by CW Browning
“Depends on what you consider safe.”
John considered her, dangerous in the darkness with her bird of prey next to her, and seemed to hesitate before he finally set his foot on the steps.
“I'll take my chances,” he said.
“Must be important then,” she murmured wryly, watching as he moved cautiously toward them in the darkness. Raven stiffened next to her and watched warily until John stopped a few feet away.
“I think it is,” John answered, leaning against the banister and looking at her. “Why are you sitting out here in the dark?”
“I'm comfortable in the darkness,” Alina replied, her face cast in shadows. “What brings you out here, John? This isn't a social call.”
“No,” John agreed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Dutch is dead.”
Alina was silent, studying him after that surprising announcement.
“What happened?” she asked when he showed no signs of continuing.
“He was racing when a deer ran out in front of the cars. His front tire blew and he lost control, flipped and hit a tree. The car exploded before he got out.”
Alina exhaled slowly, conscious of a strange feeling of melancholy. She liked Dutch.
“And the other driver?” she heard herself ask.
“Not a scratch, on him or his car,” John answered. “The kicker is that Dutch was racing for pink slips. He bet the Shelby.”
Alina raised an eyebrow.
“Are you serious?” she asked, surprised.
John nodded grimly.
“The winner went to the house today to take the car,” he said. “Lani was alone when he showed up. He shook her up pretty bad, made some threats, intimidated her.”
“Is she OK?”
“For now,” John said. “He didn't hurt her this time, but I have my doubts as to how long that will last. There's bad blood there. I don't trust him.”
“Who is he?” Alina asked.
“His name is Tito Morales. He works at the track. Ostensibly he's an in-house mechanic, but the out-of-state racers bring their own mechanics and the locals do their own work. So, what he really does is anyone's guess.” John uncrossed his arms and moved to sit in the chair next to her. Raven stirred threateningly, but stilled at a slight movement of Alina's hand. “He's Dominic DiBarcoli's errand boy more than anything else.”
“And Dominic is....”
“He's the owner of the track now,” John told her. “He's been trying to buy the Shelby from Dutch for the past year. I don't believe it's coincidence that Dutch crashed and lost it to Tito.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Alina asked after a long silent moment.
John glanced at her.
“Lani is really shaken up. She's not only grieving for her brother, but she's worried that Tito will come back.”
“Is that a possibility now that he has what his boss wanted?”
“I wouldn't put it past him,” John said grimly. “Lani seems to think it's a good bet. I thought you could help her.”
Alina glanced at him.
“Me?”
“You know what it's like to lose a brother,” John pointed out. “And you can help her set up a security system.”
“So can ADT,” Alina muttered.
John turned in the chair to face her, searching her face in the shadows.
“Lani could use the support of someone who's gone through this,” he said quietly.
Alina was silent for a long time, staring out over the dark lawn towards the hulking black shadows of the woods beyond. John wasn't just asking her to befriend Lani. He was asking her to revisit memories she spent eleven years trying to forget.
“I lost Dave a long time ago, John,” she finally said, breaking the silence. “I can't be any help to Lani now. The past is gone.”
“You mean, you don't want to remember it,” John said sharply.
“Yes.” Alina turned her head to look at him and he encountered the mask she wore so well. “I don't want to remember. That was when I was someone else. I had to fight my way through, and Lani will do the same. She'll find her way.”
“That's it?” John asked incredulously. “You're not willing to give a little of yourself to help her through this?”
“It wouldn't be just a little of myself,” Alina retorted coldly. “I'm sorry for her loss, I really am. I liked Dutch and I like her, but you're asking me to make personal connections it isn't possible for me to keep.”
“I'm asking you to give some hope to a woman who's going through something you went through,” John shot back. “I'm not asking you to become her best friend.”
“I can't give her hope. There is none. It's not something she can just get over. She'll learn to live with it, but it will always be there. She will heal and scar over, but it will be painful and it will take time - time I don't have to give her.”
Silence fell between them for a long couple of minutes before he finally broke it.
“Lina, what happened to you?” he asked softly, his pale eyes probing hers in the darkness. “There are times when I see flashes of the old you. I know you're still there. Why do you wear this armor all the time?”
Alina met his gaze for a moment before turning her head and looking out over the dark grass.
“You see flashes of what you want to see,” she finally said just as quietly. “This armor, as you put it, keeps me sane...and alive. It helps me survive. The Lina you used to know is gone.”
“I don't believe that,” John informed her roundly. “I think you're just ignoring her because you're afraid to look in the mirror. You don't like what you've become, and she reminds you of who you really are.”
“I really think you're reading into this too much,” Alina murmured, glancing at him. “Just because I don't have the time or inclination to revisit old wounds that healed long ago with Lani doesn't mean I hate myself. I'm simply being honest. She's going to have to find her own way through this.”
John was silent, then he stood up abruptly.
“You know, the girl I used to know actually cared about people. She would have tried to help any way she could, but I guess you're right. Those days are gone.” He glanced down at her. “Well, it was worth a shot, anyway. If you change your mind, you know where to find her.”
Alina watched him walk away and start down the steps to the lawn.
“John?” she said suddenly. He turned on the steps, questioningly. “This Dominic DiBarcoli...why did he want the Shelby so badly?”
“He just loved it,” John replied with a shrug. “You, of all people, should be able to understand that.”
Alina was silent and John turned to leave. She watched him cross to his motorcycle and get on, settling his helmet on his head again. She was still sitting, staring into the darkness thoughtfully, long after the sound of the motorcycle had faded away into the night.
Viper's eyes opened suddenly as she was pulled from sleep. The absolute darkness of her bedroom had shifted and she lay perfectly still, listening. Not a sound marred the silence and Alina sat up, wide awake. A faint glow from the dresser drew her attention and she frowned as she threw the covers off and slipped out of bed. A rustle of feathers from the corner of the bedroom disturbed the silence and she glanced over. Raven blended perfectly with the shadows and would have been invisible if it weren't for his deadly claws standing out against the pale wood of his perch. She smiled faintly. Even though she couldn't see him in the darkness, Alina knew her bird of prey was watching her with his shiny black eyes.
She crossed the room to the dresser and picked up the cell phone Hawk sent her. A green light was blinking in the upper corner and she carried it back to bed. Getting back under the covers, she reached over to her bedside table and switched on the lamp. Raven blinked on his perch, watching her sleepily. When it became apparent she wasn't getting up again, he stretched and then hunkered down on his perch, closing his eyes and burying his beak into his shoulder.
Alina swiped the screen and t
ouched the email icon. Opening the encrypted email, she read it swiftly, a frown on her lips.
Viper,
I'm passing through Chechnya and one of my contacts heard some chatter today about an incident in Syria last week. Someone killed Hassim Al-Jibah, leader of a particularly violent sect of ISIS. Reports vary on how he was killed. I personally enjoy the one that claims he was decapitated by an assassin disguised as a woman. Other reports say he was shot, and still others swear he was poisoned. Even though every account is different, they all agree that he was killed by an assassin from the West. According to my contact, the killer was pursued by the group, but managed to slip away and disappear. What I thought you'd find interesting is that three of Al-Jibah's followers have disappeared. They seem to have left Syria altogether.
I took it upon myself to look into it. One of the men popped up on an MI6 surveillance camera in the airport in Algiers three days ago. It's a safe bet they're headed west, and my intel points to their most likely destination being Cancun. I don't need to tell you how dangerous that is, given the unsecured state of our borders. You know well the risks involved if they make it into the States.
I'll let you know when I find out more, but in the meantime, take care of yourself.
Hawk
Viper pursed her lips and stared across the room at the dark plasma screen mounted on the far wall, lost in thought. She had known it would take Hawk no time at all to put two and two together and come up with four. As soon as she reached out to him for a clean phone, she knew he would dig around until he discovered what had her uneasy enough to ask for help. He knew damn well she wouldn't ask unless it was necessary. Even so, she was somewhat impressed by the speed with which he figured out she was the assassin who had been chased out of Syria and across Europe.
Her lips twitched faintly.
Then again, he was Hawk.
The fleeting smile was gone as quickly as it came. So, it was Al-Jibah's men after all who were so close on her tail. Where did they receive their information? What she told Charlie was the absolute truth. Al-Jibah was known for his viciousness and extremism, not for having connections good enough to track the likes of her. They were isolationist in nature, waging war against those Jihad sects that could have been allies instead of aligning with them. Yet, if it were his followers that almost caught her, then they had extremely good information.
Information they should never have had access to.
And who got the others out of Syria and into the West? That kind of pull was not something Al-Jibah had exhibited in the past. Unlike most of the targets that she dealt with, Al-Jibah's group was not well organized. When she severed his head, Viper thought his followers would scatter without their leader. Now, it appeared they had simply exchanged one head for another.
Or had there always been another?
Alina's eyes narrowed and she tapped her finger against the phone thoughtfully. Michael's informant in Cancun said three people arrived at the hotel, three people he felt were suspect. If they were Al-Jibah's men, and Viper was inclined to believe they were, who led them to Cancun? Were they following her? Or were they staying the course on a mission that should have died with their leader?
Viper's first instinct was to go to Cancun immediately, but she knew it was impossible. Charlie issued orders to stay put, and stay put she would. A slow smile crossed her face after a deep, thoughtful moment.
There was another way to find out what she needed to know.
Stephanie watched as John sipped his coffee, staring off into the distance absently. He seemed oblivious to the office around him and she shook her head. It was mid-morning and the office was humming with activity. John was supposed to be following up a lead in the Atkins case, but instead, he was guzzling coffee by the gallon and not even pretending to work on the case. The least he could do was look like he was busy.
Stephanie turned her own eyes back to her computer screen. The case history she was reading through wasn't holding her attention and John was distracting her with his own inattention to work. If things kept up like this, she might as well take the day off and go to the range to get in some target practice. She was debating emailing her boss to tell him she was going to do just that when her desk phone rang suddenly, jarring her out of her thoughts and making her start violently.
“Special Agent Walker,” she answered tiredly, rubbing her left temple as she held the phone to her right ear.
“You sound fed up,” a male voice informed her cheerfully. “Should I call back later?”
Stephanie's lips curved despite herself.
“That depends on why you're calling, Special Agent Hanover,” she replied, sitting back in her chair.
Blake Hanover chuckled on the other end of the phone and Stephanie's smile grew. She hadn't heard that laugh in over a month and she forgot how much it cheered her. Blake Hanover breezed into her life last fall when their respective investigations coincided, bringing him up from his hometown of Washington, DC. He proved to be invaluable over the course of a couple days, and Stephanie had gained a friend out of the brief working relationship.
“I wish I could say it was for pleasure,” Blake told her. “I want to ask you a favor.”
Stephanie's smile faded. In the six months they had been friends, Blake never once asked her for a favor. In fact, they rarely spoke about their work at all.
“What's up?” she asked simply.
“I'm sending you a file,” he answered. “Can you take a look and see if you can scrounge any information up there for me?”
“Information on what?” Stephanie asked, leaning forward and clicking on her email.
“Street racers,” came the unexpected answer.
Stephanie's eyebrows shot into her forehead and she glanced at John, still staring broodingly into space.
“What?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended.
“Random, I know,” Blake said, “but I think a street racer up there is running contraband up and down the Eastern seaboard.”
“For the Cartel?” Stephanie asked, forcing her tone back into an even pitch.
“For someone,” Blake replied. “I can't get up there for another couple of days. I thought you might be able to start looking into it. I think they're running out of Atlantic City.”
“I just got the file,” Stephanie murmured as a new email popped into her inbox. “I'm in the middle of something, but I'll take a look and see what I can find out.”
“I appreciate that.”
Blake paused for a moment and Stephanie clicked on his email. There was no message or note, just a series of attachments. There was no need for a note. The file would speak for itself.
“Steph, keep it quiet, will you?” Blake finally spoke again. “I'm not sure what's going on, and I don't want to raise any alarms up there.”
Stephanie raised an eyebrow and sat back in her chair thoughtfully.
“Of course,” she murmured.
Harry sipped his cappuccino and glanced at his watch. The afternoon had turned chilly as dark clouds rolled in from the Potomac, reminding him that it was still early Spring. He turned and walked away from the coffee cart, following the wide park path as it curved around the base of a grassy hill. The park was one of the smaller ones in the area, frequented more by mothers of young tots in strollers than powerful men from the Hill. The chill in the air and the threatening clouds had sent most of the park's afternoon visitors home and Harry had the path to himself as he strolled along, sipping his hot coffee.
He leaned on his solid wood cane only occasionally as he walked, holding himself upright out of long habit. The old injury was only a minor inconvenience in his mind, not worthy of imparting the image of a handicap to outsiders. If the truth were told, the only reason Harry even bothered with the cane was to have an extra weapon handy that he didn't have to declare for security and metal detectors.
Spying a park bench ahead, Harry moved to it and seated himself a moment later, leaning the cane against the
seat next to him. He looked out over the rolling green lawn, carefully manicured trees and flower beds, sipping his coffee. It was a perfect afternoon for introspection and reflection, a soft breeze blowing in advance of the incoming storm clouds.
“Still carrying that ridiculous cane with you?”
Harry didn't bother turning his head to look behind him. He knew that voice well.
“Still sneaking up on people from the shadows?” he retorted, his coffee cup on its way to his lips once more.
“The day I can sneak up on you is the day you're six feet under,” the man replied with a soft chuckle, coming around the park bench and settling himself down next to Harry. “Even then you'll probably lurch up out of the ground with a cup of coffee in your hand.”
Harry glanced at him with a grin, his eyes twinkling under the heavy brows.
“That seems like a trick more suited to your line of work,” he said. “I just play cops and robbers for Homeland now. You're the one still steeped in intrigue and deception.”
“You're as crafty as I am, Harry, thank God,” the man shot back, a faint smile creasing his lips.
“What brings you out into the daylight, Charlie?” Harry asked, dispensing with the friendly banter and turning his attention back over the rolling park lawn. “You usually prefer night shadows.”
“There's a situation brewing that needs to be handled...delicately,” Charlie told him. “I have only the highest regard for your skill in that department.”
Harry grunted in rueful acknowledgement and sipped his coffee.
“What's happened now?” he demanded. “The last time we met like this, the Vice-President was trying to kill one of your operatives.”
“Mm.”
Harry shot a glance at the man beside him from under his lashes, his eyes narrowing sharply.
“Bloody hell, it's happening again, isn't it?” he demanded.
“Different players, same goal,” Charlie replied.
“How real is the threat?”
“Very.” Charlie glanced at him, his dark eyes unreadable. “They're already in the hemisphere, and it's not just Viper they're after, although she is a target.”