Jude Devine Mystery Series (110 page)

Jude forced open her eyes. At first nothing came into focus. Her disorganized senses relayed pain. A pounding, leaden headache, sharp bolts of agony when her neck moved an inch. Plastic restraints bit into her wrists. As she tried to elbow herself into a sitting position, a hand was planted solidly on her chest.

“Not so fast.”

Jude groaned as her head reconnected with the floor. She stared up at Sandy Lane’s face. Her mouth hurt when she spoke. “I thought you were in Utah.”

“We were until I checked Debbie’s cell phone. Text messages, for God’s sake.”

Jude watched her load a hypodermic. “Sandy, we need to talk.”

“We will, once I shoot you full of babble juice.”

“You don’t need that shit,” Jude said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Sandy laughed. “Okay, surprise me.”

“I’m FBI undercover.”

“I said surprise me. I made you the first time we met.” She set the syringe aside and sat down in the sole armchair in her one-room cabin. Her brilliant blue eyes bored into Jude. “What’s your assignment?”

“White supremacists and other domestic terror cells.” Jude shuffled around until she reached the table. Using the leg for support, she pulled herself upright. Everything ached. Her jaw. Her shoulders. Her gut.

Sandy had been waiting for her. They’d fought hand to hand for a half hour or more before she was knocked out. Jude still had no idea how that had happened. She’d arrived late in Rico, held up by the aftermath of yesterday’s incident. The Montrose sheriff wanted a meeting since Hawke’s compound was in his jurisdiction. True to her word, Hill had made Jude a special focus. She would be answering stupid questions from paper pushers for the next six months. Arbiter had told her to sit tight and wait for the heat to die down.

It was dusk when she reached Pariah, negotiating her way between booby traps and dead-end hiking trails. She’d gained access to the house without too much difficulty. The reason was obvious as soon as she dropped down from the window.

“Your turn,” Jude ventured. “Are you CIA?”

Sandy give her an odd look. “Why would you ask that?”

“You don’t exactly blend in.”

“I’m not CIA and you’ve entered my home illegally,” Sandy said. “Why?”

“Because you purchased a few hundred pounds of plastic explosive in Debbie’s name.”

“That was a mistake,” Sandy acknowledged.

“Where’s Debbie now?” Jude asked.

“In Canada.” Reading something into Jude’s reaction, she seemed to take offense. “Do you really believe I would hurt her?”

“You already have. She has no idea who you are.”

Sandy lit a cigar. Contemplating the glowing tip, she said, “She knows all that’s worth knowing.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes.” Her face softened. Something philosophical and sad entered her tone. “Whatever you think, don’t ever doubt that. Or let her doubt it.”

“Be there for her.” Jude worked at the plastic around her wrists. “Then she won’t have a reason to doubt.”

“If I can, I will.” Sandy puffed on the cigar. “You looked in my personal files on Debbie’s computer, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, riveting stuff,” Jude said dryly. “My favorite was your galley of mullet hairdos.”

Sandy offered a cynical bow. “Did you enjoy aphid control or the stuff about the best boy bands?”

“Come on, Sandy.” Jude wasn’t getting anywhere with the restraints, which was the general idea. “I don’t care who you work for. Just give me a name so my boss can verify your status, and we’re done.”

“I can’t do that.”

“What’s the explosive for?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Sandy said pleasantly.

“You’re right. That’s a deal breaker.”

Sandy lapsed into silence for a few minutes. With a note of regret, she said, “It’s a problem that you’re here.”

“I’d be happy to leave. All I need is a couple of answers and we’re good.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Let’s make it that simple,” Jude wished she could stop the deafening pounding of her heart in her ears. It was making her headache even worse. “We’re two adults. We work for the same government.”

Sandy puffed slowly on her cigar. Seemingly to herself, she quoted, “
Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?
”

Jude translated, “Who guards the guards?”

With a tight smile, Sandy stood. “I have stuff to do before I leave. Who else knows you’re here?”

“Just my handler.”

“Get up.” She reached down and hitched Jude by one elbow.

“You could cut me loose.”

“Not a bondage fan?” Sandy jerked her toward the bed.

Jude didn’t resist this curious turn of events. She felt groggy and nauseous. Sandy arranged her so that she was as comfortable as possible with her arms secured behind her.

“What do you know about my mission?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

Sandy slid her fingers into Jude’s hair and angled her aching head so she could look into her eyes. “Sodium Pentothal?”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“What does the Bureau think I’m involved in?”

“NORTHCOM,” Jude said.

Sandy’s face showed no emotion. “Which project?”

“We’re not sure. All we’ve heard is rumor about a special op on U.S. soil.”

“Could have seen that coming,” Sandy said.

She released Jude’s head, then padded around the room, stuffing items into a duffel bag. For a while, she was out of sight, and Jude heard soft noises. When she approached the bed again, she had a needle.

“Don’t fight me,” she said. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

“What are you giving me?”

“A sedative. You’ll wake up fresh as a daisy.”

“Sandy,” Jude pleaded, “don’t do this. There’s no need.”

She watched the plunger move down the glass tube. Her mind began to fog almost immediately and her limbs flopped. Sandy cut the restraints from her wrists and rubbed her flesh to get the circulation going.

Jude wanted to speak but her voice drifted away from her. The last thing she remembered was Sandy bending over her, kissing her on the lips and saying good-bye.

*

Lone had parked her white Ford E150 van into the rear section of the parking lot nearest the Qwest Building in downtown Denver. It joined several others, all with the same cleaning company logo on the sides. Hers had a different logo, but on her trial run the only people who noticed that fact were employees of the cleaning company who almost mistook the van for one of their own. They knew better now.

From the top of the Qwest Building, the view along Stout Street and Eighteenth was sweeping, so the Secret Service had the building staked out well ahead of time. The MCI Building and the Marriott, where Cheney would be pressing the flesh for money, also offered desirable rooftops. These formed part of the Vice Presidential Security Zone, real estate occupied by sharpshooters who would report in to their command center constantly.

Various rooms in the surrounding buildings also formed part of the protective web. In one of these, in the former office of a recently bankrupted corporation, Lone had hidden the equipment she would need. Her MK-153 SMAW rocket launcher and Confined Space rockets, and her submachine gun. The leasing agent had been very helpful, mentioning that she could probably take her time making a decision since there was plenty of space available downtown and the owners were asking more than the market would bear.

Lone was pleased that she wasn’t going to be hiding in plain sight on a rooftop. She’d planned for either contingency, but this office suite only freed up two weeks ago, a long while after her first advance assessment. She’d expected a Denver fund-raiser sometime soon. Marilyn Musgrave’s shameful record had made her a shaky candidate for reelection, and she was an eager recipient of GOP largesse. She was also proud to be seen with the president and with Cheney, unlike most candidates worried for their political survival.

She entered the offices of the defunct Verminax Corporation the easy way, by sliding a credit card in the door. From the window she watched police and Secret Service coming and going as they planned for tomorrow. First thing in the morning, buildings would be cleared and roads blocked off. Her space had already been cleared, but they would send someone back, just in case.

The protestors would assemble on the corner of Welton Street and Eighteenth at 10:00 a.m.. Lone had been interested to hear that a Disabled Persons organization intended to participate. Sidewalks jammed with wheelchairs would add something to the flavor of the chaos.

She rolled out her sleeping bag and removed a layer of clothing. She had eighteen hours to kill. Hopefully she would sleep through the night. She called Debbie and told her she loved her and that everything was under control. Then she thought about Jude Devine, drugged into inertia on her bed in Pariah. The detective-
cum
-FBI agent was probably awake by now. She have no idea what was going on. Lone hadn’t left a paper trail.

Lone chuckled to think that she’d probably been given a pass for a long time because they mistook her for a friendly. That was the great thing about Homeland Security. The left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing.

*

“Where the hell have you been?” Arbiter demanded. “Jesus, I thought you were burned.”

“She’s in the wind,” Jude said. “And she’s not a friendly. I need that team in here ASAP.”

“You’re rock solid on her status.”

“She left me a note. But if someone in the alphabet soup thinks an assassination would be the perfect fake flag operation, she could be their shooter. Who the hell knows?”

“Okay, who’s her target?”

“That’s why I need the team,” Jude said. “It’ll take me days to make a thorough search here.”

“Where is she?”

“I called her girlfriend. She hasn’t seen her since first thing Monday morning. I was attacked Monday night.”

“Any injuries?”

“Nothing I want to discuss.” She’d found some Motrin in a first aid kit and her headache had abated a little.

“Nice work in the Hawke business, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Jude wasn’t going to run with the ball. “Call me when the team’s due.”

She climbed back down into Sandy’s bunker. In front of her, taunting her from the message board above the worktable, was the note Sandy had left for her.

Jude,

I don’t work for NORTHCOM. You’ll hear about my mission in a couple of days. Thanks for being a friend.

Lonewolf

*

When the van exploded, there was panic on the streets below. The protestors rushed the police lines, tearing through the yellow tape. Cops fired warning shots and tried to keep the crowd back from the Marriott. Lone could picture the scene inside the banquet room, Cheney in the middle of another salute to the heroes in uniform, hustled out and raced down the stairs to await his car. A quick escape from a side exit.