A Kiss to Kill (23 page)

She smiled. “I will.”

He closed the door behind him, and wondered what Alex Zane’s problem was. The woman was smart, beautiful, and loyal, and obviously had it bad for the dimwit. Was the guy fucking blind?

Whatever. Not his business.

He retrieved the Mercedes and pointed it toward McLean, Virginia, the pricy suburb where Lester Altos maintained his D.C. residence. After setting up her computers, STORM’s comp spec Darcy Zimmerman had been able to ferret out the address, along with a few other interesting tidbits about the congressman from Louisiana. Principal among which was that Altos sat on the Military Defense Subcommittee of the mega-influential House Appropriations Committee. The
same
subcommittee for which Zane had found a meeting agenda on the terrorists’ sunken yacht.

Hello? Was there any doubt they’d found their guy?

Quinn was right to call STORM to assign another team to follow through on the nuclear trigger theory with the Coast Guard, just in case this new angle was wrong. But Gregg was sure this was the right direction. Everything was falling into place.

He had argued for going in fast and hard and apologizing later if they were wrong. Marc Lafayette had agreed, outraged that his beloved home state might be represented by a slimy traitor.

Quinn, however, would not be rushed. He wanted hard evidence, so any charges against Altos would be iron-clad. He wanted the bastard behind bars for the rest of his life, or better yet, at the end of a hangman’s noose. He had a point.

But Gregg had his doubts Altos would ever see a trial, judging by the look on Kick Jackson’s face. The man was on a serious crusade for revenge. Something about a massacre in Afghanistan, or was it the Sudan . . . Of course, Kick would have to get in line behind Gregg. The image of Gina being carried off the plane after her rescue, battered, bruised, and bloody, drugged because she was so traumatized she could barely function, was forever burned in Gregg’s brain. Someone would pay for that. If it was the last thing he did.

In any case, the team had argued back and forth until Darcy had finally shooed everyone to their own rooms to get some shut-eye. They would come up with a plan in the morning.

Gregg had other ideas.

Gina showing up at his door had caused a delay, but not changed his mind. If anything, it had strengthened his resolve. She loved him. He would
not
let her down.

ALTOS’S
three-story colonial mansion was tucked into a wide, azalea-filled lot on a tree-lined lane. Gregg drove past, wanting to get a feel for the neighborhood and decide where he would set up his surveillance. Easy. A tall, slotted topiary hedge ran between two houses directly across the street. On his second pass, he saw movement. For an instant, the very edge of a man-shaped shadow scudded along the perimeter, paused, then retreated back into it. Just enough of a glimpse for a trained eye to spot.

Jackson
. Gregg had to smile. The guy must want company.

What the hell. He was part of a team now.

He parked the Mercedes a mile or so away, strapped on his fanny pack entry kit, zipped up his black hoodie, and slipped back through the darkness. Approaching the hedge, he gave a low bird call. A dove coo answered. He slid through one of the manicured breaks.

“What up,” Jackson greeted him in a low voice, leaning with his back against a brick wall behind the hedge. He was holding a pair of night vision goggles in one hand, a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Great minds,” Gregg returned with a bump of his fist and a jerk of his chin across at the Altos place. “So. Anything going on?”

“Not yet.”

“Yet?”

“Had a look-see earlier. One car missing from the garage. No one seems to be home.”

“Just one? Wife in town?”

“Yup.”

Frowning, Gregg consulted his watch. Well past three a.m. “Hot date?” Altos’s trophy wife was considerably younger.

Kick looked skeptical. “How long have they been married?”

“Ten years.” Long enough for the honeymoon to be over. “Shit.”

“Could he be running? Spooked by the flag your Pentagon files search triggered?”

“Possibly.” Gregg debated. Decided if the team was compromised, no way was Jackson the mole. “Or maybe he was warned.”

The other man’s gaze sharpened. When he answered, his voice was quiet but forceful. “If someone warned him, it wasn’t by anyone in STORM. I know these people. I would trust my life to every one of them.”

Gregg was pretty good at reading people. Jackson meant every word.

“It remains to be seen,” the other man went on, “whether or not we can trust
you
.”

Gregg didn’t bother to be offended. Kick had been one of the first to vote in his favor this afternoon. But suspicion kept a man alive. “Fair enough,” Gregg said. “So, what’s the plan?”

“My plan was to watch and wait. But I could be persuaded.”

Gregg smiled. “Fancy a little B&E?”

“That’s taking a bit of a risk, isn’t it?”

“No business for the faint of heart. How ’bout if I enter and you watch my back?”

Kick’s brows rose. “You trust me?”

“Like I have a choice?”

“Yeah, you do.”

He shrugged. “Whatever. I’m going in. Alarms?”

“Ancient.”

Gregg rattled off his cell phone number and set it to vibrate. “Text me if company arrives.”

“Will do.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and tested the mood of the street. All felt tranquil. So, with a nod to Jackson, he melted into the shadows.

GREGG
made quick work of getting inside the house. The security system was child’s play, which told him either a) Altos had nothing to hide, or b) the congressman felt totally safe with his secrets.

Innocent? Or overconfident?

Just in case, Gregg checked carefully for more sophisticated security measures. Hidden cameras. Pressure triggers. Silent alarms. There was nothing.

He checked the bedroom. No signs of hurried packing. Two suitcases stood unused in the walk-in closet. No empty hangers. Two electric toothbrushes sat charging on the bathroom counter. So, Altos hadn’t taken off.

Next he located the home office. Lester Altos had been a politician for more than half his life, of which over a dozen years had been as a Louisiana congressman. One wall contained a shoulder-height bank of cabinets that held more files and documents than Gregg could search through in a month. He took one look, and went to the desk to turn on the computer instead. His hacker skills were novice at best, but one thing he had learned long ago was to interrupt the boot-up bios before the OS started, and have the computer make a call to mama. Mama, in this case, being Darcy Zimmerman’s STORM mainframe computer station, the ISP for which he’d obtained from her earlier. Once the two computers had talked to each other, Darcy could find her way back in.

As he waited for the scroll of code across the screen that signaled docking was complete, he skimmed his gaze around the rest of Altos’s highly polished desk. Other than a picture of his young wife and a goldfish bowl containing one bright red Siamese fighting fish and a handful of bright white gravel, the surface was clear.

The drawers were filled with a completely normal and boring assortment of office supplies. He found nothing whatsoever of interest.

After shutting down the computer again, he went to the file cabinet and started riffling through the drawers. Going specifically after bank info, he retrieved several folders filled with statements, photographed them with his PDA for account numbers, and forwarded the pix to Darcy, along with a few other bits and pieces. Then he sent it all to Tommy, too, because you just never knew.

Finally, he hit the folders with all the logical names: Gina Cappozi, both Mahmoods, all the dead suspects from New York and
Allah’s Paradise
, Alex, Kick, and himself. Came up empty.

Ah, well. That had been a long shot. They’d already established the traitor was not a moron. Keeping hard-copy links to bad guys would have been extremely stupid.

No, any real evidence would be hidden in the computer. Hopefully Darcy would have better luck.

His phone buzzed and he checked the screen.

Hds up. Cmpny.

Time to go? Gregg listened, watching the fish swim round and round its bowl on the desk, its scales flashing red and silver against the glittering gravel. After a full minute there was still no distinctive rumble of the garage door opening.

He made his way to the front of the house and peeked out through a curtained window. A dark blue luxury sedan had pulled to the curb at the head of the home’s brick walkway. A man and a woman sat in front talking, the man in the driver’s seat.

Gregg lifted a pair of binoculars from his kit and zoomed in on the woman. Her earrings glinted back at him in the moonlight like the fish’s scales. The trophy wife. He moved his focus to the man. But from this angle, he could only see up to the guy’s shoulders. Damn.

After making a quick stop back in the office, he took the stairs down. Shifting the goldfish bowl he’d just grabbed under his arm, he paused to peer out through the curtains again. This time he had a better view. The two people in the car didn’t seem to be in any hurry. They started to argue. A few minutes later, the man gestured angrily, slashing a hand through his hair. The wife’s door jerked open. She made one parting shot, then jumped out of the sedan. The man bent over to the passenger side, calling after her.

Gregg should be oscar mike. He was about to turn away. But what he saw made him stop in his tracks. The man’s face as he leaned over was clearly illuminated by a pool of moonlight. For a second Gregg just stared. What the fucking hell.

Well, well, well.
Wasn’t
that
interesting.

Maybe ol’ Alex Zane wasn’t so crazy after all. Because Gregg recognized the man at once.

And damned if it wasn’t SAC Wade Montana.

TWENTY-TWO

“MONTANA
and the wife?”

“It’s a theory.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a wife intercepted classified intel from a husband working for the government and used it for profit,” Quinn said.

“Or a government official blackmailing her into doing it,” Darcy suggested.

The team erupted in heated discussion. They’d all been summoned to the STORM suite for a sunrise breakfast, where Kick and van Halen had just finished telling of their nocturnal adventures. Marc had already been dispatched to watch the Altos house until a strategy could be decided.

Alex took another bite of toast and gracefully refrained from saying “I told you so.” But inside he was doing the Snoopy dance. He’d been right about the bastard all along.

He glanced at Rebel. His beautiful angel looked more like the angel of death. Furious that her lover—
former
lover, he corrected himself—had been called into question. Yet again.

“I’m telling you, you’re wrong,” she insisted for the dozenth time. “He would never hurt Gina. He just wants to be sure she’s safe. He feels partly responsible for what’s happening to her.”

Gina was sitting on the sofa next to van Halen.
She
looked like she wanted to sink right through the floor and disappear. But she didn’t defend Montana, Alex noted.

He gritted his teeth. Only Rebel was doing that. Along with shooting him dagger looks. What? Could he help it the man was a traitor? At least she wasn’t still sleeping with the bastard.

He hoped.

Bad enough he’d thought for one electrically evil moment that she’d spent the night with van Halen. He’d caught her coming out of the other man’s hotel suite this morning in blatant dishabille, as his mama used to say. Thankfully, Gina had followed close behind and saved his ass the embarrassment of a very ugly scene. Hearing Gregg’s story over breakfast, and seeing the way he now held Gina close to his side, explained Rebel’s presence in his suite, which Alex had not been able to bring himself to ask her about at the time. Not after she’d politely nodded good morning to him without a damn
hint
in her demeanor that just the day before they’d been agonizing over not having children together. No doubt he had Montana to thank for that, too. Had she actually
taken
his ill-conceived advice?

Jesus.

“So what are we going to do about this goddamn goatfuck?” he asked now. Meaning the Altos thing.

Rebel skewered him with another death-ray glare. Language? Probably not.

Her phone rang and with an angry stab she shut it off.

Okay, then.

“They had an affair,” Gina said into the momentary blip of awkward silence. “Wade and Erika Altos. A few months after he and I broke up. He told me about it at the time. Probably thought it would make me jealous and go back to him.”

Darcy snorted. “Yeah, because taking up with another woman is
al
ways the best way to endear yourself to the one you love,” she muttered, pouring coffee into two fresh mugs and handing one to Quinn. “Typical.”

Rebel continued to glare at Alex.

What?

“You hear what they were arguing about?” Quinn asked.

Kick shook his head. “The car windows were closed.”

“We have to assume he told her about us finding the 25K al Sayika contribution to her husband’s campaign at Mahmood’s apartment,” Tara observed.

“If the wife didn’t already know.”

“So if she tries to blow town, she’s guilty and we pick her up,” Kick said, checking his cell phone for texts. So far, no movement reported from Marc.

“And if Congressman Altos packs his bags, he’s the guilty party,” Quinn said, “and we have the evidence we need to put the thumb screws on him about our Trigger theory. I feel like we’re running out of time. If we’re right and it is a presidential assassination they’re planning, we need to notify POTUS. But I’d like a little more evidence than pure conjecture.” He looked to Darcy. “Still nothing from Altos’s home computer?”

“Not a blessed thing. No hidden files, no suspicious e-mails. Not even any porn. The man’s freaking Mr. Clean,” she said, visibly frustrated as she headed back to the conference table where, judging by the dirty cups and empty snack bags, she’d already been working at her computer array for hours.

“Did he ever return home last night?” Tara asked.

“About half an hour after the wife came home,” van Halen confirmed. Alex watched as one of his fingers unconsciously stirred the water in the fish bowl he’d stolen from Altos’s desk last night, making its lone inhabitant dart nervously back and forth. Seriously? The man might be an ace operator, but he was truly certifiable.

“Either way the chips fall,” Alex said, “Montana is guilty of aiding and abetting, and DHS arrests his ass for breach of national security.”

“That’s not fair.” Rebel looked ready to explode. “We need to question him first. I’m sure he has a good explanation.”

“No doubt,” Alex drawled. “And I for one would love to hear it.”

“Good,” Quinn said, getting to his feet. “Because I want you to go get SAC Montana and bring him here. Whatever he knows about this whole mess, I mean to find out, one way or another. Take Rebel with you, Zane, and tell him we’ve decided to let him see Gina, since he asked yesterday. If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to worry about.” He turned to Rebel. “That fair enough for you?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, getting to her feet. “Right away.”

“Hey,” Alex protested, holding up his toast. “I haven’t finished eating yet.”

“Tough,” she said, and strode out the door.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, and got up to follow.

“And Zane,” Quinn said testily, tossing him the keys to one of the team’s SUVs, “I ordered you to
fix
that situation.”

Alex grabbed his jacket and shoulder-holster, which were draped over his chair, and on his way to the door threw them on. “I did, Commander,” he returned over one shoulder. “Can’t you tell?”

A
fingerprint had come back from the murder scene at Walter Reed. Bleary-eyed, Sarah stared at the name on the ID. It had taken quite a bit of digging, but she’d finally found the bastard in the OPM government employee database.

Gregg van Halen. A former CIA agent gone rogue.

She frowned. Hadn’t Wade mentioned a CIA covert operative who’d turned traitor? The man he thought kidnapped his ex-fiancée a few days ago?

She looked at van Halen’s face on the computer monitor. Short-cropped sandy hair, angular jaw, shadowed cheek-bones. Brutally handsome, as the song went. Like he could kill a man and not even blink. Which he obviously had at Walter Reed. She just prayed he hadn’t killed Wade’s ex-fiancée, Gina, too.

With a yawn, she hit the button on the computer to print out a hard copy.

She’d worked all night and was dog tired. She’d managed to get a warrant for the limo service’s call records, and had tracked down every single incoming phone number listed. There’d been thirteen numbers for offices up on the Hill, which she planned to narrow down this morning by hook or by crook.

As soon as she got herself another cup of coffee.

And phoned Wade.

She’d been ducking his calls since yesterday afternoon, and regardless of how big of a jerk she thought he was for engaging in a dogfight over another woman right in front of her face, he deserved to know about van Halen.

She also wanted to find out if her newest murder suspect was the same man Wade suspected of abducting his ex-fiancée. It made sense, but she needed to know for sure.

She should call Commander Quinn, as well. Although, he did have other sources. The wolf guarding Wade’s redheaded FBI agent at the hospital had been from STORM, and had no doubt given Quinn a full report. Still. The commander had been as good as his word, so Sarah wanted to return the favor. And who knew, maybe he’d dug up something she hadn’t.

But first, coffee.

Okay. And maybe a ten-minute nap.

AFTER
the breakfast meeting, Gina was feeling a little shell-shocked by everything that had come to light. Either that, or the exhaustion was finally catching up with her.

Kick and Tara had gone back to McLean to join Marc surveilling the Altos house, watching to see whether the husband or the wife would make the first move.

Quinn had finally gotten a call from his contact in the Cayman Islands, along with an e-mailed packet of bank statements from him. He’d been plenty excited about whatever was in it. He and Gregg were about to leave for the Capitol for a meeting with Congressman Altos’s chief of staff. It was Saturday, but the man was in the office preparing last-minute details for a subcommittee meeting of the House Appropriations Committee, which the congressman was scheduled to attend that afternoon.

Gina still found it hard to believe a member of congress would betray his country. And for what? Pure greed, if Gregg was right about the al Sayika blood diamonds being his motive. It would almost be more palatable if the other theory was correct, that the terrorists themselves were planning to set off a dirty bomb. As terrifying as that was, the motive would be ideological, not simple avarice. She was glad Quinn had put three other men on tracking down the nuclear trigger possibility. But her money was on greed.

“You’ll be okay?” Gregg asked, putting his arms around her. He was wearing the brown suit again. He looked strangely at home in it. Like a real businessman. If only. But after last night she knew this man would never be tamed. Even in handcuffs, he took total charge.

“I’m fine. Really,” she said. “Go. Just hurry back.”

“I will.” He kissed her. “Stay with Darcy. She’ll keep you safe while I’m gone. I hear the woman knows seven kinds of marshal arts, all black belts.”

She smiled, glancing over at Darcy, who rolled her eyes with a grin, then went back to her computers.

“And don’t even think about—”

“I know, I know. No going out for ice.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “For
any
reason. Not without Darcy.”

“I promise.”

“We’ll be back soon. Hopefully before Alex and Rebel bring in Montana.”

With a final kiss, he followed Quinn out the door. It closed behind them.

“Hold on to that one, girlfriend,” Darcy said without taking her eyes off her computer screen. “He’s definitely a keeper.”

“Yeah,” Gina said with a stab of hopeless longing. “If only he felt the same way.” She couldn’t help feeling she was living a temporary reprieve. When she’d awakened this morning to find him gone . . .

Darcy spun her chair around and regarded her. “Gina. The man is head over heels. Anyone can see that.”

“Maybe. And maybe in a parallel universe he’d do something about it. But not in this one.” His life was his job. There was no room for her in it.

“Really? What’s his problem?” The monitor beeped twice, and she spun back to type furiously on the keyboard for a few seconds, then twirled around again, looking at her expectantly.

Gina wandered over to the easy chair and sat on the fat arm. “He had a rough time as a kid. He’s shut himself off. Refuses to acknowledge his emotions. Doesn’t think he’s capable of love.”

Darcy’s brows went up. “Jeez. Someone should hand him a mirror when he looks at you.”

Gina smiled wistfully. “I’m such a wreck, I’m terrified I’ll drive him away just through my neediness. He’s the only thing keeping me sane through all of this. I’m so tired I’m about to fall over, but I can’t even sleep without him there.”

Darcy gave her a worried look. “You should try anyway. Curl up on the sofa until the guys get back. Who knows, maybe you’ll drift off.”

Gina looked around the sitting room, ablaze with sunlight pouring through the windows and French doors, and alive with the techy noises from Darcy’s computers. No way. She sighed, and thought longingly of the bed she just left . . .

Well, why not?

“Maybe I will try,” she said, getting up. “But not here. Our suite is right across the hall. I’ll be able to smell him in the bed. With the drapes pulled, I can pretend he’s there, sleeping next to me. It could work.”

Darcy crossed her arms. “You heard what he said. No leaving the suite.
This
one.”

“Without you, he said.” Gina spread her hands in appeal. “You can walk me across the hall and watch me go in and close the door. I swear I won’t open it for anyone, and I’ll call you when I want to come back. I even have a gun. Gregg gave me his Beretta yesterday.”

Darcy started to shake her head. “I don’t—”

“Please?” Gina said. “I’ve been terrified nonstop for a week. I could really use the rest, before . . .”

She didn’t complete the sentence, but she could tell that Darcy understood. Having narrowed down Altos or his wife as the traitor, events were starting to come to a head. But if the Trigger was still out there somewhere, and Gina had an awful feeling he was, things would get a lot worse before they got better. She didn’t want to be cross-eyed from exhaustion when all hell broke loose.

“I shouldn’t,” Darcy said, breaking down. “But I do get the man-smell thing. I’m the same way about Bobby Lee. So I’ll go along with this. But I swear, if you step foot outside that room without calling me I’ll shoot you myself. I’m serious.”

“I won’t. Cross my heart,” Gina said, and on impulse gave the other woman a hug.

With a start, she realized Darcy was the first person she’d willingly touched since her abduction, other than Rainie and Gregg. A milestone? Oh, yes. A happy one.

Darcy insisted on clearing the other suite first, of course. With weapon drawn, she searched every nook and cranny before giving Gina the okay to come farther than one step inside the door.

“Is that the Beretta?” Darcy asked, and pointed to the gun that still sat where Gina had left it on the sideboard yesterday.

She nodded.

“Keep it with you. Put it under your pillow while you sleep.”

“I will. And thanks,” Gina said, preparing to close the door after Darcy as she left. “I’ll call.”

“
No ice
,” the other woman warned with a wag of her finger, walking across the hall again. “And no room service, either!”