Dark Sky

by Carla Neggers

  He nodded. “I can get his file.”

  “Everything I have is there—”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “He was born and raised in Syracuse. His mother’s a domestic, his father’s a chronically unemployed alcoholic. He started getting into trouble as a teenager, but he managed to do two semesters of community college before dropping out.” Juliet shrugged. “That’s all in his file.”

  “What were you doing at Wal-Mart?”

  “Buying potting soil.”

  “Right.”

  She heard the skepticism in his tone, remembered that same kind of skepticism in her law enforcement colleagues at the time.

  She felt the burn of the three cups of coffee she’d had since five-thirty. She’d pushed herself on her run, did her weights too fast, rushed her stretches. Muscles, stomach, brain cells. Everything about her seemed charged up. “The means I used to find Tatro are irrelevant.”

  “I’ll bet not to him. He went to prison because you found him.”

  “He went to prison because he was convicted by a jury.”

  “But he was mad at you, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Juliet let herself remember Tatro sneering at her, spitting at her, when she’d arrested him. “He threatened to come after me when he got out. His exact words were, ‘Your pretty blond ass is mine, Marshal. You can count on it.’”

  “Anyone watching him since he got out?”

  “Bobby Tatro served his time. He’s a free man.”

  “Then you have no idea where he is?”

  She sighed, hesitating.

  “Juliet—”

  “I heard a rumor that he’s in South America and may be mixed up with vigilantes. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d want to save the world when he was a free man, but you never know.”

  Ethan’s expression remained neutral.

  “You really should just forget whatever you’re into that involves Bobby Tatro and take me for coffee,” she said.

  He smiled suddenly. “How many cups have you had already today?”

  She didn’t tell him. “Ethan, you shouldn’t underestimate Tatro’s capacity for violence.”

  The smile evaporated, and his dark eyes grew distant. “I never underestimate anyone’s capacity for violence.” He looked up at the massive statue of George Washington. “He’s your guy, isn’t he? He formed the Marshals Service.”

  Juliet nodded impatiently. “We’re the oldest law enforcement agency in the country. Ethan, why did Bobby Tatro pop up on your radar screen? It’s too damn coincidental—”

  “How did you know he’d be at the Wal-Mart that day?”

  “I’m clairvoyant,” she snapped.

  “Isn’t threatening a federal agent—”

  “It was your basic emotional threat against the law enforcement officer who caught him. He knew he couldn’t stay on the farm forever. The Marshals Service catches thousands of fugitives every year. That time, it was Bobby Tatro’s turn.”

  Ethan caught his fingers around hers, then dropped her hand and touched her hair, his fingertips coming away wet from the steady drizzle. “One day we’ll have that cup of coffee, Deputy Longstreet. Not on Wall Street in a cold rain. At a sun-kissed café, with roses and bougainvillea.”

  “Bougainvillea doesn’t grow in New York.”

  His smile eased into a laugh. “Exactly my point.”

  “And sun-kissed.” There was a disturbing undertone to his laugh—she couldn’t quite describe it—that Juliet tried to pretend she didn’t hear. “What kind of word is sun-kissed for a special-ops type to use?”

  “I think ‘sun-kissed’ every time I see your hair.”

  “Brooker, you are so full of shit.”

  He laughed again, and it was there again, a soul-deep regret, a sadness that reached into all the dark places of the heart a man like him preferred not to go.

  “Good luck, Ethan.”

  He didn’t respond, and when he turned and started down the steps, back out toward Nassau Street, Juliet knew.

  Whatever he was doing—wherever he was going—he wasn’t at all convinced he’d get out of it alive.

  Ethan took a cab to LaGuardia.

  He’d left Juliet standing in front of George Washington, as still and unreadable as a statue herself. She was hardheaded and good at her job, and she could probably mop the floor with him, but his mention of Bobby Tatro, their clandestine meeting… Ethan had seen the dread creep into her eyes, overwhelming her questions about what he was up to, her doubts about why she’d agreed to see him in the first place.

  If she’d had to do it all over again, Juliet Longstreet probably would have just let Conroy Fontaine shoot him that day in Tennessee back in early May.

  Fontaine had convinced himself he was doing Nick Janssen a favor by meddling in his attempt to get himself a presidential pardon.

  In accepting the voluntary mission he was now in the process of executing, Ethan had no illusions he was doing anyone a favor.

  Except, maybe, Ham Carhill, whose ass Ethan was about to save.

  But Juliet had saved Ethan’s life that first day they’d known each other, and he’d saved hers—although she’d never admit it—when he’d found her bound, gagged and left to die in a cave above the Cumberland River.

  With Conroy Fontaine dying of a snakebite and the law moving in, Ethan had taken off after Nick Janssen, still a free man. He’d chased Janssen all summer. And when he found himself in New York again in August, he landed up on Juliet Longstreet’s doorstep.

  A dumb move.

  And curious, he thought, that his mission to rescue someone he knew—a wealthy, twenty-five-year-old Texan—involved someone Deputy Longstreet knew, an ex-con after revenge.

  President Poe himself had asked Ethan to volunteer for the rescue mission. American and Colombian mercenaries had kidnapped an American contractor, and Ethan was one of the few people who could identify him.

  Before he even knew the name of the man he’d be rescuing, Ethan had told the president he’d do the mission.

  Hamilton Johnson Carhill.

  Of all the names that had flashed in Ethan’s mind, Ham Carhill wasn’t one of them. The Carhills were the Brookers’ west Texas neighbors. Billionaires with a passion for privacy. Ham was his own brand of peculiar. He had a genius IQ and the common sense of a chickadee, and one or both, apparently, had gotten him into serious trouble this time.

  The last Ethan had heard, Ham was off to South America in search of precious and semiprecious gems, exotic birds and adventures. He had a Ph.D. from Stanford in some kind of science but had never held a real job. He’d attended Char’s funeral a year ago, his usual gawky, awkward self, lacking confidence, humble to the point of being irritating.

  That few people outside his family and close friends had much idea what Ham looked like these days didn’t come as a big surprise to Ethan. The Carhills shunned publicity, fearing the exploitations of tabloids and con men more than kidnappers. And Ham was self-conscious about his appearance, always aware that he didn’t live up to Faye and Johnson Carhill’s expectations of what their only son and heir should look like.

  Ethan had spent the past week in Colombia trying to pick up Ham’s trail.

  The tip came from Washington, a call out of the blue—an American ex-con who had it in for a blond, female marshal was holding Ham somewhere in the Andes.

  It wasn’t what Ethan had expected. Not even close.

  Although there were other blond, female marshals, he bet that this one was Juliet.

  He’d flown to New York yesterday, and now he had confirmation—as much as he needed.

  Bobby Tatro, Juliet Longstreet.

  Coincidences sometimes occurred at random, but Ethan didn’t entertain for even half a second that this was one of them. He and Juliet both had had their names in the papers in recent weeks and months, attached not just to thugs, assassins and an international criminal mastermind like Nick Janssen, but to President Poe.

&n
bsp; Ethan had a feeling his straightforward rescue mission had turned into something far more complicated and far more dangerous. He just couldn’t pin down what. And it didn’t matter—Ham still needed rescuing.

  When his cab dumped him off, he plodded through security and made his flight to Washington, D.C., with bare minutes to spare. It was an uneventful flight, allowing his questions to crystallize.

  When he arrived at Reagan National Airport, he took a cab out to Georgetown. For the past year, he hadn’t had a place of his own. The closest he’d come were the weeks he’d spent in the spring playing gardener for the Dunnemores in Tennessee.

  Mia O’Farrell lived in a narrow, historic brick town house on a quaint shaded street within a couple of blocks off M Street, Georgetown’s main drag. Ethan appreciated the shade, because it was hot and humid in D.C. The recent rains had moved north to New York.

  Dr. O’Farrell wasn’t home from the White House yet.

  Ethan walked down to M Street and got an iced coffee to go at a Starbucks, picturing himself as a Washington type. Some of his West Point classmates were Pentagon desk jockeys. He’d never been interested. Now? Forget it. He was damaged goods. That President Poe had asked him to volunteer for the Ham Carhill rescue mission only muddled Ethan’s status even further. It sure as hell didn’t help.

  Mia O’Farrell had been at the meeting with Poe two weeks ago. She’d done most of the talking, and although it was all somewhat unorthodox at first, everything had gone more or less by the book since then. Ethan had picked two veteran Special Forces sergeants—friends of his—to risk their lives with him. They could have said no, but they hadn’t. They were waiting for him in Bogotá. Whoever was supposed to know about the operation within the Colombian government had given their blessings. That wasn’t Ethan’s department.

  Neither was flying to New York to interrogate a deputy U.S. marshal, but he didn’t like the feeling that there was a subtext to this operation that he wasn’t privy to.

  He window-shopped on M Street, pretending he was an ordinary dad waiting for his kids to get home from soccer practice, sipping his coffee as he checked out restaurants and upscale shops—a black leather jacket on a mannequin in a store window display made him think of Juliet standing in the rain in New York.

  When he returned to O’Farrell’s street, she was on her front stoop, digging her keys out of an enormous, scuffed, soft black leather satchel, her long, straight dark auburn hair hanging over her face. Ethan said hello, startling the hell out of her. She jumped back and all but screamed.

  She was very smart, but tightly wound. He put up his palms in front of him and smiled. “Whoa, easy. It’s just me.”

  “Oh. Major Brooker.” She seemed slightly annoyed, snatching her keys out of her bag, slinging the bag over one small shoulder as she singled out one key. She had on a trim gray suit, but her silky white blouse was scrunched over to one side, and her brooch—a white lily—had turned upside down and was about to fall off.

  “You’re going to stick yourself,” Ethan said.

  “What?”

  “With your brooch. The pin’s come undone or something.”

  She glanced down, quickly pulling the brooch off her jacket. He thought she did stick herself, but she’d never tell him. Mia O’Farrell, Ph.D., was all about control. She fastened her green eyes on him, her brow furrowed as she studied him. “You shouldn’t be here. What do you want?”

  “Let’s go inside—”

  “No way, Major Brooker. Absolutely no way.” She was calm but very firm.

  “Okay. Let’s take a walk—”

  She shook her head. “No. Right here, right now. What do you want?”

  “You know, since I’m doing you a favor and risking my life and the lives of my friends in the process, you think you’d be nicer.”

  She didn’t budge. “You’re not doing me a favor. You’re answering the call of duty.”

  Ethan almost burst out laughing, but saw she was deadly serious and kept his amusement to himself. What did she know about duty? She was a special assistant to the president on matters of national security. All of her experience was academic. Poe had plucked her out of a Washington think tank. She wasn’t any older than Ethan was, probably younger.

  How in hell had Ham gotten himself mixed up with her?

  Ethan grimaced. Never mind Ham. How had he gotten himself mixed up with Mia O’Farrell? One day he was chasing an assassin, falling into rivers, talking the marshals out of arresting him. The next day—well, a week later—he was shuttled off to listen to Dr. O’Farrell suggest a fresh new way to get himself killed.

  “How did you know I could ID Ham Carhill?” he asked her.

  She paled, then glanced around as if someone might be listening in the bushes. “Please. Not here.”

  “Now you see why I wanted to go inside—”

  “Your family and the Carhills are neighbors in Texas.” She spoke briskly, keeping her voice low and obviously thinking that answered his question.

  “We’re hardly in spitting distance of each other. There are a lot of miles between us. The Carhills are ultraprivate.” Ethan paused, watching her for a reaction, but there was none. “Someone tipped you off. Who?”

  “Irrelevant. You have your orders—”

  “It’s a voluntary mission.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” She didn’t go on, but he could see she wanted to—she wanted to remind him that President Poe was his commander in chief, and although this whole crazy operation had ended up within the chain of command, she had Poe’s ear, the president’s trust. That she, in other words, was calling the shots. “Don’t you leave for Colombia again tonight?”

  She hadn’t wanted him to leave Bogotá. She’d passed him the information on the American ex-con with a vendetta against a blond, female marshal. It was all she had. No name, no location. O’Farrell agreed that the marshal in question was probably Juliet Longstreet, but saw no reason to alert her—no reason for Ethan to be the one to question her about the ex-con. Ethan disagreed and flew to New York without O’Farrell’s blessing.

  “When I was in Colombia last week,” he said, “I heard talk about psycho mercenaries operating there, guys who tout themselves as being on the side of so-called truth and justice but prefer to be unencumbered by the rules themselves. They don’t answer to a chain of command.”

  She sighed. “Yes. I know the type.”

  “I ran across a nasty little vigilante network in Afghanistan a few years ago. They’d set up their own interrogation room and prison on the outskirts of Kabul, claimed they were working for the Pentagon—it was all bullshit. They were a rogue outfit, running the war on terror the way they thought it should be run.”

  Mia was trying to pin her brooch back on her jacket, an awkward process with her keys in one hand. Without looking at him, she said, “I don’t see what these mercenaries have to do with your mission. Or me.”

  “They don’t trust the federal government. As far as they’re concerned, they’re true patriots, but they don’t recognize most federal authority.”

  “What difference does that make? If they violate the law, they’re subject to arrest, just like anyone else. Their beliefs are irrelevant.” She snapped the brooch into place and looked back up at him, her cheeks rosy. “You should take yourself out for a good dinner. Don’t you have any friends in Washington?”

  His last meal. He almost smiled, but any humor disappeared, and what he saw in front of him was an intelligent, capable woman who was potentially—probably—in over her head. Where was she getting her information? And what would she do when she suddenly realized she was underwater? Who would she drag under with her?

  “Dr. O’Farrell,” Ethan said as earnestly as he could, “if you let one of these guys suck you in—”

  “I’m in a hurry, Major. I have a meeting at the White House in forty-five minutes, and I need to change my clothes and make a few calls. I didn’t expect to see you again before your mission was completed.”
Her green eyes softened, allowing a rare, unguarded peek into what wasn’t, Ethan thought, such a cold heart. “Please, Major Brooker. Ethan. Take care of yourself.”

  But he recognized her words for what they were—a firm good-night. He was dismissed.

  She waited, eyes still on him, until he acknowledged defeat and wished her a good evening.

  He walked back down to M Street, the infamous D.C. heat and humidity bearing down on him. He smelled dog crap and car exhaust. He noticed a dead geranium in what had earlier struck him as an attractive flowerpot on a restaurant doorstep.

  Preteen boys piled out of an SUV, laughing, ragging on one another. Ethan felt like grabbing them by the ear and letting them in on the real world, telling them to be grateful for their lives of safety and privilege.

  But what did he know about these kids? Who was he to judge them, or even Mia O’Farrell?

  He was all bluster. He knew—O’Farrell knew—he wasn’t about to leave Ham in the Andes with whoever had him, whoever was using him…whoever was using Mia O’Farrell.

  Ethan paused on the busy street. He had a job to do. He might as well get on with it.

  He decided to heed O’Farrell’s advice and take himself out for a good dinner before his flight. He’d go alone—the friends he had in D.C. didn’t need to see him right now. If some vigilante mercenary was slipping O’Farrell information, playing her for reasons of his own, her ass would get burned. And maybe not just figuratively. The vigilantes Ethan had run into in Afghanistan were violent fanatics with their own agenda.

  But whatever Mia O’Farrell had stumbled into wasn’t his problem. His job was to get Ham Carhill out of Colombia alive and reasonably unbloodied.

  Three

  Ham Carhill tried not to cough. When he was busy hacking up a lung, he couldn’t hear what was going on around him. And, right now, it seemed to him nothing was going on.