by CW Browning
“Calm...you want me to...do you have any idea what this means?” Michael demanded.
“I have some vague idea.”
“I need proof,” Michael told her after a moment of silence. “What can you give me?”
“Nothing yet,” she said. “Now, before you start yelling, listen to me. The trigger appears to be binary, which means we’re looking at some kind of chemical weapon. We're handling the immediate threat, but I need you to find those three travelers.”
“Trust me, I'm working on it,” Michael said grimly. “Who is 'we?' And how, exactly, are you handling it?”
“You also might want to stop Sgt Curtis from meeting with the President,” Viper continued as if he hadn't spoken. “In college, he studied...”
“Biochemical engineering,” Michael finished grimly.
“Precisely.”
“Without proof, I can't stop that meeting,” Michael told her. “You have to give me something I can use.”
“I'm not cleared to do that yet,” she answered after a short silence. “As soon as I can give you something, I'll call.”
“Wait!” Michael said quickly before she could disconnect.
“What?”
“For God's sake, be careful. I don't want to visit two graves in Arlington.”
The line was so silent that for a moment Michael thought she was already gone. Then, he heard a very faint sigh.
“You just find me those men, gunny,” she finally said, “and stop worrying. I've done this before.”
“That's what concerns me,” Michael muttered as she disconnected.
He circled the office a few more times, his mind spinning. Multiple bombs meant multiple attacks, most likely coordinated. Viper seemed intent on him stopping the meeting with Curtis and the POTUS, and Michael was inclined to agree with her. The whole situation stank and he wasn't about to let Curtis anywhere near Capitol Hill. But how to convince Chris? And how to convince POTUS?
Michael came to an abrupt stop mid-pace a second later and pulled his phone out of his pocket again. He opened his contacts and scrolled through the long list until he came to the name he was looking for. Striding back to his desk, he reached out and picked up his desk phone. It was a long shot, but it was the only thing he could think of right now.
“Mercy General Hospital,” a brisk voice answered after the third ring, “Main desk.”
“Can you connect me to Patrick Traeborn, please?” Michael requested. “Dr. Patrick Traeborn.”
“Just one moment,” the brisk voice said, then, “That's extension 48642. I'll put you through.”
“Thanks,” Michael said, scrawling the extension on a pad on his desk.
He dropped into the chair behind his desk and reached for his coffee. It was going to be a long day.
Stephanie peered through the peep-hole in her door and her eyebrows soared into her forehead when she saw Blake's elongated face grinning at her. She threw back the dead bolt and undid the chain.
“Good morning, Sweetheart,” Blake greeted her cheerfully. “How goes it?”
“Morning,” Stephanie answered, opening the door wide and stepping back with a motion for him to enter. “What are you doing up here?”
“Hopefully taking you out for brunch,” Blake informed her, stepping into her living room. “I'm starving.”
“Well, you'll never hear me turn down brunch,” Stephanie told him with a laugh, closing the door behind him. “Just let me get some shoes on.”
Blake glanced down at her bare feet and nodded before looking around.
“Are you keeping yourself busy during your forced exile?” he asked.
“You know, then?” Stephanie asked over her shoulder as she moved toward the short hallway that led back to the bedrooms.
“I called your office on my way up,” he answered. “Spoke to Rob. He said you were taking some time off.”
“Ha!” Stephanie snorted and disappeared down the hallway. “That's one way of putting it.”
Blake's lips twitched and he wandered toward the dining room table where her laptop was open. Papers were piled across the table and a half-empty coffee mug was sitting, forgotten, amongst the neat and orderly chaos.
“I didn't think it sounded like something you would do voluntarily,” Blake called, his eyes falling on the screen of the laptop. The lock screen was on, a yellow happy face bouncing slowly across a black background. He reached out and hit the space key, only to be rewarded with a login box. His lips twitched again. “Smart girl,” he murmured to himself, his eyes straying to the closest pile of papers.
“Hardly.” Stephanie's voice was muffled, coming from a distance. “My partner got himself into a sketchy situation and it rubbed off onto me, unfortunately.”
“John?” Blake asked, lifting up the top page from the pile and scanning the hand-drawn map of the rest stops along I-95 in Virginia. “What's he been up to?”
“Street racing.”
The unexpected answer drifted down the hallway and Blake's head snapped up, his attention caught.
“What?”
“Street racing,” Stephanie repeated, her voice clearer. “He's been doing it for years.”
“Seriously?” Blake demanded, the map in his hand forgotten.
“Unfortunately.” Stephanie appeared from the hallway, a pair of Spring booties in one hand and a jacket in the other. “He was into cars with Lina and her brother when they were in High School and never outgrew it.”
She looked at the paper in his hand and raised an eyebrow, but didn't say a word.
“So he knows the street racing crowd up here?” Blake demanded, his eyes arrested.
“Yes, but before you get all hot and excited, he's not talking to anyone right now,” Stephanie told him, sitting on a chair and bending to put on her boots. “His Firebird flipped and hit a tree. He's in ICU.”
“Oh my God,” Blake exclaimed, dropping the paper back onto the pile. “I had no idea. I'm sorry.”
“There's no way you could have known,” she said, not looking up from her boots. “Although, I would have thought Rob would have mentioned something.”
“All he said was that John was on medical leave,” Blake replied, watching her. “What happened?”
“He was racing in the Pines and a deer ran into the road,” she answered readily, glancing up at him. “Not all that uncommon. One of his tires blew and his car flipped.”
“And the agency is investigating?”
“In a fashion,” Stephanie said obscurely, finishing with her boots. “I think Lina is doing more than our people are, to be honest.”
“The Black Widow?” Blake asked. “Why am I not surprised?”
“They did grow up together,” she pointed out.
“So they did,” Blake agreed. “Does Mike know?”
“Mike?” Stephanie frowned. “O'Reilly? I have no idea. I haven't seen him since last fall when you both were up here. Should he know?”
“I don't know,” Blake shrugged, not meeting her gaze. If no one told Stephanie that Michael asked Lina to look into the street racing scene up here, or that he was convinced it was connected with his latest conspiracy theory, Blake wasn't going to be the one to open that particular Pandora's box.
Stephanie's eyes narrowed slightly, but she let the comment pass.
“I'm ready when you are,” she said, standing.
“Where's a good place around here?” he asked, following her to the door.
“There's a diner not far from here,” she answered. “They have the best Monte Cristo you've ever tasted.”
“Monte Cristo? Never had it. It sounds suspect.”
“Oh Agent Hanover, I can see we have some schooling to do.”
Dominic looked up as Tito was ushered to his table by the attentive host who seated him ten minutes earlier. He sipped his club soda and waited until Tito was seated across from him and the host had returned to the front of the restaurant before speaking.
“What is it?” he asked, foregoi
ng any other greeting or formality.
“I went over the Shelby again and found something missing,” Tito informed him, leaning his elbows on the table uncomfortably. While he was dressed somewhat presentably in clean jeans and t-shirt, his hands had tell-tale oil stains on them, indicating that china plates and full-service cutlery were not his usual luncheon preferences.
“What?” Dominic prompted when he didn't continue immediately.
“The GPS chip isn't there.”
Tito fell silent again as the waiter appeared and filled a water glass with ice water from a pitcher. He nodded in thanks and the waiter disappeared again.
“I had the idea this morning that the on-board navigation would show us where Dutch went and maybe where he took the package,” Tito continued, leaning forward and lowering his voice slightly. “So I went to look, but the GPS chip was removed.”
“That's impossible,” Dominic said briskly. “If he removed it, it would have triggered an alarm on the tracking system.”
“I know,” Tito agreed. “So I checked the tracking system. All the other cars fitted with the Nav System are showing online and working fine. So I checked the history. The Shelby was online on the system until four days ago.”
Dominic stared at him silently for a long moment.
“Dutch was already dead four days ago,” he pointed out needlessly.
“I know,” Tito nodded. “That's why I'm here.”
“What about the tracking in the chip?”
“Disabled.”
“And the timestamp on the Nav System?”
“It thinks the chip is still there.”
Dominic swore softly and sat back in his chair, a heavy scowl settling onto his face.
“Who knows we have the Shelby?” he finally asked.
Tito snorted.
“Everyone,” he answered. “It's no secret. Anyone could have broken in and taken the chip.”
“No,” Dominic disagreed softly, “Not anyone. Someone who is familiar with tracking and navigational software. They knew how to disable it.”
“Another driver?” Tito asked.
“Perhaps.”
They fell silent again as the waiter reappeared with a salad and set it before Dominic. He looked at Tito questioningly and Tito shook his head.
“I'm not staying,” he said.
The waiter nodded and disappeared again as Dominic picked up his fork to start on his mixed green salad.
“When you went through his house yesterday, there was nothing?” he asked.
“No.” Tito watched as his boss calmly began eating his salad.
“Where's the sister now?”
“I don't know,” Tito said, startled. “You didn't say to watch her.”
“Find her.” Dominic didn't even look up from his salad. “Find her now and make her talk. She's the only one he would have trusted with the package. She also might have known about the Nav system. She could have taken the chip.”
Tito nodded and stood up to leave.
“Tito?” Dominic finally looked up from his salad. “That FBI agent...the one who was getting nosy...what's his name?”
“John. John Smithe. He's in the ICU, still in a coma last I heard.”
“Get me his address,” Dominic said thoughtfully. “Send it to my phone.”
“If you want to check his place, I can do it for you,” Tito said.
“No, I want you to find the girl and see what she knows,” Dominic replied, going back to his salad. “I'll take care of the Fed.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“So, tell me about what you've found out on the racing scene up here,” Blake said, biting into his egg and pork roll sandwich.
Stephanie made a noise close to a snort and squirted ketchup on her Santa Fe omelet.
“I haven't found anything,” she told him. “Lina's the one you should be talking to.”
“I'd love to, but I hear she's shy,” he replied. “So why don't you fill me in?”
“Where to start?” Stephanie muttered, reaching for her coffee.
“At the beginning. I'll stop you if I get lost.”
Stephanie sipped her coffee and shook her head.
“It started before you even called me,” she began, setting her cup down, “when John's friend, a man called Dutch, was killed.”
Stephanie proceeded to tell Blake all about Dutch's accident-come-murder and John's subsequent investigation and crash. Blake listened attentively, finishing his sandwich as she talked. He only stopped her at the end, when she said that John believed Dutch was running something up and down the coast.
“Did John think he was working for the cartel?” he asked.
“No, someone local,” Stephanie answered evasively, remembering Alina's request to keep Dominic's name from Blake for the time being. “He owns the track down in Atco.”
Blake studied her face for a moment before pushing aside his now empty plate.
“So, tell me if I have this right,” he said slowly. “This Dutch guy was a good friend of John's. He got himself killed in an accident that John thought wasn't an accident. John began investigating and then fell victim to the same exact kind of accident.”
“That's about it,” Stephanie said with a nod, finishing her omelet and reaching for a piece of toast.
“That is not it,” Blake objected, shaking his head. “You, Agent Walker, are not telling me everything.”
He softened his rebuke by refilling her coffee cup from the pot on the table before adding more to his own cup.
“What do you mean?” Stephanie demanded.
“It's OK.” Blake set the pot down and reached for a packet of sugar. “I get it. Things have a way of getting...complicated up here, especially when the Black Widow is involved.” He glanced up at a choking noise from Stephanie and watched as she set her cup down quickly. A grin creased his lips. “How about I tell you what I found out last night, and you can decide if you're going to let me in on my own investigation?”
“That's hardly fair,” Stephanie objected. “I'm not keeping you from your investigation.”
“No, you're just keeping information from me,” Blake retorted smoothly. He watched as a dark flush climbed her neck. “Oh, calm down. Let me tell you what I know. Maybe we'll meet somewhere in the middle.”
“Go ahead,” Stephanie murmured, picking up her coffee cup again.
“Last night, we caught one of them,” Blake told her, leaning forward. “We picked him up just outside Raleigh. He's a member of the Cartel.”
“In North Carolina?” Stephanie exclaimed, surprised.
“He was passing through,” Blake said. “He didn't give up much information we didn't already know, but he did drop a name.”
“Well?” Stephanie prompted when he stopped to take a sip of coffee.
“Dominic DiBarcoli,” Blake told her, lifting his eyes in time to see her flinch. “He said he runs the cars out of Atlantic City, but I see you already knew that.”
Stephanie felt her face flushing again and looked at him sheepishly.
“I think we just met in the middle,” she murmured.
“I thought we would.” Blake set his cup down, his eyes never leaving her face. “What do you know about him?”
“Only what John and Alina found out,” Stephanie said slowly. “The man Dutch was racing when he was killed is named Tito, and he works for Dominic. Before his accident, John discovered that Tito was running product for Dominic. He realized that Dutch was working for Dominic as well before his death.”
“Do we know what they were moving?”
“Not yet,” Stephanie replied. “According to Lina, it could be anything small enough to fit into a space roughly eight by six inches in the spare tire well.”
“How did she find that out?” Blake asked, diverted.
“How does she find anything out?” Stephanie countered, a wry smile crossing her face. “She saw the compartment.”
“So it could be drugs,” Blake sat back. “Or money, o
r anything.”
“I don't think it is,” Stephanie said slowly. “I think it's more dangerous than that.”
“Why?”
“John's accident was caused by a bomb planted in his wheel well,” Stephanie told him grimly. “You don't plant bombs if you're a drug dealer. You just double-tap them in the head or chest.”
Blake stared at her.
“A bomb?” he repeated. “Are you sure?”
“Alina is. She was going to get confirmation from John's car in the salvage yard.” Stephanie frowned. “Actually, she never told me what she found out,” she added thoughtfully.
“Maybe she didn't find anything worth sharing,” Blake suggested.
Stephanie thought it was more likely Viper had found something she didn't want to share, but she kept that opinion to herself.
“Well, now we know that Dominic is working with the Cartel, but why?” she said instead. “What are they doing?”
“And why is it worth almost killing a Federal Agent?” Blake added with a frown, reaching for the coffee pot again. “We need to find one of the drivers and find out what they're hauling.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Stephanie said, nodding in thanks as he refilled her cup. “Alina met most of the street racing scene a few nights before Dutch was killed. She saw all their cars. She's putting together a list so your people know what to look for at the drop locations.”
“What?” Blake looked up. “You told her about the drop off locations?!”
“Well, yes,” Stephanie said, looking at him in surprise. “Your people are having a hard time identifying the couriers and the vehicles. Lina knows the cars and racers, so of course I sent her the information. The more eyes we have on this, the better shot you have of catching one of them.”
“I don't like her knowing so much,” Blake muttered, slightly mollified. “She handles things differently from us.”
“About that...” Stephanie cleared her throat and Blake looked at her with misgiving. “She's, ah...well, she's going to find the connection between Dominic and the drivers in Boston, AC, and DC.”
“She's what?!”
“She's doing it to help us,” Stephanie said hastily as storm clouds started to gather on Blake's brow. “Face it, Blake, she can get information we can't. Plain and simple.”