by CW Browning
Harry lifted the scotch to lips again, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling tiredly. When Charlie asked him to move over to DHS to help locate a corrupt and traitorous agent, Harry went willingly. He knew that he would hate DHS, and he did, but he went knowing Charlie needed someone he could trust working stateside while the Organization focused on the very real and very dangerous monsters threatening the US from around the world. Last summer, when Viper led them to the head of the traitorous ring, Harry began to hope his time in DHS had proved fruitful at last.
The past twenty-four hours had shown him how much more still had to be done.
Charlie was concerned with the lack of security within the agencies, and how that was exposing his agents overseas. When he came to Harry the other day, Charlie had proof Viper had been targeted with information that no one outside the Organization should have access to. He believed the threat was still inside Washington. Harry was inclined to agree.
The sound of the doorbell brought Harry's head up and he glanced at his watch in surprise. It was coming on for ten o'clock and he was not expecting anyone. He swung his legs down and set his scotch on the end table next to his chair. Standing, he grabbed his cane and leaned on it heavily for a moment before moving across the living room to the box on the wall connected to the access box at street level.
“Yes?” Harry barked into the box.
“It's me.”
Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise and pressed the button to unlock the front door at the bottom of the stairwell. He stood at the top of the stairs and watched as a shadow fell across the bottom steps.
“I've heard when you come visiting after dark, it never ends well for the visitee,” Harry called down the stairs.
A soft chuckle escaped from the alcove and Charlie appeared on the stairs.
“Rest easy, old friend,” Charlie retorted, mounting the steps to the living room. “It's still early.”
Harry grinned and held out his hand as Charlie reached the top of the stairs.
“That's comforting,” he murmured.
Charlie flashed one of his rare smiles and grasped his hand in greeting before glancing around the sparsely furnished living room.
“Still haven't decorated, I see,” he said.
“Still hoping I won't be here long enough to warrant decorating,” Harry retorted, turning to head into the living room and back to his chair. “Care for a drink?”
“Thanks, but no.” Charlie advanced into the living room. “I have other stops when I leave.”
“Then what brings you to me?” Harry asked, sinking back into his recliner.
“I think we potentially have a problem on our hands,” Charlie told him, crossing to the fireplace near Harry's chair and resting his arm on the mantle.
“I'm really starting to dislike it when you say things like that,” Harry muttered. “Your idea of a ‘potential problem’ generally keeps me awake for weeks. I'm still working on the last ‘problem’ you dropped on me.”
“How's progress on that?”
“Not good,” Harry answered bluntly. “I'm starting to think you're right, but I need more data. I'll let you know when I have something that makes sense.”
“I appreciate that, Harry,” Charlie told him, a rare note of sincerity lacing his tone.
Harry glanced up at him in surprise before his eyes narrowed slightly and he reached for his scotch.
“Tell me about the newest problem,” he said. “I might as well face it head on.”
“We might have an issue with Viper,” Charlie said, looking down at him.
Harry raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“In what way?”
“I understand there was an accident tonight,” Charlie said slowly, picking his words carefully. “A car accident.”
“Not her?” Harry asked in alarm, pausing in the act of raising his scotch to his lips.
“No, not her.” Charlie cleared his throat. “John Smithe. Viper installed tracking devices on both his and Agent Walkers vehicles, at my request. Until we know just what we're up against and how far it's spread, I'm not willing to leave anything to chance, and that includes the FBI. An hour ago, Agent Smithe's device registered an extreme heat signature. It triggered an alarm and we pulled satellite images.”
Harry stared at him for a minute, then pressed his lips together briefly for a moment.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough.”
Harry sipped his scotch thoughtfully.
“I understand your concern,” he said after a moment, “but I'm not sure I share it. Viper laid John to rest years ago. Any involvement she has with him now is simply incidental from his association with Ms. Walker. I don't know that we have to be concerned with a distraction factor.”
“I would agree wholeheartedly,” Charlie replied, “if there wasn't more.”
Harry glanced up in resignation, waiting.
“It wasn't an accident.”
Harry exhaled and finished his scotch in one swallow.
“Of course it wasn't,” he muttered. “Was he the target?”
“Oh yes.”
“Does she know?”
“She will soon enough.”
Harry got up and moved over to a sidebar to pour himself another scotch.
“Now, that's a problem. Ms. Walker?” Harry asked over his shoulder.
“Not involved yet, but she will be,” Charlie answered.
“Yes,” Harry agreed, pouring a hefty portion of the amber liquid into his rocks glass. “That woman’s a bull terrier. Actually, she's one hell of an investigator. I wouldn't mind having her on one of my teams.”
“A very laudable thing, except when it pertains to my assets,” Charlie retorted brusquely. “The last thing I need is Viper's mission being compromised because Ms. Walker uncovers something above her clearance level.”
“Is that a possibility?” Harry turned to look at Charlie.
“With her?” Charlie shrugged. “As you say, she's one hell of an investigator.”
“If Ms. Walker accidentally becomes involved in this, we'll have an even bigger problem on our hands than John Smithe getting banged up,” Harry mused. “Remember what happened when Regina went after Ms. Walker?”
“Vividly.”
“That's the only time I've seen Viper get reckless,” Harry continued thoughtfully, moving back toward his chair. “In fact, the only time she shows any signs of emotion is where those people are concerned.”
“Precisely.” Charlie watched as Harry eased himself back into his recliner. “Viper's only weakness is her absolute loyalty to those she considers family. For better or worse, we're stuck with Ms. Walker and Co. as added complications.”
“I wondered when she was in the training facility if her past would come back to haunt her,” Harry murmured. “She buried it so successfully that I did think...” He paused and sipped his drink. “Still, I suppose some ties are as strong as duty.”
“I don't need to tell you what will happen if Ms. Walker becomes a target again, especially after this accident with John,” Charlie said.
Harry waved a hand impatiently.
“No, no, of course not,” he replied. “I'll take care of it to the best of my ability.”
Charlie nodded and straightened up.
“I know you will,” he said with a faint smile. “We need Viper. There can be no distractions.”
“Agreed.”
Chapter Eleven
Viper tapped her steering wheel thoughtfully, watching from the shadows as the Camaro with the flames pulled into the back gate of Atco Raceway. The gate closed behind the car and the taillights disappeared behind a large, square structure. She had no problem catching up with the mysterious Camaro, picking it up just half a mile from the race road and trailing her quarry effortlessly through the Pine Barrens as he weaved his way here, to Atco.
Alina shook her head, her eyes sliding past the large square building to the dark track in the distance. She hadn't been he
re since Dave's last race before he left for boot camp. Putting the car in gear, she eased out of the shadows and rolled past the high fence that enclosed the raceway, headlights off. The Shelby growled quietly along the road as Alina looked past the gates to the sprawling empty parking lots and track beyond. Until a few nights ago, she hadn't given Atco Raceway a thought in years. It belonged in her past, in Dave's past.
Viper passed the main gate and kept going until she was out of sight of the property. Pulling into the trees, she cut the engine and got out of the car. Her phone vibrated against her leg as she did and she pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
“Yes?” she answered.
“Where are you?” Stephanie demanded.
“Following a hunch,” Viper murmured, stepping into the comfortable blackness among the trees. “Where are you?”
“At the hospital,” Stephanie answered. “They just rushed John into surgery.”
“How bad is he?”
“The paramedics didn't think he'd make it here,” Stephanie answered, her voice tight. “Why aren't you here?”
“I couldn't be there when the cops came, Steph,” Viper said calmly. “I'll come as soon I'm done here. What hospital?”
“Cooper.” Stephanie took a deep breath and Alina knew she was fighting to remain calm. “It's the best trauma center in South Jersey. They got him to a chopper not far from the crash site and flew him in.”
“I'll let you know when I get there. I have to go.”
“Lina? Please hurry.”
Viper hung up and slipped the phone back into her cargo pocket. She pulled her black jacket down securely to cover the .45 at the base of her spine and broke into an even run. A minute later, she scaled the fence around the raceway and silently dropped inside. Keeping to the shadows, she ran along the outer perimeter, doubling back to the gate where the Camaro entered.
Something wasn't sitting right. This was three times now she'd seen this particular Camaro with the orange flames painted on the hood and quarter panels. Who was the driver? And why did he simply stand at a distance and watch a horrific accident without showing the least inclination to assist?
Viper easily hopped a smaller fence, working her way toward the large, square structure now visible in the distance. Her eyes moved constantly, picking out the security cameras easily as she went. The large building was getting closer, cloaked in still shadows, when the sound of an engine reached her. It came from behind her and Viper slid quickly into a black void between an old oil drum and a dumpster. She sank down to her haunches in the darkness and watched as headlights came into view. A moment later, a black BMW rolled by. As it passed, Viper's eyes narrowed, noting the black tinted windows and heavy tires. They weren't the performance tires common with that particular model, but rugged tires made to withstand much heavier vehicle wear. Taillights gleamed demonically, glaring at her as the car continued toward the building in the distance. Viper watched it go thoughtfully. Those tires told her the sports car was carrying extra weight, most likely in the form of armor-plating.
Now what was an armored BMW doing cruising through a deserted raceway so late at night?
Viper straightened up slowly, watching as a bay door in the building slid up and light poured out. The BMW disappeared inside and the rectangle of light slowly diminished again as the door slid shut. Viper ran swiftly through the darkness until she reached a long trailer that sat at a ninety degree angle with the far end of the building. There she paused, scanning the building.
There was more security here, with cameras covering the back of the building and bay doors. More cameras covered the sides and Viper knew, without looking, that the front would also be covered. Someone had a 360-degree view of the area surrounding the building.
Viper reached behind her and pulled out her .45 with one hand while her other hand unzipped one of the pockets on the inside of her jacket. She pulled out a silencer and attached it to the gun with a swift movement born of practice. Moving to the end of the trailer closest to the building, she took aim in the shadows and squeezed the trigger. A second later, the camera closest to her was down.
Viper took off the silencer and replaced it in her inner pocket, flipping on the safety before tucking the gun back into the holster at her back. All the while, her eyes were watching for signs of alarm from the large building. After a few moments passed in silence, she moved out from the shadows toward the building.
Tito Morales looked up as the bay door opened and the gleaming black BMW slid into the garage. He straightened up from under the open hood of his Camaro and wiped his hands on a clean rag as the BMW stopped and the engine died. The back door opened and a man of medium height emerged. He was dressed in an imported silk suit and dark brown Italian loafers graced his feet. He buttoned his jacket as he stood up and the suit fell into flawless lines that would have made his tailor very proud.
“Dominic.” Tito tossed the rag onto the side of his car and moved forward. “I thought you were in Washington.”
“I came back early.” Dominic DiBarcoli looked around the long garage and his eyes lit on a vehicle parked three bays down. “The meeting was a spectacular waste of time. They're worrying over nothing. Ah, there she is.”
Tito fell into step beside his boss as Dominic strode toward where Dutch's baby crouched, gleaming under the fluorescent bulbs, waiting.
“Isn't it beautiful?” Dominic murmured, approaching the car.
“It's a pony,” Tito replied, plainly unimpressed.
Dominic chuckled and glanced at him.
“You're a Chevy man,” he said. “I appreciate that.”
“I don't understand why you had to have this one,” Tito admitted. “'67 Shelby's are hardly rare, and Dutch spent more time restoring this than enhancing it.”
“But he did make some upgrades,” Dominic pointed out, opening the driver’s door and leaning in, “and the car is undefeated because of them.”
Tito shrugged.
“He added NOS and did some engine work to increase the power,” he admitted. “I still don't see why this was such a priority for you. We have other more important things to worry about than a car.”
Dominic glanced at him over his shoulder and smiled faintly.
“This isn't just a car,” he told him softly. “It's representative of a man's life. Tito, you can take away a lot of things from a man. You can take his house, you can take his woman, you can take his limbs, you can take his job and still not break him. But if you take away the one thing that gives him hope, that defines him, then you can take his will.”
“Dutch is dead. I don't think his will is much of an issue anymore, do you?”
Dominic shook his head and reached into the car to pull the keys from the ignition.
“Tito, I'm starting to despair of ever teaching you anything,” he said cheerfully, turning toward the back of the Mustang. “This has nothing to do with him. Dutch Baker was just a tool. A means to an end. He was nothing.”
Tito frowned.
“I don't understand.”
“I know you don't,” Dominic agreed. “I used Dutch to draw out a much larger fish.” Dominic unlocked and opened the trunk, lifting the cover off the spare tire well. “Once they bit, I had no more need of the bait. Lift that spare out for me, will you?”
Tito reached in and unsecured the spare tire, lifting it out of the trunk and setting it on the cement floor. He watched as Dominic pulled a small, thin object from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and leaned into the trunk. There was a quiet click as a blade appeared and Dominic inserted the knife into a crevice above a panel in the tire well. The panel popped off, revealing a small, square compartment. It was empty.
Dominic swore softly and straightened up.
“It seems the bait was a bit more perceptive than I gave him credit for,” he muttered. “How many cars did Dutch run?” Dominic asked, turning away from the trunk and pinning Tito with a dark gaze that would have made another man shiver.
“He
has about half a dozen, but he only ran three of them that I know of,” Tito answered with a shrug. “This one, the Boss, and a Mach 1. I heard the Mach 1 was getting an overhaul. No one's seen it for a few months and the word is he took it apart and was replacing all the panels with fiberglass.”
“That's it?”
“That's it. All the others are project cars.”
Dominic swore again and turned to pace across the bay to an empty stool a few feet away. He propped himself on the stool, crossed his arms over his chest and fell into a scowling silence, staring at the Mustang pensively.
Tito watched him for a moment before turning to start back toward the Camaro. While his boss was sulking, he could be investigating the slight knocking that began in his engine on the way back from the street race. He was half-way to the Camaro when Dominic's voice stopped him.
“What about the sister?”
Tito paused and turned back. Dominic was still staring at the Mustang, his back to Tito.
“She has a Hemi Cuda,” Tito answered slowly.
Dominic stood up and turned toward him.
“A Hemi Cuda?” he repeated. “A woman?”
Tito nodded and Dominic strode toward him.
“Where's the Boss?” he demanded.
“In the salvage yard by now,” Tito said with a shrug.
“Get it and bring it here,” Dominic told him, “and get the sister's Hemi, too.”
“How?”
“I'll leave that up to you.” Dominic passed him, striding back to the BMW. “Call me when it's done.”
“What was in the compartment? What are we looking for?”
“Something far more valuable than all those cars combined,” Dominic answered grimly. “And if you don't find it, this whole operation we've been working on for months is down the drain, and us with it.”
Viper watched from behind a tall tool box as the BMW reversed out of the garage and Tito turned back to his Camaro. The bay door slid down and Tito pulled the rag off his car before dropping the hood with a slam that echoed around the garage. He tossed the rag onto a work bench and circled around to the driver side. A few moments later, the second bay door was sliding closed, leaving Viper alone in the garage.