by Cindy Gerard
“You got it.”
She forwarded Rafe’s post to Rhonda. “Use this as a starting point.”
“Wow. They’ve been busy,” Rhonda said after reading the e-mail. “Dalmage is gonna fry. We’re gonna make sure of it.”
After an hour of digging, finessing their programs, and cajoling search engines, they knew they were on to something.
His old gray sweats felt huge and hung low on his hips when Joe walked into the kitchen on bare feet, yawning and scrubbing a hand over his head to wake himself up. The cobwebs were thick and murky; he’d be damn glad when he could get by on short combat naps again.
“Okay, not that I mind a mostly naked man in the morning, but um, you look like shit.”
He stopped, blinked, and focused on the blonde in the hot-pink sweats. “Rhonda,” he said with a nod and shuffled on over to the coffeepot. “And you look—”
“Don’t say it. We’ll both be happier for it.” She leaned back in her chair and gave him another once-over—like he was a piece of meat she didn’t find particularly appetizing.
He probably shouldn’t admit it, but Rhonda intimidated him—just a little. She was too gorgeous, too confident, and for his money, too aggressive. But she was a good friend to Stephanie, so that made her okay with him. He just wished she wouldn’t always look at him like she was the head of a hiring committee and he was on the bottom of her call-back list.
“Where’s Stephanie?”
“Right here.”
He turned to see her walk into the kitchen. She was dressed in the same soft blue sweater and jeans as last night, but she’d unbraided her hair. It fell over her shoulder in soft waves. Soft sweater, soft hair. But nothing about her eyes was soft this morning. She was focused, serious, and excited.
“What’s up?”
“Get your coffee. Then grab some pizza and sit. We’ve got him, Joe. We’ve got Dalmage.”
His heart gave a mule kick and he headed straight to the table. “Tell me.”
Stephanie filled a coffee mug and scooped three pieces of pizza onto a plate, then set both down in front of him with an expectant look.
He picked up a slice and took a bite to satisfy her. “Now talk.”
“You’ll have to bear with us for a bit, okay? We’re going to take a circular route to get you there.”
He nodded and, prompted by her warning look, picked up the pizza again. “Go.”
“We’ve discovered that a company by the name of EXnergy made a major land purchase in Sierra Leone several years ago.”
“To the tune of several hundred acres in the Pampana River Valley concession,” Rhonda added, her voice animated.
Joe swallowed, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “How many years ago?”
Stephanie met his gaze, held it. “Fifteen.”
Bingo. “The same time we were running our missions there.”
Stephanie sat down and turned her laptop toward him so he could see the screen. “Only here’s the deal. EXnergy doesn’t really exist.”
Didn’t surprise him. “So it’s a dummy company?”
“Close,” Rhonda jumped in. “A dummy company is set up to serve as a cover for one or more companies. It looks real on paper but lacks the capacity to function independently, because its whole goal is to conceal true ownership and avoid taxes.”
“Technically,” Stephanie explained, “EXnergy is a front company. It was set up to look indy when, in fact, it’s controlled by an actual company that doesn’t want to be associated or identified as being associated with it. The real company can use the front company to act for it without the actions being attributed back to the true owners.”
“So you’re saying the CIA has their fingers in this pie?” The CIA set up front companies all the time. They’d want people on the ground in someplace like Libya or Pakistan, so they’d set up a legit charity there and put operatives in place with a plausible background story, occupations, whatever.
“Like the CIA,” Stephanie said, glancing at Rhonda. “But not the CIA.” She looked at him expectantly.
“Dalmage,” he said, reading between the lines. “Dalmage is EXnergy?”
“We’re pretty certain, yeah. We have to dig a little deeper to tie it up with a pretty pink bow, but yeah, Dalmage is EXnergy.”
He forgot all about the pizza. “So what’s on this land? Have you been able to nail that down?”
“Oh, yeah.” Rhonda looked like a cat that had swallowed the entire contents of a goldfish bowl. “Huge deposits of large scale REEs.”
“Rare earth elements,” Stephanie clarified. “Lanthanum, scandium, thulium, cerium, dysprosium, hafnium, lutetium, niobium, neodymium, praesodymium, tantalum, and zircon. Seventeen in all. All in commercially exploitable grades.”
“Exploitable for making what?” he asked, feeding off their excitement.
“REEs are critical in making green technology—like the batteries that power hybrid cars, eco-friendly wind turbines, low-energy lightbulbs—even fiber-optic cable and missile guidance systems, and many other energy technologies,” Stephanie said.
“What makes the Pampana River Valley deposits so valuable,” Rhonda went on, “is that China produces ninety-seven percent of the entire world’s supply . . . and guess what? They aren’t selling their REEs to anyone. They’re using them all themselves.”
“Which leaves a green energy world in need of another supply,” Stephanie said unnecessarily.
“So,” Joe said, thinking out loud, “Dalmage’s foresight, in the face of China’s global domination, makes the Sierra Leone property limitless in value.”
“In the trillions of dollars, at least. Dalmage is holding the proverbial golden goose in his hands,” Rhonda agreed.
“Only one problem for him,” Stephanie said. “Ethically, morally, and legally, since Dalmage was a representative of the U.S. government at the time of the purchase, and he’s now a U.S. diplomat, it’s strictly forbidden for him to profit from his position.”
“Which means he had to hide his involvement,” Rhonda summed it up.
“So EXnergy was born.” Joe met Stephanie’s eyes, the fire of revenge burning hot in his gut. “And Bryan died.”
20
Stephanie watched Joe push away from the table and walk over to the terrace doors. He’d grown very quiet. As it always did, the tattoo running down the center of his back moved her. Even more, the lingering bruises and the very obvious fact of his barbaric treatment made her chest ache. He’d risked all to avenge Bryan’s death, and had almost lost all. And for far too long, she hadn’t believed him.
“I’m so sorry, Joe. I should have believed you long ago.”
“You weren’t the only one with doubts,” he said, and slowly turned and met her eyes. “I had them, too.”
She saw forgiveness there. And understanding, and other emotions she couldn’t let herself explore until she was on more solid ground herself.
“You always knew it was Dalmage?” Rhonda asked.
“No.” Joe glanced at her. “Not until last year, when I saw his picture on the wall in Marcus Chamberlin’s office.”
“And from that you pieced it together?”
“Something like that. Where did Dalmage come up with the cash to fund this purchase?”
“That was our question, too.” Her cheeks flushed, Rhonda leaned forward in her chair. “This kind of money excites me,” she said with a grin. “And we’re talking tons of money. Dalmage had to pony up millions in up-front capital. His family has a certain amount of wealth, but not anywhere near enough to back him on this. And nothing we turned up in his financials says he could have gathered that kind of dough, either.”
“So it seems he found himself some backers,” Stephanie continued. “We haven’t nailed it down yet, but we’ve been back-tracing several money trails that lead to some pretty bad guys in pretty rogue nations. Qaddafi-type bad guys. Kim Jong Il bad guys.
“And that’s not all. We got access to satellite data on the
mining site. They’re trying to hide it, but the mines are active. They’re set to start mass production of REEs possibly within a year.”
“So, Dalmage is heavily indebted to these nations. Nations that, among other things, support Islamic extremists in their terrorist activities.” Joe mulled it over aloud as he paced back to the coffeepot. “The question then becomes, how does he intend to settle his debts?”
Joe supposed he should feel relief. He wasn’t crazy. He’d been right.
But all he felt was numb as he silently left Stephanie and Rhonda clicking away on their laptops. Shouldn’t there be more than this?
For fifteen years he’d carried the weight of Bry’s death on his shoulders. For fifteen years, he’d questioned his actions, his decisions, his failures. He hadn’t saved Bryan. He hadn’t saved his brother, Bobby.
He wasn’t even sure that he’d saved himself.
He’d been right about Dalmage, yet he felt nothing but empty.
He stripped off his clothes and hit the shower again, turning the water as hot as it would go, driven by an overwhelming compulsion to wash away the stench of Dalmage’s treachery that had dragged him down for most of his adult life.
He wanted to feel righteous, soul-cleansing anger. He wanted to swear and roar and punch his fist into something deliciously solid and destructible . . . but all he felt was weary.
Jesus, he felt so fucking weary.
He planted his palms against the shower wall, hung his head between his arms, and willed the steaming water pouring over his body to cleanse him. To heal him. To make him feel like he was more than a used-up, burned-out shell of a man.
He stood there until the water ran cold, until he was shivering beneath the icy spray. Head down. Eyes closed. Eyes burning. Eyes wet.
He didn’t hear her come into the bathroom.
He didn’t react when she reached in and turned off the water.
And he sure as hell didn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at her when she wrapped a towel around his shoulders and gently guided him out of the shower stall, then silently eased him down onto the edge of the tub.
He couldn’t do anything but acquiesce as she stood between his thighs, laid her cheek on top of his lowered head, and held him while his shoulders shook. While he shed hot, raging tears for his brother whom he couldn’t save, for her brother, whom Dalmage killed, for the years he’d lost, for the lives he’d taken. For the love he had no right to expect from this woman, who held him together while every force in the universe tried to rip him apart.
Rhonda stretched and yawned and worked the kinks out of her neck after several hours spent bending over her laptop. All the while, Stephanie had felt her friends curious glances.
“So what happened to wonder boy?” Rhonda asked.
Stephanie scrolled slowly through several news releases concerning the upcoming presidential appointment for the secretary of state position, which Dalmage seemed destined to receive. Something was orbiting around in the back of her mind—something to do with that appointment, something that hadn’t quite jelled.
“He’s sleeping,” she said absently.
Rhonda cleared her throat. “Just how sick is he?”
Stephanie’s shoulders sagged as she exhaled and leaned back in her chair.
“He’s not sick,” she said. Not physically. But his heart and his soul needed intensive care. As painful as it had been to witness his anguish, she knew that it was the first step in his healing process.
“He was starved and beaten daily. The conditions were beyond barbaric.”
Rhonda didn’t press for details. “This hasn’t exactly been a piece of cake for you, either, sweetie,” her friend said softly.
Stephanie loved Rhonda for her concern. “I was only there for a few days. He thought he was going to die there. When I saw him the first time, I was amazed that he hadn’t already.”
She became lost in memories of a beaten, ravaged Joe curled into himself on that filthy cell floor.
“It’s going to be okay now.” Rhonda placed a hand over hers and squeezed gently.
“Yeah,” Stephanie agreed and gave Rhonda a bracing smile. “It’s going to be fine. We just need to figure out the rest of this puzzle.”
Rhonda made a big show of flexing her fingers over the keyboard. “With these babies on the job, Dalmage doesn’t stand a chance.”
Speaking of babies, Rafe had called. B.J.’s labor had stopped, so they were back home on hold again, waiting for the blessed event.
“You want more coffee?” Stephanie pushed away from the table with her empty mug and headed for the coffeepot.
“Nah, I’d better back off the caffeine for a while. Whoa,” Rhonda added, leaning in close to her screen. “This is interesting.”
Stephanie filled her mug and returned to look over Rhonda’s shoulder. Her heart started pounding as she read the obituary Rhonda had uncovered, and that nebulous cloud of an idea that had been swirling around in her mind suddenly took shape and form.
“Hold on. Look at this.” She scrambled back to her laptop, clicked around until she found what she was looking for, and turned the screen so Rhonda could see it.
“Holy shit. Co-inki-dink, Sherlock?”
Stephanie shook her head. “No way in hell is that a coincidence.”
“Joe’s going to want to see this.”
“Not yet.” Stephanie started a search on all names recently mentioned as potential candidates for the secretary of state appointment. “Let’s make sure we’re really on to something.”
“We are totally on to something.”
“I still want a little more proof.”
“Proof of what?” Joe asked.
Stephanie’s head whipped around. He was wearing those sexy, low-hanging sweatpants and tugging a T-shirt over his head. When his head popped through, his eyes were on her. Softly slumberous. A little tentative. One hundred percent male.
He looked rested. And gorgeous. And she might be imagining it, but she swore that some of his ghosts had flown off for parts unknown.
“We’re not sure yet,” she said as he crossed to the table and pulled up a chair beside her.
“Tell me what you’re not yet sure of.”
He leaned in close, smelling of sleep and soap and an indefinable essence she’d always secretly thought of as Mo-Joe. He had the mojo, all right. Just the scent of him made her heart fluttery.
And when he laid his arm across the back of her chair, then casually rested his hand on her burning shoulder muscles, kneading softly, she was damn glad she was sitting down.
“Patience,” she insisted and forced herself to concentrate on her search. “Give us ten more minutes and we’ll have something you’re really going to want to hear.”
He stood up again. “Might as well make myself useful. Who’s hungry?”
Rhonda shot him a quick grin. “Are you taking orders?”
“The menu’s a little limited, but if it’s for bacon and cheese omelets, then yeah.”
“Works for me,” Rhonda said.
“Which is a good thing, since eggs are pretty much the extent of my culinary skills.”
“It’s a BOI thing,” Stephanie told Rhonda, and noticed that her friend’s appreciative gaze was locked on Joe’s butt as he ambled toward the kitchen on bare feet.
“Need I mention I already called dibs?” Stephanie asked in a low voice.
Rhonda sighed theatrically, then whispered, “Just lookin’. Does this mean you two are a thing again?”
Stephanie tightened her lips. “The jury’s still out on that.”
“For you, maybe. Not for him. He is totally, uncategorically in love with you.” Rhonda glanced back at her laptop.
Stephanie’s curiosity got the best of her. “And you know this how?”
Rhonda cut a quick look toward the kitchen. “Maybe you haven’t been paying attention to the way he looks at you, but I have.”
Oh, she’d been paying attention all right. To the way he’d
touched her shoulder. To the vulnerability she saw in his eyes when he met hers. The signs were good, but the truth would be in the telling.
“Read it and weep.” Rhonda shoved the list of names she and Stephanie had compiled in front of Joe as he joined them at the table, his plate heaped with a steaming, aromatic concoction of eggs, cheese, and bacon.
He’d already served them their omelets, buttered toast, and orange juice. Stephanie watched him intently as he picked up the sheet of paper, brought a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth, then set it back on his plate.
“What’s this?” he asked without looking up from the list.
“Recognize any of the names?” Stephanie’s pulse jumped as she watched him.
“All of them. Carson: senator from Ohio. Arms committee. Krenshaw: past Majority Whip. Alberts . . .” He closed his eyes, trying to remember. “Budget oversight and then foreign affairs. But, wait—Carson is dead, right?”
“Car accident several months ago,” Stephanie confirmed, then dropped her bomb. “Krenshaw and Alberts are also dead.”
He sat forward in his chair, the tension in his big body palpable. “What?”
“Krenshaw died just last month. Mugging turned to murder. Alberts had a heart attack—or so the obit says.”
He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the list again. “And the others?”
“Dead. Dead. And dead,” Rhonda said flatly. “Except for Williams and Jacobson. Both were recently admitted to long-term care facilities in the veggie unit.”
He frowned. “This says Williams is forty-seven. Jacobson is fifty-eight. And you’re telling me they’re in nursing homes?”
“Williams had a paralyzing stroke. Jacobson had a sudden onset of dementia.”
The temperature in the apartment seemed to drop to an icy chill as Stephanie waited for Joe to make the connection.
“Jesus.” He dragged a hand over his jaw. “They were all once on the short list for secretary of state, weren’t they?”
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “And now there’s only one front-runner.”