He took out the burner phone and dialed. He’d always had a memory for numbers, and this was one he kept in his mental Rolodex. The phone rang in his ear and on the other side of the door.
Cutting through the chitchat, Ford dove in as soon as someone answered. “Rupert, how are you? I’m in town and we need to talk.”
The line disconnected and Ford could hear a series of thuds from inside the apartment. Shuffling and swearing, then the door flew open. Rupert ran out at top speed. West knocked him to the ground simply by putting his arm out.
Ford pressed his boot against Rupert’s chest and held him down. “Going somewhere?”
Usually well-dressed and composed as part of his cover as a gallery owner, Rupert looked anything but. His hair fell over his eyes and he sputtered and squirmed as he tried to shove Ford’s foot away.
Rupert groaned and blinked as if the hard fall jarred something important loose. “I . . . what are you . . .”
West nudged Rupert’s shoulder with the tip of his shoe then glanced at Ford. “I don’t think he’s happy to see you.”
That was the plan. Terrify, then get him to spill. But they were going to need privacy. “Let’s go inside and talk.”
After a nod from Ford, West reached down and lifted Rupert. The guy’s knees gave out as soon as his feet hit the floor, but West held him upright with one hand. With a good shove, Rupert flew backward and tripped his way into the middle of the sunny studio apartment.
As soon as he found his balance, he turned on Ford. Rupert’s cheeks reddened and his voice came out in a furious whisper. “You can’t be here.”
The dramatics didn’t impress Ford. “Yet, I am.”
“You have to—”
Ford stopped whatever Rupert planned to say by slamming him against the wall and trapping him there with an elbow pinned across his throat. “Stop talking.”
“Technically, we need him to talk.” West walked around shutting the curtains and flicking on lights. He stopped at the kitchen table to the right side of the room and studied the food spread out there. “I think we interrupted his lunch.”
Ford pretended to care. “Did we, Rupert? Ah, man. Sorry about that.”
“The cafe a few doors down looked good,” West said.
“Is he right, Rupert?” The man shook under Ford’s arm, so Ford squeezed tighter. Jumpy people did stupid things, and Ford didn’t have the time to clean up the blood that came with that kind of mess.
West used the tip of his knife to move the cheese around on Rupert’s plate. “We should talk fast or the bread will go stale.”
“You’re right.” Ford made a tsk-tsking sound as he turned back to Rupert. “He’s right.”
Weaker, but smart enough to guess he was in trouble, the man clawed at Ford’s arm but couldn’t move it one inch. “I don’t know anything,” Rupert croaked out.
Now that was interesting. “I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“I heard a denial,” West said.
Ford almost smiled when West ripped off a piece of bread and popped it in his mouth. “You’re eating his lunch?”
West cut off a piece of cheese. “If he keeps denying, he won’t need it.”
“Good point.”
Rupert’s heels thudded against the wall as his face turned a weird shade of purple. One that matched his argyle sweater. Only Rupert could pull off a fussy sweater and striped pants. “Very stylish outfit, by the way.”
“Shame he might die in it.”
Ford pretended to wave off West’s concern. “Don’t listen to my friend. You’re only in trouble if you don’t tell me what I need to know.”
Rupert shifted and turned his head to the side. “I can’t.”
“You still don’t know the question.” Ford made a show of opening his knife with a snap. Waved it right in front of Rupert’s face.
The man’s eyes crossed. “This is about the auction, right?”
“See, now we’re on the same page.” Ford ran the tip of the knife along Rupert’s throat.
He panted as his eyes widened. Was probably ten seconds away from wetting himself. “We’re friends.”
The man had an odd sense of friendship. Apparently it included attempted homicide. “You tried to kill me the last time you saw me.” Ford still had an attitude about that, which likely explained why he leaned so hard on the guy’s windpipe.
West made a noise somewhere between a hum and a sharp intake of breath. “To be fair, I’ve been tempted, and we’re friends.”
Rupert tried to shake his head but could barely move. His fingernails dug into Ford’s arm. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“You stabbed me,” Ford pointed out.
Back then Rupert thought his cover had been blown and tried to run. Ford still had the scar across his stomach from where Rupert sliced him. One he’d explained away as a camping injury to Shay. Just another lie to her on top of so many others.
“A knife, Rupert?” West sighed. “Bad move.”
“The auction.” Just thinking about those days brought Ford’s anger rushing back. He didn’t make many mistakes, and letting this weasel get the jump on him pissed him off. “Talk now.”
“I don’t know—”
“Anything. Right.” Ford dragged the knife across Rupert’s chin, shallow but enough to draw drops of blood and make the guy whimper. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. This big guy here, after he eats the rest of your lunch, is going to beat the shit out of you. I won’t go into details, but there will be blood and broken bones.”
The whimpering grew louder and the muscles in Rupert’s legs gave way. Ford had to ram a knee into Rupert’s thigh to keep him upright.
“After he’s done, I’m going to take a turn.” Ford doubted he’d get through that without killing the guy. Seemed he had some leftover stabbing rage to work off. “Then I have some friends outside and they will each want to land a few punches.”
West shook his head. “Rupert will be unconscious by then.”
“Right.” Ford looked from West to Rupert. “There’s some good news. You won’t be awake for most of the beatings.”
Rupert swallowed as he tried to pull Ford’s arm down. “You don’t understand.”
“Let me try.” West’s fist shot out. Right to Rupert’s nose.
His head slammed against the wall. “Fuck.”
“And I was holding back.”
Rupert wiped his nose then stared at the blood on his hand. “Jesus.”
West snorted. “He’s not coming to help.”
Ford had hours of control left but he wanted to get out of there. He lifted Rupert’s head and pressed him back against the wall. Blood smeared his face and dropped onto his once pristine sweater.
Rupert weighed all of 150 pounds. A few more hits and he’d slam to the ground.
Ford grabbed a shirt off the nearest chair and held it to Rupert’s face. “Talk before you pass out from blood loss.”
“You broke my nose.”
West nodded. “That was the point.”
“Fine.” Rupert’s hands dropped and the stained shirt dangled from his fingertips as he balanced his head against the wall. “Benton.”
Now there was some damn bad news. “He’s the one behind the auction?” Ford asked.
Everyone in the law enforcement and intelligence communities knew Benton. No one had seen him for almost two years but every bombing and every attack carried his fingerprints. He didn’t have a political agenda except to upend any legitimate government. The guy thrived on chaos. He stole weapons, bought them, traded in them. His network reached across every continent and the devastation rippled through country after country.
Looked like now he was branching out into chemical weapons. Wasn’t that fucking fantastic.
“That’s the word,”
Rupert said. “He wants something that will eat through protective vests and gear.”
There was a nightmare scenario. Letting a madman with that sort of power get his hands on a toxin no one was prepared to counteract was the very reason Alliance was created. To stop end-of-the-world disasters like this. And they would.
Ford needed to know more first. “Give me the details.”
“I don’t have them.” Rupert shook his head, and when West took a threatening step forward, he threw up his hands. “No, stop! There’s talk but I can’t confirm anything.”
The wild-eyed panic suggested he’d coughed up all he could on that issue. Fine, but Ford had pieces he needed to fit together. “There was a fireball in Hampstead a few days ago.”
“Right.” Rupert nodded. “Someone fed intel to Jake Pearce. It was meant to throw you off or be a warning. I’ve heard both.”
Pearce. Ford knew him by reputation. Had met him a few times. Talked to him a few months ago. He was a veteran of the CIA’s Clandestine Service, retired but brought in as a free agent to assist in setting up Alliance. Ward trusted Pearce and had worked with him. That relationship explained how Alliance got the intel on the Hampstead house to begin with. Shame it was so damned wrong.
Something in Rupert’s explanation caught Ford’s attention. “A warning about what?”
“To let anyone who heard the chatter know who’s in charge.”
“We still don’t,” West said.
Rupert spared West a quick glance before looking at Ford again. “The auction is being set up in Yemen in less than two weeks.”
They had a ticking clock and a lot of players to identify, locate, and take out before then. No problem.
“What exactly is for sale?” Ford knew but wanted it confirmed.
“Some nasty chemical shit. No cure and no way to stop it. Word is, Benton’s claiming he can weaponize it.”
“No ego there.” Ford hadn’t planned to break the top international arms dealer this week, but that task just moved up to number one on his list. “Where’s the kid?”
Rupert frowned as he dabbed at the trickle of blood that continued to seep from his nose. “Who?”
“The scientist who made the nasty shit,” Ford said.
“No idea. I was told—” Rupert winced.
As if Ford would let that fly. “Don’t stop there.”
West motioned toward the table. “Unless you want me to use your cheese knife on you.”
“I don’t know about any scientist. This auction is way above that level. This is doomsday stuff.”
Rupert’s tendency to overstate and overact worked in this instance. Ford thought the phrase actually fit for once. “And you didn’t call to warn me.”
“You threatened to kill me the last time we talked.”
The guy had a point. “Is Benton in London now?”
“No way. He hasn’t shown up anywhere since the hotel bombing, and the drone strikes on his compound after.” Rupert didn’t explain, but the attacks in Morocco happened right before the attack on Benton’s rumored home in Algeria, so drawing the line from one incident to the other wasn’t a stretch for anyone in the know. “Some of us thought you got him.”
Ford wasn’t taking responsibility for that fuck-up. “We would have.” And now it was time to go. “What else do I need to know, Rupert?”
“Nothing.” He tipped his head back, then checked his shirt one last time. “I swear.”
Ford studied Rupert for a few more seconds before nodding to West. “Go ahead.”
Ford and West switched positions until West stood right in front of Rupert and clamped a hand around his throat.
The squirming started right on cue. Rupert flailed and tried to break contact. Between coughs he managed to get out of few words. “Wait, I told you what I knew.”
“Now we’re even, but we still need to turn your place upside down and you’d rather be asleep for that.” Ford snapped his fingers. “But you need to agree not to talk. I’d hate to bring my friend back and watch him kill you.”
“No, I wouldn’t—”
Whatever else Rupert intended to say got cut off. West applied the right amount of pressure, cut off a few seconds of breathing, and Rupert crumpled to the floor unconscious.
“We’re coming down,” Ford said into the com, knowing Lucas and Reid had heard everything, then turned back to West. “So, we’re dealing with the guy at the top of every watch and wanted list who somehow found Trent Creighton.”
“Can we kill that kid now?”
So very tempting. “We need him alive.”
And they did. If Trent had a link to Benton, Ford intended to exploit it. Whatever they had to do to make that happen, they would.
West swore under his breath. “That’s a shame.”
“Also looks like it’s time to check in with Ward.”
West walked over to Rupert’s bookcase. “The boss man is going to yell.”
“Ward doesn’t scare me.” Little did other than failure, and Ford vowed not to lose.
He’d been too late once. Not this time.
6
FORD HAD been home for two out of three days. Even with working long hours, Shay thought that might be a record.
But for the first time in weeks he was not the only man on her mind. Her cousin held the title of Most Difficult to Pin Down at the moment. He had not checked in for about a month. Texts and calls went unanswered. No one opened the door at his apartment when she stopped by.
She used her emergency key to get in, which she knew he’d hate because he got all sorts of prickly about privacy, but she’d bet he would have hated the smell of rotten trash in his studio even more. She handled that and the expired milk in the fridge and acted like his big sister, or worse, mother, more than like a twenty-six-year-old cousin who grew up with him.
Hoping to get some direction, she’d left her cousin’s house and went directly to her uncle’s place. Now, she sat on the stool at the impressive carrera marble breakfast bar in his kitchen. The pristine white and gray room sparkled as if no one ever cooked in there, which was pretty accurate.
Uncle Anthony had built a commercial and residential real estate empire in the DC metro area. Worked his butt off for years accumulating and managing his holdings. When he lost his wife eight years ago, he abruptly cut back and started spending some of his hard-earned wealth. A cook was the first addition to the household staff in his red brick minimansion on Massachusetts Avenue, right across from the Japanese Embassy.
Shay smoothed her fingers over the handle of the coffee mug and fought the urge to grab her phone and try Trent one more time. She glanced up at her uncle instead. “He left me four messages and then nothing.”
Anthony waved her off before diving into the pink box filled with doughnuts and all sorts of sugary goodness. “I talked to him that week. He’d been running for days straight on adrenaline and caffeine when he called to borrow your car. He came off manic and we talked about it.”
“And?”
“That’s it, really. He said he had a big project coming up.” Anthony shook his head. “You know your cousin. He gets lost in work.”
“It was more than that.” She couldn’t quite name it, but something had been festering for a few months now. Trent had retreated to his old ways of dealing with stress—by ignoring the people around him and becoming shorter and grumpier with each conversation.
Maybe he didn’t mean it and it stemmed from his big brain and all that, but he could cut off the people he cared about without thought. Be mean. He had an anger management issue that had calmed as he got older but only after Anthony threw therapist after therapist at the problem. At this point Shay would almost welcome his sharp barbs to his recent silence.
“Shay, he’s twenty-one and obsessed with his work. He gets wound up and y
ou worry. None of that is news.” Anthony dropped a glazed doughnut on a napkin and slid it across to her. “You’ve been doing this dance since you were both kids. He’s . . . difficult and you’re a fixer. It can be a rough combination.”
Growing up with Anthony, living in his house from the time she turned fourteen, she knew that doughnuts qualified as cooking to him. Not that she could fault him since she’d become the take-out queen. If she couldn’t buy it already prepared or in a box, forget it.
“Still, bad mood or not, busy or not, he usually checks in.” She picked at the edge of the doughnut then ripped off a piece and popped it in her mouth.
“Maybe he finally found a girl.” Anthony settled on a long john slick with a thick layer of chocolate icing. “About time, if you ask me. Science geek or not, a guy his age should date.”
“He will, you know. Eventually. Find a woman . . . or possibly a guy.” Shay couldn’t tell which Trent would go for. Men and women hit on him all the time, but he never seemed to notice. Between his cute face, the sly smile, and hair that straddled the line between blond and brown, he looked more star baseball player than stereotypical nerd. He happened to be both.
She peeked over the mug’s rim to see Anthony’s reaction to her comment.
This time he shrugged. “I checked with him a few years ago and he said it would be a girl, but who knows. He doesn’t share, and if you ask the wrong question . . . well, you know how he can go off. But I’m still thinking female is the answer.”
“Because Trent would tell you.” Though they were close, so Trent might.
“I’m his dad.”
Anthony didn’t need to say more. Trent lost his mother young. By that time his natural brilliance had already spiked. He’d outgrown his classes and teachers and moved on to special tutors to supplement the education his impressive private high school provided. Anthony made all of that happen over Aunt Marianne’s pleas to keep Trent’s life normal. Anthony had known even back then that Trent needed something more.
“I know I push him hard but I don’t want him to waste his gift.”
“By working for the government?” She’d heard this justification many times over the years. About how Trent had skills other people didn’t and needed to capitalize on them. Inherent in the comments was Anthony’s frustration over Trent’s decision to go the public sector route instead of throwing in with a private company.
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