“Great. Thanks, Cooper.” He smiled and headed toward the elevator, making a mental note to buy that guy a beer next time he got the chance. It wasn’t like him to meet up with the staff after work, but good work always needed rewarding.
The elevator pinged, and Terry got out, making his way toward the director’s office. “He got a moment?” Terry asked the large and supremely intelligent personal assistant.
She didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle. “What’s that?”
“Can I go in?” Terry said slower, for her benefit.
“Oh. Sure.” The woman—whose name kept slipping Terry’s mind—picked up the phone, pressed a button, and buzzed him in. She resumed her crossword puzzle without another word.
The office smelled of oak and shoe polish—an odd combination but a pleasant one nonetheless. Terry crossed the large room and took a seat without being asked, as was their unspoken rule. The director of the FBI, despite being an old-fashioned sort of man, had made his feelings on such manners more than clear: a useless waste of time when you can quite simply sit, he had a habit of saying.
“Davenport,” he said.
Terry looked at the antique desk in front of him. “Yes, sir. I think it is.”
The director laughed, choking on his own chuckle. He was getting on in years now. “What can I do you for?”
Terry handed him the letter and watched his employer look it over. “More rumors of the Agency. I’d like permission to search the building.”
But the director handed it straight back. “No need to waste time chasing shadows.” It was dismissive and clear, and Terry was expected to leave.
He wouldn’t.
“Sir, I took this from a police sergeant. I was out of line, admittedly, but maybe this will change your mind…” He told his boss all about the visit from Robbie Parker, and the leads he’d been given. “All I ask is one chance. If it comes to nothing, I’ll lure Robbie and Salinger into a dead end. You can even take the credit for their arrests.” He didn’t know if he would be able to bring himself to do that, but bluffs cost nothing.
The director studied him, hiding his mouth behind his folded hands with his Rolex sparkling in the light. When he finally lowered them, he cleared his throat and said, “You know how many agents have died pursuing this?”
Died? No, he’d had no idea that anyone had died, much less a great number. To the best of his knowledge, it was a case that barely got opened wide enough for any information to fall from. “With all due respect, sir, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
His employer huffed and slumped back in his chair, assessing him once again. “You’re not my best agent, Davenport. That said, you’re not my worst one either. But you know what your problem is?”
“My line of work?”
The man snickered. “You have a sense of humor, and I like it, but it’s not going to save your life.” He got to his feet slowly and went to the window. He looked down at the passing of cars and whatever else he could see from there, which probably wasn’t much.
Terry had been waiting for him to add to his previous comment, but he never did. “All the same, sir, I just ask that you let me search the building. See, I have good reason to believe that these are the Agency’s headquarters.”
That made his head snap around, his eyes narrowing on him like when a bird spots a worm. “I… ugh.” He sat back down, looking Terry in the eye. “I can’t give you a warrant for this. I simply cannot permit you to search that building, Davenpor—”
“Sir, I beg you to recons—”
“However,” the director went on, frowning at the interruption, “my memory isn’t quite what it used to be. One week from now, who’ll even remember we had this conversation, hmm?” There was a smile creeping into the corner of his mouth.
Terry got the message. He tried to stifle his own grin, but it was easier said than done. He’d always liked his employer and would be sad to see him retire. “Sir.” He nodded, leaned over the desk to offer a firm handshake, and went for the door with his head held high.
“Davenport,” the director called.
Terry stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
He nodded and left the room, but was making no promises.
Chapter Ten
Blake usually ate alone, which was what made today so different.
He’d been sitting in his quarters, quite prepared to give his meal a miss this time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry—his days were jam-packed with physical assessments, teamwork activities, and timed strategy scenarios; he managed to work up quite an appetite—but he was sick to death of eating meat. Every day there was chicken or beef, both of which were apparently a good source of protein. It seemed to be working though. His muscles were getting noticeably harder and larger all the time. Getting into shape was something he’d always wanted to do but had never quite gotten around to. But this was it now; he had to spend his life either maintaining it or letting it soften into useless fat.
At around five, he was summoned from his quarters by Houston, who still thought himself too good to give anything other than a sneer. He led Blake downstairs without telling him why, then showed him into the dining room, where he’d first met Charlie.
Blake realized it was also where… Greg.
“Come and sit yourself down,” Charlie said to him.
Blake shook off the déjà vu and approached, pulling out a seat across from his new boss. “I don’t feel like eating,” he said, as if that was why he’d been called in.
“Nonsense.” Charlie flapped his hand dismissively.
Blake caught sight of Houston coming in and closing the door behind him. His eyes didn’t leave Blake the entire time. He was like a jealous puppy, refusing to leave his master’s side. “Then what?” He turned back to Charlie.
Charlie dropped the soup-stained spoon into the bowl and pushed it to one side. After dabbing his mouth with a napkin, he produced a thick brown file from the seat beside him. “You’re doing pretty well, I think. Would you agree?” He opened the file and flicked through it.
For a moment, Blake wondered if it might be the file on his mother. The one he’d requested time after time. But somehow he simply knew it wouldn’t be. “I’m coping, I guess. I’m finding it all pretty tiring, to be honest.”
Charlie ignored him, studying the papers in front of him. A photograph of Rachel—her passport mugshot—slid out, and he quickly slid it back in without even glancing up.
“I was actually thinking that maybe I could take some time off. You know, a couple of days to just lounge around, read a novel or two, and just rest up. I’ve been worked to the bone, you know. And with Christmas coming up—”
“We’ll get to that. Look at this.” He slid the papers across the desk and sat back with a serious expression on his face, waiting for a reaction of some sort.
Blake took the papers and shuffled through them. There was an awful lot of legal jargon that went way over his head. He’d always considered himself relatively bright, but the law wasn’t his forte.
When he got to a picture of a man—nearing sixty with a large face and eyes that offered both authority and humility—he stopped and read. There were details such as his name, address, history of employment (which went on for over twenty pages), and Blake skimmed over the information, finding nothing. “What did I miss?”
“His name is Terrence Davenport. He’s FBI.”
The name rang a bell. As Blake tried to figure out where he’d heard it before, it suddenly clicked; it was the name Houston had mentioned when he’d interrupted his training. “Okay,” Blake said, fearing where this might lead.
“He’s becoming a pain in my ass, Salinger,” Charlie said. It was like he was dropping a hint, rather than just getting to the point.
It drove Blake wild. “I can imagine he is,” he said.
“So,” Charlie went on, giving up on waiting. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Sit down before we put you down,” Charlie said, raising his voice just a touch.
Blake hesitated, then obeyed. His eyes went to Houston and back again.
“You’re ready for the field, whether you feel like it or not. This man needs taking out, and I think it’d be a great place for you to start. He’s not important enough to be missed—FBI agents go missing all the time, we see to that. But he’s not scum either. Just an average Joe whose head is peering too far into our little rabbit hole.”
Blake felt himself shaking. He’d known this moment would come sooner or later, but he hadn’t imagined it would be this soon. “What if I say no?” he dared to ask. He was expecting some kind of threatening response, such as “then you can die” or “then you’re of no use to the Agency,” but no such words were spoken.
“Well.” Charlie leaned to the chair on his left and heaved two larger files onto the table. “You can try this one; a pyromaniac in Chicago. Your old man has dealt with similar cases before. Quite effectively, I might add.” He slid another file across to Blake, quickly touching the scar on his throat. “A dirty police officer in Madrid, then? Look, we’re trying to do some good here by stopping the people who harm others. You will have to kill someday, Salinger. It’s a simple step that we’ve all had to take.”
While his heart played a ballad inside his chest, Blake considered his options. The latter two sounded far more dangerous than this FBI agent. He thumbed back through the file, looking at a photograph of Terrence Davenport’s wife. She was heavyset, and her big, green eyes were full of life. He couldn’t imagine leaving her a widow.
But did he really have a say in the matter?
“Well?” Charlie urged.
“If I do this, I want to read about my mom.”
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Not this again. What is this obsession you have with your mother? Isn’t it enough to know that your dad got her killed?”
“No. You promised me—”
Charlie thumped on the table, the bowl and spoon leaping a half-inch off the wood. “I didn’t use the word promise. I simply suggested you could look into it if you had the resources.” His face was reddening. It was like he was a completely different person, a sweaty-haired, furious animal who couldn’t control his temper. But then he sat back and adjusted his tie. He held up a palm.
“You…” Blake chose his words carefully. “Sir,” he tried a different approach, “may I please see the report that details my mother’s death? I feel like it would be a big motivator for me. Now, if you say no, I will totally understand and never ask again. But if you even give me a quick look at it, I would have so much more reason to trust you. Surely you understand my skepticism?”
Charlie sighed. “All right, all right. Here’s the deal; you take care of this,” he pointed his finger into the FBI folder, harpooning it like kebab meat, “and the file is yours. That’s the best you’re going to get. So, what do you say?”
It was as tough a call as any. Blake had the option of trying to run, of course, though he didn’t believe he would get very far. If he spent some time figuring out the schematics of the building, he might stand a chance of getting out. And then if he found his father, he wouldn’t have to kill anyone, and he could be free from this new life of his.
On the other hand…
Police sirens rang inside his head, and he remembered the life he’d led while on the run. Perhaps he didn’t want to go back after all. He could stay here and be fed well and looked after, and eventually he would find out the truth about his mother. Even if an FBI agent’s life was the cost.
“Okay,” Blake said, taking a deep breath. “You have a deal.”
Chapter Eleven
Val stood and exchanged his last few words with Frank as Robbie and Jackie went to warm up the van. It was first thing in the morning, that space between night and sunrise when the dark is just easing off and the colors have yet to appear in the sky. The cold was forcing its way through his skin, persistent in causing pain to his joints.
“You got everything you need?” Frank stood with his arms folded, leaning against the dust-covered bar counter and struggling to keep his eyes open. He was dressed in a navy-blue robe that looked regal. It didn’t suit him.
“Yes, thank you. I’m so sorry to have dropped in on you like this.”
Frank waved it off. “It’s all right. I just hope the Agency don’t find out about it.”
“Yes,” Val said. “Keep your head low. You’ll be in a lot of trouble if they find out you helped us. Make sure your contacts are trustworthy.”
“I know what I’m doing. Now go, before you get us both killed.”
“Thank you.” Val didn’t know if it was the last time he could ever do it, so he shook hands with Frank. His grip was firm. “For everything,” he added.
“We’re even, then.”
Val nodded and left him, taking the corner and climbing into the van. His teeth chattered as he got in. The heater was still waking up. “So, where are we headed next?”
Robbie turned from the driver’s seat, yawning. It seemed like he was giving Jackie a break so she could mourn some more. The poor woman was still recovering from the harsh decision about Rachel.
“Somewhere quiet,” Robbie said. “I have a couple of calls to make.”
It was a vacant area alongside an industrial estate. Tractor-trailers were parked up with their blinds down, the truckers getting their sleep in while they could. Robbie pulled up behind them, by a long, thorny bush that protected a dried-up ditch.
“This will do,” he said, switching off the engine and hopping out into the flesh-biting chill. The sun was coming up now, slowly but surely—the sky lit up in a pinkish haze.
“Do you need privacy?” Val asked, pulling open the side door to stretch his legs.
“It can’t hurt.” Robbie didn’t just need to make a call—he needed to make two calls and also take a piss. He walked around the corner, where a small group of factory workers sat around a bench in their hi-visibility jackets, sipping on steamy coffee. Robbie said hello as he passed. Some responded. Others didn’t.
Overnight, he’d used Frank’s charger to juice up the phone, and now he dialed the number. It was a cell he was calling, and it rang only twice before there was an answer.
“Terry Davenport,” the voice said, croaking like he’d just been woken up.
“Morning. It’s Robbie.”
“Just a minute.”
There was a pause, during which Robbie tried to take a piss using only one hand. Save for a stray splash that landed on his finger, he did surprisingly well.
“What do you need, Parker?” Terry asked.
“Just wondering how it’s coming along.”
“Better than I thought it would, you’ll be pleased to hear. I got an address from Houston.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t know who I was.”
“Trust me,” Robbie said, awkwardly pulling up his zipper. “He does by now, so grow some eyes on the back of your head. He’ll play dirty if he can.”
“Gotcha. Hey, do you know this address?” There was a rustling sound: paper and a coffee being slurped. “Aldridge, Lucas Avenue.”
Robbie thought it through. He’d been to Lucas Avenue in his last day with the LAPD, back when Houston had taken him to the Agency’s headquarters. Was it the same building? He was willing to bet it was. “If you got that address from Houston, it’s probably the Agency’s building. Are you allowed to check it out?”
“Sort of,” Terry said. “Just not legally, you know?”
“Ah, I hear ya. Well, tomorrow night, Charlie’s out. There will probably be a lot of security on him, so that’s your best bet. Get in while it’s emptier.”
“How do you—”
“Just trust
me, Terry. I have to go.”
Robbie had barely ended the call before he dialed another number, eager to speak to the person on the other end. While it rang, he glanced back at Val, who had his hands on the small of his back and was pacing up and down. Jackie sat hanging out of the passenger-side door, her arms crossed and her head down.
The phone stopped ringing.
“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, gentle but confused.
Robbie’s heart began to thump. “Sonia, it’s me.”
“Oh, Robbie.” He could hear his wife welling up, and a door creaked open on her end of the phone. “Are you safe? We’ve been so worried.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve had to keep my distance.” It was the hardest thing, having to explain why he hadn’t called in. The last time he’d seen his family was when he’d sent them to a location that even he didn’t know. Since then he’d only called her three times, and each conversation had been brief. Not unlike this one.
“Are you ever coming back? When can we go home?” There was a strain in her voice.
“Soon, maybe. We have a plan that might make everything okay again.” Robbie stopped talking, careful of just how much he could get away with saying. He didn’t know if this call was being monitored, but if it was, he wouldn’t want to stay on the line long enough for the call to be traced. The last thing he wanted was the Agency knowing where either of them were. “Is Cassie…”
“She’s fine, Robbie. She wants to speak to you.”
“Daddy?” The voice of a young girl took over the phone. Cassie must have just woken up, given the time of day and the dryness in her voice. “Daddy, is that you?”
“There’s my baby girl!” Robbie felt the enormous smile taking over his face. “Are you okay?” It may have just been the cold wind, but Robbie could feel a tear breaking free from the corner of one eye.
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