Dangerous Games

by Tess Diamond

  He gestured to the table and his companion. “Can it wait?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said to his lunch partner. “But it’s time sensitive.”

  “My apologies, Jeremy. I’ll be right back as soon as I talk with my agent,” Frank said.

  “It’s fine, Frank,” the man said. “I know you’re in the middle of a case.”

  “Come on.” Frank put a hand on Maggie’s back and guided her out of the restaurant. Jake was waiting for them outside the entrance, having dissuaded the hostess from chasing after Maggie. Frank nodded at him. “O’Connor.”

  “Sir.”

  “That was an important meeting, Maggie,” Frank said.

  “I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “But this is important too.”

  “What’s going on?” Frank asked. “Paul called to tell me you’d gone off on a wild goose chase.”

  “It’s no wild goose chase,” Maggie scoffed. “I discovered a connection between Senator Thebes and SouthPoint Oil. Jake and I were just at their headquarters. We found out that Roger Mancuso’s brother worked for them, and he was killed in a car accident that probably wasn’t really an accident.”

  “Mancuso’s brother was intelligence, sir,” Jake said. “I’m sure of it. I’ve spent a lot of time in the Middle East, and I know a hit when I see it. A man like you understands how cut-throat the oil business is. Killing a guy who got too close to revealing corruption is just a regular day for some of these companies.”

  “We think that while he was working for SouthPoint in the Middle East, Mancuso’s brother got a message to Mancuso. Something that tipped him off to the senator’s involvement in the company. Then he was killed in the ‘accident.’ So Mancuso adopted one of his brother’s old aliases—an identity called Max Grayson—and began planning to kidnap Kayla. He infiltrated Thebes’ staff and just waited for the right time. This speaks to an extraordinary level of commitment and patience, Frank,” Maggie said. “You know what that means.”

  “I do,” Frank replied grimly. The wrinkles on his face deepened as he considered the situation. Frank had a brilliant and flexible mind, but cases involving children were always the hardest. The only time Maggie had ever seen her mentor break was at the end of a twenty-seven-hour standoff that had involved a six-year-old hostage. After the little boy had been returned safe and sound, her mentor had excused himself abruptly, and she’d heard what she was sure was the sound of relieved sobs coming from the bathroom he’d disappeared into.

  “We have to figure out what’s going on here right away,” Jake said. “We’re running around blind, sir, and we have been since the start. We need to find out what Mancuso’s brother knew. We need to understand exactly what was going on at SouthPoint Oil, why Joe Mancuso died for it, and what Thebes has to do with it.”

  “You’ve always told me information is a weapon,” Maggie said. “This is the only trail we have to follow. The situation is bad, Frank. We both know it. The news is going wild, the press is speculating, and we’re running out of time. This is being whipped up to a fever pitch, and if Mancuso doesn’t get that file by seven tonight, he’ll kill Kayla. He’s committed, Frank—he has a mission. He may not be a natural killer, but if he doesn’t get what he wants, he’s going to start killing. And he may not stop at Kayla. It could escalate.”

  “You’re thinking a mass hostage situation?” Frank asked.

  She nodded grimly. “Or he could just go after the senator. Or Mrs. Thebes. Or anyone else who stands in his way,” Maggie said. “He’s a wild card. The only steady thing about him is his motive. He’ll adapt in any way to stick to his mission.”

  Frank rubbed his droopy eyes, looking worried. “I’m damn glad you’re back, kid,” he said.

  “You’ll help?” Maggie asked.

  “Of course,” he said. He pointed to the file in Jake’s hand. “Anything in there that might help you find an address?”

  Jake looked down at it. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, follow the money,” Frank explained. “His pay stubs—they’re in there, right?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Where did they send them?”

  “Oh, God,” Maggie said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

  “You’ve been out of the game for two years,” Frank said. “I forgive you, even though I trained you better than that. But you—” he looked at Jake with a skeptical eye “—what’s your excuse?”

  “I’m a soldier, not a pencil pusher,” Jake said, looking slightly embarrassed.

  Frank snorted, and Maggie had to hide her smile, grateful she had his help, and not only because he was so thorough that he’d point out the obvious things that are often overlooked.

  Chapter 38

  The address on Joe’s pay stubs was in Silver Spring, Maryland. Frank promised to make some calls and headed back inside the Royal while Maggie and Jake walked back to his SUV.

  “Why don’t you let me drive this time?” Maggie asked.

  Jake grinned. “Funny. I don’t think so,” he said.

  “I’m a good driver! I aced my defensive driving course at Quantico.”

  “Goldilocks, you could drive for NASCAR on the side and I still wouldn’t let you,” Jake said, swinging up into the driver’s seat. “I have a feeling you’re a terror behind the wheel. My SUV, my rules.”

  “You’re such a caveman,” she muttered, hopping into the passenger seat and grabbing the seat belt.

  “Me Tarzan. You Jane,” Jake grunted, and her annoyed expression melted.

  “You’re ridiculous,” she said primly, trying to hide her amusement.

  He leaned over, his fingers tilting her chin so he could press a quick kiss to her lips. He pulled away, just inches, his green eyes shining.

  “I think you like it,” he said.

  A thrill went through her. She did like it. She’d never been teased like this before. People usually took her seriously and acted accordingly. Even men who were interested in her.

  She reached up, and this time, she kissed him. And this time, it wasn’t quick—it was one of those long, languid kisses that lasts forever, the kind that hint at wicked things to come. His hand tangled in her curls as he kissed her deeper, as lost in her as she was in him.

  She pulled away reluctantly, breathless, her entire body flushed and tingling. All she wanted to do was pull him back. But they had work to do.

  “I do like it,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear, teasing, because two could play that game.

  “You distract a man, Goldilocks,” he said, his eyes darkening to a forest green as he pulled back. He buckled his seat belt and turned the key in the ignition. They headed into the flow of traffic toward the tangle of highways that would lead them out of the city, toward Silver Spring.

  “Have you really worked with a lot of spies?” Maggie asked.

  Jake shrugged. “There are all sorts of power players jockeying for position throughout the Middle East,” he said. “And they all have their men—or women—on the ground over there. You get a sense for some people. You pick up stuff.” He smiled, and it was bittersweet. Like he was remembering the action, the adrenaline, and wishing he were back in the thick of it.

  “You sound like you miss it,” Maggie said.

  “Sometimes.” He flipped his turn signal and merged onto the highway. The time of day was perfect, with incoming city traffic clogged and nothing but clear roads on the way out. They’d get to Silver Spring in record time. “I liked knowing what I was about. What the mission was. But now, this work for politicians . . .” He paused, shaking his head in disgust. “Well, they’re not the most honest people,” he finished.

  “And you like honest.” He was a black-and-white sort of man, she could tell. No room for gray. Trustworthy. Stalwart.

  And sexy as hell. Like some sort of medieval knight who took things like vows and protection seriously—and backed it up with his life.

  “I like knowing all the facts,”
Jake said. “In the military, things are straightforward.”

  “And out here, it’s anything but,” Maggie said.

  “What about you? Do you miss it?” Jake asked. “I just got a job change. You left altogether.”

  Maggie sighed, looking out the window at the blurring traffic. “I miss being sure. And I miss . . . you know that feeling, after the adrenaline’s finally settled down, after the job’s been done, after everyone is safe and everything went the way it was supposed to, and you may be battered and bruised, but you’re not . . . scarred?”

  Jake nodded.

  “I miss that,” Maggie said. “That feeling of knowing I defused the situation. That I saved someone. That I was part of that.” Jake nodded again in agreement. They both felt an unusual but growing sense of camaraderie. They had both faced major crises and saved lives, and drew the same deep satisfaction from it.

  “When Frank said you’d come back, you didn’t correct him,” Jake pointed out.

  “I can’t think about that now,” Maggie said, but he shot her a skeptical look. “I can’t. It’s not because I don’t want to—well, maybe, a little. But we need to focus on this.” She pointed to Joe’s folder. “If we don’t get Kayla back soon . . .”

  “I know,” Jake said, reaching over with his free hand and squeezing hers. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He pressed harder on the accelerator.

  Silver Spring was a small town with a run-down atmosphere. Lawns weren’t kept up, and it seemed as if every other business on the main drag was shuttered, their Going out of Business signs still hanging in the windows. But every few blocks, there was a house whose residents clearly hadn’t given up yet, as evidenced by a neat, green lawn, fresh paint job, and an American flag hanging from the porch.

  The house Jake pulled up to wasn’t one of those. In the driveway, a rusted Oldsmobile was propped up on cinderblocks, leaking oil onto the asphalt. A yellowing patch of tall weeds that looked like it hadn’t been mowed in months filled the front yard. Paint was peeling in big strips off the sagging porch rails.

  “This is the ex-girlfriend’s house?” Maggie asked.

  Jake nodded. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  Maggie shrugged, getting out of the car. She walked up to the porch and knocked on the door. A dog started barking, and then she heard a female voice swearing at the creature before the door opened.

  The woman had bottle-blond hair with a good inch of dark roots showing, circles under her eyes, and a cigarette hanging from tobacco-stained fingers. “Yeah?” she asked, looking Maggie up and down. “I’m not interested in any preaching.”

  “I’m Maggie Kincaid,” Maggie said. “Are you Barbara Kent?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m with the FBI. We have some questions about your ex, Joe Mancuso.”

  Barbara’s expression darkened further. “What about him?” she asked suspiciously. “Joe’s dead. He’s been dead for years.”

  “We’re aware,” Maggie said. “Can we come in?”

  Barbara sighed, as if she was greatly put upon. “I guess.” She waved them inside.

  The inside of the house was dated—very eighties, in a bad way—and reeked of tobacco. Maggie perched on the edge of the hideous couch, trying to ignore the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table. Jake sat down next to her, and Barbara sprawled in an armchair, popping open a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  “So, what do you want to know about Joe?” she asked.

  “What was he like?” Maggie asked.

  “He was a son of a bitch,” she said, taking a long sip of her beer. “He never hit me, at least. But he was never around. Always taking ‘business trips.’” She nearly dropped her beer doing air quotes with her fingers. “Lied to me all the time. I’m sure he was cheating, but I could never catch him. I tried. Bunch of times. But he was tricky. Always prepared. He would’ve been one of those prepper types if he wasn’t so busy cheating and lying.”

  “Did he leave anything with you?” Maggie asked. “Papers? Personal things? Pictures?”

  Barbara shook her head. “He hardly even slept over or let me come to his place. I always had to meet him in a motel.”

  Jake held out his phone, pulling up the photo of Roger Mancuso on the screen. “Does he look familiar?”

  Barbara glanced at the phone, her lip curling.

  “That’s Roger, Joe’s brother,” Nancy said. “God, Joe was bad, but Roger was a whole other level. I pity the woman who gets saddled with him.”

  “What was so bad about him?” Maggie asked.

  “He was a total loser,” Barbara said. “Always coming around, distracting Joe. Always broke, never could hold down a job. Him and Joe . . . they were close. Hell, Joe paid more attention to him than he did to me, the bastard.”

  “Have you seen Roger since Joe’s death?” Maggie asked.

  “Nah,” Barbara said. “I made sure he understood how I felt about him, so he knew better than to come around. I didn’t even go to Joe’s funeral. I had to focus on me, you know? Nurture myself in my time of grief.”

  “Of course,” Maggie said. Obviously, this woman didn’t know anything. She was bitter, but clueless. A spy probably didn’t make the best boyfriend, after all.

  “Thank you for all your help.” Maggie smiled. “We should get going.”

  Jake rose to his feet, and Maggie was almost out of the living room, desperate for fresh air, when she heard Barbara mutter, “I swear to God, I wish I’d burned down that fishing cabin just to show them.”

  Maggie paused, turning around, lingering in the tobacco-scented air for the greater good. “What fishing cabin?” she asked.

  “Did you not know about that?” Barbara frowned. “I thought you FBI types knew everything, what with the government spying on American citizens all the time.”

  Why was Maggie not surprised she was a conspiracy theorist? “Why don’t you tell me?” Maggie asked, trying to be patient.

  “Joe and Roger were always up at that place,” Barbara said. “Bro-time. He never once took me up there. And I like nature . . . in small doses. Anyway,” she stepped forward, opening the front door. “You said you had to get going.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed as Maggie shot him a “do something” look. “Hey, Barbara,” he said, shooting her that smile of his. “Did you ever get any of the settlement money for the accident?”

  Barbara’s sour, pinched expression completely changed. A calculating eagerness lit up her eyes. “What money?”

  “I can give you the details in a moment,” Maggie said. “But first, tell us a little more about this cabin. Where is it located?”

  Chapter 39

  Sweat trickled down Mancuso’s neck. He wiped it away, ignoring the thumping sound coming from the room he kept Kayla in.

  His fingers ran compulsively over the Harley-Davidson keychain in his pocket. He was going to put this right for Joe. Roger had stood over the grave and watched his brother’s coffin lowered into the ground. He’d made a silent vow to make sure the senator got what he deserved.

  Joe had always been stronger than him. Not just physically, but in every way. Their dad had beaten the shit out of them as kids, and Joe always took the worst of it, always stepped in front of the angry, drunken fists, protecting his little brother.

  Now it was Roger’s turn to be strong.

  All he could think about was Joe’s letter, full of details about Thebes’ corruption and SouthPoint Oil’s shady dealing. By the time it arrived, Joe was already dead in the supposed “car accident.”

  Roger saw his death for what it was: an assassination. In the letter, Joe had told him that he’d discovered the collusion between SouthPoint and oil smugglers. That they’d made an illegal deal that got the nod from the board of directors and beyond, all the way up to Thebes. The CEO of SouthPoint got Thebes to help fund the whole thing, and the senator’s international connections were essential to the smuggling operation. The collusion between the c
ompany and its powerful friend went deep—and Joe had died trying to expose it.

  Now Mancuso was determined to make sure his brother hadn’t died in vain. He would get his proof exposing SouthPoint and the senator. The whole country needed to know what kind of man they’d elected into office . . . and the kind of business Americans unknowingly supported in their own backyards.

  The thumping from Kayla’s room had stopped. Mancuso couldn’t help but worry. He’d never spent much time around her, but she’d always seemed like a genuinely nice girl. Which, considering what a bastard her father was, surprised him.

  He hadn’t wanted to take her. But with a man as crooked and corrupt as the senator, a man who didn’t value human life, who had helped fund the murder of his brother, Mancuso could take no chances. The only things that mattered to a man like that were his reputation and his family. But Mancuso had underestimated the senator’s cruelty. When it mattered most, Thebes had decided to protect his reputation over his kid.

  Mancuso wished he could give the girl some insulin. He checked his watch. It was nearly five o’clock.

  Just two more hours playing the tough guy. He had to think like a professional.

  He had to be like Joe. Just be like Joe, and everything would work out.

  He heard a sound . . . almost like a whirring. Was it a helicopter? He hurried across the living room and cracked the thick curtains to peer up at the sky. Nothing.

  At least not yet.

  But it couldn’t hurt to be careful. He went through the house, turning off all the lights. When he returned to the living room, he sat down in the well-worn armchair. Closing his eyes, he thought about spending time up here with Joe. How Joe would clean the fish they’d caught, and they’d talk as the fire slowly died out.

  Mancuso had rigged tripwires in the woods with fishing line and bells. If anyone came through those trees, he’d be ready for them.

  Everything was riding on this.

  He gripped the arm of the chair.

  For Joe, he told himself.

  For Joe.