prove herself. When she’d first joined the FBI, they’d taken one look at her and stuck her behind a desk. She’d fought hard for a chance in the field. To prove herself. The chance to be treated like everybody else.

  Yeah, as if.

  Her stomach knotted, but she refused to look away from the assistant director as he scowled. “I’ve been trained for the field—I’ve been in the field,” she pointed out. “You know that. You know I can handle myself.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Carson growled.

  “She got Greene . . . and Balakirev.” Thompson, who’d been standing near the window, pocketed his cell phone and now strode toward them. Something in his demeanor suggested that he didn’t give a damn whether the woman went on the mission or not—he just liked pissing off Carson. “We’re wasting time. You may have been put in charge—” Despite his best effort, irritation sizzled to the surface. Bureaucratic bullshit, to give jurisdiction to the fucking FBI. “—but we need to lock this down. Today. If you can’t, the FBI can kiss my ass, because I won’t have you screwing this up.”

  He shouldered his way past them, disappearing out the door. The three CIA agents followed. They were too well-trained to smirk, but by the gleam in their eyes, Kendra got the impression they were smirking all the same.

  Carson glared at the departing men. Fucking spooks. Then his gaze shifted back to Kendra. Thompson was right—and he’d eat nails before admitting it—but they were wasting time.

  “Fine,” he spit out. If there was one thing he’d learned in the last eight months, it was that Kendra could take care of herself. She’d been born to win. Literally.

  “Sir?”

  Carson gave Sheppard a narrow-eyed look as he approached. “What is it, Agent?”

  “Well, I am a computer geek . . . but I’d also like to be part of the final phase of the operation. I’ve had field experience.”

  “I don’t have fucking time for thi
s!” Carson snapped. “Fine—we’re all in on the final phase. Happy? Now I want those goddamn blueprints! We’ve got five hours to finish this mission. We need eyes and ears in the warehouse so we can hook Greene and fucking nail Balakirev. No one leaves this building. No one takes a piss without my permission. I want Balakirev by nightfall or all your asses are on the line.”

  Kendra was careful not to smile, but she felt triumphant. She’d won.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  2

  At somewhere north of 2.6 million residents, Brooklyn was the most densely populated borough in New York City. Even so, there were isolated pockets within the big, bustling city that made it feel eerily deserted. The warehouse in which Balakirev had made his base and that Sir Jeremy owned was in one of those pockets, too far from prime waterfront real estate to entice developers to tidy up the area and create upscale condos and lofts, cute little boutiques, and quaint restaurants.

  Here, it was still gray and grimy. Beneath the swath of overcast sky, bunker-like structures and Quonsets lined the dingy streets. A scattering of semitrucks were parked next to warehouse loading docks, but it was Sunday, so the normally frenetic hustle was reduced to those tired souls anxious to clock out and get home to maybe crack open a beer and veg out in front of whatever game was playing on television. Thanks to Team One, the perimeter around the target was clear.

  Kendra surveyed the scene from inside the Batmobile—the military van with souped-up technology that only the U.S. government could afford. Less than a mile away from where they sat, Kendra imagined the city pulsing with life, vibrant and wonderfully chaotic: people strolling, chatting, having a late afternoon coffee or early dinner at the small restaurants that dotted the streets.

  Being normal.

  Just for a second, wistfulness welled up inside Kendra. It shook her. Or more aptly, the wanting of it shook her. Normal was something she’d never had, never been. Didn’t know how to be. And because she didn’t know how to be normal, she chose to be good—very, very good.

  “Nervous?”

  She glanced up at Sheppard, who was squished next to her. He looked different, tricked out as they all were in a black military flak jacket, helmet, and tactical gloves, and carrying the standard-issue SIG Sauer. Prior to that moment, the deadliest object she’d ever seen in Sheppard’s right hand was a computer mouse. Though after eight months of working side-by-side with him, watching as he hunted in cyberspace, Kendra knew that Sheppard with a computer mouse in his hand could be pretty damn deadly.

  She smiled slightly. “No. You?”

  “Shit, yeah. I haven’t been out in the field in six years.”

  “Why’d you come then?”

  He grinned, blue eyes twinkling. “Maybe I wanted to see you in action. See what everyone’s talking about.”

  It’s a joke. She knew that. Yet her stomach clenched.

  “Just keep your ass out of my way, Sheppard,” smirked Allan O’Brien, the youngest man on the task force. He gave Kendra a wink. “I don’t want some newbie screwing this up. Balakirev’s mine.”

  “Your fat ass, he is,” Terry Landon shot back. “I’m team leader. Twenty that I’ll be the first to put a bullet in him?”

  Sheppard grimaced and shook his head. “You guys are such assholes, betting on a man’s life.”

  “He’s not a man—he’s a fucking terrorist,” Bill Noone growled.

  “Make that a fifty and you’re on,” grinned O’Brien.

  “Just remember, we want Greene alive,” Kendra reminded them.

  “Thompson wants him alive,” O’Brien smirked.

  “Fuck Thompson,” Noone said, and several of the men snickered. “This isn’t a CIA operation.”

  “Fifty that I’ll be the first to put nonlethal bullets into both bastards,” Landon revised.

  “Make that fifty and a date with Kendra.” Noone shot her a lopsided, lascivious grin. It didn’t matter that he was, at forty-nine, old enough to be her father, and married, to boot.

  She shot him a cool look. “Funny. I don’t remember putting myself on the auction block, Noone.”

  “Ah, come on, sweetheart. Everybody needs an incentive.”

  Deliberately, Kendra lifted the hand that held the SIG Sauer, weighed it with silky ease. “Just how much incentive do you need?”

  Noone laughed, throwing up his hands. “My mama told me never to argue with a woman packing a pistol—or a fucking machine gun.”

  “Wise woman.”

  “You realize when this op goes down, we’re done,” Sheppard said suddenly, looking around the circle of faces. “The task force will be disbanded.”

  “No more fucking takeout on Saturday night,” O’Brien said. “No offense—but the only mug I’m gonna miss seeing is Kendra’s.”

  “Bet your wife will be glad when this is over then,” said Noone.

  Landon stretched and grinned. “After this is over, I’m gonna celebrate on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean. Flirting with hot island babes and drinking rum out of a fucking coconut.”

  “Yeah, what about your wife, Terry?” O’Brien laughed.

  “She can stay home.”

  The van’s side door rolled open, and Carson heaved himself up into the tight quarters. Like the rest of the team, he wore the military uniform, though he was only supervising the operation from inside the van with the five-member tech team.

  “We’ve got Greene talking about the ricin with Balakirev,” he informed them, keeping his voice neutral even though he wanted to rub his hands together. “Twenty-one body signatures have been identified in the warehouse. We’ve ascertained that Balakirev and Greene are two of the four in the room at the top of the stairs. The other two are probably Greene’s bodyguards. SWAT will take the lead, but Washington wants the bastard alive.”

  “Which bastard?”

  “Greene, dammit. D.C. seems to think the guy with the money is the most dangerous,” he said.

  “Washington wants to flip him,” Kendra commented, and then wished she’d kept her mouth shut when Carson scowled at her.

  “If I want your expertise on Washington politics, I’ll ask for it, Special Agent Donovan,” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah . . . is there any indication if the ricin is in the warehouse?” asked O’Brien.

  Carson shook his head. “No. But you’ll be given self-contained breathing masks, which will protect you if it’s released as a mist. We’ve also got HAZMAT and medical units standing by.”

  “They want to sell the ricin,” Kendra said, “which means it’s most likely in pellet or powder form. As long as you don’t put anything strange into your mouths, you’ll be fine.”

  She’d meant to be reassuring, but O’Brien frowned. “And if you’re wrong?”

  “If I’m wrong . . . then get to the HAZMAT team as quickly as possible. Get out of your clothes, wash down . . .” Her voice trailed away. She didn’t have to remind them that there was no antidote to ricin poisoning. If they were unlucky enough to get a dose of the toxin—even an amount so small that it could fit on the head of a pin—they were as good as dead. They’d have four to eight hours before they came down with flu-like symptoms—congestion, respiratory distress before collapsing in muscle pain, fever, nausea—finally ending with a one-way trip to the city morgue.

  It wouldn’t be pleasant, but there were worse ways to go, Kendra thought. Like the Ebola virus. Now that was a truly ghastly death. But she didn’t think anyone wanted to hear that, so she kept quiet.

  “Shit. My one chance at seeing you naked, Kendra, and I’m not even looking forward to it.” Landon shot her a wicked grin.

  She ignored him. “I’m not wrong. Balakirev and Greene aren’t in this for ideological reasons. They are, for wont of a better word, businessmen.”

  “Well, fuck me! Here I’m thinking we’re taking down a couple of terrorists.” Noone gave a derisive snort. “Is he gonna have his Palm Pilot out? Maybe Balakirev’s giving Greene a
fucking PowerPoint presentation in there. Shit, maybe we can all learn something before we blow the fucker’s kneecaps off.”

  Kendra’s mouth tightened at the sarcasm, but she said evenly, “Balakirev’s a cold-blooded bastard. He doesn’t give a shit about the innocent victims who are harmed by what he’s doing. But neither do some corporate CEOs who are aware their products are killing people and yet choose to look the other way because of the bottom line—”

  “If you’re gonna go all bleeding heart liberal on us, Kendra, and actually defend a terrorist—”

  “I’m not defending him,” Kendra responded sharply, temper rising. She pulled it back with an effort. “I’m simply stating a fact. Balakirev and Greene are in this for money. For greed. They’re not going to want to die.”

  “Yeah, I read your profile,” Noone muttered. “Maybe you can do a Wall Street Journal article after this is over. Greed is good, right?”

  Kendra narrowed her eyes. “It’s good for us. If either Balakirev or Greene think they’re finished, they’ll want to deal. They’re narcissistic personalities—Greene especially. There’s no way he’s going to risk his precious skin in a potentially toxic environment. This is essentially a business meeting.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right, Agent Donovan,” said Carson. He glanced down at his watch and felt the zing of adrenaline. It was time. “I don’t want any itchy trigger fingers.” He looked at each agent. “You’ve been briefed on how Washington wants this to go down. C’mon.”

  He reached over, rolled the door open, and jumped down. His boots crunched on the gritty pavement. “I’ll introduce you to the SWAT team commander. Then you’re on your own. Don’t screw up.”

  Jonathon Vale, the head of the FBI SWAT team, looked like he’d stepped out of a cyborg movie, his tough, muscular body clad in a dark uniform and loaded down with bulky equipment. It weighed at least forty pounds, but he moved easily back and forth as he instructed the special task force on what exactly he expected of them—namely, to stay the fuck out of his team’s way.