The Trap (Agent Dallas 3)

by Sellers, L. J.

  Snyder blinked and scrunched up his face. A moment later, he grabbed his stomach and convulsed. “I have to go.” He spun and ran toward the hall, presumably heading to the restroom. Apparently, he wasn’t over being sick. Jocelyn downed the rest of her soda and turned back to her computer screen. This would be another long day.

  Her email notification lit up, and she opened the new message. It was a brief note from an administrator at the cell phone service provider, apologizing for the delay, but her message included a PDF attachment. Yes! Jocelyn opened the document and scanned down, looking for last Tuesday. Eventually, she would note every call in the weeks before, but right now she needed to know who Callie Sayers had talked to on the day she was murdered.

  Only three calls on Tuesday. Jocelyn plugged the first number into the dispatcher’s database and came up with Rona Jeffers. A quick Facebook search revealed her to be a twenty-something woman who lived in Richmond. Probably just a friend Callie had called. She added her to the case notes and keyed in the next number, an incoming call. It belonged to Eastern National. Interesting. The victim hadn’t banked there, but the business seemed familiar. She’d seen or heard it recently, most likely associated with the judge’s death. Jocelyn skimmed her team’s printed case notes for Judge Bidwell. She didn’t find the bank at first and had to read through again more slowly. But there it was near the end. The widow, Joan Bidwell, was a president of Eastern National.

  Why had she called Callie Sayers three hours before her murder?

  Chapter 28

  Thursday, Oct. 9, 2:37 p.m.

  Aaron Mortlock opened a beer and eased into his recliner with his laptop. He was sick of staying in this small funky room in the middle of nowhere, putting up with a bunch of loser activists. A dying man deserved better—such as a penthouse in a Las Vegas hotel surrounded by strippers—but after tomorrow, his brother would be free and he could move on. For now, he continued his search of Tara’s computer. He clicked a random file and scrolled through it, a Word manuscript that looked like an autobiography. He’d accessed her hard drive remotely when she first joined the group, so he could monitor her activities for a while, just as a precaution. The search he’d done at the time had been superficial. Other people’s photos and recipes bored him. But now he needed to know everything.

  Tara’s post the night before on the Real Food Blog had been strange. Her browser history revealed that she’d visited the site twice in the last week, but never before, which seemed odd. But she had bothered him from the beginning. Tara was too pretty under the heavy makeup, too healthy, and too normal to be an activist or an ex-con. And for him, she seemed to come out of nowhere. The others had met her months ago at a skydive, and she’d moved to DC shortly after. He knew enough about how the feds operated to smell a rat when they came around.

  So far, he hadn’t found any evidence she was in contact with the FBI. Unless that post had been a coded warning. He opened the Real Food blog again and scrolled through the comments. Another visitor had responded to Tara’s post, a brief supportive I agree. Aaron scrolled back through other blogs on the site. The responder, luckyjones, had never commented before. Was it an exchange of information or was he just being paranoid? Tara had gone out for a walk the night before too. Had she made a phone call? He searched her Wi-Fi update history and found the link to her phone. No recent calls. The last one had been made on Monday morning. That was when she’d driven him to the clinic. Was it another coincidence that the only call she’d made had been while she was out of monitoring range? Now that he had the number, he could find out who it belonged to.

  After twenty-five minutes of hacking wireless carrier databases—or more accurately, re-entering because he’d been inside of all them before—he had the service account. But no name was associated with it. A cash account on a cheap burner phone. Who owned those except criminals and people with something to hide? He had a couple himself.

  On top of all that, Tara didn’t have enough files to be a writer, unless she was really new at it. She also didn’t seem to exist before last year, not in an in-depth way. He had to conclude that Tara Adams was an alias. No, a bullshit background constructed by the feds. She was an undercover agent, sent to take them all down. Only there was no all. He didn’t care about justice reform—except to get his brother out of prison. Which was happening tomorrow.

  A panicked thought rattled his heart. The feds could be on their way right now. If they came to the farmhouse, he would take Tara hostage and use her as a shield. One option was to pack up his meager belongings and get the hell out now. But he had to deal with Tara, or whatever her name was, either way. If he left her alive, she would be suspicious of his sudden departure and come after him—or send other agents to intercept him. He couldn’t let them take him, not now that he was so close to pulling this off. The transfer he’d been working toward, using bribes and extortion, was finally happening.

  Aaron stood and went to the window, hoping to be inspired. But he was tired of looking at alfalfa fields and oak groves. This had been a long four months, and his only pleasure had been shafting politicians who thought tough prison sentences were good for society. He’d also learned a lot about hacking from Cree. That had been a huge bonus. He’d joined the group with the sole purpose of using them to help free Shawn. Plus he’d needed a place to hide for a while.

  What the hell would he do about Tara? She posed the biggest threat to Luke and the others, who were probably walking into an FBI sting at the senator’s house tomorrow. He could tell them about Tara, but not one of them had the balls to kill her, the only sure way to protect themselves. He could shoot her without qualm, but he didn’t have the strength to get rid of her body. Letting the others get busted and go to prison would be the best way to protect himself. He had a little longer to live than he’d led them to believe. Not much, but he had no intention of spending it in a courtroom or jail cell.

  His brother, though, still had a full life, and Aaron had promised his mother he’d get Shawn out, one way or another. Tomorrow, Shawn would be transferred from a high-security federal prison in Lee County to a medium-security prison across the river seventy miles away. During the trip, the van would pass along a narrow stretch of road that curved between canyon walls, creating an area of low visibility from a distance. And just beyond that was a gravel turnout where he would be waiting, a frail man, lying in the road, his disabled car nearby. When the guard got close enough, Aaron would shoot him, then show the bomb to the driver before he could react.

  No, that was too risky. He had to stab the guard and use him as a shield when he approached the van. Once the armed driver could see the bomb, Aaron could force him to release his prisoner. Or he could set off the bomb as the van approached, forcing it off the road, then shoot the driver. But that would put Shawn at risk. Aaron had been over this in his mind a few times, but none of the strategies were ideal. This would go smoother if he’d been able to enlist the inner circle’s help. But he’d failed to persuade Luke that sabotaging prison supply trucks was useful to their cause. He needed someone else to bear the risk of the bomb.

  He heard Tara’s door open and close.

  Someone expendable, like the federal agent who needed to die.

  Aaron moved to his own door, opened it a crack, and watched her jog down the stairs in workout clothes. She was going out for a run. An idea popped into his head. A way to solve both problems in the same clever plan. But he had to move fast to get her under control. He stepped into the hall and shuffled quickly to her door. Luke and Abby had rooms downstairs, so they weren’t likely to be around, but Cree was more unpredictable. Aaron twisted the knob and stepped in. The house was old, and none of the bedroom doors originally had keyed entries. He’d added a lock to his own when he first moved in, but he had plenty to hide from the others. Tara hadn’t even been allowed to bring her car out yet, so she hadn’t had the opportunity to make herself comfortable in her crappy little room. But she hadn’t complained about it because she did
n’t plan to stay long.

  Aaron went straight to her bed and lifted the mattress. A silver laptop was tucked in the middle. Why was she hiding it? He’d found nothing incriminating in her files, but he’d expected to find a service weapon. Had she come into this assignment without a gun? Too bad for her. Aaron started with her dresser, searching every drawer and shoving his hand into every pocket and sock. But she hadn’t brought much clothing out to the house. He moved to the small private half bath and snooped through her medicine cabinet and makeup bag. Inside a tiny metal Carmex container, he found three blue-and-white capsules. Well, well. He suspected they were some kind of sedative. Perfect. Aaron pocketed the pills and kept searching everything. The only other item of interest was the switchblade he found in her backpack. He looked around, plotting how to set up the whole thing. He needed Tara unconscious, but it would be best to lure her into his room first, where he could strap the explosive on her behind a locked door. Then he would keep her from communicating with anyone.

  A half-empty bottle of green Gatorade sat on her desk. That would do nicely. She would drink it all down after her run, then get sleepy in the shower and pass out twenty or thirty minutes later, depending on what the drugs were and what dose they contained. He just had to get her into his room while she was still upright. It shouldn’t be a problem. She’d already shown him affection and sympathy. His health issues were real, but the story he’d told about his sister wasn’t. Actually, it was true, it was just someone else’s sister. The funeral he’d attended last week had been for his older brother, so his mother had pressured him again to get Shawn, her youngest, out of prison.

  Aaron opened Tara’s laptop, googled a description of the meds, and quickly confirmed they were flunitrazipam, otherwise known as Rohypnol, or roofies. Who had the spy-bitch planned to use these on? Aaron opened the Gatorade bottle and pulled one of the capsules out of his pocket. When he held it over the small opening, his left hand trembled. Shit. Why now? He waited a moment, took a breath, and broke open the pill. The white powder tumbled into the plastic bottle. Was that enough? The pills were probably a one-milligram dose, enough to reduce anxiety, but not enough to knock her out. He opened another capsule over the bottleneck, but his hand shook, and he spilled some of it down the side and on the desk. Oh fucking hell. The damn tremors had started a month ago, and he didn’t know why. Maybe it was the medication he was taking for the pulmonary fibrosis.

  How much of the sedative had he lost? Should he dump in the final pill too? No, another full dose might knock her out too soon, and he didn’t want her passed out in her own bedroom. That could ruin the whole plan.

  Aaron shoved the empty gel casings back into his pocket, put the lid on the Gatorade, and shook the bottle. The lime-colored liquid had a slight cloudy look. Not good. Would it dissipate in time? Would she even notice? He grabbed the bottle and hurried to the bathroom to rinse off the spilled powder, then used wet toilet paper to clean up the mess on the desk. He flushed the toilet paper, put the Gatorade carefully back in the exact spot he’d found it, and glanced around. Had he moved anything else? Her laptop! He grabbed it off the bed and shoved it under the mattress, hoping he’d hit the right place.

  Aaron listened at the door for a moment. No movement in the hall or on the stairs. He slipped out of Tara’s room and hurried back to his own space. She might return at any moment. He was ready.

  Chapter 29

  Thursday, Oct. 9, 3:33 p.m.

  Dallas sprinted for the driveway, finally ready to stop. She’d pushed herself to run farther than usual. The week at the farmhouse with little to do—interrupted only by a long sit in jail and court—had made her restless. Once she’d worked her way in, this case hadn’t proved to be particularly challenging. Her targets willingly shared their criminal plans, and they’d been easy to manipulate into taking a bigger risk. Thankfully, the arrests would happen tomorrow. She might have days of debriefing and reports to fill out before she could go home, but at least she would be free in the evening to go clubbing. She couldn’t wait to call Cameron and have a little phone sex. The thought made her smile, and she slowed to a walk down the gravel lane. Another twenty-four hours as Tara Adams, justice-reform activist, and she could mentally move on. A pang of guilt tugged at her. Luke and the others would be moving to prison cells. But that wasn’t her fault. They would have eventually conducted the home-invasion mission or something worse without her nudging. And if the bureau wasn’t there to intercept them, an innocent person might be hurt or killed. The inner circle had admirable goals, but they were on the wrong path. Still, she couldn’t wait to get away from Luke. Looking him in the eyes had become difficult.

  Back at the house, she stopped for a quick gulp of water in the kitchen and headed for the stairs. No one was hanging out in the common space, and she was glad she didn’t have to socialize. Luke made her feel guilty, Abby pissed her off, and Cree wasn’t someone she could take seriously. Aaron intrigued her, but she didn’t think he would open up to her, and his illness was sad to witness. So she hurried to her bedroom and closed the door. She’d be happy to get out of this space too. The pale green walls bugged her, and she didn’t have a comfortable chair to sit in.

  Peeling off her jacket, she crossed the room, then removed her shoes. She needed a shower, but she hated the one in the hall bathroom, with its narrow iron-stained walls and lukewarm water. She had more exercise to do first anyway. Dallas took a long swallow of Gatorade, then lowered herself to the area rug on the floor. After a series of crunches, she began a stretching routine. Her stomach growled, and she considered making a trip to the kitchen for something to eat. But she had noticed the cupboards and refrigerator seemed to be running low, and she wondered who did the shopping and when. Not that it mattered now. She wouldn’t be here next week.

  She got to her feet and downed the rest of the Gatorade. The drink would hold her until later. Might as well shower, then read on her laptop for a while to pass some time. A knocking sound surprised her. Was Abby here to threaten her again? At the door, Dallas hesitated, then asked, “Who is it?”

  “Aaron. I need your help with something.”

  She opened the door. “What is it?”

  “I dropped my medication behind the desk, and I need to move it, so I can reach the bottle. Embarrassing as this is, I don’t have the strength to do it myself.” He gave her a sad smile. “Damn lungs. They cut off my blood supply.”

  “No problem.” Dallas stepped out and followed him next door. Her legs trembled, and she suddenly felt weak herself. How far had she run?

  Inside Aaron’s room, powerful odors assaulted her. Sweaty sheets, stale beer, and something bitter. An ache throbbed in her temples from the smell. The visual clutter was almost as bad. Did he ever throw anything away? He was sick, but that was no excuse. And what the hell was he making on that workbench?

  “It’s this desk,” he said, shuffling across the room, kicking clothes out of the way.

  Dallas froze. Something was really wrong, but she couldn’t think straight. Dizziness washed over her, and her head swirled. What the hell? She took a deep breath to clear her mind. Big mistake. The top half of her body flopped forward, with her hands resting on her legs. What was happening ? She felt drugged. Oh dear god.

  Panic flooded her. She was drugged, and Aaron had done it. But why? To rape her? She turned to run and staggered sideways into an armchair. Get up! She screamed in her mind, but she couldn’t make herself move. Her muscles had turned to jello, and she seemed to have lost control. Dallas opened her mouth to scream for help, but her cry was so weak, it fell dead before it reached the wall. Fuh…

  Blackness overcame her, and her brain shut down.

  Chapter 30

  Thursday, Oct. 9, 1:05 p.m.

  Drager went out, despite the light rain, and bought a ham-and-swiss sandwich at a nearby Potbelly. He ate at his desk and washed it down with a rare glass of water, part of his new healthier program, then glanced at his desk phone again. No bli
nking light. He’d called WITSEC twice and left messages, but the marshals hadn’t gotten back to him yet.

  He turned to the stack of banking documents and picked up where he’d left off. Maddox had to have a holding company that money flowed through. Or else he used an alias to access an account. Drager was determined to uncover who had been funding the acts of sabotage, and he suspected the activists would never tell him, even after they were caught.

  His phone rang and he snatched it up. “Agent Drager.”

  “This is Tim Arbuckle with the Marshal’s Service, returning your call.”

  About time. “I have an undercover agent who’s encountered someone named Aaron Foster. The name is in WITSEC’s database, but there’s no information about him.”

  “Let me see what I can find.” The line was quiet for a minute, but he could hear chatter in the background. The marshal came back on. “You couldn’t find anything because Aaron Foster, aka Aaron Mortlock, is dead.”

  Mortlock? Dead? Drager didn’t know whether to rejoice or panic. “You mean Aaron Mortlock, the fraud ringmaster and brother of Shawn Mortlock, the domestic terrorist?”

  “Yes, but Aaron died five months ago. Pulmonary fibrosis. Even bad guys get sick.”

  How did witness protection handle those deaths? He’d never thought about it before. “Did you contact his family?”

  “We don’t do that. They would still be at risk.”

  “Where was he living at the time?”

  “Ohio.”

  “All right. We must be dealing with a different Aaron Foster. Thanks for the call.”

  “Any time.” The marshal hung up.

  His team had found a dozen Aaron Fosters so far, just not the right one yet. Drager tried to get back to his financial documents, but the possible connection to Aaron and Shawn Mortlock unnerved him. He opened the Real Food blog again. Nothing from Dallas. He had to assume the group was preparing for their mission, and she didn’t want to risk anything by contacting him. He had to let it go. UC agents were notorious for not checking in. He posted another comment, communicating that he wanted to hear from her, then went back to reading bank statements.