The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3)

by Phelps, T Patrick

  She had joined the FBI after completing her Master's Degree in Criminal Justice from Dartmouth and quickly climbed through the Bureau's ranks. By her third year, she had earned a promotion to Special Agent. By her fifth year, Marissa was Department Head in the Orlando, Florida office. By year nine, Marissa was second in charge, reporting directly to the Regional Director of the Northeastern Division. And by her tenth year with the Bureau, Marissa assumed the top Director's spot in the region.

  Other FBI agents considered Marissa to be one of the sharpest agents; excelling at interrogations and an almost alien ability to draw the truth out of a suspect or from a crime scene. As she sat beside Derek Cole, a person that she immediately suspected was withholding something, Marissa relied on her talents and instincts to wrench out anything that may lead her and her agents to finding Juan Cortez.

  "I'll tell you anything you want to know," Derek replied. "But I'm telling you that the whole time I was with Cortez, I was either knocked out or was the target of his screams. He told me that. . ."

  "Please," Marissa said, holding her hand up to stop Derek, "let me guide you through these questions. I appreciate your time and your willingness to help us."

  "Okay," Derek said, feeling instantly uneasy. "I'd much rather be out trying to stop any terrorists from blowing up a building, but, if you're telling me that finding Cortez will help, I'm all yours for as long as this takes."

  "The time this takes is mostly up to you, Derek. May I call you Derek?" Marissa asked, as a smile played on the corners of her mouth.

  When she first walked into the hotel suite, Derek hadn't noticed how attractive Marissa was. But her smile seemed to reveal a gentleness, a warmth that Derek, usually quite adept at identifying attractiveness, had missed at first.

  "Derek is fine. The whole Mr. Cole stuff kind of makes me nervous anyway."

  "What do you have to be nervous about, Derek?" Marissa said as the playful smile filled her face.

  "Honestly?"

  "Of course."

  "Cortez told me that his abducting me put me in a dangerous position. He said that he's a wanted man and that anyone who the FBI thinks may be working with him, will be shot first then asked questions after."

  "Did he scream that at you?" Marissa asked, her smile evaporating from her face.

  "Come again?"

  "You said that the entire time you were with Cortez that you were either unconscious or were being yelled at by him. So, was he yelling at you when he told you that you may have been placed in a dangerous position by working with him?"

  "First off," Derek said, sensing that Marissa’s smile was noting more than a disarming tactic, "I am not working with Cortez. Second, if you're going to twist every one of my words to try to trick me into saying something that isn't true, I am going to want a lawyer with me."

  "A lawyer?" Marissa said, her smile paving the way for a short laugh. "Derek, as long as you aren't hiding anything, a lawyer is really the last thing you need. And no, I'm not trying to trick you into anything, nor am I trying to twist your words around. I do apologize if my question seemed like that was my intention." Marissa fell quiet as she slowly shook her head and, somehow, increased the sparkle in her eyes. "I am sorry, Derek. We just don't know how much time we have left before Cortez does whatever it is that he is planning to do. I hope you understand?"

  When Marissa reached her arm out and gently placed her hand on top of Derek's, he knew he was sitting across from a master. Though he knew she was trying to completely disarm him and to get him to believe that she might actually be attracted to him, Derek's thoughts fluttered between what he knew and the possibility that Marissa could actually want more from him than information.

  "Mark?" Marissa said, her eyes locked with Derek's, "I passed a Starbucks on my way over here. Just down the road a mile or two. Mind running out and getting Derek and me a coffee?"

  "Not at all," Mark said. "Anything else?"

  "Derek?" she asked.

  "I am kind of hungry. If you pass a McDonald's, I'd love a Sausage McMuffin. And I take my coffee black."

  "Make that two," Marissa said. "But make mine sans sausage. Nothing in my coffee either. Thanks, Mark."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Marissa walked over to the door and engaged the deadbolt. As she turned back towards Derek, she kept her head low, fingers gently touching each other in front of her body. She walked towards the couch, each step precisely measured.

  "I know its hard to perform in front of others," she said, the reference not wasted on Derek. She sat on the couch, closer to Derek than her original position, then took a deep breath before continuing. "Derek, I really believe that you're not involved with Cortez in any way. But there are some things that you're not telling me."

  "Not sure what you think I know," Derek said.

  "Let me tell you what I know, okay? Once you hear what I have to say, I kind of suspect that you will want to change your story a tad."

  "Shoot," Derek said. "And I don't mean that literally," he said while gesturing to the service pistol that was exposed when Marissa rested her arm on the top of the sofa.

  "Funny," she said, though she lacked a smile to accompany her statement. "We know that Cortez didn't knock you unconscious but that you met him in your other hotel then, together, walked over to Times Square. We assume that you two got intentionally lost in the commotion and, somehow, ended up in a hotel in Queens. We also know that you left that hotel in Queens very early this morning by taxi and then made your way to the warehouse that Henderson picked you up in front of. Honestly,” she said with her smile returning, “we don't know that you met with Cortez in the Sheraton Hotel, but are assuming that you did. Now, before I spill the rest of what I know, please tell me whether or not you want to change the story you've told me so far."

  "Damn," Derek said. "You seem to have a lot of things figured out already. How are you so sure that I didn't make my way over to the Marquis after I heard the explosion by myself and not with Cortez?"

  "Like I said, we don't actually know that," Marissa said. "But we do know that you were dropped off at the Courtyard Marriott in Queens and that you checked in under an assumed name. And, the clerk remembers that you checked in at the same time as someone matching the description of Juan Cortez. So you see, Mr. Cole, your story about Cortez knocking you out and abducting you really doesn't hold any water. So, I'll ask one more time," she said as she lowered her arm and hovered her hand closer to her gun, "is there any part of your story that you want to amend?"

  "Not sure how you seem to know my comings and goings," Derek said, struggling for more time to plan his next statements.

  "You never turned off your cell phone, Mr. Cole. Though I'm sure Cortez told you to do so. You may have thought you turned it off, but there's a funny thing about iPhones: Though they may be turned off, there's a little juice still running in the background. That little juice allows a very sophisticated piece of software that the NSA was so generous to share with the FBI, to be able to track any iPhone's location, even when the phone is shut down. We have some very smart people on our side, Mr. Cole."

  "Next you're going to tell me that I've visited a few porn sites on my phone, right?"

  "No, Mr. Cole. What I am going to tell you is that I'm tired of the game you're playing. You either tell me everything Cortez told you, or I'll exercise my permission to take whatever means necessary to keep the United States of America safe from harm."

  "Walk with me into the bedroom," Derek said, knowing he was out of options and time.

  "Rather bold of you, don't you think?"

  "As much as I believe I would enjoy it, I'm not suggesting we make use of the bed. I want to get the phone that Cortez gave me to contact him with."

  "Glad you've decided to cooperate. It will make things easier for you."

  "As long as it doesn't make me dead, I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

  Derek noticed that Marissa had drawn her gun and was pointing it at his ba
ck when he reached the bedroom and had bent down in front of the dresser. "I put it under here. I promise, I'm not going to come back up holding a gun."

  "It really doesn't matter at this point what you pull out from under that dresser." Marissa held the gun in front of her, steadied her aim with both hands.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Derek said.

  "Ending a threat."

  The sound was much sharper and higher than what he expected. Three consecutive blasts, followed by the sound of Marissa's body hitting the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  He heard the deadbolt slip into position as he was walking down the hallway towards the hotel lobby. He stopped for a brief moment, thinking it was strange for Marissa to be locking the door when she knew he would only be gone for a few minutes. He thought about going back to the room to make sure that Derek Cole hadn't subdued Marissa somehow and was securing the room as he planned his escape. Mark chuckled to himself at that thought, knowing that while Marissa Rica was a petite woman, he'd heard stories about her abilities when it came to self-defense and hand-to-hand combat.

  But by the time he got to his car, Mark Henderson's thoughts were crashing into and onto each other, all demanding equal consideration and each stating their cases for being chosen over the others. So much didn't make sense, not the least of which being Marissa Rica's sudden involvement with the case. Though, considering her position within the FBI, Marissa certainly had every right to demand that she be called the second either Cortez or Cole were located, her insistence seemed too aggressive. Too suspicious.

  As soon as he unlocked the driver's side door, he noticed something that was absent.

  "She came alone?" he thought.

  Mark had met Marissa Rica twice before. Once, when receiving a commendation for his exemplary service during a case involving an international child-smuggling network, and the second time when Marissa visited the NYC area Bureau office. Both times, Marissa was never more than ten feet away from FBI agents commissioned as her security force. He thought back to other times when he crossed paths with the higher-ups in the Bureau and recalled that everyone, from the Director level on up had agents assigned for their protection. When Marissa arrived at the Tarrytown office yesterday evening, four agents were close behind and never out of sight.

  Mark had heard that once an FBI agent reaches a certain level in the agency, the intel they are privy to, puts them in a "high risk" situation. Not only were there spies and double agents in the US that would be paid handsomely if they could somehow get access to the information that an FBI agent knows, but there were many nations, each with their own agencies and agents, that were always on the lookout for an opportunity to secure and detain an unguarded intel source.

  At Marissa's level, a security force of at least two tenured and highly specialized agents by her side 24/7 was practically guaranteed. Yet Marissa Rica arrived at the hotel with no security force. Mark scanned the area again, his trained eye scouring each car, looking for some indication that Marissa's security team was present.

  "Why would she come out here alone?" he questioned as he turned and started walking away from his car and back towards the lobby entrance of the hotel. Then, it hit him. The memory came crashing back to him in a thunderous realization.

  "The warehouse. Cortez told me something about the warehouse not being what people believed it to be. He told me that he was beginning to think that something big was being covered up. Maybe by our bureau. Sonofabitch!"

  He hurried through the lobby and out the back door leading to a courtyard area, relieved that the front desk was vacant. Hugging the outside wall, he moved quickly and silently past four sets of windows until he reached the first window of the hotel room where Marissa and Derek were supposedly "chatting." He was surprised and thankful to find the first bedroom window was slid all the way open.

  He saw Derek Cole, flat on the ground in the first bedroom, looking up at Marissa Rica who was holding her gun with both hands, steadying her aim at the back of Derek's head. Into the barrel of her gun, Marissa had screwed in a sound muffling silencer.

  Derek was obviously not posing a threat to Marissa and appeared to be looking for something beneath the dresser in his room. Marissa, however, was certainly positioned as a direct threat to Derek. Without hesitation, Mark pulled out his Glock 23, equipped with an agency-issued Silencero Osprey 40 silencer, aimed the gun at Marissa's head. He knew that a .40 caliber gun, suppressed or not, would report a disturbing and possible disruptive sound . It was early in the AM, and while Mark had reserved the rooms on both sides of the one Derek and Marissa were now occupying, the sound might startle guests throughout the entire hotel.

  He hesitated for a moment, desperately trying to think about something he had missed, not seen or that Marissa had told him to explain why she arrived at the hotel alone. It was the look in her eyes, and the way Derek seemed to be completely shocked and terrified when he looked up and saw Marissa standing above him, gun in hand with the obvious intention of shooting him racing through his defenseless body.

  Mark fired off three rounds through the window and into the body of Marissa Rica.

  ***I***

  Derek could see three distinct bullet wounds, all within ten inches of each other, on Marissa's body when she collapsed to the floor in front of him. The fall had forced out her final breath from her lungs but wasn't strong enough to drop her eyelids. Derek hated seeing dead people's eyes. The rapidly expanding glazing film covering them had stopped sending images of this world to their owner's brain.

  He scrambled to his feet, more concerned about being only inches away from Marissa's dead and fully opened eyes than what had caused the three bullet wounds and the glazing of her eyes to occur.

  "Cole. Out through the window. Now"

  Derek turned slowly towards where he believed the voice calling him was coming from.

  "Now Cole. Damn it, move your ass!"

  When he recognized his caller as Mark Henderson, Derek dropped back to the floor and began reaching under the dresser.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Mark said.

  "Getting Juan's phone."

  With both his iPhone and the phone Juan gave him in his hands, Derek pulled open the sliding window and squeezed his way out of the room. Mark grabbed Derek and pulled him as the two snaked their way around the hotel, avoiding the lobby and making their way towards the parking area where Mark's car was waiting.

  "Where's my coffee?" Derek asked as Mark shoved him into the backseat of his car.

  "Shut the fuck up and keep your head down," Mark snapped.

  "I shouldn't complain as I know you probably saved my life back there, but, you FBI agents really seem to have a thing for me. Kind of concerning."

  "Shut the fuck up."

  To his surprise and relief, Mark didn't see any of the hotel guests or staff peering out of their windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the two men scurrying away from the hotel, jumping into a car then speeding way. Though the possibility that he and Derek weren't seen was a refreshing idea, Mark knew that it wouldn't be too long before someone noticed something, said something and alerted someone. Best case scenario, he assumed that the hotel would be swarmed with FBI agents and Connecticut State Police troopers within 15 minutes.

  "Mind telling me what the hell just happened back there?" Derek asked as he lay flat in the backseat of the car.

  "What did Juan tell you? And don't bullshit me. I just took out the Regional Director of the FBI to save your ass, so I think I deserve the truth."

  As they drove north, Derek told Mark everything that Juan had shared with him. Starting with the note Juan had slipped into the case folder to how Derek was instructed to use the burner cell phone once he believed that the FBI believed that he wasn't involved in Juan's plan. He told him what Juan had seen in the warehouse and how he had placed the murder victim's body in his room at the Marquis before detonating the bomb.

  "That vic was the unknown suspect we ask
ed you to locate," Mark said.

  "The one you included a picture of in the folder you gave me?"

  "Same guy."

  "You don't seem all that surprised about anything I just told you," Derek said. "Did you suspect that Juan was on to something?"

  "I didn't want to believe him when he said that something about this whole terrorist case was being covered up. But when Marissa arrived at the hotel without her entourage, things fell into place."

  "She was in on the cover-up?" Derek asked, realizing how close he had been to death just a short while ago.

  "I don't know what the hell is going on or who is involved, but I do know that she was about to take you out of any equation and would have if I hadn't stopped her.“ Mark felt horrible about killing Marissa on many levels. She was, despite whatever her motives were, a member of his team. Someone who had proven herself to be a talented and dedicated member of the FBI and, like he was, sworn to protect the citizens of the US. She was young, valuable and well respected. If she was preparing to kill Derek in order to keep him quiet and to prevent what Juan had told him from ever getting out into the public, she was doing it only because she received orders to do so. Orders from someone much higher in the government. From someone who, if Juan was right, was calling the shots to keep the cover-up well covered.

  Twenty minutes after leaving the hotel and the body of Marissa Rica behind, Mark received a call on his cell phone.

  “Henderson, you with Director Rica?”

  The caller was a fellow FBI agent named Peter Jacobson. Jacobson and Mark Henderson joined the FBI the same year and had been in lock step throughout their careers.

  “Not now. How did you know she was coming out to see me?”