“You’re a traitor and a murderer.” How had she ever thought of him as a friend, a mentor?
“There are all sorts of bad guys in the world. You’ll find that I’m one of the lesser ones when you start looking around.”
“Is that how you want to be remembered?”
“I want my piece of the pie,” he said conversationally as he began binding her to the post. The tide was not in yet, but the lap of it in the distance reminded her that it would soon reach her ankles, her knees.
“The big pie. Not the pennies we make at the firm. Fronting for a few terrorists was an easy way to cut myself a slice or two. All I had to do was grease a few palms and use my contacts to finesse matters. Then I realized I could make even more if I cut the Russians out completely.”
Olivia focused on a single word. “Terrorists? As in people who are trying to destroy our country, our way of life? That’s who you’ve cozied up to? What happened to you, Calvin?” She genuinely wanted to know.
“Nothing happened. I’m the same man I always was. You’re just now seeing the real me.” He laughed, the gleeful sound echoing through the dark.
EIGHTEEN
Sal heard the crackling noise followed by silence and understood what it meant: Chantry had found the wire. Sal didn’t wait for the Homeland boys. He’d already taken off, ignoring the shouts of Timmons and Jeppsen.
Silently, he made his way under the pier, crept closer until he heard Chantry’s wicked laugh. He squelched the urge to go and yank Olivia from him, but he bided his time. He had been in enough similar situations to know how costly a false move could be. If ever he needed to keep his wits about him, this was it.
Chantry had his back to him, but Olivia had a clear line of sight over the man’s shoulder. Look up, Sal silently urged. If she saw him, she’d use it. He knew it. Olivia wasn’t one to give up.
He saw the moment she caught sight of him. A tiny nod on her part acknowledged his presence.
“How’d you meet the Russians?” she asked.
Attagirl, Sal silently cheered. Keep him talking.
“Networking. It’s all about meeting the right people.”
“The right people being those who blow up innocent men, women and children?”
“What do I care about fools who find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time? Not my problem.”
Sal heard the hatred in Chantry’s voice, knew that the man was close to losing control. Once he did, he’d take all that hatred out on Olivia.
Sal was almost there. Another three yards. He could feel Olivia’s fear and sent an encouraging smile her way. Everything in him slowed: his heartbeat eased, his blood pressure dropped, his breathing went shallow.
Cold zero.
He was in the zone and was now operating on rote.
Two more steps.
One more.
And he was six feet on the far side of Olivia. Though he was loath to reveal his presence, he knew he had to take Chantry’s attention away from her. “That was some stunt, Chantry. You had us all fooled.”
Chantry spun, all the while keeping Olivia, who was half-bound to the post, in front of him, the knife poised at the curve of her throat. The rage that bellowed through him reminded Sal of the sound a bull made when he was thwarted in reaching a cow. “You. Why can’t you die?”
“Sorry to not oblige.”
“It’s never too late,” Chantry said. “I know what you’re doing. Keep your distance or your girlfriend dies.” He was sweating profusely, a sign that he was more nervous than he let on.
Okay. Use that against him.
“Who’s calling the shots?” Sal asked. “You don’t have the moxie to put this together yourself.”
“Who’re you to tell me what I can or can’t do?”
“I just have to look at you to know you’re a second-rater.” Sal was taking a risk. He knew it. If Chantry got too angry, he’d turn it on Olivia. At the same time, his anger could cause him to make a mistake.
Olivia’s blink told Sal she knew what he was doing.
“Put down your weapon,” Chantry ordered. “If you value her neck, you’ll put it down and kick it over here.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Olivia said. “He plans to kill me whatever you do.”
Chantry inched the knife along her throat, drawing a thin line of blood. “She’s right.”
Sal forced himself not to respond. The sight of Chantry’s knife along Olivia’s throat terrified him. That’s what the man wanted. He wanted Sal to lose his cool, to react to the trail of blood blooming against the paleness of her skin.
“You’re boring me,” he said.
Chantry’s eyes narrowed. “Boring you? We’ll have to remedy that. Maybe I’ll move the knife a few inches higher. Say, to that beautiful cheekbone.”
The sharp intake of Olivia’s breath screamed along Sal’s nerves. Keep it together, he cautioned himself. He inclined his head, the motion barely perceptible, but Olivia caught it. She blinked in acknowledgment.
“You’re a fool, Chantry. Homeland is here.”
“You think I don’t know? My plan was brilliant and would have worked. If only she—” he pressed the knife to Olivia’s neck “—had brought the right USB drive.”
“I think you’ve let your arrogance blind you to everything but what you want to see,” Sal said, playing the man. Chantry was an egotist. He had to believe that he was right, that he was invincible. Otherwise, he would see the truth about himself. That he was nothing.
With every word, Sal inched his way closer.
“I made millions. Millions, do you hear me, just for acting as a front man. I could have made even more if I’d held a bidding war with the HEU as the prize.” Chantry was incapable of accepting any responsibility and had to lay the blame of his failures on others.
“You were my friend,” Olivia said, drawing the man’s attention away from Sal’s agonizingly slow progress. “You were Daddy’s friend.”
“He was as big a fool as you. He always was. I was robbing the firm blind for years, and he was too stupid to see it. He was too busy saving the ‘little people.’ Like they mattered.”
Sal gained a few more inches. Another foot and he’d be in striking distance.
“Daddy knew what was important. He was richer than you could ever be.”
Sal made his move. He struck out with his right leg, catching Chantry in the knee. The knee was a particularly sensitive joint, crucial to standing, to balance. Chantry released Olivia and grasped his leg. At that moment, Sal hooked his arm around the man’s neck and squeezed.
“You put your hands on Olivia. For that alone, I could kill you.”
Chantry was gasping for breath.
“Sal, it’s okay. I’m okay,” Olivia said, quickly undoing the rope tying her legs to the post. “Let him go. That’s not who we are. We’re not killers. We’re not like him.”
Her words penetrated the rage that had fogged his thinking. Sal eased his grip fractionally.
Then it happened. Chantry fell to the ground. Sal recognized the faint pop, a shot from a rifle with a suppressor. He yanked his weapon from his shoulder holster and scanned the surroundings, directing it in a swiveling arc.
No movement betrayed the shooter’s position. This was a professional hit. If the killer’s end game had been to kill Chantry, he would have already disappeared, but Sal didn’t want to risk it. Not with Olivia’s life at stake.
He spared a glance at Chantry. The bullet hole made a neat circle in the man’s forehead.
“What...” Olivia’s voice died as she registered the meaning of the hole.
“I don’t know where the shooter is,” Sal whispered. At the moment, they were sitting ducks, no cover except for the scant protection of the dead man’s body.
>
He pulled Olivia down with him and pushed her behind Chantry. “Stay down.”
Her repugnance at using her onetime friend’s body as cover was fully evident in her eyes, but she nodded.
Sal crawled in the direction from which he thought the shot came. High grass effectively blocked his view to the area that flanked the pier.
After spotting nothing, he made his way back to Olivia. “We have to get out of here.”
“What about...him?” she asked, gesturing to the lifeless body. And he knew, despite everything Chantry had done, that she mourned his death. It was that grief that would torment her.
“We’ll send someone back for him.” When I get you somewhere safe, he silently added. He had to get Olivia out of here while shock was still uppermost and she hadn’t had time to think. Once she had time to consider what had happened, she’d have difficulty functioning.
They crab-crawled their way from beneath the pier. When they reached the open ground, they stood, stretched cramped muscles.
With one arm wrapped around her, Sal tried his phone and found he had service. He dialed 911 and reported the murder. He figured Timmons and Jeppsen would be along soon enough. Right now, Sal preferred not to have to deal with the DHS agents who had shown such callous disregard for Olivia’s life.
“Who...” Olivia’s voice trembled. “Who would have done it?”
“At a guess, I’d say the people Chantry was working for. Terrorists don’t like failure.”
* * *
Shock coursed through Olivia as she struggled to wrap her mind around what had happened. First she was held at knifepoint by Chantry, nearly died at his hand, and then Chantry was shot. The pain of betrayal and loss clawed through her heart, leaving it tattered and bleeding.
In a haze, she half listened while Sal gave the location to the police. He then turned his attention to her. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I thought he was going to kill me and then...and then he was dead.”
Sal folded her into his arms. “You’re safe now.”
She nestled against him, needing his solid strength. “Thank you. You saved my life.”
“You saved yourself by keeping Chantry talking. Never underestimate yourself, Olivia. You’re one tough lady.”
That got a laugh from her. “I’ll remember that.”
Sal didn’t smile. “Make sure that you do.”
Timmons and Jeppsen showed up, followed by the police, and Sal excused himself to talk with them, leaving Olivia to ponder what he’d just said.
Deltas were an elite class of men. She had only to look at Sal to know the truth of that. He was carved from integrity and layered in honor. A compliment from him meant something.
She held on to that faith in the next hour.
The staccato give-and-take of the crime scene techs, the flash of strobe lights and the glances darted her way pinged against her senses. She wanted to close her eyes and put her hands over her ears to block everything out.
But that was impossible.
At Sal’s insistence, the Homeland agents and police questioned him first. When it was Olivia’s turn, she told them about Chantry finding the wire and ripping it from her.
“That’s an end to the questions,” Sal said. “If you want to ask us anything more, you can wait until morning.”
“You’ll be hearing from us,” Timmons said.
Sal shot a fulminating look his way. “You and your partner almost got Olivia killed. Was it worth it?”
Olivia forced herself to not turn away as Calvin’s body was carried from underneath the pier in a black body bag. Calvin was dead. He couldn’t hurt her anymore. Even as the thought formed, she knew it wasn’t true.
Would the sight of his body being carried away bring her closure? She didn’t know. Could she ever think of Calvin without remembering this horrific night, the pinch of his knife at her throat, the rasp of his voice at her ear, laughing, taunting?
He was dead. But it wasn’t over.
Hand at her elbow, Sal escorted her to the truck. Once inside, he turned to her. “You look like I could pass my hand right through you.”
She managed a husky laugh. “You always did know how to flatter a girl.”
“We’re going home. There’ll be time enough to sort this out once you’ve had something to eat and some rest.”
“And a shower,” she said, rubbing her arms. “I feel dirty.”
NINETEEN
Shelley called the next morning. “Found it,” she said without preamble. “A file on the drive labeled Cerberus.” Her voice lowered. “Sal, what are you and Olivia mixed up in? This is serious stuff.”
As she took him through it, his lips tightened. Chantry’s involvement had extended far beyond simply selling information as the DHS had first said. If Chantry and his partners had succeeded, three major cities in the United States would have been attacked.
“We need to get this to Homeland,” Shelley said. “I can send it directly from here.”
Sal didn’t immediately agree, thinking of Timmons and Jeppsen’s treatment of Olivia and the fact that he still didn’t know if he could trust them.
“I know people we can trust,” Shelley said, sensing his objections.
“Okay. Thanks, boss. You really came through.”
“You and Olivia are the ones who came—” A groan he’d come to recognize interrupted whatever she’d been about to say. “Sorry. Another soccer game going on. I don’t know who’ll be happier when this baby arrives, me or Caleb.”
Sal chuckled. “I’m rooting for you.”
“I’ve got an assignment for you when you return. An oil CEO is getting threats and wants S&J to look into them.”
“Okay.” Sal hadn’t thought of when he’d return to Atlanta, but he knew now that he needed to consider it. The truth was, he didn’t want to leave Olivia.
When he’d taken her home last night, she’d been white with exhaustion and grief. She needed something to take her mind off the knowledge that a man she’d considered a friend had betrayed her and then tried to kill her.
Sal didn’t do comfort. It wasn’t part of the Delta skill set. In his family, food was comfort. His mother, a true Southern cook, had served up biscuits and gravy or spaghetti and red sauce along with love and practical advice whenever a crisis hit. With Sal and his brother and three sisters, crises were a way of life in the Santonni household.
He wasn’t a cook, no more than passable, but he could order from a deli just fine. So that was what he did.
He found a deli, ordered the sides for an old-fashioned picnic and then paid extra to the helpful lady behind the counter to arrange everything so it looked pretty in the basket he’d brought with him. To his way of thinking, a picnic wasn’t a picnic without a basket and a red plaid blanket.
He showed up at Olivia’s place with the packed basket and a jug of lemonade and a goal to take her away from her grief if only for a few hours. He couldn’t give her a future together, but he could give her today.
“Grab your jacket,” he said. “We’re going on a picnic.” He tried not to wince at the dark circles that underscored her eyes.
“A picnic?”
“Sure. Fried chicken, potato salad, dill pickles and chocolate chip cookies. The works.”
“When did you manage to do this?”
Sal shook his head. “I didn’t make it. But I did have the idea. Do I get points?” he asked, hoping to raise a smile from her.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble,” Olivia said. “And I thank you for it. Really, I do.” Her voice cracked a bit. “But I’m afraid I’m not in a picnic mood.” Her shoulders, usually held so proudly straight, drooped.
“That’s when you need a picnic most of all.”
<
br /> The smile he’d hoped for peeked out in bits and pieces. “You’re right. I do need a picnic. I just didn’t know it.” With that, she put her hands on his shoulders and tilted her head up so that her eyes met his. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you.”
He brushed his lips over hers. She didn’t resist but, instead, melted into the kiss, into him. He held her gently. She’d lost weight she couldn’t afford to lose and felt fragile in his arms.
She must have guessed at his thoughts for she smiled up at him. “I’m not delicate, Sal. It might seem so right now, but I’m still standing. I won’t let this defeat me. Calvin was never my friend. Not really. So I didn’t lose him, because how can I lose something that never existed in the first place?”
“Your logic is irrefutable.”
Her smile grew.
She was right, he thought. She was still standing. And he was proud of her in a way that felt very personal, very possessive.
How would she feel if he told her just that? But now wasn’t the time to tell her of those feelings. Now was the time for a picnic under the sun, with chicken eaten with fingers, creamy potato salad and cookies chunky with chocolate pieces.
First, though, he needed to tell Olivia what Shelley had discovered. Better to get it out of the way now and not spoil their picnic.
“Shelley called. She found an encrypted file on the drive labeled Cerberus.” Sal swallowed, not wanting to tell Olivia the rest.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
“Chantry and his pals were planning to target three American cities. If they’d succeeded, Chantry stood to earn five million dollars for his part, courtesy of the Russians. If he’d managed to hold the bidding war he’d planned, he’d make two, three times that.” Sal let the starkness of the words stand. There was no way to pretty them up.
She shook her head as though to negate the evidence, and Sal understood that she was trying to come to grips with further proof that the man she’d looked up to could have been involved in such a heinous plot. No wonder the plot was code-named Cerberus. Like the three-headed mythological creature, there were three cities targeted.
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