by CW Browning
“Are you asking me for a favor?” she asked softly, setting the glass down.
“I don't deal in favors,” Frankie replied, his voice low. “They get messy. I prefer arrangements that are mutually beneficial to all parties involved. Let's just say I'm offering you a one-time only, freelance contract, no strings attached.”
Viper stared at him for a long, silent moment, her eyes dark and fathomless. Frankie met her look steadily. If he was repressing an almost irresistible urge to squirm, he didn't show it. The silence stretched between them before Viper finally spoke.
“I don't do freelance work,” she told him.
“I would make it worth your while,” Frankie said.
“Not interested.”
Frankie nodded and sipped his whiskey.
“I had a feeling you'd say that,” he admitted.
“Then why did you ask?” Viper asked.
“It’s always worth a shot.” Frankie set down his glass. “How's your boyfriend?”
“Still alive,” she answered, amusement lighting her eyes. “And no, he doesn't do freelance either.”
“You know, I hear things.” Frankie waved his hand vaguely. “It's my business to keep informed. Around Halloween time, I heard one of my competitors was trying to move into Jersey.”
“Is that so?” Viper sipped her drink. “How inconvenient.”
“It would have been very inconvenient, for them,” Frankie agreed easily. “Funny thing, though. He disappeared.”
She raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Did he now?”
Frankie glanced at her, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light.
“Rumor at the time was that someone helped him disappear...permanently,” he said.
“I wouldn't listen to rumors, if I were you,” Viper told him. “They're rarely accurate.”
Frankie chuckled despite himself.
“That's true enough,” he replied. He lifted his glass and finished his drink in one swallow. “But I'm inclined to believe this one. You tell your boyfriend that if he ever needs anything, he can come to me. I consider he did me a favor, and I don't like owing favors.”
“I'll be sure to pass the message on,” she murmured.
“You do that.” Frankie nodded and stood up. “Tell your friend I said hello. Special Agent Walker, isn't it?”
Viper's eyes were laughing when they met his.
“I'm not sure she would be comfortable with that,” she mused. “She can be stuffy about some things. She's got a funny idea about ethics.”
“So I've seen,” Frankie agreed, his face creasing into a laugh.
“Frankie...” Viper turned on her stool to face him, her long fingers spinning the martini glass slowly on its stem. “I'm not going to wake up to a horse's head in my bed in the morning, am I?”
“Not this time,” Frankie answered with a wink. “If you change your mind, though, you know where to find me. Enjoy your evening.”
It was well after midnight when Alina got home. She locked the sliding door behind herself and went into the kitchen, dropping her keys on the marble-topped bar as she passed. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the cell phone the stranger slipped into her hand at the roulette table and pressed the power button. She set the phone down on the kitchen island, turning to pull a bottle of water out of the fridge while the phone loaded up.
She didn't know who the stranger was that passed her the phone, nor did she want to know. He was a faceless contact, one of many, and as far as he was concerned, she was the same. Her world was one of shadows and strangers, each contact linked to another in a long line of anonymity. The stranger at the roulette table assumed she was simply another courier, not the intended recipient. He got paid to deliver items and didn't ask questions. If he ever got curious, his employment would come to an abrupt, and terminal, end. It was the way their world worked.
Turning from the stainless steel refrigerator, she glanced at the screen of the phone and watched as it began to fill with pre-installed home screen icons. She opened her water and took a long drink, leaning on the island and watching as the security layer ran its initial scan.
Capping her water bottle, Viper set it down and picked up the phone. She touched the contacts icon and the address book opened. Only one number was listed, with no name. She didn't need a name. She knew whose number it was.
Hawk.
Smiling slightly, she typed a brief text message.
Shipment received.
Alina sent the message and cleared back to the home screen before picking up her water and turning to leave the kitchen. She crossed to the living room and sank down onto the chocolate brown sofa. While she had every confidence that Charlie was doing all he could to discover how Viper's presence in Damascus had become common knowledge, Alina didn't trust anyone in the Organization right now. Until Charlie found out what was happening, she wasn't going to make it easy for anyone to find her. Hawk was the only one she trusted. When she contacted him to arrange a secure clean phone for them to communicate, he didn't ask any questions. He simply sent her a drop location and time.
Damon Miles.
After graduation from basic training, she moved into military intelligence while Damon, predictably enough, was accepted into the Navy SEALs. Their acquaintance was put on hold as their military service took priority, but a few years later they ran into each other again in the shadowed halls of the training facility for the Organization. It was there that their friendship grew. Over the years, it deepened and became stronger. Stephanie thought it was strange that Alina and Damon rarely saw each other, but for them, it was just the way it had always been. Their friendship was never the priority. It couldn't be. Their work demanded their full attention, anything less would get them killed. If there were moments when Viper stood on a hotel balcony overlooking Paris or London and wished Hawk was by her side, those thoughts were reluctantly set aside.
The phone in her hand vibrated once and Alina turned it over, glancing at the message.
Any problems?
No, she answered.
You want to tell me what's going on?
Alina smiled faintly. She could almost hear the amusement in his deep voice.
Not particularly.
Knowing Hawk, he was already digging for information on her recent movements, and had probably heard about the four Italian agents on the Amalfi Coast. It wouldn't take him long to put two and two together and figure out that she somehow had been compromised. God help Charlie when he did.
Let me know what you need. I'm here.
Alina felt a tug deep inside her chest and she blinked her eyes a few times as melancholy suddenly crashed over her, threatening to suffocate her. For the first time in many months, she felt her isolation keenly. She wanted to answer that she needed him, just him, but Viper wouldn't let her fingers type the words.
I'll be in touch.
Alina took a deep breath and pushed the feeling of loneliness aside. Sliding the phone into her pocket, she sipped her water, her dark brown eyes resting on the mission-style coffee table absently. It was enough to know that she had someone to turn to if things suddenly got uncomfortable. While she had a few different escape routes in place, and new safe houses unknown to Charlie, Hawk and the Organization, Viper was a firm believer in stacking all odds in her favor.
And Hawk was a huge odd to have in her favor.
The rumble of a powerful engine echoed through the near-empty parking garage as the Camaro rolled off the ramp and pulled around the outer wall until it reached the dark, far corner of the parking level. The lights were further apart here and the security camera in the corner was facing the wall. The rumble slowed to an idle as the Camaro stopped next to a black BMW with tinted windows. The door opened and a tall, broad-chested man climbed out of the Camaro. He left the engine running and circled to the trunk of the BMW as the lock was released from inside the car. He pulled out two black leather duffel bags, transferring them to the Camaro silently. Slamming the tr
unk closed, he turned and closed the trunk to the BMW as he passed. The back window closest to him slid down silently. A man sat in the shadows, partially concealed in the dark interior.
“Here's the address,” he said, passing a long, white envelope out the window to the driver. “It's just outside Richmond.”
“OK.”
The driver took the envelope and tossed it through his open window onto the passenger seat.
“When you get back, I want you to pay Ms. Baker a visit,” the man continued. “I get the impression that she doesn't believe it was an accident.”
The driver glanced at him sharply.
“Why?”
“An FBI agent was there today,” the man told him. “He drives a black Firebird.”
“I know him,” the driver said, leaning on his car and folding his arms over his chest. “He runs down at Atco every once in a while. He's a friend of the family.”
“Well, I don't like the fact that he showed up on her doorstep today. Take care of it.”
“I'll see what I can find out,” the driver promised and turned toward his door.
“Tito?” The man said as the driver opened the door to slide behind the wheel. “I know I don't need to tell you how important it is that no one realizes the truth.”
Tito Morales glanced over his shoulder to the man in the shadows of the backseat.
“Understood.”
Chapter Seven
Michael drove alongside the house buried deep in the woods and pulled up behind the black Jeep Rubicon in the driveway, his wheels crunching on gravel. As he rolled to a stop, he killed the engine and looked around. Spring was emerging in the trees and the lawn was a curious mix of decayed yellow and fresh, new green. The air was crisp with just a bite of chill, followed by a warm breeze that promised a beautiful day.
Opening the door, he climbed out of his truck and looked towards the deck. There was no sign of Alina's pet hawk and the house was quiet. He glanced at his watch. It wasn't yet eight in the morning, but he knew Alina was an early riser.
Michael's head snapped around at the sudden crack of rifle fire and he reached into his side holster for his 9mm. The shot had come from the South-East and he pulled out his weapon as he sprinted into the trees, heading in that direction. Flipping off the safety, he held his gun with both hands as he ran through the woods, his ears tuned for the slightest sound.
The trees were still, the wildlife hiding, and Michael moved through them quickly and silently, looking for the threat he knew was present.
There!
Another shot sounded through the woods and Michael maneuvered through slender-trunked pine trees with the ease of a seasoned Marine. He rounded a grouping of trees and stopped dead, his eyebrows soaring into his forehead in surprise.
Alina stood with a rifle braced against her shoulder, her eye to the scope.
“Don't make a sound,” she said, not lifting her head.
Michael doubted he could utter a word even if he could think of one to say. Alina was dressed in olive-colored SWAT pants with a black tank top and lightweight black jacket, her long dark hair pulled back into a slinky ponytail. She had an ammunition belt slung around her slender hips, and the rifle in her hands was anything but stock. In fact, Michael had never seen one customized quite like it before, and he'd seen his fair share of rifles.
As he watched, she exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked out, echoing through the trees, and she lifted her head, lips pursed in a frown.
“It's a few millimeters off,” she muttered, lowering the rifle.
“That sight was made for a lower-caliber rifle. What is that you're firing?”
Alina shot him an amused look.
“You don't honestly think I use stock rifles, do you?” she demanded, turning to face him. Her dark eyes slid over him briefly and her full lips curved into a smile. “I adjusted the sight for the rifle, but it needs more work. So does the rifle. It's good to see you, O'Reilly.”
“You too, Maschik,” Michael replied striding forward. “What are you doing?”
“Testing some modifications,” Alina answered. “What are you doing?”
“Coming to make sure you're still alive,” he answered with a grin. “I haven't heard from you in a few months. May I?”
Alina hesitated for only a second before nodding.
“You were firing these before I was,” she told him, holding out the rifle. “Watch for the kick-back.”
Michael nodded in acknowledgement and accepted the rifle. It was surprisingly light for the amount of modifications she had made and he swung it up against his shoulder in the old, practiced movement of years past.
“Where's your target?” he asked, checking the scope.
“500 meters South-West. You'll see it,” she murmured, crossing her arms over her chest and watching as he cradled her rifle with the soft hands of a practiced shooter.
“How did you get this so light?” Michael asked, scanning to the South-West.
“That would be telling,” she replied.
“You do your own modifications?”
“Of course.”
“It's nice. I'm impressed,” he said, looking through the scope for her target. He was impressed. The rifle in his hands was light and powerful, and even if the sights were off, he knew without a doubt that he was handling a weapon far superior to anything he ever fired in the Marines. The sight rolled over something odd in the distance and Michael went back to it quickly. An involuntary laugh escaped him. “Really?!” he demanded, his eye focusing on her target.
“I dare you to take your best shot,” Alina responded, a laugh in her voice.
Michael lifted his head and glanced at her. Her eyes were glittering with laughter and he shook his head before lowering his head back to the sight.
“You're on,” he said. “What do I get if I hit it?”
There was a short silence and then Alina chuckled.
“I won't tell anyone you took a shot at the President.”
“How long have you been stateside?” Michael asked, watching as Alina settled into one of the Adirondack chairs on her deck with a steaming cup of coffee in her hands.
“A couple of days,” she answered, lifting the cup to her lips.
“You have my sympathies,” Michael told her, sipping his own coffee. Alina shot him a questioning look and he shrugged. “After they released those Gitmo detainees, I figure you need them.”
“Just another day at work,” Alina murmured, turning her attention back to her coffee.
“Is that really how you feel about it?”
“You saw my target,” she retorted. “Did you really drive all the way up from DC to discuss my feelings on the subject?”
Michael grinned.
“No,” he replied. Alina nodded and was quiet for a few moments. When it became apparent she had no intention of continuing small talk, Michael sighed. “I came to ask for your help,” he said.
Alina looked at him, her dark eyes hooded and her face impassive.
“My help?” she repeated. “Gunny, what have you been up to?”
“My boss was on vacation last week,” he said slowly, setting his coffee mug down on the wide arm of the chair. “I had to hold down the fort while he was gone. I came across something that I probably shouldn't have seen.”
“I'm the last person you should be talking to,” Alina murmured. “My specialty is not quite in the same line as yours.”
Michael shot her an exasperated look, a reluctant grin pulling at his lips.
“I'm well aware of your...skills,” he retorted. “I'm not asking you to evaluate information. That's not where I'm going with this.”
“Then where are you going?”
“I think someone in Washington is organizing a terrorist attack on US soil,” Michael said bluntly.
“Again?” Alina raised an eyebrow. “Old news. Come up with something more interesting.”
“I think the scientist we traded those detainees
for is part of the plan.”
“That was quick thinking,” Alina commended him, her lips curving. “Now you have my attention.”
“While Chris was gone, I was sorting through some of the usual threats we receive against the President.” Michael picked up his mug and drank some coffee before continuing. “We sort them into threat levels and focus on the most legitimate ones. One organization has been steadily moving up the ranks and is on my desk regularly. They're a group of health nuts, convinced that pharmaceuticals are killing off the population and the government is in on the conspiracy.”
“Sounds about right,” she murmured.
“Their latest claim is that the White House is planning to spread a deadly virus that can only be cured by a multi-billion dollar antidote provided by the pharmaceutical lobby that supported this administration since the beginning,” Michael continued. “This is the same rhetoric we hear every day from one hippie group or another, but this particular group is getting more and more vocal and gaining more and more support.”
“If you hear it every day, why worry about it now?” Alina asked.
“We've been seriously monitoring them for about a month now,” Michael explained. “They run various fund-raisers and retreats. All of them take place in Cancun, at the same resort hotel. Four days ago, one of our regular plants in the hotel sent a message that three suspicious people arrived at the resort. Because Chris was still out, I followed up with our man down there.”
Here Michael paused and Alina looked at him steadily.
“What happened?” she asked.
“He's disappeared,” Michael told her.
Alina was silent for a moment.
“That doesn't bode well for your plant,” she said quietly. “How long since he made contact?”
“Three days.”
“And you're sure he said three people?” Alina asked, glancing at him sharply.
Michael nodded and Alina studied him for a moment.
“There's more,” she said softly. “What else happened?”
“Chris came back yesterday and I spent the morning in his office getting him back up to speed. When I went back to my office, someone had gone through my desk.”