by CW Browning
“You have done your homework,” Viper murmured.
“I'm assuming the chemical signature that you recognize is the same as the one used in those bombings?” Hawk asked.
Alina made a small motion with her head, an almost imperceptible twitch, and Damon lifted his eyes to the mirror behind her. Donna came into view, rounding the corner with a tray laden with dishes, heading for their table.
“So I said to him, you don't have any idea what you're about to do, but would he listen? Of course not,” Hawk seamlessly slid into a dummy conversation as Donna walked up. “Next thing you know, the lab is filled with this God-awful stench and he's choking on the fumes, looking at me in absolute shock.”
“He mixed the wrong concentration,” Alina continued, shaking her head in apparent disgust. “It's a miracle he didn't blow the place up.”
“Or burn his esophagus out,” Hawk agreed, sitting back as a large plate was set before him. “Thanks.”
Donna nodded and finished setting out the food.
“Do you need more coffee?” she asked once her tray was empty.
“I think we're good for right now,” Alina told her. “Thank you.”
Donna nodded cheerfully and disappeared again.
“So, if Al-Jibad is dead, and I'm assuming he is because they sent you, who made the bomb?” Hawk continued as if they hadn't been interrupted.
“The same person who made them all along,” Viper finally spoke, reaching for ketchup. She squeezed it onto her omelet, then handed it to Hawk. “His second-in-command.”
Hawk stared at her, ketchup in hand.
“You mean to tell me he's here?” he demanded.
“Not yet,” she replied, picking up her fork. “I believe he is, or was, in Cancun.”
“Then, how did one of his bombs end up on your ex's car?” Damon asked, squirting ketchup on his plate next to his mound of French fries.
“Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?”
Chapter Eighteen
Alina cut into her omelet, content to eat in silence while Damon absorbed the information. While she had been suspecting something like this since she pulled the bomb fragments out of the tire in the junk yard, she was still a little stunned to have confirmation. How the hell had any of this happened? How did John manage to get caught between her job six thousand miles away and a smuggling operation involving the Casa Reino Cartel? Even more baffling was how the hell the two ever got connected to begin with! And how much of this did Charlie know? She hadn't heard from him at all since their conversation the morning after she returned from that fateful trip. Was he aware that Harry called Hawk back stateside? For the first time in eleven years, Viper felt a crack beginning to form in her absolute trust in Charlie's system. If he had a leak somewhere in the Organization, just how accurate was his intel? Was the leak feeding him bad information, or was Charlie on top of it?
“Tell me everything about him.”
Viper looked up to find that Hawk was already halfway through his sandwich and had made serious inroads into his fries. She had no idea how long they had been eating in silence, both thinking over the situation in their own ways, but Hawk was now looking at her with that cold, clinical blue gaze of his. Absurdly, Alina reflected that his mask was just as absolute as hers. He was in work mode now, and the Damon she was slowly getting to know was gone.
“We never had this conversation,” she said flatly.
Hawk nodded once and she sighed, finishing the last mouthful of her omelet. Setting her fork down, she reached for her forgotten glass of water.
“His name is Asad Jamal,” she began a moment later. “I got eyes on him and two others while I was doing surveillance in Damascus. They never saw me, but I watched them for two days. He got his start in Turkey, about fifteen years ago. As far as I can tell, he hooked up with Al-Jibad a few years after that. The two have been synonymous for the past ten years, working so closely together that those outside the inner circle weren't sure who was the head and who was the hand. Most assumed Asad was in control, until that bombing you mentioned in the Ukraine last year. In preparations, Asad blew off the pinky and ring fingers on his left hand. Al-Jibad replaced him after the accident with another member of his inner circle and I believe that's when everyone realized who was in charge. When Asad's replacement used his bomb to hit the wrong vehicle, Al-Jibad had him beheaded.”
“So, Asad wasn't even in the Ukraine when the convoy was hit,” Hawk said slowly.
“No. It's different from our situation, though, because he had been in place and the bomb was already there. He's never been here, that we know of.”
“Could someone else have made the bomb according to his specs?” Hawk asked.
“Not impossible, but also not likely,” Viper said after a moment of thought. “After losing Al-Jibad, he won't take the chance of someone else messing up his work again. He's on a mission, and he's a perfectionist when it comes to his trade. He won't risk an amateur throwing a spanner in the works.”
“You think the Cartel was running bomb parts up and down the coast?” Hawk asked incredulously. “That would mean he was in Cancun long before you were ever in Syria.”
“He wasn't,” Viper told him flatly. “I saw him myself, in Damascus, when I arrived.”
Hawk pressed his lips together grimly for a second, then picked up the rest of his sandwich. Viper watched him for a moment, pursing her lips thoughtfully.
“Unless he was never the bomb-maker to begin with,” she murmured, half to herself.
Hawk looked up at her, an arrested look in his eyes.
“What did you just say?”
Viper shook her head, reaching for her coffee.
“No, that makes no sense at all,” she continued as if she hadn't heard him. “He took full credit for the bombings.”
“Did he, or did Al-Jibad?” Hawk countered.
They stared at each other over the table for a long, silent moment before Viper set her coffee down and sat back, resigned.
“Al-Jibad,” she confirmed. “Damn. Asad was the red herring all along.”
“Meanwhile, the real bomb-maker was in Mexico for months, working on something else,” Hawk said slowly. “When was the last bombing attributed to Asad that we know of?”
“Eight months ago, in Lebanon,” Viper answered immediately. “Nothing since.”
“So we have to assume he's been in Mexico for eight months. That's our starting point.” Hawk finished his sandwich and reached for more fries. “Asad came a few days ago, indicating that whatever they planned has begun. We need eyes and ears in Cancun.”
“Already done,” Viper said.
Hawk raised an eyebrow.
“Just how long have you known something was going on?” he demanded.
Viper shrugged.
“Since you sent me that email a few nights ago,” she replied. “I had an advantage, though. Michael came to see me with some suspicions he had about a hotel in Cancun.”
“I don't like where this is heading,” Hawk muttered, pushing his plate away. “Too many connections to Washington.”
“Trust me,” Viper said grimly, “I know.”
Alina slowly opened her eyes, drawn from a deep sleep by the insistent sound of her phone ringing. She rolled over in bed and blinked at the early morning light filtering through her curtains. Raven was absent from his perch and she stretched tiredly, reaching for her phone on the nightstand. It was after four before she got home and fell asleep. Hawk left her at the back door with the promise that he would be back the following night, hopefully with some intel from his contact in Belize. He then disappeared into the darkness, leaving Viper to enter the house alone. If some part of her felt a twinge of disappointment, it was briskly set aside as she went straight upstairs to fall into bed.
“Yes?” she answered the phone, stifling a yawn.
“Top o’ the morning to you,” Michael said cheerfully. “Tell me you're awake.”
“I am now,” Alina
replied, sitting up and leaning against her headboard. “How's Mexico?”
“Hot,” Michael said. “I have news. You were right. The three men that checked into the Riviera Garner were traveling under Turkish passports. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Alina answered grimly. “Do you have names?”
“I have even better,” Michael told her. “I have hotel security footage. I'm sending you the pictures now.”
Alina waited for her phone to beep, telling her the files had arrived, then swiped the screen to open the two images. She found herself looking at the three men she watched for two days in Damascus, just as she knew she would. Viper stared at Asad Jamal grimly, her eyes narrowed, before she lifted the phone back to her ear.
“Where are they now?” she asked Michael.
“Gone,” he answered. “I contacted a buddy of mine in Customs and Border Patrol who owes me a favor. I sent him one of the pics and I'm waiting to hear back. It doesn't look good.”
“And your contact down there?”
“Found last night in a ditch,” Michael said. “His throat was cut.”
Viper stared at the opposite wall.
“Let me know as soon you get confirmation from your contact in CBP,” she finally said.
“You think they're heading over the border?”
“I think they're already here,” Viper answered bluntly. “How long since they left?”
“Yesterday morning, possibly the night before,” he answered immediately.
“Get on the first flight back,” she told him. “Call me when you land.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Michael replied dryly, drawing a wry smile from her. “Will that be all?”
“Sorry,” she said shortly. “I just think you've done all you can do there.”
Michael was silent for a moment.
“Who are they?” he finally asked, his voice low.
Viper pressed her lips together briefly.
“My new targets.”
Alina rolled to a stop and cut the engine to the Shelby, looking at the house in front of her. Gone were the tiki torches that burned so cheerfully the night Dutch played host to so many guests. The fire pit in the front yard was cold and deserted, and a heavy feeling of melancholy fell over her. Alina shook her head and opened the door to get out of the car. When John asked her to come see Lani, she refused. Now John was hanging on to life by a couple IVs, and she was here anyway. Funny how things ended up sometimes.
She slammed her door shut and looked around, her sunglasses shielding her eyes from the bright morning sun. The sound of metal hitting concrete echoed from behind the house and she turned, following the sound. Rounding the back corner of the house, she saw an old, gun-metal gray Jeep pulled out in front of the four-car garage. It had a four-inch lift on it and thick mud tires that looked like new. The hood was up, resting back on the windshield, and Lani was standing on a metal step stool, bent over the engine. As Alina rounded the corner, she glanced over her shoulder and straightened up.
“Raven!” she exclaimed, stepping off the stool and grabbing a rag to wipe her hands.
“Hi,” Alina greeted her, walking up to the Jeep. “Sorry to drop by unannounced. I thought I'd come see how you're holding up.”
“I appreciate that,” Lani told her. “I'm hanging in.”
“Nice CJ,” Alina remarked, nodding to the Jeep.
“You know Jeeps?” Lani asked in surprise.
“I have a Rubicon,” she answered, walking around the Jeep to look inside. “I wouldn't mind an old one, though. I hear the straight 6 runs forever.”
“They do,” Lani agreed. “This one's been abused over the years, but she still goes.”
Alina glanced around.
“Is she yours?” she asked, playing dumb.
Lani's face immediately developed storm clouds.
“No, this was Dutch's. I have a Hemi Cuda. It was stolen the night before last,” she told her.
Alina allowed her eyebrows to soar into her forehead and she arranged her face into a look of shock.
“What?!” she exclaimed.
“Yeah.” Lani tossed the rag onto the edge of the Jeep. “Come on inside. I was just about to make more coffee.”
Alina followed her across the driveway to steps leading up to the back door. She glanced around as she went, noting the three empty bays in the garage with a slight tightening of her lips. Three beautiful cars and one life, all gone within a week.
“I'm glad you're up and about,” Alina said, following her into the house and finding herself in a bright and cheerful kitchen. “I forget that not everyone is an early riser like me.”
“I've been up since five,” Lani told her, motioning for her to have a seat at a small kitchen table. “I'm not sleeping well.”
“What happened to your car?” Alina asked, seating herself at the table and sliding a pile of mail out of her way.
“Someone stole it from where I work,” Lani told her, emptying the basket from the coffee maker into the trash and putting a fresh paper filter in. “I came out and it was gone.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Yeah, but they haven't found it.” Lani pulled a can out of the cabinet and began scooping ground coffee into the basket. “I don't think they ever will. It's a fully restored Hemi. It's gone. It absolutely sucks because Dutch just finished it in the fall. It was the last restore he finished, and he was so happy with it.”
Lani's voice caught and she closed the coffeemaker lid quickly before turning to fill the carafe with water.
“Never say never,” Alina murmured. “You'll get her back.”
“I wish I believed that,” Lani said over her shoulder. “Everything has been taken from me, why not my car too?”
Alina was silent.
“But here I am, going on about myself,” Lani said, turning back to fill the water reservoir. “How's John? I heard that he's still in ICU. Has there been any change?”
“He's fighting,” Alina answered, her tone even.
“What do the doctors say?”
“They're being very cautious. He's showing some good signs, but it's a wait-and-see situation,” Alina told her.
Lani hit the brew button on the coffee maker and turned to face Alina as she leaned on the counter.
“I don't understand what's going on,” she said slowly, almost to herself. “There haven't been any accidents racing in over a year, and now there are two in one week? It doesn't make any sense.”
“What do you think is happening?” Alina asked just as quietly.
Lani's eyes met hers, dark and troubled, and Alina read uncertainty in them, uncertainty and something else. Almost fear.
“I'm not sure,” Lani finally answered. “Initially I thought...well, that doesn't matter now. John wouldn't have had anything to do with that.”
Alina's eyes narrowed slightly and she watched as Lani shook her head almost imperceptibly. Dutch's sister knew more than she was saying, that was for sure.
“John wasn't as experienced as Dutch. He probably just lost control of his car,” Alina said, resisting the urge to roll her own eyes at her words. “I always thought that Firebird was bad luck. He rolled it off a bridge once.”
Lani looked at her hard.
“You don't really believe that,” she said, her voice flat and her eyes sharp. “And anyway, John told Dutch that story. The way he told it, you're the one who grabbed the wheel and yanked it to avoid him hitting a raccoon.”
Alina grinned sheepishly.
“I may have,” she admitted, a small chuckle escaping. “That sounds like something I would have done.”
Lani let out a laugh and turned back to the coffee.
“John said you two used to be close,” she said over her shoulder. “Did you grow up together?”
“In a way,” Alina answered shortly, “but time has a way of changing things.”
Lani glanced at her as she took two clean mugs from the cabinet.
“I got th
e impression there's a lot of respect on John's side,” she said. “Dutch asked why you two weren't a couple and John said you were too good for him.”
“That's probably true,” Alina said with a wink and flash of a smile. “I'm certainly a better driver.”
Lani laughed and poured coffee into the mugs.
“Cream or sugar?”
“None, thanks.”
Lani nodded and walked over to hand her the mug of coffee.
“Why don't we go out front onto the porch?” she suggested. “There's a nice breeze out there.”
Alina stood and followed her through the door, down the short hallway and through the front living room to the screened door leading to the porch. Lani led the way to the far end where a pair of rattan lounge chairs were positioned with a matching table between them.
“I love sitting out here,” Lani told her, settling into one of the chairs. “It's peaceful.”
“I understand,” Alina said, taking the other chair. “I spend a lot of time on my deck.”
“John said you live alone?” Lani sipped her coffee.
“I do.”
“How do you protect yourself?”
Alina almost choked on her coffee, swallowed quickly, and glanced at Lani. She was looking back innocently, nothing but question on her face. Alina realized, with a start, that Lani probably never gave a thought to being alone before now. Dutch had always been there.
“I have a good security system, and I know how to defend myself,” she finally answered, wincing inwardly at her sweeping understatements. “Do you think you have to worry?”
“I am worried,” Lani admitted. “I have a shotgun, and I know how to use it, but I'm still uncomfortable.”