The Perfect Lie

by Dinah McCall

  “Get in,” Raoul said. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

  When the van pulled out of the driveway, Jonah’s muscles began to tense. Whatever happened now was out of his hands. All he could do was pray that they took him to Evan.

  As they pulled out of the driveway, an undercover agent was up a telephone pole three houses down, pretending to be doing repairs. Ruger had told him to keep an eye on Felipe Sosa, which he’d been doing quite well for several days now. However, he hadn’t expected to see Jonah Slade on Sosa’s doorstep. And when two more men appeared later, then led Slade away, he knew something was amiss. He reached for his cell phone.

  Ruger was dumping a packet of artificial sweetener in his coffee cup when Declyn Blaine’s maid entered the conference room with a tray of sweet rolls.

  “You like?” Rosa asked.

  Ruger looked down at the fake sugar he’d just dumped in his coffee cup, then back at the tray of rolls, and grinned.

  “Oh, I like them, all right.”

  Rosa smiled, then set the tray down on a table. “You ask me if you want more,” she said, and hustled out of the room.

  Ruger took a large cherry Danish from the tray and had just taken a bite when his cell phone rang.

  “That figures,” he muttered, trying to swallow as he answered the call.

  “Ruger.”

  “Sir, this is Caldwell. Something’s kinky here. Did you send Slade to Felipe Sosa?”

  Ruger’s heart skipped a beat. “Hell no.”

  “Well, he was here for almost an hour.”

  “What do you mean, was?”

  “About ten minutes ago, a dark van pulled up at Sosa’s house and two men went inside. A few minutes later, the two men who’d gone in came back out, and Slade was with them. I couldn’t be sure from where I am, but it looked as if they tied him up in the van before they left. What do you want me to do?”

  “Did you get the plate?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give it to me,” Ruger ordered.

  The agent rattled off the numbers.

  “Okay, I’ve got them,” Ruger said. “Now call in some help and pick up our gardener. I’ll decide what to do with him later.”

  “Yes, sir,” the agent said.

  Ruger hung up, then tossed the Danish back on the tray as he headed out the door. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he knew someone who might.

  15

  Macie was still in bed, unwilling to move and shatter the memories of last night and making love to Jonah. But the longer she lay there, the more panicked she became. By now he was already at the gardener’s house in East L.A. Just thinking about what would happen to him after that made her sick to her stomach. The success of the mission teetered on one man’s ability to track Jonah’s whereabouts and Jonah’s knowledge of what made Miguel Calderone tick. If anything—even the smallest of incidents—went wrong, it would be over before the FBI could intervene.

  Twice she’d thought about getting up and telling Ruger everything. She wanted Jonah backed up with every man and gun available, but she hadn’t said anything. She had to trust that he knew what he was doing, and that he had both his and Evan’s best interests at heart.

  She glanced at the clock. Almost nine o’clock. Please, God, let them all be okay.

  Then she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall on the run. Her stomach lurched. No one ran in Declyn Blaine’s house unless something was wrong. Before the knock sounded on the door, she was out of bed and grabbing her robe.

  “Miss Blaine? Miss Blaine, are you there?”

  It was Ruger. She recognized his voice.

  “Just a moment!” she called. “I’m coming.”

  She belted her robe and then hurried to the door.

  The look on Ruger’s face was frightening.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You tell me,” he said.

  Macie felt the blood draining from her face, but she stood her ground.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Where’s Slade?” he asked.

  Macie glanced toward his bedroom. “Isn’t he in his room?”

  Ruger shoved a hand through his thinning hair in disgust.

  “This isn’t the time for you to play dumb with me. I know he’s been spending his nights with you, which is fine. In fact, it’s completely immaterial to me what either of you do for the rest of your lives. But unless you tell me what you know about the stunt he just pulled, his life is probably going to be over.”

  Macie swayed on her feet.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ruger flinched. It was the first time it dawned on him that she really might not know what was going on.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “But you two are so close, and I just assumed that you would know—”

  “What the hell is going on up here?”

  Ruger turned. It was Carl French.

  “If all hell hadn’t just broken loose, I might ask you where you’ve been, but I don’t have time to play twenty questions. Besides, from the way this morning has started, I doubt I’d believe a damned thing you told me anyway.”

  Carl moved to Macie’s side and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Miss Blaine…are you all right?”

  She nodded.

  Carl turned, fixing Ruger with a cool, steady glare.

  “For now, I’m going to assume that you were overly excited and didn’t really mean to scare the hell out of Miss Blaine.”

  Ruger glared back, tired of playing footsie with the Company during an FBI investigation.

  “Excited? Oh, I don’t think that’s the word I would use to describe the fact that Jonah Slade was seen walking into Felipe Sosa’s house just before eight o’clock this morning and later being taken out under guard by two other men and driven away in a van.”

  “Oh, God,” Macie muttered, and turned around and staggered toward the bed.

  Within the space of a heartbeat, the expression on Carl’s face went from anger to shock.

  “You’re lying,” he said, and then turned toward Macie. But the moment he saw her, he knew it was true. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

  Ruger snorted beneath his breath. “Sorry. I asked first.”

  Macie took a deep breath, gathering herself, then pushed herself up.

  “I want both of you out of my room now. I need to get dressed.”

  “Listen here, Miss Blaine, you need to—”

  Macie interrupted Ruger. “No. I don’t need to do anything—however, I will tell you this. Jonah has his reasons for what he’s doing, and he’s not acting alone.”

  Carl’s mouth dropped. “Why didn’t he tell me? I’m his best friend, for God’s sake. I would have—”

  Macie shrugged. “He tried to call you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

  Carl blanched. It was true. He’d turned it off on purpose. When he’d turned it back on, the battery had been down.

  “God,” he muttered. “He needed me, and I let him down.”

  “He’s not alone,” Macie repeated.

  Ruger was livid. “I don’t understand. Why pull this renegade stunt now?”

  “Are you any closer to finding Evan today than you were yesterday?” Macie asked.

  Ruger’s chin jutted angrily. “No, but—”

  “Jonah said time had run out for Evan. We all know that Calderone’s ‘body’ never showed up at any funeral home. Whether the authorities are ready to admit it or not, they were duped.”

  “But—”

  Macie interrupted. “I’m sorry, Agent Ruger, but there are no buts. The bottom line is that Jonah now believes that he was betrayed by someone he knew. He didn’t know who to trust, and the investigation was going nowhere. All I’m going to tell you is that you will be hearing from another agent soon. Beyond that, I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

  It was the word “betrayed” that had ended all the anger. Ruger’s
eyes widened, his lips going slack. Carl French backed up to the doorway, then leaned against the wall as if he’d been sucker-punched.

  “Betrayed? You can’t be serious?” Carl said. “Why would he think that?”

  “Because someone had to tell Calderone who Jonah really was, as well as about Evan’s existence, and it certainly wasn’t Jonah. The only people who knew anything about Jonah’s past were within the security division of the Federal government.”

  Ruger’s demeanor shifted. “Can you tell me anything more, Miss Blaine? Anything to shift this mess in our favor?”

  Macie shrugged. “Just be ready to move. My suggestion would be to ready some choppers, as well as a ground force, although I don’t suppose we can know for sure until the call comes.”

  “Jesus,” Ruger said. “Can’t you at least tell me who to expect the call from?”

  Macie thought for a moment, then decided that the name of the agent wouldn’t change what was already happening.

  “Collum McAllister.”

  “Who’s he?” Ruger asked.

  Carl’s expression was noticeably flat. “One of us,” he said shortly, then pivoted angrily and stalked out of the room.

  “Oh, great. Just what I need,” Ruger muttered. “Another spook messing with my investigation.”

  “If you people would quit worrying about who’s got jurisdiction and just find my nephew, we would all be a lot better off. Now, as I said before, please excuse me. I want to get dressed.”

  Ruger left, taking care not to slam the door behind him, although the urge to do so was strong. Spy? Traitor? Bull! That was what it was—a lot of bull. There were no traitors in his organization. He could not, however, speak for the Agency. What happened there was none of his business and out of his hands.

  Collum McAllister was flying high, in more ways than one. It was a beautiful morning, almost devoid of smog. The blip on his computer was coming in loud and clear, and there was a second jelly doughnut still waiting to be eaten on the seat beside him.

  He’d been nervous about pulling this off without telling the FBI first, but Slade had been adamant, and after learning that Slade really believed there was a traitor among them, he understood the need for secrecy. If it was true, it wouldn’t be the first time an agent had turned bad, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. But it was a sickening thing to believe that someone who was supposed to be on their side would sell out. He hoped to God it wasn’t true.

  He glanced at the blip as he reached for the doughnut. Wherever they were taking Jonah, they were still moving due south along the coast. He took a bite, considering the distance they had already gone from L.A., and got a little nervous, thinking about how far Ruger and his men would have to come before they would be of any assistance. Still, he had promised, and as far as he could tell, all was going according to plan.

  Seconds later, he realized that the blip on the screen had stopped moving. Tossing aside the doughnut, he quickly wrote down the coordinates, then moved in for a closer look. He needed to see the area before calling it in so that Ruger would know what he was getting into.

  Within a couple of minutes, he had the place in sight. It was a big clearing with a cluster of old Quonset-style huts. He counted five. Two vehicles were parked beside the largest, one of which was a dark van.

  “Bingo,” he said softly, then quickly banked toward the ocean and started out to sea. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to think he was spying. Now all he had to do was contact Ruger.

  Collum was reaching for his cell phone when the engine began to sputter. Immediately his gaze went to the instrument panel. He was losing altitude fast. A second or two later, he realized that the pressure gauge was dropping, as well.

  “Shit,” he muttered, and tried without success to bring the craft under control. They must have made him, and someone must have gotten off a shot.

  Now the chopper was losing altitude fast, dipping and swaying toward the surface of the water like a drunken dragonfly.

  “Shit,” Collum said again, then began to broadcast the alarm. “Mayday. Mayday. This is Tango Charlie niner niner seven. I’m experiencing engine trouble.”

  He gave out his coordinates as if in a dream, while thinking only three more years and he would have been able to retire. Then it hit him that Jonah was in even deeper trouble.

  He reached for his cell phone and punched in the number Jonah had given him to call.

  Ruger answered on the first ring.

  “Hello. Ruger speaking.”

  “Don’t talk, just listen,” a man shouted in his ear. “One…half…South of La Jolla…five…War II…van…”

  Immediately, Ruger knew this was the call they’d been waiting for, but the connection was so bad he could only hear parts of the conversation.

  “Repeat! I say, repeat!” Ruger yelled. “You’re breaking up.”

  “Water…coming up…not going to—”

  Before Ruger could respond, there was the sound of rushing wind, then a horrible whack and thump. After that, nothing but silence.

  He disconnected, talking to his men as he ran.

  “Call the Coast Guard. Tell them that a plane or a chopper just went down off the coast somewhere south of La Jolla. And tell them to by God find him alive or this whole thing is a bust.”

  When the van stopped, Jonah’s heart stopped with it. Either he was about to meet his son or his Maker, and the choice was out of his control. Suddenly the side door was yanked open. The same man who’d tied him up crawled in, cut the ropes binding his feet and dragged him out.

  “You walk,” he said, shoving a semiautomatic rifle in Jonah’s back.

  With one sweeping glance, Jonah realized that a rescue in this desolate place was going to be tough to pull off. There was nothing behind which to hide and nothing to conceal an approach, either by air or sea. But what was done was done, and he knew he could count on Collum.

  The guard shoved the gun a little harder. Jonah started walking toward the largest building. As he did, it dawned on him where they were. Not that it any longer had a name, but he would have bet money that this had once been a World War II lookout post for Japanese submarines. The building toward which they were walking had probably been a hangar, although the landing strip, if there had ever been one, had either been destroyed or eroded through the years.

  The wind off the Pacific was strong on the cliffs, buffeting both him and the buildings. As they entered, the shadows, coming after the heat of the sun, and the absence of wind provided welcome relief.

  “There,” the guard ordered, poking at Jonah’s back again and directing him to the left.

  A portion of the old hangar had been walled off into what he supposed had been offices.

  God, please let Evan be here, and please let him be alive.

  As they neared the area, another man suddenly appeared.

  He was a tall, swarthy man with a Manchurian mustache and a pockmarked face. The derision on his face was evident as he laughed in Jonah’s face.

  “The padrone will be pleased,” he said.

  The other guards laughed, boasting in their native language about capturing the elusive Jonah Slade.

  Jonah turned and looked at them, then startled them when he grinned.

  Immediately their boasting turned to bluster.

  “Lock him up with the pup,” one of them said.

  The pockmarked guard turned and unlocked the door behind him.

  “In there,” he ordered.

  Jonah took a deep breath and moved forward. Almost immediately, he smelled urine and feces. Dread came over him in waves, fearing that next he would smell the sick-sweet stench of rotting human flesh. But he didn’t.

  He stumbled through the doorway, then stopped. The boy on the bed was a mass of dried blood and bruises. When he heard them talking, he stumbled from the bed and backed up to the boarded-up window, as if bracing himself for what was coming next.

  Rage came swiftly as Jonah turned to the men, looking
for the one who’d hurt Evan. In one swift glance he saw the cuts and scrapes on the man’s knuckles and knew it was him.

  “You bastard. You slimy, egg-sucking bastard.”

  It was the last words the guard would ever hear on this earth. Before anyone saw it happen, Jonah swung his hands toward the man’s neck. The sound of breaking bone, then the man’s desperate gasps for air, stunned them all. They watched the guard die, drowning in his own blood.

  “He shouldn’t have hurt my son,” Jonah said, then turned his back on the two guards as if they were nothing.

  They stared at each other in disbelief, then took two quick steps backward, making sure they were out of his reach.

  “The padrone will make you pay,” one of them said.

  “The padrone can kiss my ass,” Jonah said. “Close the door behind you when you leave.”

  His unexpected defiance unnerved them, especially since they knew that using their guns on him would mean their death sentences. After quickly dragging the dead guard out of the doorway, they shut and locked the door, glad to put more than distance between them and the man who’d just avenged his own son.

  With nothing but the sounds of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, father stood before son; then he began to untie his hands with his teeth. A few moments later they were free. He tossed the thin rope aside and looked up.

  “Evan?”

  For a brief moment Evan Blaine thought he was dreaming. One second the man who’d beaten him had been laughing, and then he was dead. He stared at the man standing so quietly before him and then started to shake.

  Jonah moved toward him. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I would never have—”

  “Are you…are you Jonah Slade?”

  Jonah nodded. “I told you I would come.”

  Evan shuddered. This was his father. He reached for him then, but his toe caught on a plank and he started to fall.

  Jonah caught him, then pulled him close, feeling the bones beneath his skin and the heat of his flesh. The kid was burning up with fever.

  Just the feel of Jonah’s arms around him was enough to break what was left of Evan’s defenses.

  “Dad?”

  Jonah’s heartbeat surged. Never in his life had he imagined he would hear that word and know it was meant for him.