Exchange of Fire (3 page)

Same Night—Miami, Florida

“I’ve found something.”

“Meet me at the restaurant.” Carlos disconnected the phone, the plastic squeaking in his clenched fist.
About fucking time.
He leaned forward and spoke quietly to his driver. “Change of plans. Drop me off at Xevera’s, then pick up Mayte and bring her to me.”

“Sí, señor.”

Carlos hit number four on his speed dial for his mistress. When she answered he cut her off. “Hector’s going to pick you up. Be ready in a half hour.” He ended the call, uninterested in her squawking.

It was time to start thinking about recouping his losses on his latest mistress. Her constant nagging and costly shopping trips were wearing on his nerves, not to mention her delusions about her replacing his wife. Carlos snorted. Fucking her was one thing; being shackled to the bitch was just unfathomable. He stared out the window at the passing street lamps, their lights blurring as they whizzed by. Mayte would net him a hefty sum at auction. A few of his former sadistic clients flashed in his head. Yeah, they’d love to get their hands on her and teach her how to respect a man. She’d either learn or die in the process. Either way, she’d be gone from his life.

Goddamn bomb. He needed to catch whoever set it off so he could rebuild his cartel’s reputation in the sex-slave biz. Starting with Mayte.

The car slowed, and his driver cruised down the alley and stopped at the back door. Carlos got out without a word and waited until the taillights were out of sight before he entered the restaurant. Chefs raced around the kitchen barking at a slew of indentured boys while the sounds of plated creations filled the air.

Carlos inhaled. Rich flavors of pan-seared meat, caramelized onions, and fresh herbs made his mouth water.

He loved owning one of the most prestigious restaurants in Miami. A pang stole over his heart, causing him to rub his chest. His brother should have been here to greet him. He and Sanchez had opened this business a year ago as a tribute to their mother, who loved to cook. When she died by a rival trafficker’s bullet, they could think of nothing better than to honor her memory by naming the place after her. Of course, they hunted down and beheaded the bastard for her too.

He trekked across the expansive kitchen and slipped through the doors into the hush of the restaurant. Soft lighting lit his way as he greeted his regular customers with a smile and a handshake. Duty out of the way, he headed for his table in the back corner.

“Escort Emilio here when he arrives,” Carlos addressed his usual waiter, then smoothed his tie as he sat in his regular chair with his back to the wall. “Mayte will be joining me shortly thereafter. If Emilio is still at my table, take her to the bar and have her wait there until he leaves. Then send up a bottle of red from the lowest rack and our usual meal.”

The man bowed.
“Sí, señor.”

Eight minutes later, his maître d’s rotund frame glided through the packed tables with a lanky twenty-one-year-old boy in tow. The kid’s hair was getting too long, something his mother should have addressed already, and his clothes appeared chosen at random from off the floor. Disgraceful.

The maître d’ bowed. Carlos waved him away.

Emilio stood on the other side of the table, clutching a laptop under his arm. “Hey, Tío, your face is healing nicely.”

Carlos gritted his teeth and resisted touching the deep scars. “It’s a good thing you’re my sister’s favorite child. How many times have I told you not to mention them?”

“But it’s not your fault you got them in the explosion.”

Carlos gripped his hands together and leaned forward on the table. “Respect my wishes, boy.”

His nephew swallowed and nodded.

Carlos tilted his head to the side. “I thought you wanted to be useful in my quest to find the dogs responsible for this.”

“Oh, yes, Tío. I think you’re right about them being the same group who killed Tío Sanchez and my brother. They don’t deserve to live.”

The boy seemed earnest enough, if not a little fanatical, but that had worked to his advantage so far. He’d have to watch his nephew closely to ensure the kid didn’t have his own agenda.

“What did you find?”

Emilio plunked the computer down and opened the laptop. After he tapped on the keyboard for too long, he finally swiveled the device and moved to stand next to Carlos’s chair.

Filling the screen was a black-and-white image frozen on a shot of an empty street.

“I’ve finally been able to clean up some footage from the only camera not mangled beyond recognition in the blast.” His nephew pointed at the screen. “This was taken from a block away to the east. At that vantage point, someone would have been able to witness your meeting with Renaldo.”

Carlos jerked his head around. “Are you saying that’s what happened?”

“Watch.” Emilio reached past Carlos’s shoulder and jabbed the keyboard. “I couldn’t recover much, but it’s enough, I think.”

A solid black line scrolled up the screen, but the street remained empty. Three seconds later, the camera shook violently as a cloud of smoke and dust filled the lens. Chunks of debris rained down on the street and the screen went black.

“Wha—”

“Wait for it, it’s coming back.”

Carlos rested his arm on the table, hating how his heart raced at the memory of being thrown off his feet and shards of glass flying at him. Not to mention the heat searing his face.

The image sprang back to life.

“There!” Emilio poked his finger toward the right of the screen.

A female rappelled down the side of a building. Carlos couldn’t determine the hair color in the black-and-white footage, but could see it was dark and pulled up in a ponytail. Her clothes were molded to her body, but not obscenely so; probably meant for blending in.
She landed on the ground and looked left, then right. She cinched her backpack up higher on her shoulders and walked off at a brisk pace.

“That’s all there is.” Emilio reached over and pressed stop.

Carlos glanced down to find his knuckles white from gripping the table. He consciously made his hand open and asked softly, “Who is she?”

Emilio took the seat beside him. “Don’t know yet. I’ve kept in touch with a guy who spoke at my school. He’s got enough contacts and should know someone who can ID her.”

“Can you get a closer shot of her face?”

“Not really. It’s a miracle I salvaged this much. I haven’t slept in two days, working on it.”

Explained a lot.

“Play it again.”

***

One Week Later—SweetBriar Group Headquarters and Training Facility, Kansas

Ted Byrnes shoved his glasses back in place and grabbed his coffee mug. He slurped at the edge and jerked back when the scalding liquid fried his taste buds.

“Shit,” he yelped, though it sounded more like
Thit
on his numb tongue.

“You burn yourself again?” Mitch, a fresh-out-of-college youth comprising one-fourth of Ted’s IT team, asked as he rolled his chair to peer around the half wall separating their cubicles.

“Ha, ha, ha,” Ted replied as his e-mail icon blinked and his speakers intoned,
“Message for you, sir.”
Ted tapped on his mouse, then paused, glancing up. “You already have your daily ego-crushing from the girl in accounting yet?”

“Yeah.” Mitch sighed theatrically.

“How many times has she rejected you? Ten? Twenty?”

His coworker grinned. “She’s wearing down. I can tell.”

“Sure she is. Just like I keep meaning to ask for iced coffee instead.”

Mitch laughed and rolled out of sight.

Ted slapped the mug on his desk and squinted at the e-mail’s sender. Sweet. He hadn’t heard from his old MIT roommate in a while. Wonder what the jackass was up to now?

He clicked it open.

Hey Buddy,

Still hugging trees for SweetBriar Group or have you finally decided to wise up and start your own business? The IT field is booming, my man. With that egg-head of yours, you could be richer than Bill Gates.

Have I buttered you up enough yet? Good. Got a little project for you. A student from one of my speaking engagements asked if I knew someone who could ID this woman. He didn’t go into too many details, but mentioned something about her possibly being behind a bombing in Mexico that injured his uncle. When I pressed, he admitted the Policía didn’t have the resources or inclination to follow up on this. I instantly thought of you. I tried to work on it myself first, but couldn’t make any progress.

Can you help me out? Let me know her name and anything else you can dig up. I’ll pass it on and owe you.

—Condor

Ted clicked on the attachment. Three seconds into watching a female scale down a wall, his stomach flipped. He couldn’t be positive, but he was pretty sure he recognized that ass . . . it usually starred in a few of his fantasies. Of course, in his dreams he also played the role of a field agent seducing his partner as they narrowly escaped the bad guys. So much more glamorous than his having to explain all the time that it was his graduation from MIT and computer savvy that earned him the Level Five security clearance, not his uncle’s being the CEO.

He quickly saved the file onto his hard drive. Shit. If he was right, that meant his fantasy operative had gone Rogue. He opened his appointment calendar and blocked out the entire morning. With a thumping heart he snapped on a pair of earphones and set to work, hoping to prove his gut wrong.

Four hours later, Ted slumped in his chair, staring at his dual monitors. On one screen was a grainy but enhanced image of the video woman. On the other was a crystal clear photo of Wraith taken last year during a mandatory employee photo refresh for the files.
KIA
stamped in red filled the top corner, but didn’t detract from her beauty.

His gaze bounced between the two.
Son of a bitch.
In this case, he hated being right. Wraith was a Shade—an agent declared dead but miraculously walking among the living. Which meant she had gone Rogue. Uncle Victor was going to go nuts when he saw this. Ted wiped his damp palms on his pants.

I could always not tell him and hope he never finds out . . .

“As if that would ever work,” he muttered, yanking his earbuds out. That man was paranoid with a capital
P
. At his uncle’s directive, Ted had written a program that scrubbed every computer’s hard drive every few weeks, logging what each employee worked on and how long they spent on the projects. Regardless of whether the person worked for the public face or the clandestine side, no one but CEO Victor Dalmingo’s machine was immune.

No way to hide the hours he’d just spent trying to prove himself wrong nor the results of his efforts when the report landed in Victor’s e-mail. He sighed. On days like these, Ted really missed the original founders. A former CIA spook, Sam Clover, had come up with the brilliant idea of hiding in plain sight. He teamed up with leading environmental activist Thane Milton, and together they formed SweetBriar Group. But a run of bad luck struck five years ago when Thane died of a heart attack shortly after Sam had died in the field. The Board had scrambled to find someone who could balance both sides. Victor had an Ivy League degree and was an operative to boot. It took the Board all of five minutes to vote him in as the new CEO.

Lots of changes had happened since then. Ted shifted in his chair. Not necessarily for good either. For the past few years, Ted had noticed a subtle shift in his uncle’s persona. At first, the small bouts of distrust and weird accusations weren’t that bad, but lately, the frequency of allegations and the rise in death notices had become disturbing. If he didn’t come clean now, he’d probably find himself in the unemployment line . . . or worse. Better to show Victor firsthand so he could learn how his uncle planned to handle the knowledge.

He snatched up his phone’s handset and jabbed in an extension. “Hey, Valerie. Victor in his office? I’ve got something he needs to see.”

“Hold on, I’ll peek in and tell him.” Snappy jazz music filled his ear. Same tunes a caller heard when they dialed the main number for the real environmental division.

“Ted?” Valerie came back on the line. “He said he has a few minutes.”

Crap.
“Great. I’ll be right up.”

Ted took the elevator upstairs and trudged along the plush hallway to the executive wing. He fumbled with his tie and smoothed down his hair.

“Go right on in,” Valerie said from behind her desk when she spotted him approaching.

He shot her what he knew was probably a lame smile and kept going.
Why did I ever kid myself into thinking I’d become an operative one day?
A few months before his uncle had been named CEO, Victor had approached Ted and asked if he would work for SBG. It didn’t take long for Ted to learn the difference between SweetBriar Group and SBG. SweetBriar Group was the public face while SBG was the nickname the Black Ops operatives dubbed the secret side. If Ted had turned the position down, he wouldn’t have to be walking into Victor’s office consigning Wraith to a new fate. Instead, he could’ve been making some real money and driving through Silicon Valley in a Lamborghini.

***

Victor Dalmingo leaned back in his leather chair and enjoyed the filtered sunlight warming his face as it streamed through the tinted floor-to-ceiling panes of his corner office. He studied his nephew crossing the expansive plush carpeting.

He could only mentally shake his head and wonder how the kid could be related to him.
NERD
screamed from every pore between the ill-fitting khaki pants, misbuttoned checked shirt, hair standing up in the back, and disappointingly five-foot-seven height. Victor didn’t trust many people, but with his nephew’s appearance, he didn’t have to worry about the kid spilling secrets during pillow talk. Hell, the twenty-seven-year-old was probably still a virgin.

“I have something you need to see,” Ted announced when he reached the desk, holding up a flash drive. “May I?” He waved at the keyboard and mouse.

Victor pushed his chair back and motioned for his nephew to continue. With a few clicks, two images appeared on his screen.