by Misty Evans
“Why do you want to kill Peter now, after all you’ve done for him?”
Moira pushed the hood back from her face. “Because of this.”
Even in the shadows of the car, Brigit could see the fresh bruise on Moira’s cheek. Her bottom lip had been split as well. An old bruise yellowed her left temple. “He beat you up? Why?”
“Because of you.”
It was hard to believe Peter would get upset with Moira for trying to kill her, and yet the thought gave her pause. Did Peter still care, just a little, for her?
“Shooting you was a federal offense. I broke the rules, never kill a government agent, here, Britain, Ireland, wherever. It brings too much heat, too much need for vengeance. You hit one of their own and the police, in whatever country, want your head on a stick. Peter now has to be extra vigilant. Our escape was made ten times harder.”
She should have known Peter’s anger at Moira was not based on any emotion for her. “So he beat you up and left you behind as a scapegoat.”
“If the authorities have me, they won’t care about Peter, even though he is the one who orchestrated the assassination.”
“So where is he? I can call the police and have him arrested.”
“Tory is with him. You call in the cops and they’ll arrest her too. Or Peter will use her as a hostage. Is that what you want?”
Brigit took a deep breath and considered her options. She didn’t seem to have many again. Moira was only trying to save her own skin, but her point was still valid. Peter could use Tory as a hostage. “What’s your plan?”
“Cormac O’Bern is about to leave Layton Airport on his private jet bound for Dublin.”
Her brain spun through scenarios. “Peter’s hijacking his plane?”
Moira snorted. “It’s an easier way to get back to Ireland than his original escape plan.”
Brigit stuck her key in the ignition and cranked the motor. “How much time do we have?”
Moira lowered the gun and sat back. “Less than forty minutes. Can you make it?”
As with all things in and around D.C., the answer depended on the traffic. Brigit shifted into drive, flipped on the windshield wipers and wheeled the car out of the parking spot. Pressing her foot to the accelerator, she ignored the lot’s stop sign and the blare of a car horn as she pulled out in front of a gray sedan. “Of course I can.”
Fifty feet away, Conrad Flynn started his Jeep to follow Brigit. Before he could put it in gear, though, Julia knocked on his window.
She had a hat on and the collar of her windbreaker up. He rolled down the window. “You following me or Kent?”
“You. We need to talk about Zara.”
The green car was quickly disappearing down the street. He couldn’t lose her. “Get in,” he told Julia, motioning her to hurry.
She ran around the front of the Jeep and slid in, wet jacket and all. Conrad shifted into gear, one foot still on the brake. “One thing. You’re in this car as my wife, not an FBI agent. Anything that happens on this run is off the record for you. You feel me, Ms. Torrison?”
Her eyes flashed annoyance but she pulled her hat off and sighed back against the seat in acceptance. “It’s Mrs. Flynn to you.”
Conrad grinned, releasing the brake and gunning the gas, and they shot out of the skinny alley after Brigit. He shifted on the fly, the Jeep responding like a well-tuned instrument. Julia stayed quiet until he had the green car in sight again.
“Del Hoffman called this morning,” she said, shaking out her wet hair. “He told Zara her group of sisters is headed back to London. She’s already booked a ticket.”
“Look, I don’t want her in the field any more than you do, but the doctor told her she could return to work.”
“The doctor doesn’t know she’s a spy.”
“Actually, he does. He’s one of our go-to guys. She was dehydrated and anemic. He pumped her full of fluid and got her eating again.”
Julia stiffened and turned to look at him. “But it’s too dangerous, for her and the baby.”
He agreed, but ultimately it was Zara’s decision. Bottom line, Julia knew it too. She was just worried. He kept his eyes on the traffic as he changed tactics to make her realize what Zara was dealing with. “What if you were pregnant? Your job’s just as dangerous. What would you do in her place?”
The pause was long enough to make Conrad glance at her from the corner of his eye. Her forehead was creased, her bottom lip skewed to the side in concentration. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”
“Maybe you should.”
The crease deepened. Conrad shifted his attention back to the road. “Would you take a desk job if, you know, you were pregnant with our kid?”
She touched her stomach reflexively. “I can’t get past the me-being-pregnant part to even consider what I’d do about my job.”
“So you’re not…”
He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Part of him was in Julia’s camp trying to wrap his head around her being pregnant. The other part wanted to pat her stomach too.
Her head snapped around so she could look at him again. “Pregnant? Me?”
His business cell beeped in its holder on the dash, the loud noise vibrating between them as he returned her stare. The surprise on her face and incredulous tone of her voice was the only answer he needed. “You’re not pregnant.”
She smiled and shook her head no. Again his feelings about a kid divided into two camps. One of relief, the other of disappointment.
The phone blared again. Caller ID registered it was Smitty. “I’ll see if I can find a safe but attractive desk job for Zara,” was all he could say.
Julia touched his arm as if she read the conflicting emotions in his face. “Thank you.”
Shoving his mixed emotions aside, he put on his Bluetooth headset and hit the connect button. “What did you find on Gunn?”
Ryan Smith sighed. “First, tell me what’s happening with Zara. She left some flippant message with my secretary about being Super Woman and returning to London tonight.”
“She’s Super Woman all right, but I’m pulling her off that case.” He glanced at Julia who still had her hand on her stomach. “She won’t be back in your camp for awhile.”
“You putting her on the Kent case instead?”
The idea sparked a dozen more in Conrad’s brain. If he put Zara to work on following Brigit, he could keep an eye on her. Julia could keep an eye on her. Everyone would be happy. Even Zara. “Uh, yeah. I need her to do some behind-the-scenes stuff on Kent and Donovan both. What’d’ya find out about Gunn?”
“He’s a spy, definitely MI5. Why he’s been paired with Dr. Kent isn’t clear. On her though, I did more research and found a cold-war spy in Madrid who knew her father, might’ve even trained him. He was sort of purposely fuzzy on details, but he did tell me Brigit’s father, William, was a senior MI5 officer running agents while pretending to be a British parliament member. After the death of his wife—a suspicious death, I might add—he uprooted Brigit and Tory and moved them to America.”
“He still work for our friends?”
“Not clear, but probably. He opened a law firm in Chicago and got both girls U.S. citizenship. At seventeen, Brigit moved to London to attend Oxford. The same time Tory ran away from home.”
Conrad didn’t care about Tory. Finding her was Julia’s job. “So Brigit followed in her daddy’s footsteps and went to work for SIS after graduation.”
“Actually, before her eighteenth birthday. One of their operatives recruited her and sent her to Fort Monckton for training. They put her through the usual physical and psychological bullshit. Her IQ’s a hundred and nineteen so she had no trouble with the exams, but she struggled with some of the physical fitness tests. When they sent her back to campus to start cultivating agents, she sucked at it. They pulled her from their operative ranks, but paid for her postgrad education.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Just like she told
you, she’s a consultant. She profiles psychosocial and antisocial disorders for various government organizations. In her spare time, she treats kids.”
“She’s a profiler.”
“A very well-paid, sought-after profiler, who I’m guessing breaks down personalities and disorders of a very elite subgroup.”
Kidnappers and terrorists were hardly elite. “Which is?”
“Presidents, prime ministers, queens and czars. You name it, she profiles ’em.”
Brigit had hit the interstate, still acting like her ass was on fire. Conrad passed an SUV on the on ramp to keep up with her. “Why?”
“You ask that question a lot.”
“That’s what Stone pays me to do.”
“In this day and age, dictators and elected officials alike want to know everything about their allies as well as their enemies. Brigit and Gunn have been in ten different countries in the past five years, consulting with top-level officials on a variety of projects including several kidnappings like Ella’s. My guess is they were also gathering info and intel for SIS.”
Conrad focused on his driving while his mind spun. “You think she’s been putting a profile of Stone together?”
Julia’s gaze left the road and zeroed in on him. She motioned for him to hit the speakerphone button. He did, and Smitty’s voice filled the Jeep’s cabin, while Conrad tossed the Bluetooth on the dash. “Michael’s next in line for the CIA Director’s job and Michael’s brother-in-law is days away from becoming the next president.”
Damn. “Good work, Smitty. I’ll pass the info on.”
“One other thing my asset revealed? Peter Donovan is Brigit’s older half-brother.”
“Holy crap,” Julia said.
“Hey, Jules. Didn’t know you were there.”
Conrad put a finger to his lips to shush her before she could respond. “You sure?”
“Yep.” Conrad could almost see Smitty nodding. “They share the same mother and there was speculation at the time Roberta Kent died in a fire that Peter had a hand in it. The British and Irish governments hushed it up, but Brigit’s been trying to track Peter down and bring him to justice for years. Probably why she did her doctoral thesis on him.”
“I’ll be goddamned.”
“Pretty sure you already are.”
Julia chuckled and Conrad disconnected. Stone was going to crap a brick.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-six miles outside of D.C., the Layton private airport did a small but prestigious business. While government officials, lobbyists and high-profile company executives parked their Gulfstreams at Reagan National and Dulles, the less pretentious, though equally rich, parked their jets at Layton where the policy of the owner was discretion above all else.
Layton’s security standards were as high as any public airport post 9/11. From ex-Army mechanics skilled in customized jet maintenance to ex-Air Force pilots experienced in international flights, their staff was topnotch. The airport’s layout had been designed by a renowned New York architect who routinely used one of the private hangars to store his Learjet. The waiting area showcased designer chairs featured in Elle Décor magazine.
Brigit sent Moira to the café, knowing the woman would never get through security, even with her expensive fake passport. The bruises on her face alone were enough to invite suspicion.
As she ran through the private waiting area to the boarding gate, she caught sight of the Learjet on the runway. Cormac O’Bern was crossing the tarmac, the collar of his raincoat up to protect his neck. An assistant tagged along behind him with an umbrella.
Brigit waved her DHS badge at the security officer, bulldozing past the gate barrier. “I have to catch Cormac O’Bern.”
The officer moved her body in front of Brigit’s and ripped the badge from her hand. “Are you boarding the plane, ma’am?”
O’Bern was halfway up the stairs. “Yes, but not to leave the country. I just need to ask Mr. O’Bern a couple of questions.”
Precious seconds ticked by as the officer eyed the badge and considered whether to let her through. Brigit saw O’Bern top the stairs. She pushed past the officer. “It’s national security and if I don’t stop that plane before it takes off, it’s on your head.”
Her words had the right effect. “I’ll hold your badge here. Are you armed?”
“Not unless you consider an umbrella a weapon.” She ran out the gate into the rain just as the jet’s stairs made a mechanical grinding noise.
They began to lift off the ground as Brigit leapt onto the bottom one, grabbing the handrail. Off balance, she tripped on the stairs folding under her feet and toppled into the plane as they slammed shut behind her.
“Brigit?” Tory stood by the door dressed in a dark navy skirt and jacket just like a flight attendant. “What are you doing here?”
O’Bern’s assistant was helping him get out of his wet raincoat. The poet frowned. “Who are you, and what are you doing on my plane?”
Brigit righted herself and fingered her umbrella. Her DHS badge was being held hostage back with the security officer. “Dr. Brigit Kent,” she said to him, ignoring Tory. “I’m with the Department of Homeland Security, and I’m afraid there’s a security issue I need to address with you.”
“Wait.” O’Bern pointed a finger at her. “I know you. You’re the lass who got herself shot at my lecture.”
Tory laid a hand on Brigit’s arm and spoke softly under her breath. “Are you all right?”
Brigit nodded and answered O’Bern. “Peter Donovan is on board this plane, Mr. O’Bern.”
“Peter?” The man’s face paled. “On my plane?”
The assistant’s gaze darted around the cabin, panic evident. “Where?”
From behind her, Brigit heard the cockpit door open. She wheeled around, raising the umbrella.
The beard had disappeared. The colored contacts, along with the pilot’s uniform, worked to disguise Peter. He glanced down at the raised umbrella and back up to her face. “Give Tory the umbrella, and go sit down.”
The deep nasal quality of his voice sent shivers down her spine.
“Peter?” O’Bern gripped the back of the seat in front of him. “Where’s Calloway?”
Without taking his eyes off Brigit, Peter answered. “Your pilot is unharmed, as you will be if you follow my orders.”
Brigit raised the umbrella a notch, but Tory moved in between it and Peter and put her hand on the tip. “Do as Peter says, Brigit, and no one will get hurt.”
Brigit looked over her sister’s head to keep eye contact with Peter. “Don’t believe him, Mr. O’Bern. His plan all along was to kill you.” She flicked her gaze to Tory and back to Peter. “What I don’t understand is why you tried to hurt Ella. How could you leave an innocent girl to die in a fire?”
Tory pushed the umbrella’s end toward the floor. “Peter didn’t set the—”
“Tory.” Peter placed a hand on Tory’s shoulder. “Take the umbrella.”
Brigit snapped it away from her sister’s grasp, but Peter was just as quick. The dark end of a black gun appeared in front of Brigit’s face.
“You always were a pain in the ass,” he said, his eyes cold and merciless, his voice rumbling in his throat like a pit bull’s. He cocked the gun. “Now give the goddamn umbrella to Tory.”
At that moment, Brigit understood Peter would have no qualms about killing her, yet she couldn’t hold back her laugh as she handed over the umbrella. “I thought you were smarter than to shoot a gun inside a fully gassed plane, but then there’s the difference between you and me. I work for the good guys. They teach us basic common sense.”
Enraged, Peter pushed Tory aside and tackled Brigit full force, slamming her back against the plane’s interior. The cool barrel of the gun bit into her temple and his breath rushed out as he spoke. “You think I won’t blow this plane to Kingdom Come with you and Tory in it?”
His breath was like a disease flooding her senses and sinking into her skin. S
he had to swallow bile in her throat.
Tory grabbed at Peter’s arm, but he didn’t budge. A flush rose up his neck and spread to his face. His nostrils flared as he gritted his teeth. “I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in.”
Brigit choked back the bile, her own anger matching his. “Neither am I.”
In one swift motion, Peter struck her with the butt. Pain exploded in her head, hot and white, before all went dark.
Michael hugged Ella goodbye before taking the front stairs to his waiting car. “You be good,” he called to her over his shoulder.
Thad, Ruthie and Ella stood on the porch, Ella holding one of her dolls against her chest. “Mom says I have to go back to school tomorrow.”
Michael frowned at Ruthie but kept his opinion Ella should have more time off to himself. Life went on. There were political campaigns to run, news conferences to hold, school.
“You’ll be okay,” he said, sending his niece a confident wink and a smile. “Call me if you need anything, got it?”
Ella’s chin raised a fraction of an inch. She held up a tiny thumb. “Got it, Uncle Michael.”
Three miles down the road, Michael’s cell phone rang. It was Flynn. “Where are you?”
The tone of his voice was the same, the demanding attitude as well, and yet Michael knew something had happened. Something concerning Brigit. “What did she do?”
“She hopped a ride with Cormac O’Bern back to Ireland. Left her government ID with the security guard at the gate.”
As he forced himself to breathe, he also forced his mind to consider the reasons Brigit would do such a thing. Heading to Ireland. Leaving her ID behind. Leaving him behind without so much as a goodbye.
Another rush of instant knowing slammed him, choking off his air. He loosened the tie at his throat and drew in a deep breath. She wouldn’t leave the D.C. area right now unless she was chasing Tory. How had Tory gotten out of the country? Had that been Brigit’s goal all along? To make a deal with him so he let his guard down, and then she could take off on her own to hunt for her sister?