As they passed the vehicle, it was impossible to tell through the nearly black windows how many occupants the truck carried, but Selena thought four men, along with a complete arsenal, seemed likely.
Ignoring the honks and obscene gestures from drivers forced onto the shoulder, Gentry pressed the accelerator to the floor, pulled ahead of the Hummer, then veered back into the right lane. The speedometer was inching past seventy in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone, and up ahead, as they drew nearer to town, traffic grew heavier. There were no turnoffs, nothing but pine forests . . . and a narrow bridge over a sluggish river.
Selena didn’t need to look to know the Hummer was rapidly overtaking them; the roar of the engine, the horn blasts, and the constant shifting of Gentry’s gaze from the road ahead to the rearview mirror made it clear.
The Hummer drew even with them again, but this time both passenger windows were down. Selena had a quick impression of two men with short brown hair, dark glasses, and a pair of high-powered rifles, and then the first shots rang out, shattering the cargo-area windows as Gentry quickly pulled away.
The Hummer came abreast again, and Selena flinched in anticipation of the next round of gunfire, but suddenly both men laughed and lowered their weapons instead. An instant later the Hummer slammed into the side of the SUV, metal grinding, tires squealing. Gentry hit the brakes, but the other driver slowed with her, relentlessly keeping the pressure on, forcing the smaller vehicle to the right.
Selena held tightly to the armrest as the right wheels left the roadway and the ride turned bumpy, jerking her against the seat belt. Next to her, Jamieson was holding on, as well, while in the front seat, Robinette looked relatively unaffected . . . until he noticed the bridge. They were approaching the concrete abutment at an alarming speed; even if Gentry tried to stop, she couldn’t. Their only hope was to escape the Hummer and get back in the lane, or get off the road entirely. Escaping the Hummer wasn’t an option, so at the last instant, Gentry jerked the wheel hard to the right.
The sudden turn smacked Selena’s head against the side of the door as they crashed down an embankment. Her vision dim from the blow to the head, she fumbled for the button and lowered the window as the SUV sailed across the remaining few feet of earth, then plummeted into the middle of the river like a three-ton rock.
Water flooded the passenger compartment, pouring through the open windows. Robinette, already freed, was fumbling with Gentry’s seat belt; her body was limp, and a gash darkened her forehead. Looking dazed, Long unclasped his seat belt as Selena took care of her own. Between them, Jamieson sagged, unconscious. As the water came up over the SUV’s roof, she eased out the window, only to duck back in when gunfire started again. Their attackers had stopped on the bridge with the intention of picking them off as they surfaced.
The water was murky, tinged green, but she had no problem undoing Jamieson’s seat belt. As the river closed over the top of the vehicle, she pulled him free, over the seat and into the cargo bay, then out the shattered window. She swam straight ahead, towing him with her, in the direction of the bridge and the cover it offered. When the water darkened thanks to the shade of the bridge, she swam a few more feet, then dragged him halfway onto the shore. Taking his pistol from its holster, she sliced back into the river, swam into the sunlight, then surfaced and fired three rapid shots at the figures on the bridge. Immediately she ducked under and swam to another location before surfacing and firing again. This time she was rewarded with a howl of pain followed by the splash of a .223 in the water a few feet away.
“Let’s get outta here!” The shout was punctuated by slamming doors and a savage acceleration. An instant later, amidst the squeal of brakes, a stranger shouted, “Hey, are you okay down there? The police are on their way!”
Selena tucked the .45 in her waistband, drew a deep breath, dove under again, and returned to the truck. The vehicle had settled at an angle on the river bottom, tilting precariously to the right side. Long was wriggling through the passenger window, but the angle was awkward, the going slow. With his shirt collar in one fist, she began kicking to the surface, feeling the burden ease when he was free of the SUV.
Leaving him to find his way to shore, she went under once more. Robinette was still struggling with Gentry’s seat belt; apparently, the locking mechanism had jammed. Selena pulled herself back through the window, drew her switchblade, and sliced through both the shoulder and lap belts.
This time when she surfaced, Robinette and Gentry were right behind her. Long was waiting on the shore with a half dozen passersby; a few other Good Samaritans were helping a groggy Jamieson out of the river and onto solid ground. Sirens wailed in the distance. As she treaded water, Robinette gave her one of those smiles that brought absolutely no warmth to his face, and said, “Welcome to Savannah, Ms. McCaffrey.”
7
Despite the heat, Selena stood at the side of the road, a blanket around her shoulders, and gazed down at the divers and the wrecker preparing to tow the SUV from the water. Gentry came to stand beside her, a gauze bandage covering the gash on her forehead but leaving plenty of the resulting bruise uncovered.
“Robinette tells me I owe you my thanks.”
Selena glanced at her but didn’t speak.
“He also told me to confiscate that knife.” Gentry watched as the rear of the SUV broke the water’s surface before glancing Selena’s way. “I don’t think it’s always fair to send a witness into a dangerous situation unarmed. So if he asks, I took the switchblade, right? Right.”
Selena watched her walk away. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Gentry had failed to thank her for helping save her life, but getting to keep the knife more than made up for that. Still, she wouldn’t mention the .22 packed in her suitcase inside the SUV.
After everyone had provided the investigating officers with identification, Robinette did most of the talking, telling a story verified by the witnesses—some crazy people had taken shots at them and run them off the road. No, no one had gotten a description or a tag number; no, they had no idea why they’d been singled out. In the meantime, the tow truck left with the SUV and two men from the rental agency, looking more than a little stunned, delivered another and helped to load their sopping luggage.
Once they were finally allowed to leave, they completed the short drive into the heart of Savannah. They passed lovely old houses, statues and fountains, locals and tourists, other vehicles and horse-drawn carriages, before turning into the drive of a three-story house. The place had come recommended by the local FBI office, Robinette had told her on the plane, better for security than a hotel filled with strangers and numerous ways in and out. They had it to themselves for the duration of their stay; the owners had been persuaded—there had been a glint in his eyes when he said the word—to go away for a few days.
Selena climbed out of the SUV and looked around. High stucco walls surrounded the property on three sides, with an elaborate wrought-iron fence and gate enclosing the front. The house wasn’t impenetrable, but what was—besides, perhaps, a prison? For their purposes, it should be fine . . . provided nothing else went wrong.
Grateful for the waterproof bags that held her toiletries— and the .22—Selena gathered them and retreated to her room for a shower. The river muck was gone and she was sitting on the bed, wrapped in a towel and applying coconut-scented lotion to her skin, when a knock sounded at the door, then Gentry walked in, shopping bags in hand.
“One of the agents from the local office got us clothes for tonight. Jamieson will get the laundry done tonight, and the rest has been sent to the cleaners, so we can have our own stuff tomorrow.” From one bag, Gentry removed a dress in turquoise linen, along with a bra, panties, hose, and strappy, heeled sandals. From another she took out a roll of tape and a jumble of wires and a transmitter. “Put the underwear on, then I’ll get you hooked up before you put the dress on.”
Selena did as instructed, then stood motionless as Gentry taped the microphone between her breas
ts, ran the wire along the band of the bra, then taped the transmitter to her middle in back. The dress came with a wide leather belt that would camouflage the small lump. When Gentry stepped away, she slid the dress on, fastening the buttons, securing the belt, then turning slowly for inspection.
“Good. Can’t see a thing. Now Robinette wants to talk to you.”
With a shrug, Selena sat down at the old-fashioned dressing table and spread out the contents of her cosmetics bag. The .22 had already been transferred to a small beaded handbag resting on the marble tabletop. She doubted Robinette would give the bag a second look—hoped he wouldn’t. As Gentry had said, it wasn’t fair sending a witness into a dangerous situation unarmed.
A moment after Gentry left, the door opened again and Robinette came in. He walked to the lace-curtained windows and gazed out before glancing her way. “Nervous?”
She finished smoothing moisturizer over her face before reaching for the foundation. I’m having dinner in a strange city with a man who’s already tried to kill me and another who probably just tried to kill me. Of course I’m nervous. “Should I be?”
“We’ll have people around.”
“What people? Where?”
“They know who you are. You don’t need to know who they are.” He leaned against the windowsill and crossed his ankles. “Jamieson will be your driver tonight. I’ll be in the surveillance van outside the restaurant. Gentry will be keeping watch here while we’re gone, and Long will be with you.”
Lucky me. “Is his ankle bracelet really deactivated?”
“No. We’re monitoring it. But he doesn’t need to know that.”
“Then, in his mind, this would be a good time to try to escape—alone in a restaurant with just me to watch him. He could go to the men’s room and never come back.”
“He could try. He wouldn’t get far. Our surveillance team knows you. They know him.”
She wiped her fingers on a washcloth, then selected two pots of eye shadow and a brush. “Any advice for tonight?”
He looked uncomfortable, as if he didn’t like what he was about to say. “You want to make decisions—this is where you get to. Use whatever tactic works best with Yates—intimidation, friendliness, seduction.”
A chill slid down her spine. Once, William had ordered her to use sex to get the information he wanted from Tony. She wasn’t anyone’s whore. If seduction was what worked best with Yates, the FBI might as well lock her up now.
“You’re trusting my judgment?” she asked coolly.
Not in the least, his smile said, though his words suggested otherwise. “You’ll be there. I won’t. Feel him out about the boat that disappeared, and any other aspect of the business he’s willing to discuss, but don’t expect too much. You may be his boss, but you’re a stranger. It’ll take some time to earn his trust.”
“How much time do we have for this?” How long was her life going to be on hold, her freedom curtailed, her relationship in limbo?
He walked to the door, then turned back, wearing that thin smile again. “As long as it takes.”
Long after the door had closed, she continued to gaze at the spot where he’d stood. Shaking her head she reached for a fat brush and a container of powder and dusted it across her face. As long as it takes. Now, there was a depressing thought.
Once she was properly made up, adorned, and perfumed, she picked up the beaded bag, drew a breath for courage, then went downstairs to join Jamieson and Long in the gleaming silver Mercedes they’d rented for the occasion.
Their destination, a restaurant by the name of Pawley’s, was located in the middle of a downtown block. Built of aged red brick softened to a rosy hue in the setting sun, it looked as if it had occupied that square of earth forever. Jamieson parked in front and jumped out to open the rear door, like a good chauffeur. Ignoring the curious looks of passersby, Selena climbed out and casually glanced around while waiting for Long to join her. There were several vans parked on the street, with nothing to give away which one hid Robinette’s surveillance team.
When Long came to stand beside her, she started across the sidewalk toward the restaurant door, held open by a smiling young man in shirtsleeves. Before they were close enough for him to hear, she murmured, “You try anything tonight, Mr. Long, and I’ll shoot you.”
She was rewarded with a scowl as the young man greeted them. “Welcome to Pawley’s. Enjoy your meal.”
With Long at her side, and Yates awaiting her inside, the meal, she thought grimly, was the least of her concerns.
By Friday evening, Tony had discovered that the only number Damon Long had called from the jail besides his lawyer’s came back to Carl Heinz at a midtown business address. The storefront office specialized in small-business bookkeeping, accounting, and tax services, according to the sign in the window. It was closed, and had been for most of the week, the woman at the tailor shop next door told him.
Heinz’s residential address was in a Brookside neighborhood of small lots and neat houses. The mailbox was crammed with junk mail and a handful of bills—electric, water, gas. A narrow trail worn through the overgrown yard led to the house. There was no car in the driveway, no answer to Tony’s knock, and nothing to see through the living room windows but cheap furniture.
Luckily, there was a talkative neighbor who’d told Tony everything she knew about the man—that he was quiet, kept to himself, didn’t have loud parties or any company at all. He’d been polite but not overly friendly, and had taken care of his house just like everyone else on the block, though he had slacked off on the mowing in the last few weeks.
Maybe because he’d known he wouldn’t be staying much longer. Just long enough to try to kill Selena.
Heinz had left town Wednesday afternoon, the old lady said—had come home, loaded up his car, given her the keys to return to the landlord, and driven away. He hadn’t mentioned where he was going.
But before disappearing, he had spoken to Long, had visited him in jail. He must have found out that Henry was in the hospital and that Selena was in part responsible. Had he been on that hillside Monday night or had he passed the job on to someone else? Had he taken it on himself or been following orders—and, if so, whose?
And where was he now? He could have gone anywhere in the country—hell, in the world. Or he could have holed up in a motel down the street, awaiting further instructions. He could be on his way to Savannah, or already there, waiting.
Tony didn’t know anyone on the Savannah PD, but he could call, chat up a detective, ask him to do whatever he could to keep an eye on Selena . . . and risk blowing the feds’ cover or, worse, giving them away to a dirty cop. After all, he knew for a fact that the former chief of police there had been corrupt as hell.
Or he could send them Heinz’s driver’s license photo, tell them he had reason to believe Heinz was in their jurisdiction and that he was a person of interest in a multiple homicide, and ask them to keep an eye out for him. It wasn’t much, but it was the best—and safest—option he could come up with.
He detoured to the station downtown, sent the request, then left again. He sat at a stoplight, drumming his fingers on the wheel. Home was a few miles to the left, but he didn’t want to go there. The house seemed so damned empty—or maybe he was the one feeling empty. At least at work, he had people to deal with and cases to concentrate on. At home, all his distractions reminded him of Selena. There was her house—pretty hard to ignore—and Mutt moping around because she wasn’t there to spoil him. Even the cats seemed to be hiding out less and aggravating Tony more.
When the light changed, instead of turning left, he switched lanes and headed south. He drove automatically, trying not to think too much about anything, until he recognized LaFortune Park. He was going home, he thought with a rueful smile. Just as he’d done when he was a kid and something had gone wrong.
He parked in the driveway behind his mother’s car, then rang the doorbell. For years Anna had left the door unlocked during the day, but
Joe’s Alzheimer’s made that impossible now.
Anna opened the door, her face flushed, an apron tied around her waist. She gave Tony a hug and a kiss, then stepped back and took stock. “No bruises, no black eyes, no bullet holes. Good.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, though she didn’t look it. Lines bracketed her mouth, and her eyes wore a layer of worry.
“How’s Dad?”
She shrugged. “He’s on a Henry kick. He’s asked me fifty times this afternoon where Henry is, why he hasn’t come for a visit, is he mad at us, why doesn’t he call.”
She’d told Joe part of the truth about Henry—that he’d been shot, but not why and certainly not by whom—but Joe forgot more often than he remembered. Anna thought that was a blessing, but Tony wasn’t so sure. Was it better to think that the friend you loved like a brother had abandoned you than to know that he lay comatose in the hospital?
“How are you?” Anna asked, cupping her palm to his cheek.
“I’m okay.”
“Where’s Selena?”
Who knew? He’d driven past Henry’s estate that afternoon, but it had been impossible to tell whether she had left for Savannah yet. Everything looked the same as always— guards on duty at the gate, the house quiet, the grounds undisturbed.
Anna studied him a moment longer, then asked suspiciously, “Did you two have a fight?”
“Gee, you should be a detective, Mom,” he said dryly. “And it wasn’t exactly a fight.” All he’d done was doubt Selena’s abilities and call her an idiot. But getting Long out of jail was incredibly idiotic. Didn’t truth count for anything?
“Was it your fault?”
“No.” No matter how Selena argued, there was nothing rational or reasonable about what she was doing. It was dangerous, plain and simple.
“Not even a little?”
“No.” Though he wasn’t proud of the way he’d let the conversation end the day before. She’d made a conciliatory effort—If you’d like, I’ll let you know when we return—but he’d said nothing. It had been petty, but he couldn’t have forced an answer to save his life.
Deep Cover Page 11