Rosa, his mother, opened the door. “Jack!” She hugged him tightly. She smelled of spice and tortillas and cookies.
She turned to his fiancée. “Megan, Megan! Welcome to our family. This is a beautiful weekend to get married.” She hugged her. Megan was a bit overwhelmed by the enthusiastic welcome, but she was smiling.
“Thank you for letting us use your home, Mrs. Kincaid.”
“Rosa! Or Mama. Or Mom. You can start with Rosa, I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, Rosa.”
“Come in, come in!”
“Is Dad here?” Jack asked.
Rosa said, “In his office. He’s waiting for you.”
Jack hesitated a fraction of a moment.
Megan kissed him. “And so am I. Go. Do it now, Jack. Tomorrow we start the rest of our life together.”
Maybe it was loving Megan, or simply understanding forgiveness and letting go of past regrets, or seeing his brother Dillon and Megan’s brother, Matt, put family first, even when they weren’t asked. But for the first time Jack thought he could have his whole family back. Including his father.
He caressed her face with the back of his hand, ran his thumb over her lips, then walked down the hall to make peace with his dad and to reclaim his family.
Read on for an excerpt from
FATAL SECRETS
the second book of the FBI Trilogy
by
ALLISON BRENNAN …
Published by Ballantine Books
“They’ll fire you.”
ICE Agent Sonia Knight gave her partner a sideways glance and rolled her eyes. “Not if we succeed.”
Trace shook his head. “I want this bastard as much as you, but we’re walking a real fine line here.”
“We’re close.”
“We could both end up dead.”
“Our witness has risked everything to give us this information. If Jones even gets a whiff that Vega is turning state’s evidence, he—and his pregnant wife—are dead.”
“Don’t think it.”
“You know it. He hasn’t checked in for three days, which isn’t like him.”
“But Kendra Vega is fine. We’ve been checking on her constantly.”
“For now. But Vega could be getting spooked. It’s one thing to talk about getting out of the business, but doing it is another story. These people are ruthless and Vega knows it.”
“And you pulled every string and called in every favor to get them into Witness Protection when he delivers the goods. You can’t do squat for him unless he comes back with the intel.”
True, but Sonia worried that Xavier Jones was untouchable. He’d been getting away with trafficking humans for years because his instincts were sharp and he trusted no one. That one of his top security men came to her three weeks ago to make a deal was a miracle. She wasn’t going to blow it—she wanted Jones in prison and the Vegas safe. That’s why not hearing from Greg Vega for the last three days disturbed her. Where was he? Why hadn’t he checked in?
“I wish we had better information,” Trace said, not for the first time.
They were hiding among the pine trees near Devils Lake, appropriately named considering the son of the devil, Xavier Jones, owned hundreds of acres in the area. She could see his house with field binoculars, and tonight, like the last two nights, it was dark.
“It will happen this week.”
“This is our third night watching Jones’s place. He’s out of the state, like Vega reported last time he checked in. The kid could be wrong.”
“He’s not.” They’d contacted the Transportation Security Administration but Xavier Jones hadn’t used his passport. He usually traveled by private plane, both retaining a pilot and being a pilot himself. Tracking small crafts was much more difficult, making the last few days even more frustrating. He could be back in Northern California now for all they knew.
Sonia had spent her days talking with Andres Zamora just to get him to trust her. He told her everything he remembered about his family’s abduction and his mother’s murder. It all held together, and he had the scars to prove it.
“I should never have run.”
“You did the right thing. Your brother told you to go.”
“I should have stayed with them. Emilio is all I have.”
“Don’t give up on Maya.”
“How could she survive what they do to her?”
Sonia didn’t have an answer, because she didn’t know if she could find his sister. Eight days was a long time in the vile underworld, and thirteen-year-old Maya had most likely been sold before she ever set foot in America. If she ended up in America. They’d been separated during the journey, and Andres had no idea where they’d been when she’d been taken away. He and Emilio ended up here, being smuggled in first by truck, then by boat.
“If you’re worried about a reprimand, I’ll tell them I lied to you like I lied to the rest of the team.” She hadn’t wanted to lie, but she felt like she had no choice. Her boss wouldn’t have authorized this stakeout on the word of a ten-year-old illegal immigrant.
Trace slammed his fist on the ground. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“I’m sorry.” She stared through the binoculars at the dark house. She didn’t want to hurt Trace, but he hadn’t been in the trenches long enough to know how brutal this business was. That the buying and selling of humans was even thought of as a business angered Sonia and kept her focused on the prize: slapping cuffs on Jones and getting him into an interrogation room.
“No you’re not. You think you’re protecting the team, but you’re only hurting yourself. Don’t be the martyr, Sonia. You’re too damn good. I’m a big boy, and I could have told you to fuck off, or told Warner that Vega didn’t give you this intel. I backed you up because I trust your instincts. I just don’t want you to be blinded because—”
Their earpieces came to life.
“Beta Two reporting three vehicles approaching from the west at approximately forty miles per hour, headed toward the residence.”
Beta Two was stationed at the fork, and there were only two private homes off this road, one being a vacation home belonging to a Silicon Valley executive who came up here quarterly.
Adrenaline flushed her system and she was ready to rock and roll. This was what she lived for. It was 0100 with a near-full moon.
“ETA?”
“Ninety seconds to our post.”
“Stand down. Do not engage—Beta Four, circle—”
She was cut off midsentence. “They’re fibbies,” Beta Two said.
“What?”
“Grill lights just went on. Red, white, and blue.”
Sonia slammed her fist on the dashboard. She watched the road and seconds later red and blue lights flashed intermittently through the trees lining the private road off Lake Amador Drive. She heard someone— sounded like veteran Joe Nicholson—say, “She’s gonna fuckin’ blow like Mount Vesuvius.”
“Wish I could see it,” his partner replied.
“Wish I were on vacation.”
They were talking about her, and they were right. She had had more problems with the fucking FBI than any other law enforcement agency. They’d blown her operation. How did they get wind of the stakeout? Why didn’t they call and find out if anyone was investigating Jones? They acted like they were the only federal law enforcement in the country. Jones was ICE territory, and Sonia was going to make damn sure the FBI knew it. Innocent children were going to die if they screwed this up.
She watched as three black Suburbans drove onto the wide, circular drive in front of Jones’s towering home, lights flashing, screeching to a halt as if they were in some B-movie.
Federal heads were going to roll. Sonia would see to it. Personally.
She issued orders to her team, then turned to Trace. She was about to tell him to stay put, but shut her mouth. He was no longer a rookie, having been with her team for two years. “Ready?”
He nodded. “Don’t be rash.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, but still—more flies with honey, right?”
“I don’t want to capture them, I want to swat them.”
She and Trace ran low to the ground toward the residence. They were a good hundred yards or more off, but made to the rock-strewn edge of the drive through sparse foliage without being seen by the Feds. They halted behind a boulder where they could watch the SUVs stage their raid. Doors opened and at least eight fibbies oozed from the interior, black bulletproof vests with bold white letters proclaiming their authority: FBI.
Homeland security trumped the FBI every time, and she’d make sure the idiots who drove into her stakeout damn well knew it.
They were dressed in black tactical gear, and she pulled her hat from her pocket that identified her as ICE and clipped her badge to her belt. Trace did the same. She motioned to her partner and mouthed “On three,” and then they emerged from the trees only feet from the nearest agent. If she had been one of the bad guys, she’d have an ideal head shot. Hell, with her weak hand she could have taken out three of them without breaking a sweat. Incompetent jerks. Did they know who they were up against in Xavier Jones?
She strode toward three agents surveying the layout. One black-vested agent tried to stop her, flashing his badge and saying, “Ma’am, we’ll have to ask you to speak with—”
She pointed to her badge and glanced at his name sewn onto his vest. “Who’s in charge, Ivers? Elliott? Richardson?”
“I—”
A black-haired agent approached. Sonia recognized Sam Callahan, the Sac FBI’s SSA for white-collar crimes. Political bribery and money laundering. What was he doing here when Jones’s crime was far more international—and deadly—in scope? “Callahan. Surprised to see you here.”
“Right back at you, Sonia.” He nodded at Trace. “Anderson.”
She couldn’t hold back her frustration. “You just destroyed nearly two years of work! Is covert not in your vocabulary? We’re in the middle of a major investigation. Did you just not feel like contacting us?”
Callahan straightened and reddened. “We have a subpoena.”
Subpoena? “For what? No one cleared it with me. This is my operation, we’re dealing with immigration and human trafficking here, a bit out of your jurisdiction.” She was just getting started. “Dammit, Jones probably has people watching this place. And I know he has security—” She gestured toward the security cameras her team had identified three days before. “You blew it, Callahan.”
She started to kick the door of one of the SUVs, then pivoted before her boot made contact. She was pissed off, but she’d take out her frustration on the racquetball court later tonight.
What was she going to tell Andres? She pictured his troubled face and his warm brown eyes begging her to find his brother. Andres had been here, at the Jones house. He’d seen the gate, had known about the mermaid fountain—completely out of place in the Sierra Nevada foothills. This was where Andres had last seen his brother; this was where Sonia had to start looking.
She needed to talk to Vega, but she couldn’t jeopardize him, not when they were this close. He’d missed two scheduled contacts, and she desperately wanted to pull him now, but her boss made it clear: no hard evidence, no witness protection. Toni Warner was playing hardball with Jones’s key man because Vega was certainly no saint. Complete immunity and witness pro tection would only be worth it for ICE if they got something, or someone, big in return.
The passenger door that Sonia had nearly taken her anger out on opened. A man stepped out, clearly in command as evidenced from the quiet that descended among the FBI agents. Unlike the rest of the agents in black SWAT-gear with FBI-logo jackets, this man was dressed like a wealthy corporate attorney in a sharp charcoal-gray suit, crisp white shirt, and dark blue tie. He filled the suit beautifully, but looked like he’d be more at home wearing a black flak jacket and carrying an M16.
The suit shut the door and stared down at her with eyes so dark brown she couldn’t see the pupils. Sonia unconsciously straightened. She realized he wasn’t as tall or big as she thought—just over six feet and 180 pounds was her guess—but his commanding presence made him appear much larger. She noted that he wore a double shoulder holster; on one side, the standard-issue Glock, on the other a definite non-issue HK Mark 23, a .45 caliber pistol that was used in U.S. Special Operations Forces.
Who was this guy?
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Copyright © 2009 by Allison Brennan
Excerpt from Fatal Secrets copyright © 2009 by Allison Brennan
All rights reserved.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Fatal Secrets by Allison Brennan. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51284-0
www.ballantinebooks.com
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