The Echo of Violence sj-3

by Jordan Dane

  And soon, others would know it, too.

  New York City

  Sentinels Headquarters

  After Jessie left for her mission, Seth knew he’d go stir-crazy, worrying about her. He needed a good distraction—one that might help her in the process. He got Tanya to relocate his workstation to the main control room where her geek squad worked. Across the room, the cavernous space was dark, and the faces of analysts were cast in eerie shadows, with a kaleidoscope of colors coming off the screens. Tanya’s people looked like the remnants of a bad acid trip or an MTV video gone amuck. The fancy setup was intimidating at first, he had to admit.

  The massive room filled with high-tech toys nearly gave him a woody.

  “Garrett…you and your people sure know how to roll,” he muttered as he sat at his new workstation, a half-moon-shaped desk with plenty of elbow room. He had state-of-the-art technology at his fingertips, three large computer monitors, and a cool ergonomic chair that had more adjustment buttons than a TV remote.

  Although the setup was impressive, it was almost wasted on him. He didn’t need all the fancy bells and whistles to help Jessie and Alexa. He got to work, initiating the tracking program he had stashed at his cache sites.

  Everything in the room around him faded to black. The voices were tuned out. And nothing existed except him and his program.

  While he waited for the terrorists to use their SAT phone again, he adapted instructions for the program to track where the call went. Locating the origination point was easy now that he knew what signal to look for and had narrowed the search parameters in Cuba. And since he already had a sample of Sayed’s voice from the British Virgin Island kidnappings, he could use the man’s voiceprint to specifically target any similar voice patterns coming from southeast Cuba. Voice recognition would trigger his trace program faster and allow him to capture vital location parameters sooner.

  Tracing the call to the handler would be another story. Success would depend on the duration of the call and how fast his program worked. If he built upon the trace data piece by piece, his modification might give Garrett a good shot at isolating a part of the terrorist network that was higher up the food chain.

  But as he was putting the finishing touches to his program, one of his monitors flashed a warning. A new trace had begun.

  “Holy shit. Here we go,” he whispered, his gaze fixed on the screen. He worked the keyboard as fast as he could.

  “Damn it!” He nearly forgot to breathe. Colors off the screen flashed across his face. And his heart pounded like a sledgehammer as his fingers moved on instinct. He barely noticed the crowd of analysts who rushed to his workstation and stood behind him.

  “Come on,” Seth pleaded under his breath. “Stay on the line. Please!”

  Baracoa, Cuba

  Alexa had showered and changed in record time. She didn’t want to be in their motel room any longer than necessary. To blend in, she shed her BDUs in favor of more casual civilian attire, jeans and a T-shirt. Kinkaid did the same. Before he put his shirt on, she helped him re-dress his belly wound and watched as he sat on the edge of the bed and took the last of his antibiotics. He tried to hide that fact from her, but in the reflection of a mirror on the dresser, she had noticed and didn’t say a word. No point now.

  She turned and placed her hand on his brow and moved her fingers down to his cheek and neck.

  “You’re burning up. I’ve got aspirin.” She retrieved the pills from her first-aid kit. “Maybe we can find a doctor in town.”

  “No, we don’t have time.” He shook his head. “And doctors ask too many questions.”

  For his sake, she wanted to argue, but he was right.

  “Then let’s get moving,” she said as she stashed the SAT phone into her fanny pack.

  “Wait,” he said as he stood. “We gotta do something first.”

  As a precaution, Kinkaid stashed the assault rifles and their valuables behind a removable ceiling tile before they left their room. If anyone broke in, searching for something to steal or their identification to learn who they were, they wouldn’t find much.

  When they hit the streets of Baracoa, Alexa was impressed with Kinkaid. He was indeed fluent in Spanish. As promised, he spoke the language like a local. And she did her part by keeping her mouth shut—not an easy feat. Despite its isolated location, Baracoa had a burgeoning tourist business, so no one asked too many questions about why they were in town. When they did, Kinkaid claimed they were freelance reporters covering the hurricane damage.

  People were more willing to talk to a reporter, especially after the storm. Kinkaid got the layout of the town in short order, narrowing their search to likely places for Sayed to hide. He avoided obvious tourist traps, figuring a terrorist on the run with a captive would do the same. Their search was focused on places frequented by locals.

  “I’ve got someplace else,” he said. “It’s tried-and-true…and not far.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “You’re a man of secrets, Kinkaid. A real puzzle.” She smiled.

  While they walked, Alexa took advantage of the opportunity to question him.

  “So tell me about Kate. How did you two meet?”

  At first he looked surprised by her question. He shifted his gaze and stared straight ahead, not really focusing on anything. His mind was clearly in the past. The mounting silence made her believe he might not answer her. Eventually he did.

  “We met at a low point in my life. I was like a drowning man, going down for the final time, but Kate wouldn’t let that happen.” At the mention of Kate’s name, Kinkaid smiled. It was a distant expression, an odd mix of sadness and amusement. “She’s stubborn, but in a gentle, persistent way, you know? She got me through some dark days. I consider her a good friend.”

  Alexa wanted him to go on, but he stopped. And he purposefully left out any reference to his meeting Kate at a psychiatric hospital. She’d have to find another way to keep him talking.

  “She sounds like an interesting woman. Did the two of you ever…get together?”

  He lifted a corner of his lip into a lazy smirk.

  “Get together?” he questioned. With him staring at her, she felt her cheeks blush with heat until he said, “No, it’s not like that between us. She’s got a…significant other in her life. She’s pretty devoted to him. In fact, she worships him. The guy walks on water as far as she’s concerned. Like I said, we’re friends. That’s all. Why are you asking all these questions about Kate?”

  “Just making conversation, that’s all,” she lied.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Alexa gritted her teeth and avoided his eyes. The guy walks on water, my ass. Kinkaid was playing her and having fun doing it. She ignored the fact that she was toying with him, too. Prying personal information from him was more like…intelligence gathering. It was practically her job, for cryin’ out loud.

  No matter how she justified her curiosity, Alexa knew her interest in Jackson Kinkaid had become personal. The man intrigued her. She’d become obsessed with learning more about his connection to Kate and his stay at the psychiatric hospital.

  Given their mission, she couldn’t afford to alienate him by pushing too hard. If she admitted knowing that Kate was a nun, he’d realize she got that from Garrett. Whatever beef Kinkaid had with her boss could drive a deeper wedge of mistrust between them.

  With her thoughts focused on Kate being a nun, Alexa found it ironic when she saw where Kinkaid had taken her.

  They stood at the front steps to the Immaculate Conception Catholic Church, a cathedral near their motel and a focal point to the main part of town. It was a massive stone structure with a bell tower and had an arched entry of double wooden doors with an impressive stained glass display over the doorway.

  “Do you think we should split up when we get inside?” she asked as she stared up at the stained glass. “If lightning strikes, both of us won’t get whacked.”

  He coc
ked his head and raised an eyebrow. “Just give up the idea of salvation and embrace the dark side, Princess Leia. Works for me.”

  “That explains a lot, Kinkaid.”

  When they entered the church, Alexa felt the weight of her .45-caliber H&K MK23 at the small of her back under her T-shirt. And even though none of the parishioners paid them much attention, she still knew she didn’t belong. She felt like there was a sign over her head in flashing neon that read—OUTSIDER!

  “What are we doing here, Kinkaid?” she whispered.

  No matter how quietly she walked, her footsteps echoed on the tile floor, but her companion didn’t bother with subtlety. He stomped down the center aisle as if he had a perfect right to be there. He headed for the altar, his eyes searching for something.

  “I’m looking for a priest. Just follow my lead.”

  “Have at ’er, big guy. I’m not sayin’ a word.”

  “That’ll be a nice change of pace,” he sniped.

  Before she could slay him with a clever comeback, a priest came through a side entrance and walked toward the confessionals with his head bowed. He was short and pudgy with full cheeks and thinning gray hair. He wore the usual uniform, black with white collar. When Kinkaid called to him in Spanish, the man stopped and greeted them in his native tongue.

  Kinkaid introduced them both and launched into his usual banter in a language she didn’t understand. And as he and the priest spoke, she watched the other parishioners. The priest must have noticed her lack of attention, because he eventually stopped his conversation with Kinkaid and focused on her.

  “You do not speak Spanish?” he asked in English. When he smiled warmly, she did the same.

  “Unfortunately, no,” she replied.

  “My name is Father Ignatius. Welcome to my church.” He extended his arm down the side aisle. “Please…come to my private office. We can talk more and not disturb my parishioners.”

  When they both nodded, the priest ushered them back the way he’d come. He took them into a cozy room that was more of an antechamber to a private residence than an office.

  The room had a desk with stacks of dog-eared papers on it and a basket piled high with old magazines on the floor. A wall of bookshelves was behind the desk and along one of the walls. Alexa expected to find religious books, and there were plenty of those, but it surprised her to see so many books on cooking, art, and architecture. And there were original oil paintings displayed on one wall under special lighting—landscapes, still lifes, and monastic settings.

  Father Ignatius was a true Renaissance man.

  “Are these your paintings, Father?” she asked.

  “Yes, I find painting relaxes me. It’s a hobby.”

  “You’re quite good.” Alexa admired the artwork up close. “Very impressive.”

  Before they sat, a petite woman with gray hair and striking blue eyes joined them. Under her apron, she wore dark slacks, a pink blouse, and had a string of pearls around her neck.

  “Can I get anything to drink for you and your guests, Father? Coffee?” she offered with a sweet smile. “And I have gingersnaps.”

  “This is Mrs. Torres, my housekeeper.” Father Ignatius made the introductions. “She’s an excellent cook,” He patted his stomach. “…as you can see.”

  “I’d like coffee if you don’t mind,” Alexa said.

  “Nothing for me.” Kinkaid shook his head and flashed a rare smile.

  When the little woman disappeared into the next room, she left the door ajar, revealing the private residence of Father Ignatius. Alexa wouldn’t have been so nosey, but when she saw a home theater with a big-screen TV, she almost burst out laughing.

  Oh, God. This is my kind of church, she thought.

  After Mrs. Torres served coffee and a plate of gingersnaps, the woman closed the doors to give them privacy, allowing Kinkaid to take over.

  “I’ve had to resort to some colorful ways to find information on a local man. We don’t know whom we can trust, but I won’t lie to you, Father,” he began.

  As he paused for effect, she wasn’t sure what he’d say next.

  “We’re freelance reporters. And we’re looking for a despicable man,” he told the priest.

  Alexa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. And she clenched her jaw, waiting for lightning to strike as he lied to a priest.

  “You don’t say. Please…tell me more.” Father Ignatius steepled his hands and narrowed his eyes, completely enthralled by Kinkaid’s story.

  “This man is taking advantage of those devastated by the hurricane. He takes money from desperate people and has no intention of fulfilling his obligations to salvage and rebuild their homes. And we believe he should be held accountable for his actions.”

  “How terrible. Do you believe this man is part of my church? Is that why you’ve come to me?”

  “No, he’s Muslim, Father. He wouldn’t belong to your church,” Kinkaid reassured the priest. “Right now, he’s hiding from the press. And we think he’s staying with a local man, someone perhaps with criminal connections himself or links to terrorist organizations. His benefactor might even be a weapons or drug dealer. Can you help us find anyone who might harbor this man?”

  Before the priest answered, Mrs. Torres entered the room. In her hand she held a piece of paper. She avoided looking at them this time and handed the page to Father Ignatius, then left the room without a word. The priest seemed to expect her interruption and stared down at the paper in his hands, reading what was printed on the page.

  “How curious,” the priest remarked, before he pursed his lips and looked at Kinkaid, giving his request full consideration. The man remained silent for a long time, with only the steady tick of a clock filling the void. When he finally opened his mouth, what Father Ignatius said surprised Alexa.

  “I might be able to help you. I have been in Baracoa for many years, but I am curious.” The priest shifted his gaze toward her. “You’ve been very quiet, my dear. What do you have to say about all this, Martini One?”

  When the priest used her call sign—the one she’d been assigned specifically for this mission, a name known only to those at Sentinels headquarters in New York City—it was as if he’d struck her in the face with a two-by-four.

  “Father, pardon my language, but…” She stood and leaned across his desk. “…what the hell did you just call me?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Immaculate Conception Catholic Church

  Baracoa, Cuba

  “I’m rather partial to martinis myself. I give them up for Lent, but I can assure you I will explain all this cloak-and-dagger business straightaway. Please. Sit, my dear.” With a benevolent pious face, the so-called priest gestured with a hand.

  Alexa noticed his English had improved, and his pronounced Hispanic accent had faded. And although he used British terms, like “straightaway,” she couldn’t be sure if that wasn’t another diversion. The man was an imposter and a damned chameleon.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what did Mrs. Torres bring you?” Alexa asked.

  Father Ignatius smiled, folded the paper in his hand, and shoved it into a pocket of his cassock before he said, “She ran a facial-recognition program on both of you when you first entered my church. Standard operating procedure.”

  “Presbyterians do that, too,” Kinkaid added.

  The clergyman ignored him, and continued, “When we got a hit, I made myself available, to see if you’d make contact. And you did.”

  “He works in mysterious ways.” Kinkaid shot a sideways glance at her.

  “So I’ve been told.” Father Ignatius sat back in his chair, his fingers locked over his belly. “You didn’t lie about your names, only what you did for a living…and about your target. That will be ten Hail Marys by the way.” The priest swiped his hand in the sign of a cross.

  “The night is young. Hold off on the penance, Reverend. I’m only gettin’ started.” Kinkaid’s sarcasm was on full throttle.

  “Don’t you
see? I had to know if I could trust you. The information we have on both of you is a bit sketchy—for most good operatives, that’s the way it is—but it seems we have mutual allies. And that was good enough for me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kinkaid looked annoyed. “Good enough for what?”

  “Good enough for what I’m about to say. I hope you appreciate that I’m taking a risk to reveal how I obtained the name of Martini One. I could have listened to your cover story—very clever, by the way—and been very sympathetic before I sent you away without any help at all. But it appears time is of the essence…for all of us.” Father Ignatius reached for a cookie. “I love gingersnaps, don’t you?”

  Kinkaid glared at the man. “If you’re not a priest, who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the man capable of delivering divine intervention. That’s all you need to know. As I see it, you could use the hand of Providence.” The priest dunked the cookie into his coffee and tossed it into his mouth. He chewed as he spoke.

  “If you ask any good Catholic in town, I minister to the needs of my parishioners. I have a rather daunting schedule of baptisms, marriages, confessions, and funerals, and I conduct masses. I’m rather a jack-of-all-trades, you might say.”

  Alexa knew there was more pressing business to discuss with this faux priest, but she couldn’t resist asking the obvious.

  “If you’re not ordained, how can you misrepresent yourself as a priest? You’re marrying people under false pretenses…listening to their confessions?”

  “Who said I wasn’t ordained?” Father Ignatius cocked his head in question. “Being a priest has its moments. I quite enjoy it most days, but what I do for my employer is my true calling.”

  No matter how this man justified what he was doing, Alexa didn’t buy that he was a real priest. And she didn’t miss the fact that he never actually admitted to being ordained either. The best undercover agents were the most convincing when they believed their own lies.