A Murder in Time (2 page)

She screamed.

His eyes glinted, his face suddenly a demonic shadow as he hovered above her. His free hand flashed toward her throat, wrapping around the slim column, choking off the shrill sound. The pressure increased. The sharp pain in her breast faded abruptly, swamped by the more pressing need to breathe. Frantically, she struggled to free herself from the punishing grip. As she bucked and writhed, her lungs began to burn, her vision dimmed. Her tongue seemed to swell in her mouth, further choking her.

Just when she thought her throat would be crushed, the pressure eased. Coughing and gasping, she sucked in great gulps of the scented air. And now she recognized that other smell in the room. It came to her in one horrifying flash.

Blood.

The devil's lips brushed her ear.

“It's not going to be that easy, my sweet,” he murmured silkily, sliding over her. Skin against skin. His sweat mingling with her blood. “I am not through with you yet.”

He reached for something above her, and though her heart pounded in her ears, Lydia heard the unmistakable clink of metal. Then, the cold bite of steel against her flesh.

Her eyes widened and the bone-shaking terror that flooded her made her yearn for the unconsciousness denied her a moment ago. Because now she knew that this was no sensual lair with the flickering candles and beautiful bed.

A choked sob escaped her.

This wasn't heaven, after all.

1

Present Day

“You're sure about this?
Absolutely sure
? We finally got the son of a bitch?”

Unease, as dark and slick as an oil spill, slid inside Kendra's belly. She ignored the sensation, putting it down to the dozen pairs of eyes locked on her at the moment.

And not just any eyes. Three sets of those eyes belonged to assistant directors or associate deputy directors from a veritable alphabet soup of agencies—the CIA, NSA, and her own FBI, including a senior official from the National Security Branch, which had been formed post-9/11 to coordinate counter­terrorism, counterintelligence, and intelligence resources. The other members of the special task force were agents like her, although she was the only woman in the room. Depending on one's perspective, that made her either very special or a freak. She shied away from choosing a side on that one.

“It's Balakirev.” Kendra kept her voice cool and steady with an effort, though she felt those eyes pressing against her like a physical weight. “We managed to get a lock on his IP address after we covertly piggybacked onto one of his client's wired accounts—”

“It wasn't easy,” Special Agent Daniel Sheppard jumped in, excitement animating his usually taciturn features. “The sneaky bastard bounced the signal around the globe.”

Daniel was, at heart, a computer geek, and used his skills brilliantly within the FBI's Cyber Action Teams. Normally, he was responsible for chasing malicious computer hackers throughout the world. This was the first time he'd been asked to track down a known terrorist.

“But Kendra—Special Agent Donovan—created a program that was absolutely genius,” Daniel continued, shooting the woman beside him a look of admiration. “It tracked his previous patterns, allowing us to leap
forward
, rather than catching up with his signal—”

“I understand.” Peter Carson, the FBI's assistant director of the New York field office, raised his hand in an impatient, preemptive gesture to ward off what would undoubtedly be a long-winded session of techno-speak. Carson wasn't a computer geek. He had no interest in the Internet, except to use it to nail the ass of one Vlad Balakirev, former KGB agent turned merchant of death.

The Russian had been Carson's mission for more than a year, ever since the NSA had picked up chatter linking him to an al-Qaeda terrorist group rumored to be on the verge of setting up a cell in New York City. They'd formed an elite, multi-agency task force to track Balakirev around the world. And they'd come damn close to capturing him twice: once in Jordan and then, two months later, in Spain. But he'd eluded them. In the process, he'd taken out five of their Special Ops agents.

That had been a bitter pill to swallow, but nothing compared to the gut-clenching fear that Carson felt after receiving intel a month ago that Balakirev had slipped into the United States with a cache of chemical weapons to sell. Specifically, ricin, the deadly compound favored by Balakirev's former KGB. Carson had been chewing Tums like they were candy after
that
news.

“I want to be sure—absolutely goddamn
sure
—that it's Balakirev,” he said now, remembering the botched mission in Spain. How the hell had the Russian slipped through that net? He pushed that question aside to focus on Kendra Donovan.

If he felt a little squeamish about dealing with her, he was careful to keep that hidden. It had been his decision eight months ago to pull her out of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, where she'd been using her profiling and computer skills to work on the country's most vicious serial killer cases. It had given him a jolt to meet her in person, though. He put his reaction down to her age—only twenty-six, for Christ's sake. But he'd read her file; he knew who she was. Hell, he knew
what
she was. The offspring of two scientists who advocated eugenics, she'd been a child prodigy, landing at Princeton when she was only fourteen. By the time she was eighteen, she'd gotten degrees in advanced computer science, psychology, and criminology. No wonder the Bureau had wanted her badly enough to circumvent their age requirement of twenty-three to get her in. Kendra Donovan was a capable agent, Carson knew.

Even so, it was damn distracting, discussing tactical operations with someone who wore their hair in a jaunty ponytail. Feminists could kiss his ass, but Carson was old enough and, yes, old-fashioned enough to still believe that to bring a woman—especially a woman who looked like Kendra—into an all-male environment was to invite disaster. But if Kendra had found Balakirev, he'd kiss the foot of every feminist he met. Damned if he wouldn't.

“It's Balakirev.” Kendra was pleased her voice was steady, revealing none of her inner tension. “We've tracked his signal to a warehouse in Brooklyn.” She hesitated briefly, her eyes, as dark as onyx, unreadable. She kept her gaze trained on Carson, even though she wanted to glance at the man on the other side of the room. “The warehouse is owned by Berkshire, Ltd. That's a shell company for E.V. Inc., which is a subsidiary of Greenway International.”

She held her breath. She'd just dropped a bombshell.

“Greenway International?” That came from Bradley Thompson, the CIA's associate deputy director. He surged forward in his chair. “Are you talking about Sir Jeremy Greene?”

“Yes, sir.”

Thompson shot Carson a look. “You do know who he is, don't you?”

Carson found himself bristling for no other reason than Thompson having been a major pain in the ass since they'd been forced to work together—in the spirit of interagency cooperation, of course. While Washington had given him the leadership position, the decision hadn't stopped Thompson from trying to assert his authority every chance he could, the cocky bastard.

“I read newspapers,” Carson responded testily.

“You should read the reports we've had on him,” Thompson retorted. “The cleanest thing about him is his Savile Row suits.”

While Balakirev was a shadowy figure in the underworld of gun-running and smuggling, Kendra knew that Greene was another matter entirely. The Brit graced the business and society pages. He'd had been born into money and had amassed even more. Twenty years ago, he'd been knighted. He'd dined at the White House; slept in the Lincoln bedroom. The public probably believed that sort of prestige made him a good guy. In reality, it just meant he was politically savvy and smart. And his connections hadn't prevented him from being scrutinized by the CIA, Israeli intelligence, Interpol, and Britain's own MI5.

“He's been suspected of money laundering, drugs, human trafficking, and,” Thompson added significantly, “weapons smuggling.”

Carson's mouth tightened. “Our mission is Balakirev.”

“Don't be stupid,” snapped Thompson. “Greene changes everything. He's the
big
fish. Washington will want to hook him.”

There'd never been anything resembling friendliness between the two men, but Thompson's implied threat stripped away the pretense of professional courtesy. The very air in the conference room seemed to shimmer, a desert heat of hostility.

Kendra watched the men shift their positions. Those still seated now pushed themselves to their feet. The FBI agents joined Carson, while the CIA agents flanked Thompson, like two packs of dogs sizing up each other, ready to fight for their territory. The representatives from the NSA and NSB took a step back, separating themselves from the upcoming confrontation.

They were Switzerland.

And I'm a fool
, Kendra thought wryly, stepping between these two powerful foes. “We may be able to hook both Balakirev and Greene.” Dangling that carrot made her, once again, the focal point. This time was worse, though, because at least one of the pairs of eyes on her was furious, and they belonged to her current boss.

“What are you talking about, Agent Donovan?” Carson demanded. The snap in his voice made her flinch.

“When I realized that Sir Jeremy owned the warehouse Balakirev was using, I took the liberty of tracing his whereabouts. He—”

“Why?” Carson interrupted, his eyes bright with irritation and suspicion.

The question threw her for a second. Recovering, she said, “I recognized his name from an agency report I'd read.” In fact, she'd read the report eleven months ago, but her memory had never been an issue. While it wasn't quite eidetic, it came pretty damn close. “Greene filed a flight plan from Heathrow yesterday. His private jet touched down at JFK this morning at three
a.m.
He was picked up by a limousine and taken to his penthouse on Park Avenue.”

Thompson stared at her. “Greene's in New York?”

Carson scowled. “He has nothing to do with our mission, which remains
Balakirev
.”

Kendra didn't need him to emphasize the Russian's name to know that Carson was warning her. Jesus H. Christ, this was probably how it felt to find yourself in the middle of a minefield. Her stomach churned. One wrong step . . . “Greene is scheduled to be at the Brooklyn warehouse today at four
p.m.
”

Thompson sucked in a breath. He looked like a man who'd just found God. “How'd you know that?”

“He uses a smartphone.”

Carson didn't look like he'd found God—he looked coldly furious. But at that bit of information, he snorted. “For a smart man, that's pretty stupid.” Even he knew that wireless technology, no matter how many layers of security measures one stacked on, could be infiltrated. Especially by somebody like Kendra Donovan.

“Not stupid—arrogant,” corrected Kendra.

There was a short, heavily charged silence. Thompson threw her a speculative glance—it wasn't the first one he'd given her in the past eight months—before turning his attention back to Carson. “If we can get Greene on record consorting with a known terrorist, that's a fucking big deal. If we can hook him, we could blow apart not only Balakirev's operation, but a hundred more like it. We'll need him alive.”

He didn't wait for an answer before pulling out his cell phone. As he moved off to the far end of the conference room, the stony-faced CIA agents broke away to stand near their leader.

Carson gritted his teeth. Diplomacy may be the watchword in Washington these days, but he knew Thompson was just salivating to take over the operation.
His
operation.

He turned back to his own agents. “If we're going to take them both down, we need to work fast. Sheppard, get me the blueprints for that warehouse. I want the layout, security. Two teams, plus FBI SWAT. Donovan, coordinate with HAZMAT.” He swung away, striding toward the door, and slid a fiery glance at Thompson. “I'll call Langley.”

No
, Kendra thought. There was no way they were going to keep her from the front lines when this operation went down. She raced after Carson. “Sir.
Sir
?”

Carson gave her an impatient look. “In case it's escaped your attention, Special Agent Donovan, we don't have a lot of time here.”

“Yes, sir. I want to be in on the final phase of the operation.” Kendra fixed her gaze on his. “I'm not a computer geek,” she reminded him, and again had to fight to keep her voice steady. But she was tired, so damned tired of having to prove herself. When she'd first joined the FBI, they'd taken one look at her and stuck her behind a desk. She'd fought hard for a chance in the field. To prove herself. The chance to be treated like everybody else.

Yeah, as if.

Her stomach knotted, but she refused to look away from the assistant director as he scowled. “I've been trained for the field—I've been in the field,” she pointed out. “You know that. You know I can handle myself.”

“I don't have time for this,” Carson growled.

“She got Greene . . . and Balakirev.” Thompson, who'd been standing near the window, pocketed his cell phone and now strode toward them. Something in his demeanor suggested that he didn't give a damn whether the woman went on the mission or not—he just liked pissing off Carson. “We're wasting time. You may have been put in charge—” Despite his best effort, irritation sizzled to the surface. Bureaucratic bullshit, to give jurisdiction to the fucking FBI. “—but we need to lock this down.
Today
. If you can't, the FBI can kiss my ass, because I won't have you screwing this up.”

He shouldered his way past them, disappearing out the door. The three CIA agents followed. They were too well-trained to smirk, but by the gleam in their eyes, Kendra got the impression they were smirking all the same.