Invasion of Privacy (29 page)

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Mary entered the kitchen to find Carrie Kramer pressing a bag of ice to Grace’s leg and Tank hovering nearby like a concerned uncle.

“Just a bruise, Mom,” said Carrie. “We’re all going to be fine.”

Tank broke away and walked to her, using his bulk to provide them with a moment’s privacy. “What took so long?”

Mary stepped closer. “They tried again,” she whispered. “I had to knock him out.”

“To kill you? He’s there now?”

Mary swallowed and her throat ached. “I’ll tell you everything in a sec.” She continued past him and sat down next to her daughter. “What is it, mouse?”

“My leg hurts,” said Grace. “I tried not to let it bother me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Mary gave her daughter a hug. “If something bothers you, tell me right away. Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Now let me take a look.”

Grace lifted the ice bag off her leg. “It got bigger.”

Somehow Mary managed a smile. “You know what I think? I think it’s just a big bad bruise from falling on the trampoline.” She was lying. She’d never seen a bruise like that from a simple tumble. She prayed it was a reaction to the new medicine Grace was taking.

Grace poked at her leg. “It isn’t coming back, is it, Momma?”

“Doctor Rogers said you’re doing just fine. But tell you what—we should probably go to the hospital to have them check it out.”

“Now?”

“I think that’s best.”

“Can they give me something to make it stop hurting? Carrie gave me an Advil, but it’s not doing anything.”

“I’m sure they can. Now can you wait here with Carrie for a few minutes while I talk to Tank?”

Grace replaced the ice bag. “Did you find Jessie?”

“She went on a little trip, but she’s just fine.”

“Where?”

“I’ll tell you in a second.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Not yet.”

Grace considered this with genuine concern. “Then how do you know she’s fine?”

Mary laughed off the question as if it were part of some larger, amusing misunderstanding, then led Tank into the dining room. Once inside, her smile dimmed and she collapsed onto a chair.

“What happened?” asked Tank, taking the chair opposite her. “You look like hell.”

“Jessie’s in Las Vegas. She went with her friend Garrett to compete in some kind of hacking game. Apparently someone’s there who might help her figure out who hacked into my phone originally.”

“Slow down. Catch your breath.”

Mary cradled her head in her hands until her breathing returned to normal. She felt the color coming back into her cheeks. Even better, her forearm stopped throbbing from the collision of bowl and bone.

It took her ten minutes to relate all that had transpired inside her home—finding the Ferrari key, hearing the intruder enter and the shots being fired upstairs, hiding beneath Joe’s desk while the intruder sat inches away telling an associate that no evidence had been located on Stark’s body, and finally hearing the call she’d thought was from Jessie but was from Linus Jankowski and her rash decision to attack the man.

“It was Keefe,” she said. “He’s the one who betrayed Joe. He told them that Stark was the informant. The South African said that Keefe didn’t know how Joe’s informant was bringing out the evidence and that Joe was on to Edward Mason. You were right. They won’t stop until we’re all dead.”

Tank sighed. “I hate it when that happens.”

Mary stood, feeling stronger, if only because she knew what was required of her. “I may be able to reach her. Linus gave me Garrett’s number.”

“Tell her to get somewhere safe. The sheriff or the police. Even the fire department.”

“But the South African didn’t speak to Linus. They don’t know where Jessie is.”

Tank stood and stepped closer to her, suddenly angry. “Be real. If you know she’s in Vegas, so do they.”

Mary left the room to borrow Carrie Kramer’s phone and took it into the bathroom. Despite her prayers, Garrett Clark didn’t answer his phone. She left a message. “Garrett, this is Mary Grant. Listen to me. I don’t care that you and Jess are in Las Vegas. But you need to get away from that convention and go someplace safe. The people that hurt my husband—the men that killed Jessie’s dad—know where you are. Go to the police station now. I’ll be on the first flight out this morning to get you guys. Just go to the police station and stay there. Oh…and don’t use your phones. Either of you.”

Mary put down the phone and stared at her reflection. She was a mess. Her eyeliner was smeared. The circles beneath her eyes were dark enough to tar a driveway. She splashed water on her face and washed off the remaining makeup, then found a comb and tried to make sense of her hair. Standing straighter, she looked into her own eyes, trying to access some untapped reservoir of courage, to drum up some last measure of strength, or maybe just a little hope. After a moment she dropped her eyes. She had none. Still, what was she supposed to do? Give up? Throw in the towel? She couldn’t. She was a mom.

She found Tank lying on the couch, drifting off. She roused him and told him her plan.

“You’re sure?” Tank asked her when they’d finished hashing it all out.

“Can you think of anything better?”

“And your friend will help?”

“I think so. For Grace.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get moving.”

“You still haven’t told me where the car is.”

“The Ferrari? Don’t worry. I know exactly where it is.”

“How’s that?”

“I saw it yesterday.”

The knot on his skull was the size of a grenade.

Staggering to his feet, Peter Briggs drew his fingers away from his scalp. There was no blood, only a feral and incessant hammering. All in all, he decided, it might be wiser to sit for a minute. He landed in the nearest chair and after a good deal of reckoning concluded that he’d been out for five minutes.

Briggs knew that he’d sustained a concussion. By rights he should be inside an ambulance, rushing to the hospital to undergo an MRI. The idea had as much appeal as a case of the clap. Ian Prince would not appreciate learning that his chief of security had been brained by the woman he’d been forbidden to interfere with, let alone murder.

The hospital was out.

Briggs arranged his commo headset, bringing the mike to his mouth. “You there?”

“What happened? You sound like you’re dead. Must be some woman. Killed Shanks and got the best of you, too.”

“Forget about the woman. Just tell me you captured the incoming call.”

“I got the whole thing.”

“Who was it?”

“You don’t remember?”

Briggs’s last memory was of being in Joe Grant’s study looking at the flash drives. “Just tell me who it was.”

“Someone named Linus Jankowski. He’s a postdoc at UT.”

“What did they talk about?”

“She wanted to know where her older daughter was.”

“And he knew?”

“According to Jankowski, she flew to Las Vegas. I checked the flights. A Southwest Airlines jet out of Austin is due in at two-fifteen.”

“Do we have any confirmation she’s on it?”

“I’m working on the passenger list.”

Briggs struggled to take this in. It was his belief that the older
daughter had merely sneaked out of the house with a boyfriend. “Why Vegas? Why now?”

“She’s going to DEF CON.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“I have an idea. Something I picked up off her texts yesterday.”

Briggs forced himself to stand and get moving as the Mole revealed what he’d learned about Jessie Grant’s interest in hacking and her questions about a particular line of code. “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

“Didn’t know we had any interest in the kid.”

“Well, you should have.”

“And that line of code she was interested in…”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Briggs. “We can continue this later. I’ve got to get out of here.”

Briggs picked up his pistol and made his way outside. On the street he struggled to regain a measure of clarity, but his short-term memory was undergoing a denial-of-service attack. Too much input. Too little processing power. He stumbled repeatedly, and before long gave up tramping through flowerbeds and the protection of the shadows for the safety of the sidewalk.

He spotted his car and crossed the street, still weaving drunkenly. A vehicle approached, headlights on bright, traveling at high speed.

“Slow down,” he called as a battered Jeep Cherokee whipped past him. He turned in time to see a large shaggy head at the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.

Tank Potter and Mary Grant.

Briggs slid behind the wheel, tossing his pistol onto the passenger seat. His head no longer bothered him. His vision was back to twenty/twenty. His sense of purpose returned with a vengeance. He pulled the car into the street and accelerated, making sure to keep his lights extinguished. He rounded the first turn and saw their taillights mounting a gentle incline a hundred yards ahead. He closed the gap rapidly.

Ahead, the Jeep barreled past a stop sign.

For Chrissakes, thought Briggs, reinvigorated by the chase. Aren’t we in a hurry?

He downshifted and ran the stop sign, too. He knew why they were driving so recklessly. They had the evidence. Mary Grant had risked returning home in order to retrieve the information that Hal Stark had smuggled out of his office.

Briggs gripped the wheel furiously. This was his chance. Were he to recapture the evidence, Ian would be in the clear. Fail and Ian was finished, and Briggs close behind him. It came down to one thing: stop Potter and the Grant woman at all costs.

The Jeep passed an elementary school and made a right onto Anderson Mill Road, wheels screeching so loudly Briggs could hear them a hundred yards back. Traffic was light, but there was enough to prevent him from taking active measures to disable the Jeep. Besides, there were electronic witnesses all around in the form of cameras posted on all traffic lights.

He followed Potter and the woman onto the four-lane thoroughfare, turning on his headlights. He knew the road. There was a blind section ahead, a long, bending curve cutting through a patch of undeveloped scrub. No stoplights. No cameras. He would have one chance to take them.

He punched the gas and came up on the Jeep’s tail. The road began its curve. He noted with satisfaction that no cars were approaching. No lights were visible in the rearview mirror. He swung to the left and accelerated, catching the Jeep. Briggs lowered the passenger window, pistol gripped loosely in his right hand. The gap between the vehicles was a foot, maybe less. He aimed at Tank Potter. He expected the Jeep to veer away, but it did nothing to evade him. A last look ahead confirmed that no cars were oncoming. Briggs could shoot with impunity.

A burst of gas. He pulled even with the Jeep. He caught the driver’s profile. Strong jaw. Tanned skin. It was him, all right. He straightened his arm. A three-shot burst would do the trick. Aim low to compensate for the kick. He felt a spurt of optimism as his finger brushed the trigger.

To be done with them…
finally
.

The driver leaned to the side and poked her head out the window. She was a pretty woman in her late thirties, and she appeared angry and resolute. Next to her sat a pale, wide-eyed girl with flaxen hair.

Not Tank Potter at all. And where was Mary Grant?

The woman extended her arm out the window and gave him the finger.

Briggs braked and watched as the Jeep pulled away and disappeared into the night.

“You flipped that man the bird!” shrieked Grace, slumping in her seat with embarrassment.

Carrie Kramer kept her eyes on the rearview mirror as the BMW receded from view. “I sure did, sweetie. He deserved it.”

“What did he do?”

“It’s what he wanted to do that scared me.”

“Are we safe?”

“We are now.”

Grace sighed and sat up a little straighter in her seat. “You can call me ‘Mouse.’ My mom does.”

Carrie ran a hand across Grace’s head. “Okay, mouse.”

She turned south on Research. Even so late, traffic flowed steadily in both directions. The sight of so many headlights was a relief like no other. Mary’s plan had worked, but only just. She wasn’t sure she’d tell her about the man with the pistol. She looked over at her passenger. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay, I guess.”

“We’ll be at the hospital in five minutes. Can you hold on that long?”

“I think so.”

“Thatta girl.”

Grace nodded, her eyes keen. “When you drive fast,” she said, “it makes me forget all about my leg.”

Carrie hit the accelerator. “You got it, mouse.”

“You’re sure it’s here?” asked Mary.

Tank stared out the window. “I’m sure.”

It was 3:30. They sat in Carrie Kramer’s Lexus SUV, parked on the shoulder across the street from Bulldog Wrecker on South Congress, five miles south of the river, more out of town than in it. A sheet-metal fence surrounded the impound yard. Vacant lots bookended the property. Every few minutes a tow truck arrived, dragging its prey. The driver rang a buzzer, looked into a camera, and waited for the gate to rattle open.

“I picked up my car here Tuesday morning,” Tank went on. “The cops had it towed after I was busted for my DUI. Cost me four hundred bucks to get it out.”

Mary surveyed the lot. The neighborhood was a step below seedy and hovering just above dangerous.

“So what do I do?”

“Same thing you did at the Nutty Brown Cafe. Drive in. Flash your badge. Say you want to look at the car.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“You’re a federal agent working the homicide of a fellow law enforcement officer. You don’t care what time it is. Own it and they won’t blink an eye.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be in the car if you need me.”

Mary checked that no traffic was coming, then made a U-turn and pulled up to the gate. She rang the buzzer and held Joe’s badge up for the camera. A moment later the gate groaned and rattled open on its track. Mary drove across dirt and gravel toward the office. Two drivers rested on the fenders of their trucks, smoking cigarettes and sharing a flask. Mariachi music blared from a stereo. She saw the Ferrari parked on the opposite side of the yard, next to a Toyota and a Ford pickup. “Guess you were right,” she said.

“I know my cars.”

“Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need luck,” said Tank. “You’re the law.”

Mary climbed out of the car, adjusting her jacket to cover Joe’s gun. A bell above the door tinkled as she entered the office. A Hispanic woman stood behind the counter. She had a pistol on her belt, too, and wanted everyone to see it. “We’re closed. Open again tomorrow at eight.”

“Emergency. I’d appreciate your cooperation.” Mary badged her. “I’m here to take a look at the vehicle we brought in two days ago. I see you have it out front.”

“Sorry. Keys are all locked up. Can’t get to them till morning.”

“What about the keys of the cars those fellas just brought in? What do you do with them?”

The woman eyed the two key chains on the desk, then shrugged, beaten at her own game. “Do you have the paperwork?”

Mary leaned in. “You have
two
Ferraris here?”

The woman stepped to her computer and tapped the keys for much too long. “Vehicle is registered to?”

“Harold Stark.”

“And you are?”

“Special Agent Mary Grant.”

The woman ducked her head around the computer. “Same name as that agent who was killed.”

“No relation.”

The woman considered this. She was short and solid, with tattoos covering both arms. The largest showed an eagle wrapped in a Mexican flag. She smiled, revealing a gold-capped tooth. “I want to be a police officer myself. I have my app in at APD, Department of Highway Safety.”

“Good luck.”

“I shoot competitively. Shouldn’t have a problem there. What’s that you’re carrying?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your weapon…pistol…sidearm. Whatever you feds call it.”

“It’s a Glock.”

“Nice. Nine, eleven, or sixteen?”

“Pardon me?”

“Rounds.”

Mary looked at her watch. “If you don’t get me the keys to that car, the only number you’ll have to worry about is one, ’cause that’s how many bullets I’m going to fire to get you moving.”

The attendant bucked to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Miss…”

“Garza. Yolanda Garza.”

“Thank you, Miss Garza. If I have the chance, I’ll be sure to put in a good word.”

Yolanda Garza unlocked a cabinet on the wall behind her. When she turned back, she held a fat rubber car key like the one Mary had seen in Joe’s study earlier. “Here you are, Special Agent Grant,” she said, placing the key on the counter. “I’ll need to see your government identification as well as your driver’s license.”

Mary patted her jacket and frowned. Earlier she’d forgotten to bring Joe’s picture. This was a more serious offense. “In my purse. Be right back.”

“Leave the key.”

Mary set the key to the LaFerrari on the counter. “There you are. I’ll just be a minute.”

Garza was already back at the computer, eyes squinting as she scrolled down a page. “Take your time. I’ve got to call your boss first.”

Mary paused at the door. “Pardon me?”

“This isn’t the first time you guys have left a vehicle with us. I can’t release nothing until I speak with the SAC. Company policy. Your company.”

“You’re taking your life into your hands,” said Mary, doing a bad job of trying to sound funny. “Don Bennett doesn’t like being woken up in the middle of the night.”

“Then you shouldn’t show up so late.”

Mary shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The tow-truck drivers were still perched on their fenders, smoking cigarettes. Seeing Mary, they made a halfhearted attempt to hide their flask. Mary gave them a stern look, all the while forcing herself to walk, not run.

“We need to leave,” she said, sliding behind the wheel. “She’s calling Don Bennett. She needs his permission to release the vehicle.”

“Did you get it?”

Mary opened her fist. “I switched keys when she wasn’t looking.”

“I’m beginning to think you missed your calling.”

“Let’s go before she talks to Bennett. The woman’s packing a piece the size of a bazooka.”

She put the car in gear and drove toward the exit, rolling over the pressure sensors that activated the gate. With a shudder, it began to roll on its track. Faster, she thought.

“Let’s see if we were right.”

Mary gave him the key. He pressed his thumb against the translucent dome in the key’s center. Nothing happened.

“Try it again.”

He thumbed the dome, harder this time. Still nothing. “You got any other ideas?”

“Give it to me.” Mary grabbed the key and rammed her thumb against the dome. She felt something give. The flash drive shot out of the bottom of the key. “Woman’s touch.”

“Jesus. You were right.”

“You didn’t believe me?”

“Honestly? No.” Tank twisted in his seat, an eye on the office door. “Ah, shit.”

“What?”

“You weren’t kidding about that gun.”

A siren wailed. The gate stopped dead in its tracks. In the rearview mirror, Mary saw Yolanda Garza burst out of the office door, gun drawn. The woman was shouting something to the truck drivers, who launched themselves off the fenders and ran to their cabs. Both emerged holding handguns. There was a ping of metal and simultaneously a gunshot. Then more.

The side window shattered. A tire exploded. The car listed to port. Mary ducked. “We’re at the fucking O.K. Corral.”

“Get out of the car,” shouted Garza. “Open your doors.”

Mary complied.

Tank reached across and yanked it shut. “I am not going to be captured by Evelyn Ness over there.”

“What are you going to do, shoot her? Get out of the car, Tank. It’s over. We’re done.”

Tank stripped the gun from her holster. “The hell you say. It’s not even close to over.”

“Tank!”

“Listen to me. Do as she says. Get out of the car. Look nice and
peaceful. Remember you’re a mom, not an FBI agent. And on the count of three hit the ground.”

“You aren’t going to shoot anyone. I won’t allow it.”

“Eagle Scout’s word of honor.”

“But we can’t go anywhere. The front tire is flat. The car is ruined.”

“
This
car is ruined.” Tank snatched the Ferrari key from her hand. “This one isn’t.”

“But—”

“You feel like spending the next five to ten in jail? You used up your hall pass earlier today, and that was before we killed McNair. I may have pulled the trigger, but you’re my accomplice.”

“But he was going to kill me.”

“That’s a lot of
but
s hanging out there in the wind.”

“Dammit,” said Mary.

“At least let me try to get us out of here.”

Mary looked at Garza standing thirty feet away, gun aimed at her, and at the tow-truck drivers, positioned more prudently next to their vehicles. Her disdain for Mason returned, and with it her anger. If she stopped now, if she stopped before exhausting her every opportunity, she would have let them win. Ian Prince and Edward Mason and Fergus Keefe. Joe would be remembered as inept, or even a failure. Worse, his death would go unavenged.

“No shooting anyone,” she repeated.

“Yes, ma’am. Now open the door. And remember—”

“On three, hit the ground.”

Tank nodded. “Trust me.”

Mary threw her legs from the car and stepped out. Without prompting, she raised her hands. It came to her that this was the third time in twenty-four hours that she’d had a gun pointed at her.

“Stay there,” said Garza. Then she called to the drivers. “Ray, there’s a pair of cuffs in my desk. Go get ’em and bring ’em to me.”

“
One…
,” said Tank.

“Open your jacket so I can see your weapon,” said Garza. “Nice and slow. And tell your partner to get out, too.”

“Two.”

Garza stepped closer, eyes narrowed, wary. Mary unbuttoned her blazer and opened it wide. “Tank, get out, please,” she said.

“Three.”

Mary threw herself to the ground. From the corners of her eyes she
caught Tank jumping from the car, pistol in hand. He wasn’t aiming at Garza or at the drivers. He was pointing the gun at a cylindrical iron tank near the front gate. She spotted a diamond-shaped sticker on it and the word
flammable
, but only for a second. Then there was a gunshot and the tank exploded.

Mary dug her face into the dirt as the blast wave passed over her, the heat intense but fleeting. She peeked from beneath her arm and saw Tank running to the Ferrari. In front of her, Garza lay prone on the ground, unmoving. The tow-truck drivers had disappeared altogether. A fireball rose from the tank into the night sky like a giant roman candle.

She heard the Ferrari start. It was a sound like no other, a low-pitched, powerful rumble that resonated in her belly; the car was as much animal as machine. She pushed herself to her feet as Tank pulled up next to her.

He opened her door. “Get in.”

“Is she…” Mary pointed at Garza.

“Unconscious.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dammit, Mary, get in the car.”

The car was so low to the ground that she fell into the seat. The interior was like nothing she’d ever seen. Dials and gauges and lights glowed electric shades of green and yellow.

The ringing of the explosion faded and she heard a siren.

“Police,” said Tank, easing the car toward the exit. “Hold on.”

The gate lay in the center of the street, a mangled, twisted sheet of metal. To their right, far away, a police car was speeding toward them, strobes flashing. To her horror, a second patrol car followed on its tail. “Go the other way,” she said.

Tank looked to his left, where another squad car was approaching. “Must be a doughnut shop around here.”

“Which way, then?”

“I’m thinking north.”

“And then?”

“One step at a time.” He pulled into the street and steered gingerly around the gate. The police cars were closing fast, yet he made no further move. They sat stationary in the middle of the street, lights extinguished, nose pointed directly at the sidewalk and the scrub beyond.

“Hold on to the armrest.”

Mary wrapped her fingers around the leather grip. The lights from the police cars shone into the cabin, forcing her to look away.

Tank punched the gas, turning the car to the left and driving north. There was a squeal of rubber, an ungodly roar. Mary’s head hit the seatback. Her fingers tightened on the grip. The road disappeared beneath the car, the lines a blur. She’d never accelerated so rapidly in her life. It wasn’t a car; it was a rocket ship.

They passed the oncoming police car six seconds later, the speedometer reading 130 miles per hour. The headlights of the trailing cars dimmed. Tank ran a red and continued another few blocks, then braked and turned right before giving another burst of acceleration.

Two minutes later they were driving slowly through a quiet, sleeping neighborhood. Tank had one hand on the wheel and was slumped against the door.

“Are you all right?” Mary asked.

Tank touched his side and grimaced. “No, ma’am.”

“What is it?” said Mary. “What’s wrong?”

He held up a bloody hand. “I think I’ve been shot.”