The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  “I suspect I’m doing the same thing you are…Lieutenant.”

  “And what’s that, Frank?”

  A moment of silence. Will watched in the rearview mirror while the agent weighed his words, but didn’t rush him. Considering the file he’d read, he hadn’t expected James to appear. More fool him.

  Such a tangled, sticky web.

  James met Will’s gaze in the mirror. “If I don’t find them, I’ll be indicted for treason.”

  Will only raised a brow. “Are you a traitor, Frank?”

  A sharp laugh broke the air, but there was nothing humorous in the sound. “She was good. I’ll give her that. I should have killed her when I had the chance.”

  “You and everyone whoever knew her.”

  “Isn’t that the truth.”

  Will pressed his Glock against the pale, vulnerable flesh of Frank’s temple. “You’d best explain yourself, Frank. It’s been a long fucking day.”

  “She laid a trail straight to me. I found it three days ago. A string of emails from an untraceable source in the State Department—the time and date and location of the planned operation for retrieval. Emails from a known merc out of Beirut confirming a team assembly, a flight schedule, meeting time and place. Christ, there’s even a record of the sale—to the Chechens. As if I’d ever sell anything to those crazy bastards.”

  Will said nothing for a long moment. The sound of the rain was almost deafening.

  “You have to believe me,” Frank continued, his voice tight, his eyes unwavering. Desperation etched in darkness and polished glass. “I would not jeopardize twenty-two years of service for a handful of Russian bottle rockets.”

  “She sold them for half a million, Frank. Three times over. Pretty good for a handful of bottle rockets.”

  “My reputation is worth far more than anything she could’ve sold them for.” Frank’s eyes narrowed behind the lenses of his glasses. “Just like yours.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They know you’re on the hunt, Lieutenant. That you walked out of Bethesda—and out of your service—because you know one of them betrayed you. It’s no secret that you’ve made it your mission to find that person—and to punish them.”

  “What’s your point, Frank?”

  “You crawled out of the Afghan desert on your hands and knees—the sole survivor of an attack that butchered your team and loosed a small, semi-nuclear arsenal on the world. You didn’t do that because you were a good soldier. You did that for them. Because they were yours. Because, to you, that loss far surpasses the bottle rockets—and that is the loss you’re concerned with. The weapons are merely an incidental. You seek those who committed this crime because you want vengeance.”

  Will’s finger flexed on the trigger of the Glock. “Spare me the psych eval, Frank, and hurry this along. The rain is making me sleepy.”

  “I value my reputation as much as you valued your men. Our goal is the same: to recover the weapons, and to make those who perpetrated this crime pay.”

  The tremor in Frank’s voice went a lot further than his words. That he was pissed was written all over his face. And the record reflected his enmity toward Georgia; they’d filed several official complaints against one another.

  “How did you know it was her?” Will asked him. Because it had taken Red four days—and unrestricted access to the CIA’s heavily encrypted system—to pinpoint her name.

  “She’s the only one who would choose to frame me. Believe it or not, I have a rather good working relationship with the majority of my colleagues.” Frank sighed. “My contact was unable to trace the planted emails to the original source, but I have no doubt it was her. I imagine the only reason she never moved forward was because she was killed before the orchestration was complete.”

  “Killed in Grozny.”

  “Yes. Such a shame.”

  “In the line of duty.”

  “So I heard. I was in Venice, by the way. In case you’re wondering.”

  He was. “And you’re sitting here because...”

  “Because, like you, the boy and the guardian are the only lead I have.”

  Will didn’t particularly care for that comparison. “Who led you to them?”

  “The Agency. I simply inquired who received Ms. Humboldt’s possessions when she died. Those items were sent to an attorney out of Milwaukee: Smith Jones. Who, as I’m sure you know, drafted a will and trust for our friend. It was not difficult to uncover the rest. I must admit, the child surprised me. I was her partner for three years; I had no idea she had a son.” Frank paused. “I wonder who his father is.”

  Will ignored the implied question. For all he knew, James was well aware who Rafe’s father was; the agent had spent plenty of time overseas. He would know exactly who Malik was. If he hadn’t recognized the connection it was only because he hadn’t focused closely enough on Rafe, and eventually he would. “You think the boy will lead you to the cache?”

  “The boy or the guardian.” Frank’s eyes narrowed in the mirror. “Interesting story there, don’t you think? I do wonder what happened. You’ve read the file, I presume? I could find no link between those ladies, not in all the years since. So odd that she would come for him. The son of her enemy.”

  I prefer nemesis.

  Cheyenne’s voice echoed in Will’s head. He didn’t like James talking about her, even though he’d had the exact same thought—and voiced it. He didn’t like the speculation on James’ face or in his voice; he didn’t like it that a spook was watching them, armed with the same information he had, using that information for the same purpose, determined to use them in order to solve the mystery.

  Just like he was. Which only made him a hypocrite, but he didn’t give a shit.

  “How did you find them, Lieutenant? Somehow I doubt you reached out to the Agency….”

  Will only stared at him coldly. “Did she screw you over, Frank? Did she take the weapons and sell them out from under you? Is that what happened?”

  Frank’s face closed. “You insult me at your own peril.”

  “You were her partner, Frank. I’m supposed to believe you didn’t know she was playing both sides of the deck?”

  “She was a faithless, conniving bitch, who got more than one of my assets killed. I knew she was for sale to the highest bidder, but she was very good at hiding her true face. Ask your Senior Chief. I hear they were quite…close.”

  Will ground his teeth together. First Red and now Frank. Christ.

  “You do realize it had to be one of yours who reached out to her, don’t you? Your senior chief, one of your men—”

  His words ended when Will’s arm flexed around his throat and cut off his oxygen.

  “Thin ice, Frank. Very thin ice.”

  Frank stilled. That he didn’t simply pull his own weapon and fire through the seat behind him told Will he just might be telling the truth. So Will let him breathe.

  “Crazy bastard,” Frank muttered. “I heard you’d lost it.”

  “Yes,” Will said, eyes glittering, smile feral in the mirror.

  “We have to find them.”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know they haven’t been sold?”

  “I don’t. Money was exchanged, but delivery was never confirmed.”

  Frank eyed him thoughtfully. “I would not have imagined you would have such…efficient resources.”

  Will only blinked at him.

  “And the boy…?”

  “Knows nothing,” Will said coldly, hackles rising.

  “God forbid I ask about the guardian—”

  Will cocked the Glock.

  “Jesus, man. You are reactionary.”

  “Don’t forget,” Will advised him.

  “Why are you wasting time with them if they have nothing for us?”

  He didn’t like the use of that word “us.” But Will didn’t correct him. If Frank really did want to find those weapons—if he really did have something to lose, and having Red check that out
would be no problem at all—well, Will would make use of him. The more people with an ear to the ground, the better. Spook or not.

  “Don’t worry about me, Frank. Worry about yourself.” Will slid his Glock back into his holster. “Quit tailing us—and make use of those assets you’re so fond of, and find out if the bottle rockets were delivered to anyone. Let me know. Then we’ll talk again.”

  Frank looked less that thrilled with the prospect. “And if you discover anything, you’ll let me know?”

  Will smiled, all teeth. “Sure, Frank. First thing.”

  “We need to work together, Lieutenant. We have different strengths and together—”

  “She made you her bitch. That’s a sinking ship.”

  “I had nothing to do with—”

  “So you say.” Will shrugged. “Time will tell.”

  “Which means I’m on my own?”

  “We’re all on our own, Frank.”

  Will was soaking wet by the time he slipped through the back door of the condo, courtesy of the keys he’d snagged from the kitchen counter where Cheyenne left them. Only one lamp lit the darkened unit, and the TV flickered with flames and screams.

  Supernatural was still on.

  Rafe lay on one end of one of the large couches that dominated the open room that was the condo’s main living space. Cheyenne lay on the other end. Will was surprised to find them both sound asleep. Then he looked at his watch and realized it was after eleven.

  He secured the condo, locking every door and window tight. He called Red, who didn’t pick up, and left a message about Frank James. Then he went through the condo, top to bottom, and searched every nook and cranny he could find.

  Because the condo had been a surprise.

  Presumably it was titled in either Rafe’s name or the name of the trust the lawyer had drawn up, and that’s why Red hadn’t caught it. Either way, when they’d arrived that afternoon—led by Cheyenne, who’d had keys in hand—Will had stood there like an asshole with his pants down, his heart beating like a drum at the thought that they’d missed the place—and wondering what, if anything, it might contain.

  There were two important items they hadn’t been able to locate: Georgia’s phone and her laptop. Both would be treasure troves of information. And both seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth.

  Searching the condo yielded nothing—until Will reached Georgia’s bedroom, where in the farthest reaches of her closet, a small wall safe hung behind a false front of shoe shelving. The sight of it sent anticipation spearing through him, and for a long moment, he stood there and stared at it, knowing it couldn’t be that simple, that Georgia Humboldt had enjoyed playing puppeteer far too much to let it end there.

  Nevertheless, he screwed his silencer onto his Glock, wrapped one of her thousand dollar suit coats around it, and fired twice. Had the safe been made out of high-grade steel with a combination mechanism, his ammo never would have penetrated it. But Georgia had been arrogant, which often equated to careless, and the safe was cheap, the locking mechanism a small keyhole that his bullets tore wide open.

  The sole occupant of the safe was a well-worn leather-bound book. Will pulled it out and opened it, almost dizzy with the rush of his blood, but when he focused on it, he found only…gibberish. Page after page of nonsensical garbage. No words, just a crazy mix of letters and numbers and symbols. Line after line after line.

  He stared down at it, infuriated and flummoxed and despising Georgia Humboldt with every fiber of his being. The need to smash everything Rafe had missed gripped him, the desire so strong, his hands fisted around the book and tore several pages in half. The rage rose like a tidal wave, and for long moments, Will was awash in fury and pain and the struggle to just be. To let it ebb again and return to the vast place where it slept fitfully within him.

  To regain control.

  Minutes passed, and Will knew he was going to have to decide. Whether to allow the rage free reign to continue, to rise within him like a spark catching flame, and to let it to burn until nothing was left. Or whether to douse the flames, to exert himself and take back all that it laid claim to…the life he no longer felt he deserved.

  But not yet.

  He stared down at the book and fought to marshal his thoughts.

  Red. Red would be able to decipher it, but that would take time.

  Tick-tock.

  What about Rafe? Maybe he and his mother had had some sort of code…or Cheyenne. She’d known Georgia a long time. She might be able to help.

  He would have to share it. He had no choice, because he sure as hell didn’t know what he was looking at. Maybe it actually held what he was looking for…but he wouldn’t know until someone could make sense of it.

  Intensely disappointed, Will fought the urge to wake both Rafe and Cheyenne so he could thrust the book at them and demand they decipher it. Tomorrow would come soon enough; they needed their sleep. Besides, there was no guarantee it would make any more sense to them than it did to him…

  He closed the safe, replaced the shelving and left the closet as he’d found it.

  Cheyenne’s painting sat in the downstairs hallway, and he paused in front of it. The scene was incredibly life-like, from the blades of grass the girl stood within, to the fine, silky fur that covered the fox. As if he could reach out and stroke that thick fur. And the look of wonderment on the girl’s face… Will hadn’t paid much attention to the information in Cheyenne’s file about her artwork. He should have. Anyone who could do this would have no need to steal and sell dirty bombs. He’d known she was solvent—Red had been thorough—but staring at that painting made him realize she was far beyond flush.

  Stupid asshole.

  In the living room, he found another photograph of Malik and Georgia on the mantle, but nothing else. No stashed GPS coordinates. No hidden letter to Rafe. Nothing at all to lead him in the right direction.

  No less than he’d expected.

  So he took a long, hot shower, sprawled out on the free couch, and fell asleep to demons and hellhounds and men who changed shape beneath the bright light of the moon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What do you think?”

  Rafe stared at the elaborate display of cremation urns. There was a silver one, a black one, a gold one, a wooden one, and a porcelain one with butterflies plastered all over it. Some were round, some were square, one was even shaped like a sleeping cat.

  None of them made him think of his ma.

  “Maybe we should just use a Big Gulp cup,” he suggested.

  “Economical but weak.” Cheyenne shot him a small smile. “I’d hate to end up wearing her.”

  “Yuck.” He rubbed his arms, creeped out by the thought. And even more by their surroundings.

  The Rosemont Funeral Home was a huge, sprawling Victorian home with dark woodwork and plastered walls. Huge wooden caskets dotted the interior like ships set adrift. Several worn, sagging couches were placed in corners along with uncomfortable looking chairs, and the place smelled old and musty, like Letitia’s attic.

  Rafe had never been in a funeral home. Hell, he’d never even been to a funeral. When Cheyenne had asked him if he wanted to have one for his ma, he wasn’t sure what to say. It seemed wrong, to not have a funeral. But he didn’t see the point in having one, either.

  His ma hadn’t been anyone good. No one would miss her. Not even him.

  Oh, he wanted to. He wanted to pretend all kinds of crazy shit about her: that she was good, that she loved him, that she’d died protecting him… But he knew better than to let fantasy overwrite reality. She was who she was.

  He felt no sadness at her passing.

  So he told Cheyenne he didn’t want a funeral. They decided to get her “to go” as Cheyenne had put it and were now tasked with the job of choosing a final resting urn. As far as Rafe was concerned, his Big Gulp cup was a good choice.

  “Let’s go with simple.” Cheyenne reached out and stroked a finger down the grain of the wooden o
ne. “This is nice.”

  “She didn’t deserve nice,” he said.

  “This isn’t for her,” Cheyenne replied. “It’s for us.”

  Which he only partially understood. But he didn’t care, so he only shrugged and looked over at Will, who stood before the thick glass double doors, staring out at the rain. Something had changed. Today, Will was quiet and…apart, somehow. Different than he’d been yesterday.

  Rafe wondered if it was his fault. He hadn’t meant to freak out.

  At least Cheyenne wasn’t mad. Even while they’d cleaned up the spectacular mess he’d made, she just kept saying, “It’s fine. No worries. I’ve done worse—believe me.” And Rafe was pretty sure she meant it. But Will…he seemed cold.

  “Have you decided?”

  Rafe jumped, startled by the silent approach of the funeral director. He was a short, gray-haired man with thick eyeglasses and soft hands—which Rafe knew, because he’d shook Rafe’s hand, his second handshake ever after Will’s the day before. It was weird to shake someone’s hand, but Rafe kind of liked it. It made him feel like an adult—like they saw through his skinny legs and small head to the person underneath…the one who wasn’t a kid.

  Who’d never been a kid.

  “Yes,” Cheyenne said and pointed to the wooden urn. “We like that one.”

  “Very good.” The man smiled kindly at Rafe. “Would you like to wait or would you rather return this afternoon?”

  “We’ll wait,” Cheyenne said.

  “Very good,” he repeated. “It shouldn’t take too long. Please feel free to help yourself to some coffee while you wait.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rafe glanced back at Will as the funeral director walked away. “Is Will mad at me?”

  Cheyenne eyed Will for a long, silent moment, and he turned to look at her, as if he felt the weight of her gaze. His brow arched, but Cheyenne only shook her head, and he turned away again.

  “He isn’t mad at you,” she said. “He’s obsessed with his mission, and we’re getting in the way of that.”