Smokescreen (15 page)

“Michael Christopher Reynolds, do not litter that kitchen with your baseball gear.”

Sheepishly, Michael picked up his bat bag and cleats. “Hi, Mom,” he said. “I just forgot for a minute. It’s no biggie.”

Grace Reynolds’s holographic image looked just like her, but it was only a foot tall. She wore her dark hair down to her shoulders but usually kept it pulled back. With her work consuming so much of her life, she adhered to a strict regimen when it came to her son and her health. She worked out three days a week, and she never missed breakfast or dinner with Michael. Sometimes she was up at four and back to the cottage by seven to prepare her son’s breakfast, and sometimes she returned to the lab after dinner and whatever extracurricular activity she and Michael had decided on, but she never missed those family times.

She was a beautiful woman, though she never gave more than passing attention to her appearance these days. As usual, she wore a white lab coat over a white sweatshirt and black sweatpants. Losing Mac had taken a lot out of her, and Dalton was convinced that she’d never found a way to truly let go.

Maybe I haven’t either,
Dalton thought. Work consumed most of Grace’s life these days, and Dalton had been surprised to learn how much time a growing boy could take up. Neither of them had moved on from
Mac’s death. Even Katsumi’s attentions had only lasted as a short diversion.

When Mac had still been alive, Dalton had sometimes accompanied his commanding officer home on leave. They’d hunted and fished together, bringing Michael along when the boy was old enough. Occasionally, work and guilt permitting, Grace had joined them, though she’d never been far from her computer and communications with her lab. During those times, Dalton had gotten to know Mac’s family. When Mac had been killed, Dalton had arranged for temporary leave to help the family through their loss.

Dalton’s own family was gone. The death of his father when he was seventeen had sent Dalton to the U.S. Army recruiting offices. The Army had taken him three months before his eighteenth birthday. If Dalton hadn’t joined the Army, he’d have been made a ward of the court, taken from the job he’d had for two years, then turned out on his own.

The few months Dalton had intended to stay with Grace and Michael had become nearly three years. The Army had bridged his service, assigning him as Grace and Michael’s chief bodyguard. Grace had seen how Michael was responding to Dalton’s attentions and had taken steps to have that adjustment made. She had considerable pull with the government due to the breakthrough work she was doing.

“It is a biggie, young man,” Grace admonished.

“Okay, Mom,” Michael said.

“How did baseball practice go?” The holographic view showed part of the cybernetics lab behind Grace.

“Baseball practice was great,” Michael declared. “Dalton’s turning into a real rag-arm.”

“Rag-arm?” Grace’s eyebrows lifted.

“A baseball term,” Dalton said quickly. Language was an important thing with Grace. “It means he thinks I’m becoming substandard.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “His fastball has lost its zip. His curve doesn’t have as much movement on it.”

“I see.” Grace smiled. “Perhaps it’s time we had Dalton into the lab for an upgrade.”

Dalton didn’t say anything. Grace pursed her lips quickly, realizing her mistake. Dalton hadn’t cared for the Enhanced program in the beginning. He cared even less for it after Mac and most of the team had been wiped out.

“Nah,” Michael said. “I think I’m just seeing the ball better.” He flexed an arm, making his bicep pop up a little. “And I’m getting stronger. Dalton’s just not a professional pitcher. Those guys could probably still smoke ’em by me.”

“I’m glad to hear that you two are enjoying yourselves,” Grace said. “But I don’t want you to neglect your studies.”

“I won’t. I’m about to head over.” Michael had a professional teacher every day.

“See you later, slugger,” Grace called.

“Bye, Mom.” Michael trotted off to his room to drop off his gear.

Hesitant, but knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, Dalton said, “Grace, you got a minute?”

Grace looked at him. Dalton seldom interrupted her routine.

“A minute,” she agreed. “We’re getting ready for the prototype we’re supposed to get a week from Friday.”

“I know.” Dalton had upped the security for the ar
rival. Grace had acted nervous about the event for a week. Three days ago, Dalton had figured out why.

“I need to talk to you soon,” Dalton said.

“About what?”

“I’d rather go into it later.” Dalton heard approaching footsteps in the living room. “And I’d rather we were alone.”

Grace shook her head and looked troubled. “I don’t know. Things right now…” She took a deep breath. “Things right now are very hectic. There have been some complications with the delivery.”

Yeah,
Dalton thought,
I can see where Arturo Gennady getting himself dead could be a problem.
So far, though, Grace hadn’t brought that up to him. Since he’d gotten in early this morning, she’d been in the lab. There were days that she did without sleep.

“As soon as you can,” Dalton said. He knew better than to press her while she was in the lab. Only Michael could deflect her from her work. “It’s important, Grace.”

One of the lab techs behind Grace called for her attention.

“All right,” Grace acquiesced. “After dinner tonight.”

Dalton took it because he knew it was all he could get.

As Grace’s holograph faded, Dalton thought about the attack last night that had left Dr. Arturo Gennady and five FBI agents dead. He wondered what Special Agent Christie Chace was doing. He was convinced that Chace wasn’t the kind of woman that would walk away from something just because the going got rough.

He’d thought about her a lot during the sleepless hours after he’d arrived back at the compound. He remembered how she’d felt atop him, and he knew how much trouble she could be if she ever figured out who
he was. The push/pull of caution and attraction warred within him. He wouldn’t mind seeing the FBI agent again, but not when it was going to threaten everyone he was trying to protect. And he was sure that trouble was what Special Agent Chace would bring.

“S
ammy Bao.” Christie put steel in her voice, talking over the noise of the restaurant conversations. Since she also carried a 12-gauge automatic shotgun across her heavy Kevlar vest, attention came quickly and silence followed.

A dozen FBI agents followed her on the takedown. All of them were similarly attired and carried military weapons.

The Bronze Tiger Triad owned the Hong Kong Noodle Restaurant. Of course, the ownership was concealed by a chain of shell companies and documents filled with enough legalese to occupy a phalanx of attorneys. The restaurant was also, unofficially, off-limits for any kind of criminal or law enforcement activity. It was a no-man’s-land where the local police and the Triad could work out differences and agree on who was going to take the fall for an agreed-upon degree of infraction of the law.

Everyone in the restaurant froze as the clientele drew in a collective breath.

A fat man in a black business suit stood up in the back. He made a production out of folding his red napkin and throwing it onto his table in disgust. He approached Christie, looking angry.

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

“Special Agent Chace of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Christie tapped the photo ID hanging from a stainless steel necklace around her neck. She didn’t lower the shotgun. She wore camel-colored slacks, boots and a Kelly green poplin blouse. Her shoulder holster showed prominently because she’d left her jacket in the car outside. She’d pulled her hair back in a twist. Wraparound sunglasses hid and protected her eyes but didn’t interfere with her Enhanced vision. “I’ve got a warrant for Sammy Bao. That’s him sitting at the table you just left.”

At the table, Sammy Bao showed no sign of being concerned. He had jet-black hair and a matching gun-fighter mustache. According to his file, he was in his late twenties and was suspected of several heinous crimes in addition to nine unsolved murders. No witnesses had ever shown up to testify against him. He wore a neon-blue jacket over a black turtleneck, black slacks and shiny black shoes. He steepled his hands in front of him. A casual observer might have thought he was praying. Christie knew that he was bored. The sleeve fell down enough to reveal the gold Rolex on his left wrist.

“Nonsense,” the fat man said. “This kind of thing is not done here.”

“It is today,” Christie told him.

“I am Wo Fat, the owner of this place. I will allow no disrespect to be shown to any of my guests. We have an agreement with—”

“You don’t have an agreement with me,” Christie said.

The man barked commands in Chinese. “Do not allow this to happen in my place of business. I will not tolerate this insult.”

Half a dozen men at the back of the restaurant stood up. Sammy Bao remained seated, smiling slightly in amusement.

From the cut of their jackets, Christie knew the men were armed.

Wo Fat faced her and smiled unpleasantly. “As you can see, Special Agent Chace, you are not welcome here. Now you need to leave before—”

Moving with Enhanced speed, Christie shifted the shotgun up and planted the muzzle over Wo Fat’s nose while she grabbed the man’s shirtfront with her free hand. She’d spent last night and most of the morning and afternoon talking with the husbands, wives and significant others of those of her team who had been killed last night. And she’d been racking her brain trying to find a way to track down the man with sea-green eyes and commando moves.

“Sammy Bao is coming with me,” Christie said in Chinese. “That’s nonnegotiable. If you do one more thing to stop me, I’ll arrest you for interference. Do you understand?”

The fat man’s eyes narrowed in anger, but there was a lot of fear in there, too. “You are making a big mistake.” His flat eyes cut to her ID. “Special Agent Christina Chace.”

“If your little entourage doesn’t take their seats,” Christie said in a cool voice, “it’ll be the last mistake you get to watch me make.”

“You would shoot me?” Surprise sent Wo Fat’s eyebrows climbing and his mouth made a shocked
O.
Maybe his position in the Bronze Tigers meant he hadn’t been personally threatened in so long he’d forgotten what the experience was like.

“In a heartbeat,” Christie said, never taking her eyes
off the man. She told herself the situation was different than the one No-Face acted on. Wo Fat wasn’t unconscious, and he was definitely a threat.

“Stay!” Wo Fat barked, throwing out a hand to the advancing men.

His men froze.

Christie showed him a cold smile even though her stomach was queasy. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d stepped into two life-threatening situations.

“You’ve got them trained well,” Christie said. “Now tell them to sit.”

Wo Fat issued the command. The men returned to their seats.

“Sammy Bao,” Christie called.

Bao laughed and applauded. He got up from his seat and walked over to her. “It’s all right,” he told Wo Fat. “Please keep my meal warm. I won’t be long.”

“Hands,” Christie ordered.

Bao thrust his hands out. Christie had one of the agents cuff Bao’s hands behind his back. A quick frisk turned up two 9 mm pistols in a double shoulder rig under the neon-blue jacket.

“Do you have a permit for these?” Christie asked.

Bao smiled confidently at her. “Sure. My mother said I could bring them.”

“Let’s go,” Christie said to the agent holding on to Bao. “Take him. I’ll be right behind you.” Once her team had cleared the restaurant, she walked out backward, keeping Wo Fat at the business end of the shotgun. She’d upped the ante. Now it remained to see how the hand played out.

After dinner, when the dishes had been washed, dried and put away, and Michael had been sent off to bed,
Grace asked Dalton what he wanted to talk about over coffee at the breakfast bar.

Dalton hesitated. He was about to step onto the most dangerous ground he’d ever been on in his relationship with Grace and Michael. It
was
a relationship, too. He’d acknowledged that some time ago, though he couldn’t point to a date on a calendar or an hour on a clock.

“Dalton?” Grace looked at him with concern. She was tired and on edge. She’d been that way for days. Looking back on events, Dalton realized she’d been in that state for longer than he could recall.

He tried to open his mouth and couldn’t. He took a deep breath instead.

“Maybe I can make this easier for you,” Grace suggested. “You’ve been here almost three years. That’s a long time. You’re a young man. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. If you’ve been offered another position, or if you just want to move on, trust me when I say that I understand.”

God, she’s making this hard.
Dalton hated what he was about to do.

Grace hurried on, looking more agitated than before. “After Mac was…” She stopped. “After Mac
died,
I think we needed each other. Michael needed you, too. Having you here, Dalton, it’s been a godsend. Truly. I don’t know how we would have managed. Every morning when I walk to the lab and I see that baseball field you and Michael built, or I hear about the baseball games you guys have managed to get up with the people here, I realize how much of a difference you’ve made in his life.” She paused. “How much of a difference you’ve made in
our
lives. But I won’t stop you from getting on with your life. I’ll give you the best rec
ommendation possible and you’ll go with my blessings.”

“Grace,” Dalton said softly, dreading what he had to do.

She looked up at him.

“I’m not leaving,” Dalton said.

She took a deep breath, appearing confused and relieved all at the same time. “All right.”

“What do you know about a man named Sammy Bao?” Dalton’s stomach flipped like he’d just stepped off into a free fall. Only he was used to free-falling from Ranger jump school. This was something totally new and it scared the hell out of him.

Grace’s answer came instantly and with a little puzzlement. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Dalton opened his phone/PDA, opened the razor-thin leaves that unfolded into an eight-by-ten digital screen and activated the image storage function that pulsed a static charge to smooth the image. Only a fraction of an inch thick, the leaves smoothed out instantly, pixelating into a solid, seamless image with an Atlanta Braves screensaver. He pressed both thumbs against the upper corners of the screen, letting the scan function read his prints. The device was military issue. If anyone got hold of the PDA, no one would guess at the hidden features, and even if someone found them, they couldn’t be reached without Dalton’s permission.

Or at least both thumbs.

The device accessed the off-site intel dump he’d set up and brought it forward. He tapped the screen and a picture of Sammy Bao filled the viewing surface. The image was a head and shoulders shot Dalton had gotten from an information source still within the Rangers who had raided the National Crime Information Center
for background materials on the man. Katsumi hadn’t been Dalton’s only resource, but she had initially identified the Bronze Tiger lieutenant.

“Where did you get that?” Grace demanded.

Dalton watched her, feeling scared and guilty at the same time. Grace was his friend. She was his best friend’s widow.

And she was Michael’s mom.

“This man,” Dalton said, “is a Triad member. Do you know what that is?”

“Where did you get that?” Grace’s voice turned hard and cold.

Despite the fearful reluctance that thrummed within him, Dalton pressed on. “Chinese Triads are crime families. This man, Sammy Bao, is one of the most dangerous men working for the Bronze Tigers. He’s a murderer several times over.”

“Dalton.” Grace slid off her stool and stood facing him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Dalton recognized the tone in her voice immediately. It was the one she used with Michael when she wasn’t about to put up with one more excuse or continued evasion. He tapped the screen again and pulled up another image.

This one showed Grace in front of the ice-cream shop down the street from the virtual reality arcade where Michael liked to play games during their monthly sojourn into Roanoke, Virginia. The government contractors provided everything Grace wanted or needed, but she still took Michael into town for a movie and shopping once a month so he wasn’t totally cut off from civilization. Bao stood talking to Grace beside a dark sedan whose license plates had led Dalton to a dead end.
Other images followed, showing Grace talking to Bao. She clearly hadn’t been happy about the encounter.

On that day, Dalton had started down the street, leaving Michael with the secondary security man. By the time Dalton had gotten to where Grace stood, Bao and the sedan had gone. Grace had merely said Bao had been someone asking for directions.

“Grace,” Dalton said gently. “I need to know what’s going on.”

“Don’t,” Grace said. She held a hand over her mouth and looked sick.

“Let me help,” Dalton said. “Please, Grace. Let me help with this.”

She shook her head, unable to speak for a long time. “You can’t help.”

“Did Bao threaten you?” Dalton knew that Grace would never sell out her work or her country.

Tears spilled down Grace’s cheeks. The sight hurt Dalton. It was the first time he’d seen her cry since Mac’s funeral.

“That man told me that he would…” Grace stopped. Her hands shook as she tried to hold herself.

“He threatened you?” Dalton asked.

She shook her head and whispered hoarsely, “Michael! He threatened to hurt my baby!”

The sick feeling that flooded through Dalton took the edge off his anger. His knees felt weak and he was glad he was sitting. He made himself speak but he hated the strained note in his voice. “They can’t hurt Michael.” He tried to make himself sound confident and knew he was failing. “He’s safe here, Grace. Both of you are safe.”

She looked at him and the tears stopped. Anger filled her eyes. “This man—Bao, whatever his name is—had
pictures. Of you, Dalton. And Michael. In the baseball field. He told me a sniper in the forest could kill my son or leave him paralyzed. Whichever he told them to do.”

Dalton felt the world tilt. The compound had been designed to keep people
out,
not as a fortress to keep people inside from being hurt. “That’s not as easy to do as he makes it sound, Grace. Believe me. Michael is—”

She cut him off angrily. “Damn you! Don’t you dare tell me my son is safe!”

“We can leave,” Dalton said. “We can go right now.”

“They have people watching,” Grace moaned. “They have people watching all the time. Even if I left, this man said they would track us down—he insisted they had ways of finding us—and they would kill Michael anyway. He said they had given their word that they would do this.”

The hopelessness in Grace’s eyes crushed Dalton.

“You’ve heard me talk about Arturo Gennady?” Grace asked.

Dalton nodded. Over the past several weeks, Gennady’s work had been showcased in the media. “Yes.” And Dalton knew immediately where she was going.

“He was killed last night,” Grace said. “Bao and his men, the Bronze Tigers or whatever they are, they killed Arturo because he tried to set them up for the FBI.”

“You don’t know that.” Dalton knew his argument was weak, but it was all he had. “Bao could have been lying.”

“He wasn’t lying!” Grace struggled to control herself. “I received digital images of Arturo standing beside his car in Washington, D.C. last night. At the docks where he was killed.”

“Gennady played it wrong. He shouldn’t have been
there. The FBI should never have asked Gennady to be there.” Dalton was angry with the young woman, Special Agent Christina Chace, because her botched operation made convincing Grace even harder now. Gennady
shouldn’t
have been there, but Dalton also knew it was the only way Chace could have pulled off the sting. “We shouldn’t be talking. We should be getting Michael out to the car and getting the hell out of here.”

“No.” Grace’s voice was firm. “That man meant what he said—he will have Michael killed or harmed. I can’t bear that. Not after losing Mac.” She shook her head. “I can’t leave. We can’t leave.”