“Federal agent! Shoot them!” she shouted as the man swung around with his weapon.
Three quick shots rang out, overlapped by another three shots from a second weapon, her man jerking with each hit then collapsing on top of her. She struggled against the deadweight, her cracked ribs not helping.
“Clear!” shouted a man’s voice, the announcement echoed by a female, and she knew immediately who had saved her.
Professor James Acton and his wife, Professor Laura Palmer.
Footsteps on pavement rushed toward her and she immediately recognized them from the file photos, Acton reaching down and hauling the body off her.
He looked down at her. “Were you sent to save us?” he asked with a wry grin.
She laughed then winced, grabbing her ribs. “Yes.” She extended her other hand and he hauled her to her feet. “Dylan sent me.” She nodded toward the dead man at her feet. “Just in the nick of time by the looks of it.”
“Let’s get inside, there might be more.”
Sherrie nodded, bending over to pick up her weapon.
She gasped in pain.
“I’ll get it,” said Laura, easily retrieving the weapon and handing it to her. She grimaced a thank you then limped toward the house, the two professors—the two civilians—covering her as porch lights turned on and curtains were pushed aside by neighbors wondering what was going on in their quiet little suburb.
“Grab just what you need. We’re leaving here immediately,” she said as they entered the house, Laura closing and locking the door behind them.
“We’ve got four people in the basement.”
Sherrie stopped. “What? Who?”
“Guests, friends of ours. They were here when Dylan said to hole up.”
Shit!
“Okay, so we’re seven then. That means two vehicles. Not good, but we don’t have a choice.” She gasped as a pain shot through her chest. “Get them up here.”
Acton nodded and rapped out a pattern on a door then opened it. “We’re okay. I need you to come up now. If you need it, don’t leave it.”
There was a shout of acknowledgement and the sound of footsteps on bare wooden stairs. Acton pointed farther into the house. “Get Greg’s wheelchair, he’s going to need it.” Laura nodded and disappeared for a moment, returning pushing what looked like a very expensive unit.
Jesus, seven of us, one in a wheelchair?
“We need to get to a secure location,” she said as she returned to the front door, looking out the window, the first sirens now sounding in the distance. “And we need to get out of here before those police arrive.”
A man stepped slowly through the basement door, holding his back. Laura pushed the chair over to him and he dropped into it with a sigh. “Thanks.” He looked at her as three others appeared. “Shouldn’t we wait for the police? Can’t they protect us?”
“Not from a sniper round. We need to clear out of here before their backup arrives.”
“Whose backup?”
Acton pushed his friend toward the door. “We shot two people outside. They were attacking—” He stopped. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
Sherrie gripped the handle of the front door. “Agent Sherrie White, CIA, but tonight I’m a civilian.”
“Got ya.”
“We need two reliable vehicles. I came in one—”
“Our Jeep is new. We’ll use that.”
“Good.” She nodded toward the man in the wheelchair. “Do you have any special needs?”
He shook his head. “I can walk, but why don’t we take my van? It’ll be a tight squeeze but at least we’re all together.”
Sherrie shook her head. “No, it’d be like driving a tank. We’d never be able to outrun anything if we had to.” She looked at the group. “Who’s the best driver?”
Acton squeezed the back of his wife’s neck. “She is.”
Sherrie’s eyebrows popped and Laura explained. “I do some racing as a hobby.”
“Then let’s go. Professor Palmer, you drive your Jeep, take two of your guests with you, I’ll take everyone else in my car.”
“I’d like to go with my wife.”
Sherrie shook her head. “I’m here for you—”
“I go with my wife.”
Sherrie held her tongue. “Fine, there’s no time to argue. You stay on my ass. I need to get you to a safe-house now.” She reached into her pocket, pulling out a tiny round device and handed it to Acton. “Swallow this.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a tracking device in case we get separated. Swallow it.”
Acton took the oval shaped device that almost looked like a gel capsule and eyed it for a moment before popping it in his mouth, swallowing it dry. “How does it work?”
“I can track you anywhere on the planet for the next thirty-six hours.”
“Why only thirty-six hours?”
“Because by then, Professor, I’m going to assume you’ve had a bowel movement.” She reached for the door handle. “Now let’s go!”
“What about the painting?”
She sighed. “What painting?”
“It’s what this is all about, isn’t it? We have to get it.”
“We’ll discuss that when we’re out of here.” Sherrie unlocked the door and opened it slightly, it looking clear, the sirens suddenly much louder, neighbors now on their lawn. “Where’s your Jeep?”
“In the garage.”
“Okay.” She pointed at the youngest two. “You two with me, casual, calm walk to my car. The rest of you into the Jeep through the garage. Pull out, hang a right”—she jerked her thumb in case there was any doubt—“and if I’m not ahead of you, I’ll pass you. Go right at the stop sign and head for the highway. Got it?”
Laura nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
She stepped out on the porch, walking down the driveway and toward the road. A neighbor approached. “Are you guys okay?”
She nodded, slowing her pace, her conversation continuing over her shoulder. “Yeah, what happened here?”
“Two people were shot. I thought I saw Jim and his wife out here.”
“They were, they heard the shots then went inside to call the police.” She waved. “Sorry, gotta get these two home!” The three of them walked briskly down the street, Sherrie with one hand on her gun in her shoulder holster, the other gripping the key fob. She pressed the button, her vehicle chirping. “Get in.”
Her two passengers climbed in the back seat as she noticed Laura pulling the Jeep out of the garage. The same neighbor ran up to the passenger side window and she saw Acton roll it down, words being exchanged as she started up the car. She did a shoulder check and pulled out, driving past the excitement as the first police car careened around the corner at the far end of the street.
“Everybody look at the bodies as if you’re shocked but not scared. That means mouths open, eyes wide as if your dentist just squeezed your boob.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror and almost chuckled.
Clearing the scene, she drove slowly past the police car as it locked up its brakes, shuddering to a halt. Another look in her rearview mirror showed the Jeep backing onto the road and following just as the two officers stepped out of their car.
She came to a stop at the end of the street, signaling her turn, Laura pulling up right behind her. She was about to pull out when the girl screamed from the back seat.
She turned to see a pair of headlights racing toward her.
Goodbye Chris.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Acton as a large SUV slammed into the driver side of Sherrie’s car, shoving it into the curb then up onto two wheels. It pulled back, the sedan dropping back onto all four tires as Acton reached for the door handle.
“Wait!” Laura slammed the car into reverse as a woman stepped out of the passenger side, machine pistol in hand. She aimed it at them and opened fire as Laura floored it, ducking behind the dash as Acton threw himself over her, the winds
hield taking several hits.
They hit something, hard, and the gunfire stopped.
He looked up to see Mai and Tommy being hauled out of the back seat and tossed in the back of the SUV, Sherrie pulled from the driver seat and thrown to the ground.
“No!” screamed Acton as he jumped out, pulling his weapon as the woman put two rounds into the young agent’s chest.
“Drop the weapon!” shouted someone from behind him, but he ignored them, instead beginning to sprint toward the SUV as the woman and her accomplices climbed back inside. It started to pull away, the passenger side window lowering, a gun appearing, the muzzle belching lead.
Something slammed into his shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground, the gun clattering on the pavement as he lost his grip.
“Stay where you are!”
He looked toward who was shouting and saw two police officers rushing toward him, weapons drawn. He collapsed on his back, exhausted and in pain as Laura blew past the officers and to his side.
“James, are you okay?”
He nodded, grimacing. “Check on her, I’ll be okay.”
Laura’s lips pressed together as she gave him a concerned look, then she jumped to her feet, sprinting to the end of the street as he was suddenly grabbed by the officers and flipped over onto his stomach.
Giving him a clear view of Laura beginning CPR on the young agent sent to save them.
JW Marriott Hotel, New Orleans
Christopher Jones rushed into his sobbing wife’s arms, disappearing into their bedroom for a private reunion. The large suite was bustling with activity, a mix of Secret Service, FBI and NOPD spilling out into the hallway and other rooms commandeered for the emergency. The secret was out, but it didn’t matter now. Jones was safe and they’d be leaving for Washington within the hour, the jet already fueling up, Jones’ house being swept and secured.
And then our part is done.
NOPD wouldn’t be happy, but the police chief had already agreed to allow the evacuation of their witness. Jones would be made available via video conference and if necessary in person at a later time, once things were secure.
Detective Laprise might insist upon that.
Yet that wasn’t his problem or concern. His was to keep this man safe and he had failed. He should have split the team, two on, two off at all times, but no one had thought anything like this could actually happen.
And the Secret Service team was competent. He didn’t really blame them, they were taken by surprise, and to be certain his team wouldn’t have failed as well would be presumptuous.
At least in writing.
Unofficially, he did feel quite confident his men would have prevailed, though that was part of the training, to be able to react instantly to unexpected situations.
In the end Jones had been saved, but at what cost? The embarrassment to the Secret Service would be significant. Delta wouldn’t wear it officially since they “didn’t exist”, and unofficially the pre-approved plan was for Delta to only be responsible for security outside of the hotel.
They weren’t to blame.
But he still felt at fault.
“Okay, everyone, we’ve finished with the phones.”
Special Agent in Charge McCarthy stepped back as the staff and Secret Service agents whose phones had been confiscated surged toward the table they had been collected on. Dawson smiled slightly, the crazed expressions shown by some revealing the withdrawal they had been suffering from these past couple of hours.
“Oh my God!” cried one, “The press is going crazy!”
“Twitter is on fire,” observed another, shaking her head as her thumbs went crazy on the tiny display. Saunders reached into the fray, pushing several phones aside until he found his, a Blackberry. Dawson was about to turn away from the feeding frenzy when he stopped, something caught by the corner of his eye.
Did he just do what I think he did?
Dawson darted forward, grabbing Saunders’ hand as he stepped away from the table.
“Hey, what’s the idea?”
“Show me your hand.”
The entire room turned toward the two men, Dawson an imposing figure, Saunders anything but.
Saunders went pale, his body starting to tremble. “N-no.”
Dawson squeezed slightly tighter. Not enough to hurt the man, simply to illustrate a point. “I must insist.”
Saunders tried to pull his arm away, but Dawson’s grip wasn’t to be broken.
Somebody knocked on the bedroom door, McCarthy stepping toward the exchange.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, looking at the terrified Saunders then the dispassionate stare of Dawson.
“Is there a problem?”
Dawson looked to see Jones stepping out of the room, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Dawson holding the wrist of his senior aide.
“Mr. Saunders took two phones from the table.”
“I-is that all this is about?” asked Saunders, his voice shaky. “I have two phones, one for business, one for personal.”
“So do I,” said someone else in the room.
“Me too.”
Dawson nodded, his hand still clamped on Saunders’ forearm. “I’m well aware of that. Six of you have two cellphones each, all your numbers provided to the security detail ahead of time. But Mr. Saunders only has one phone listed.”
“I’m sure it’s just an oversight,” said Jones as he stepped toward his aide, his wife holding the doorframe, her face stained with fresh tears.
“Of course it is.” Saunders yanked again. “Let me go!”
Dawson held out his other hand. “The phones, please.”
Saunders looked over his shoulder at his boss. “Sir, please, tell him to let me go.”
Jones looked at Dawson for a second then drew a deep breath. “Give him the phones, Russ.”
Saunders’ jaw dropped, his eyes popping wide. “But sir!”
Jones stepped forward, putting his hand on his aide’s shoulder. “Listen, these men risked everything to save me tonight. I trust them and so should you. All they want to do is check the phones. You know I trust you, I know you’ve got nothing to hide. It’s just routine. Let them do their job.”
Saunders didn’t seem convinced, his mouth closing, his eyes still wide.
With fear.
This guy’s definitely hiding something.
The question was what. The man was married. Was he having an affair and keeping a separate phone for it? Or was he secretly a Heisenberg, running a meth lab in his spare time.
The possibilities were endless, and regardless of where the truth lied, it was a security breach.
“Come on Russ, give him the phones.” Jones sounded a little more insistent this time, his expression no longer bemused, but instead suggesting he was beginning to think there was more going on here than an innocent oversight.
“Fine,” muttered Saunders.
Dawson let go of his grip and took the two phones, Saunders rubbing his wrist, clearly in discomfort. Dawson looked at the phones, an iPhone and a Blackberry. “Which is the phone you registered with us?”
“The Blackberry. They’re more secure so we do all of our campaign business on them. The iPhone is just my personal phone. Only my family has the number.”
Dawson looked at the phones for a moment, trying to figure out what his gut was trying to tell him. He held up the Blackberry. “So this is your business phone.”
“Yes.”
“And you never receive business calls on this one?” He held up the iPhone.
“Never.”
“Then why, sir, did you receive a phone call from Mr. Quaid on your iPhone earlier today when we were coming back from the last speech of the day?”
Constitution Tower, New Orleans, Louisiana
Detective Isabelle Laprise entered the server room for the hi-tech building, Ray Salinger behind her, dozens of racks of tech far beyond her understanding hummed and flashed, the HVAC keeping the room uncomfortably chilly.
She wrapped her arms over her chest, concerned her body might betray her, and there no need for the younger Salinger to get a cheap thrill.
“Where are you guys?”
“Back here, Detective.”
Isabelle followed the voice to the back of the room, finding Randy and Lucas hammering away at laptops and keyboards, it appearing they had their own computers jacked into those belonging to the tower. The two were young. How young she wasn’t sure, but if they were over twenty-five she’d be stunned, though it might just be the way they carried themselves. These were geeks. Uber-dorks of the first order, two who would fit perfectly into any episode of Big Bang Theory or the nearest Comicon.
Which was exactly what you wanted working your IT problems.
“What have you found?”
“Oh, they were hacked alright,” replied Randy, pointing at gibberish on the screen.
“Explain.”
“Well, that conference room your guy said he was held in was booked all day according to the building’s concierge service head, but now it’s showing it free all afternoon and evening.”
“So someone cancelled. What’s that tell us?”
“No, dude, you don’t understand.” Lucas caught himself. “Sorry, Detective, umm, dudette, umm.” He paused.
If mankind’s survival depended upon this guy getting a date, we’d be screwed.
“Cancelled. What don’t I understand?”
“Oh, umm, yeah, well, it wasn’t cancelled from inside, the IP address is showing it was somebody outside the building that did it.”
“So, I can cancel meetings in Outlook using my phone. So what?”
“So this booking wasn’t just cancelled, it was wiped from the record completely. There’s no record of it ever having existed, and the IP address I’m pretty sure is spoofed.”
“Pretty sure!” interrupted Randy. “Try absolutely. Unless our government is involved.”
Isabelle’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the IP address that apparently did this belongs to the government.”
“Which government?”
“Ours, dude, in Washington.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) Page 18