Now for the hard part.
She needed to make it look like she had planted the files without actually setting the FBI director up for a fall. She glanced at her watch. It was 8:50. With ten minutes to go, she hurried up the stairs. There were three bedrooms on the second floor. One was the master, where the FBI director and his wife slept. It was a spacious room, with a bed and a television. The other two rooms had been converted. One was a home office with dark mahogany bookshelves, an antique desk and a leather sofa. There was a map of the United States with sticky notes in a masculine hand and a framed copy of the Constitution next to the Gadsden Flag. A laptop computer sat on the desk.
The third room was decorated in white and blue. A collection of scrapbooking material littered the shelves. An old wood bench, painted white, was parked against the far wall and on it rested a laptop with a floral protective case. Sam stabbed the space bar to wake the machine from sleep mode, then slotted the USB drive and watched a spinning hourglass.
While the thumb drive downloaded onto the wife’s computer, Sam raced back across the hall to the FBI director’s home office. She yanked open drawers until she found pen and paper. Tearing a sheet from a yellow legal pad, she scrawled,
You are being set up!
Clean your wife’s computer!
She heard the sound of a car in the drive. Her heart leapt. She uttered an oath, went to the window and parted the curtains enough for a peak. A silver Audi stopped in front of the garage. The headlights splayed across the front of the house. The garage door motor came to life.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
FOSTER ARRIVED HOME at 8:42 p.m. He lived in a two story Colonial less than five miles from the FBI director where Sam was breaking in. As DD/O, Foster warranted the highest protection the Company had to offer. There was a panic room in the basement, twenty-four-hour surveillance, and a gated drive. A QRF team could be on his front lawn in less than ten minutes. Foster parked his Mercedes in the garage and entered through the kitchen where he was greeted by a yellow lab.
Chief wagged his tail and pawed at his empty food dish. Foster poured a bowl of dog chow and stood there watching the dog eat. Early in his career, Foster decided he didn’t have time for a wife. There would be time, he told himself, to find a nice girl just as soon as he had made Director and things settled down a bit. That idea was laughable now. It had taken twenty-three years of kowtowing, back-stabbing and backroom deals to make Deputy Director. With each new promotion, life got more complicated instead of less. There had been prospects. There always were. More than one young woman had recognized his as a rising star, but Foster fended off all advances. Truth was, deep down, he didn’t like women very much.
He wasn’t gay. No sir. He enjoyed sex with women, but he had never met a woman he actually liked. But there were times, like tonight, standing in the kitchen watching Chief eat, that he regretted the decision. It would be nice to have someone to come home to. Instead, his evenings consisted of a glass of wine and the History Channel.
Chief finished dinner, went to his leash hanging by the front door, sat down and whined.
“Later,” Foster told him. He poured a tall glass of merlot.
Chief laid down in front of the door with disappointment on his doggy face.
Foster started for the sofa, wine in hand, when his phone vibrated. He dug it out of his pocket and found a text message.
We need to meet.
He put his glass down. “Maybe we’ll take that walk after all, boy.”
Chief came off the floor with his tailing wagging and his tongue lolling from his mouth.
Night had chased away the last of the daylight. Stars were coming out, but the air was still muggy hot. Foster loosened his tie and opened his top button. They strolled to the end of the drive, Chief tugging at his lead. The dog was panting like he had already run a mile. They passed through a small gate in the stone wall that surrounded the property and turned north.
A black Lincoln with tinted windows idled on the corner of Tennyson and Longfellow. Foster tied Chief’s leash to a lamp post and climbed into the backseat. Guy Taggart sipped from a plastic cup full of lawn clippings. He drank two a day, claiming the foul-smelling brew kept his heart healthy, his colon clean and gave him extra energy.
“What’s so important?” Foster asked.
“Rhodes wants to know what’s going on in Mexico.” Taggart took a swig. It left bits of green between his teeth.
“I’m taking care of it,” Foster assured him.
“Doesn’t look that way to me,” Taggart said.
“Watch your tone.” Foster turned to face him. “I don’t answer to you.”
Taggart took another drink. “You answer to her, and she wants to know what’s going on in Mexico. Or maybe she needs a better choice for Director?”
“Don’t threaten me, you little cockroach. Tell her I’ve got it under control.”
“We both know she’s not going to like that answer.”
Foster sat there hating the arrogant punk in his bespoke suits and his disgusting elixirs. Taggart was a slippery little eel. He always seemed to come out on the winning side, no matter which way the political winds shifted. Much as Foster disliked him, Taggart was the power behind the throne. Pissing him off was a bad for business. Foster took a deep breath. “One of Mathew Burke’s pet assassins blew a gasket. He went to Mexico to avenge his friend. I’ve got people on their way right now to intercept him.”
“That’s problematic,” Taggart said.
“Yeah, well, it won’t be a problem for long.”
“What’s his name?” Taggart asked.
“Excuse me?” Foster said. He had heard the question; just couldn’t believe Taggart had the stones to ask.
“What is the agent’s name?” Taggart said with perfect calm.
“Are you asking me to unmask the identity of a former CIA operative?”
Taggart sipped his drink and waited.
Foster shifted in his seat. The car felt like it was shrinking around him. Giving up Noble would put him even deeper into Rhodes’ pocket. If it ever came to light that he had exposed the identity of a CIA officer, even a disavowed officer, Foster would go to jail. On the other hand, if Rhodes got elected, and that was looking more and more likely, his cooperation would guarantee his appointment as the next Director of the CIA.
Taggart seemed perfectly content to wait him out.
“His name is Jake Noble,” Foster said. “He’s a former Special Operations Group team leader. I’ve got some of my best people on their way to intercept him. Let them handle it.”
“That’s up to her.” Taggart saw the look on Foster’s face and said, “Don’t come apart on us now. Keep up your end of the deal and you’ll be sitting in the Director’s chair by February.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.” Foster got out of the car before Taggart could ask any more questions that he didn’t want to answer. He slammed the door, grabbed Chief’s leash and started for home.
Chapter Thirty
SAM FELT THE BREATH freeze in her lungs. The first rule of intelligence is Don’t get caught. Being found inside the FBI director’s house was a one-way ticket to Leavenworth. She wouldn’t even get the dignity of a trial. She would simply disappear.
She rushed across the hall. The little hour glass was still tipping end over end. The files had not completely downloaded yet. Sam snatched the drive out of the laptop and stuffed it in her pocket as she bounded down stairs. She heard the garage door roll shut and the soft sound of car doors opening.
She remembered the alarm was disabled and sprinted through the dark house to the front entryway. In her haste, she keyed in the wrong number. The pad squawked at her, warning her that she had two more tries. She heard the muffled voices of Director Standish and his wife coming from the garage.
With her pulse jackhammering in her ears and her fingers trembling so bad she could barely connect with the numbers, Sam keyed the alarm code a second time. The digital
display flashed ARMED in red. A second later, the FBI director and his wife entered through the garage door.
The system chirped.
Sam put her back to the wall separating the entryway from the living room.
Director Standish stopped at the garage door to disable the alarm which Sam had just activated. His wife, Becky, went to the kitchen. If she had looked to the right, she would have seen Sam pressed up against the front hall. But she didn’t and the kitchen light snapped on.
“Do you want one?” the wife called.
“A small one, thanks,” Standish said.
“White?”
“Red.” The FBI director crossed into the kitchen and Sam held her breath. He stopped in the hall and, for one terrible second, Sam thought he would turn and look right at her. Then he moved into the kitchen. When he was out of sight, she checked the alarm pad, saw the word DISABLED, and reached for the door knob.
The wife said, “Can we at least discuss it?”
Sam paused.
“It’s not up for debate,” Director Standish said.
“She’s going to be the next president.”
“That may be,” Standish said. “But I swore an oath to this country.”
Sam hesitated. Slipping out the front door was the smart thing to do. Then she thought of Jake. How would he handle it? He’d get the job done, even if it meant putting himself at risk. She crept to the kitchen door and prayed the recording device in her underwire was strong enough to pick up the conversation.
“That idealism is why I married you,” Mrs. Standish was saying. “But we have to be realistic. If you go through with this and she wins in November, you’ll be out of a job.”
“We’ve got money,” Standish said.
“That’s not what I’m talking about, David, and you know it.”
“I’m not going to be bullied.”
“Rhodes is dangerous.”
Standish said. “No one is going to hurt you. I’m here to protect you.”
“What about the children, David?”
There was a pause. Standish asked, “Did something happen? Did someone threaten Charlie or Beth?”
More silence while Mrs. Standish took a long gulp from her wine glass. “Beth got an envelope in the mail a few days ago. I wasn’t going to tell you about it.”
“What was it?”
“Pictures. Someone took them through her bedroom window.”
Standish’s voice was a growl. “They can’t get away with this.”
“Beth wasn’t the only one,” Standish’s wife said in a small voice. “I got a call on my way into work yesterday. It was a man. He said I should be careful. Next thing I know a Lincoln with tinted windows came out of nowhere. Nearly ran me off the road.”
Standish snarled a curse.
“Please listen to me, David.” Mrs. Standish was panicked now. “You need to be smart about this. I know you swore to uphold the law, but this is bigger than you. It’s bigger than us. She’ll bury us. Please, I’m asking you for the sake of our children, let this one go.”
Sam had heard enough. She treaded back down the hall and eased the front door open. Outside, she sprinted across the lawn and scaled the fince. A rusty iron spike raked her thigh. She closed her mouth around a scream. Pain raced up her leg. She dropped down on the other side of the wall, wincing at the noise, but the street was empty. She paused to check the extent of her injury when she was two blocks away. The spike had ripped her pant leg open and dug a shallow, two-inch-long cut along the outside of her left thigh.
“Probably have tetanus,” Sam muttered.
At the park, she sat down on the swings, waited fifteen minutes and when Taggart didn’t show, she started the long walk back to D.C.
Chapter Thirty-One
MACHADO STACKED PLATES onto a barbell, bringing the total weight up to three hundred and fifteen pounds. A bib of sweat had soaked through the front of his Puma track suit. His home gym had everything a serious lifter could need, including a series of ellipticals and a mechanized rock climbing wall with adjustable speeds. In one corner, there was a smoothie bar stocked with fresh fruits, protein and creatine powders for that all-important shake after a heavy workout. Dean Martin slurred his way through Bye, Bye Blackbird on state-of-the-art speakers.
Machado scooped up a water bottle from the floor and took a sip before settling himself onto the bench. He took a moment to adjust; locked his shoulder blades behind him, gripped the bar in both hands and filled his lungs with air. With a powerful exhalation, he exploded the bar up off the pins. The steel rod bowed under the weight. Veins bulged in his neck. He pumped out eight reps and racked the weight. It landed on the pins with a loud clang.
The gymnasium door swung in on silent hinges. Santiago entered wearing his customary black. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
Machado sat up, breathing heavy. “What the hell happened? You are all over the news.”
“She got away,” Santiago stated.
Dean Martin had been replaced by Frank Sinatra singing “Fly Me to the Moon.” Machado brought his smart phone out of his pocket and muted the music. “I can see that. Where did she go?”
“I’m still working on that.”
“What about the priest? Did you question him?”
“By the time I got back the police were all over the church, el Jefe.”
Machado wanted to wrap his hands around Santiago’s throat and break his neck. “So you lost her, again?”
“I have every man at my disposal out there looking for her,” Santiago said. “She’s wounded. She can’t get far.”
“I heard this story before. The first time she escaped.” Machado laid back down and pumped out another eight reps. He sat up, toweled off his face and drank water.
Santiago said, “I’m doing everything I can, el Jefe.”
Machado went to the smoothie bar, picked up a file and handed it to Santiago. “His name is Jacob Noble. He works for the American Central Intelligence Agency.”
“How did you get this?” Santiago asked as he leafed through the file.
“Reach out to your friends in the police department,” Machado said. “I want the gringo dead—I don’t care what it costs—but bring the girl back alive. Is that clear?”
“Sí, el Jefe.”
Machado watched him go, ran both hands over his bald head, cursed. He wanted to kill the girl with his own two hands, wanted to watcher her suffer, but more than that, he wanted those recordings. They were his insurance deposit.
***
Santiago took the file and walked down the hall to Machado’s private home theater. He would have to throw around some money, but Noble would be in a body bag before the end of the week. He went to the bar, poured a drink and placed a phone call to the Chief of Police.
“Cómo estás, mi amigo?” Santiago said.
“Muy bien,” the Chief said. “How is the private sector?”
“Some days are better than others,” Santiago admitted. “I need a favor.”
“Tell me what you need. I’ll see what I can do.”
Santiago rattled off Noble’s vital statistics from the file.
“We are already looking for this man,” the Chief told him. “He escaped police at the airport earlier today and stole a car.”
Santiago drained his drink and refilled the empty glass. “Tell your officers that Machado is offering fifty thousand pesos to the man who pulls the trigger.”
The Chief said, “That should motivate them.”
“One more thing. He has a girl with him,” said Santiago. “Machado wants her alive.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s American, so it has to look clean. Understand?”
“No problem. He is armed and dangerous. No one will question the kill. Give my regards to your employer,” the Chief of Police said and they rung off.
Chapter Thirty-Two
NOBLE DROPPED THE SUPPLIES and pulled his gun. A forlorn-looking puppy had escaped h
is cage and knocked over a bottle in his search for food.
“I almost plugged you,” Noble told the pup.
The dog responded with a whine.
Noble holstered the weapon and started to pick up his collection of stolen goods, then stopped. “You hungry, fella?”
The puppy looked up with hopeful eyes. A face like that would make a good television ad for pet adoption. It said, I’m pitiful. Give me treats. Who can resist a look like that?
Noble found a can of dog food and an electric opener. The puppy licked his chops in anticipation. There were no dishes or bowls so Noble emptied the food onto the floor. The dog didn’t seem to mind. He attacked the glop. Noble scratched behind the little guy’s ears while he ate. When he had finished, Noble gently lifted him into an empty cage.
His good deed done for the day, Noble gathered up the medicine and bandages and returned to the waiting rental car. He dumped his haul in the passenger seat, shifted into drive and pulled out of the lot. His cellphone was still putting out white noise. As soon as he was out of range, the clinic’s alarm system would signal the monitoring company, but Noble would be long gone by then.
He threaded his way through back streets to the rundown heap of bricks and mortar calling itself a motel. A sedan with dark tint idled on the corner. The pair of hard cases in the front seat could be cops, cartel thugs or just a couple of guys waiting on friends, but Noble didn’t believe in coincidences.
He parked in the back lot, out of sight of the road, close to the stairs. The bundle of medical supplies would have to stay with the car. He stuffed the antibiotic in his pockets and left the rest. He could come back if there was time.
Noble Vengeance (Jake Noble Series Book 2) Page 11