Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  As the truth hollowed out his stomach, he watched a vulture circle above the corroded bridge and let out a slow breath.

  Could Meg have done this, out of spite?

  No. Much as she might hate him, it wasn’t in her nature to be mean to anyone.

  So who had called him, dangling a carrot he couldn’t resist?

  The answer eluded him.

  But whoever had devised this prank could be concealed nearby, watching him. Laughing at the desperate man who’d fallen for a mean-spirited trick.

  Anger began to churn in his gut, and he squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. No one made a fool of Steve Jackson.

  No one.

  Muttering a curse, he twisted the key in the ignition. Put the car in gear. Executed a quick U-turn, spewing gravel into the tall weeds rimming the deserted road. He was out of here.

  And if he ever found out who had orchestrated this waste-of-time Saturday outing, they’d find out why his ex had nicknamed him Steve the Smasher.

  Something was wrong.

  Beads of sweat that had nothing to do with the rising air temperature broke out on Buzz’s forehead. Swiping them away with the sleeve of his hoodie, he gave the parking lot another once-over.

  More police had shown up, cars attempting to enter were being turned away—and the Antifa demonstration was getting further and further behind schedule.

  He checked his watch again. One-twelve.

  At this moment, the black bloc groups should be marching and chanting and infiltrating the Republican gathering as they approached the stage where Eve Reilly was speaking. His finger should be on the trigger, ready to dispatch the bullets that would take her out.

  Instead, the Antifa crowd was milling around—and becoming restless.

  Buzz searched the throng for the guy who’d been their group leader. There. Off to the side, conferring with another group leader.

  Buzz headed toward them. He needed answers—and he couldn’t text Dan. His burner phone was history.

  As he approached the two men, it was obvious they were as concerned as he was about the change in schedule.

  However . . . the delay had far more serious consequences for him than anyone else. If necessary, the group could switch gears, crash the Republican party later in the day, with or without the speeches. While the impact wouldn’t be as dramatic, nor their efforts as disruptive, they would still make the news—and further the overall mission of the movement.

  But to complete his mission, he needed access to Eve Reilly and the camouflage of the black-clad group.

  He also needed whatever cover Dan had arranged to deflect guilt to someone else—and timing was everything for that. If they got too much off schedule, that cover might not hold.

  The two men stopped conversing as he approached.

  “Hey.” He tried not to let his nerves show. “Everybody’s wondering what’s going on.”

  “So are we.” His group leader furrowed his brow. “The speeches have been delayed. We’ve been trying to reach our contact person for direction, but we’re not getting any response.”

  Were they talking about Dan?

  Very possible.

  And if so, it was strange that communication with the organizer of this gathering had shut down. Dan above all knew how critical today’s rally was.

  But he couldn’t say that, or reveal his own contact with the person who’d coordinated this protest from behind the scenes. Only the two of them knew about today’s other mission.

  Whatever the glitch, though, he had to find a way to get to Eve Reilly.

  Because unless it became absolutely impossible to pull off, he wasn’t leaving the park until he silenced her forever.

  Warrant approved and in process. OK to search. Computer tech en route. Possible matches to photo attached.

  Brent finished reading Sarge’s email and looked over at Colin, who was concentrating on his computer screen at Olivia’s kitchen table. “Sarge says the search is a go.”

  “Good. We’re getting nowhere online. How is it possible there are no database or Google references for a person in the twenty-first century? It’s like Olivia Macie lives in a cave.”

  “The cookie-baking Olivia Macie that Eve knows does in terms of the internet. I’m thinking she uses another name for her illicit activities.” He relayed the rest of Sarge’s message and opened the photos, tipping his cell so his colleague could see the screen too.

  “That’s him.” Colin pointed to one of the images.

  “I agree.” He touched it and read the brief bio that came up, pulling out the pertinent facts.

  Peter Arnold. Prominent SDS activist. Killed in violent confrontation during a protest in 1964.

  “What’s SDS?” Colin frowned at the screen.

  Brent’s fingers were already flying over the keys, searching for that answer. He clicked on the first hit. “Students for a Democratic Society. The group was a critic of the US political system, big business, economic inequality, racial discrimination—and a host of other things. A memo from the FBI in 1969 called it an organization dedicated to the destruction of American society and Western democratic traditions and ideals.”

  “Sounds like Antifa.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?” Brent typed in Peter Arnold and quickly scanned his bio. “Whoa. Get this. Arnold married a woman named Olivia Wallace in 1961.”

  “I assume that’s our Olivia. But she told Eve her husband died twenty years ago—and the names don’t match.”

  “There could have been a second marriage. The patrol officer who responded to the emergency call this morning told me Eve said Olivia was married to a guy named Nathaniel.”

  “Try pairing the names for a search.”

  Brent resumed typing. “The uncommon last name should help keep this manageable.” He scrolled through the hits that popped up. Clicked on one that seemed promising. “She married her second husband in 1970. Nathaniel Macie was quite a bit older than her. They were together until he died in 2000 after a debilitating battle with Parkinson’s disease.”

  “Was he also a radical?”

  “No. A prominent banker.”

  “Huh.” Colin arched an eyebrow. “She went over to the dark side—or at least that’s what her old activist cohorts would say.”

  “The evidence downstairs would suggest she didn’t stay there.”

  Colin rose. “Let’s dive in and—”

  Ding dong.

  “Must be the computer tech Sarge is sending.” Brent stood too.

  “I’ll let him in and meet you downstairs.”

  They parted in the hall, and Brent clattered back down the stairs. Now that the tech was here, they could dig into the woman’s computer. That might yield gold. And the texts and call history on the burner phones would also be valuable.

  Unless everything was password protected and their tech guru couldn’t get them into the devices fast.

  And fast was key. The Antifa fanatics at the park could lose patience any second.

  However, Eve should be safe—unless she and the powers that be in the Republican organization decided to proceed with the afternoon programming.

  A shudder rippled through him as a litany of potential consequences strobed through his mind.

  But without hard evidence to suggest there was a plot directed specifically against her, she wasn’t the type to back down in the face of pressure. She would stick with her principles, even if that put her at risk.

  And all along he’d been afraid his job would freak her out.

  How ironic.

  Colin joined him in the basement, followed by a jeans-clad guy who could pass for a teenager.

  “Sam Harris.” The new arrival held out his hand.

  Brent returned the shake and introduced himself.

  “Colin already gave me the highlights.” The younger man pulled on a pair of latex gloves and moved to the computer. Touched a key. The screensaver vanished, and an email program appeared on the screen, a hal
f-composed note front and center.

  “That was easy.” He grinned at them. “Even you guys could have hacked into this one.” He opened the full header and examined the gobbledygook that came up. “She’s using a remailer to preserve her anonymity. Maybe more than one. No surprise there. You want to look at this email account while I check out the cells?” He picked up one of the phones.

  “Yes.” Brent crossed to the computer and dropped into the chair. Colin joined him as they both donned gloves and read the partially composed, cryptic email.

  It didn’t appear to have anything to do with today’s event or Eve. A date in October was referenced. Olivia must have been working on a future Antifa gathering.

  “Notice the From line.” Colin indicated the spot. “She goes by the name Dan.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Could be an acronym for the Direct Action Network.” Sam spoke without taking his focus off the cell he was examining.

  Brent glanced at Colin, who shrugged.

  He pulled out his cell and typed in the name of the organization. Tapped on the first hit. Skimmed a few lines.

  It fit.

  “How’d you make that connection?” He swiveled toward Sam.

  The other man stopped fiddling with the cell. “In grad school we had an exercise that involved hacking into communiques about the World Trade Organization protests twenty-some years ago. That was a DAN-coordinated event. Given the Antifa angle of this investigation, I connected the dots.”

  “Impressive.” Colin folded his arms. “You ever think about being a detective?”

  “Not my cup of tea. I’d rather solve puzzles that have logical solutions”—he lifted the phone—“than deal with irrational people.”

  Hard to argue with that answer.

  As Sam went back to the phone, Brent fed Colin the Wikipedia highlights. “DAN was a collection of anti-authoritarian anarchist groups. It fell apart in 2002—but a bunch of the key people went on to play active roles in regional and national mobilizations of independent affinity groups in the Antifa movement.”

  “From the setup down here, Olivia could be one of those. It has all the earmarks of a command center.” Colin gave the room another sweep. “Maybe after her banker husband died, she returned to her anarchist roots.”

  “You guys want to take a look at this cell?” Sam held it up. “As far as I can tell, it was never used for calls, only texts—and only with one person. The last one was yesterday.”

  “Yeah.” Brent took it from him, and Sam moved on to the next phone.

  Colin leaned over his shoulder to see the screen. “Who’s Al?”

  “Any ideas?” Brent directed the question to Sam.

  “Sorry.” One side of the computer tech’s mouth rose. “You’re on your own with that one.”

  “Scroll down.” Colin motioned to the screen. “We can worry about who Al is later.”

  Brent complied . . . but sucked in a breath when Jackson’s name popped up.

  “I see it too.” Creases scored Colin’s brow. “Another link between Olivia and Eve. Your theory about a third party slipping in on Jackson’s coattails just got legs.”

  Brent’s heart missed a beat as he zipped through the exchange from September 7. “Look at the reference to next weekend . . . and making ER history. That has to refer to today’s event—and Eve.” He continued to scroll through the texts.

  “Stop.” Colin leaned closer. “Another reference on September 1, to ER being gone in two weeks.”

  “Al must be the hit man.”

  Meaning he was at today’s event, preparing to carry out his assignment.

  “Forget later. We have to identify this guy now.” Colin’s tone was grim.

  Brent handed him the cell. “You work on that—and call Sarge. I want Eve out of that park ASAP. If they can make it happen before I arrive, fine. But with sirens and lights, I can be on site in ten minutes—and if she’s still there, I’ll light a fire under whoever’s in charge.”

  “Go for it.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, pulled out his cell, and raced through the house. Sarge would be all over this—but Eve needed to hear about the danger from him.

  And that danger had just increased exponentially.

  Jackson may have threatened to silence Eve, but it was questionable whether the man would ever have followed through.

  Olivia and the guy named Al, however, were deadly serious in their intent to silence her.

  They wouldn’t succeed today—not if he could help it—nor would they in the future. From the prognosis Sarge had relayed, Olivia was out of the picture. Since she appeared to be calling the shots, that should eliminate the threat.

  Once they found Al.

  And they would. Whatever it took.

  Because keeping Eve safe was his top priority.

  For her sake—and his.

  At the sudden vibration in her hand as she paced the confined area within the tent, Eve jolted to a stop. Fumbled the cell. Grabbed it as it plummeted toward the ground.

  Mercy.

  Between the armed guards surrounding her and learning that her kindhearted neighbor was involved with a radical anarchist group, every nerve in her body was vibrating. If this kept up, she’d be a basket case before the day was over.

  Thank goodness Brent was calling with an update, as he’d promised.

  Instead of returning her greeting, he got straight to business. “Are the guards sticking close?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay near them. We think you’re being targeted at this event.”

  Her stomach bottomed out. “Targeted how?”

  “Unknown. But the intent is deadly.”

  She groped for the edge of the table and sank back into her chair, stomach churning as she tried to digest that news. “Olivia wanted to kill me?”

  “It appears so. Does the name Al ring any bells?”

  “No. Why?”

  “We found a text exchange between the two of them. Since the name she used was fake, we assume the other one is too. It could be a male or a female.” His last sentence was muffled.

  “Where are you?”

  “Getting into my car at Olivia’s. I’m heading your way with lights and sirens. I should be there in ten minutes, but my boss has been notified about the new developments and they may move you to a secure place or even take you out of the park before I get there.”

  An engine started in the background, and she clutched the phone. “I’d rather wait for you.”

  “If they can get you out faster, go. I’ll catch up with you. And please . . . don’t take any chances. I have plans for us, and if anything happened to you . . .” His voice hoarsened, and he cleared his throat. “Just be careful.”

  Despite the cold fear snaking through her, a surge of tenderness warmed her heart. “I will.”

  The call ended with the sudden, piercing wail of a siren and the revving of an engine from Brent’s end.

  Eve slowly tucked the phone into her purse and surveyed the subdued picnickers who were clustered in small groups, talking in low tones. All traces of their earlier revelry had vanished. The crowd had also thinned.

  Who could blame people for leaving, given what the lieutenant had said?

  But intimidation tactics had the opposite effect on her—as they did with Cate and Grace. The Reilly women were a strong bunch. Sometimes headstrong.

  And this could be one of those times.

  As the lieutenant started toward her through the crowd—no doubt coming to pass on the news Brent had already shared—Eve shored up her resolve. Brent wanted her safe—and away from this park. She wanted that too.

  But would running eliminate the threat? Would this Al person give up if today was a bust—or would he or she be more determined than ever to carry out their mission?

  If they were, this nightmare was going to drag on. And that was unacceptable. After sticking close to home as much as she could and operating on high alert in public for three
long weeks, one fact was crystal clear.

  Living in fear stunk.

  She had to put this chapter of her life behind her and begin a new one with the man racing toward the park at this very moment.

  But how to turn that page sooner rather than later?

  As the lieutenant approached, an idea began to percolate in her mind. It was a bit audacious—and carried a certain amount of risk—but it could end this now. Today.

  Brent, however, wouldn’t like it. At all.

  She rose when the lieutenant entered the tent, weighing the pros and cons of the plan forming in her mind. Details would have to be worked out so as few people as possible were at risk, but it had potential.

  The challenge was convincing law enforcement—and one detective in particular—to consider it.

  Especially since running away and hiding would be a whole lot safer for her.

  26

  SOMEONE MUST HAVE alerted the cops that Eve Reilly was a target.

  From his position behind a tree in the wooded area on the far fringe of the picnic site, Buzz surveyed the scene through his dark-tinted sunglasses. The bulk of the crowd was milling around the picnic pavilions—but she was in a tent, surrounded by uniformed officers.

  As he watched, more cops lowered the remaining flaps, hiding her from view. Unless they’d gotten wind of the plan Dan had concocted, they wouldn’t be taking all those precautions to keep her out of the public eye.

  He muttered a curse. This was not how today was supposed to play out.

  With the speech already thirty-five minutes behind schedule, whatever cover Dan had arranged to shift suspicion away from him wouldn’t last much longer. In fact, it might already be toast. Everything had been scheduled on the assumption that the Republican group would follow its agenda for the afternoon.

  So what was he supposed to do now?

  Buzz squinted at the tent, mind racing.

  Could he somehow still make this work? Come up with an alternate strategy that would allow him to complete his mission?

  Maybe. Unlike his high school chums, he was inventive. Creative. Smart.