The Collective (41 page)

The second the car stopped in the circle at the end of a dead-end residential street, Voss popped the door. She muttered a thanks to the Connecticut state trooper who had picked them up at the airport—he’d driven like hellhounds were on his tail to get them there—and then started for the hole in the fence. Turcotte hurried after her but did not call out. They needed speed and silence now.

A dozen cars filled the circle and lined the street. A handful of people, woken from sleep by headlights and the prowl of engines, looked out windows or stood on front steps, but nearly all of the duplexes were still dark.

Uniformed officers flanked the hole in the wooden fence where a four-foot segment had been removed. Voss and Turcotte produced their IDs—one of the cops squinted at hers, obviously clueless as to what ICD was—and were waved through. Beyond the stockade fence stretched maybe seven feet of trees and bushes, and then a chain-link fence that had been cut and rolled back, and past that was an alley that ran behind a dry cleaners. Uniformed cops lined the back of the dry cleaners and were scattered up and down the alley, along with Bureau agents wearing navy jackets with FBI emblazoned in yellow on the back. Times like this, they wanted to be conspicuous so the wrong people didn’t get shot.

“Siegel?” she asked the nearest agent.

He pointed her to the left and she picked up her pace. She and Turcotte jogged to the corner of the building, where a cluster of agents stood with a cop wearing captain’s bars. Two of the men seemed to recognize Turcotte and then focus on Voss. She figured the tall fiftyish guy with the mustache to be Siegel, but it was the shorter man—plump, pale, bald spot, a forty-year-old future department store Santa—who spoke up.

“Agent Voss?”

She nodded. “I assume we made it?”

“Supervisory Special Agent Siegel,” the man said, holding out his hand. Voss took it, and then Siegel looked at Turcotte. “Hello, Ed.”

“Todd,” Turcotte said, nodding. He coughed. “Jesus, what’s that smell?”

Siegel cocked his head. “Fish market, half a block down.” He gestured for them to follow and walked to the corner. As he spoke again, he lowered his voice.

“You made it, but only because the McCandless woman’s friends are late. She and her accomplice rolled up almost ten minutes ago. They parked in front of a small office building right next to the Wendy’s, not in the lot. Obviously she’s not stupid. The others probably won’t park in the lot, either. McCandless and her partner are sitting in the Cadillac, apparently waiting for visual on Mellace and Katz. If they try to drive off, we’ll take them. Otherwise we’d rather wait for them to get out and move a fair distance from the vehicle.”

Voss nodded, glancing around. “What have we got on the other side of the street?”

Siegel looked at Turcotte, as though waiting for him to speak. When he didn’t, the portly FBI agent continued. “We’ve got people at both ends of the block and on intersecting streets, ready to move in. There’s a block of storefronts across from us—half of them empty—and we’ve got agents and state and local cops on either side of the building, but there’s nowhere else for them to stay out of sight over there.”

Voss caught his gaze and held it. “And what about Lieutenant Arsenault? Did you get word he was on the way to observe? Along with a consultant?”

Now Siegel really did look confused, but Turcotte still didn’t jump in to rescue him. “We did. It seemed a little strange, but other agencies are always stepping on our cases.”

“I know,” Voss said. “I was FBI for years.”

Trying to hide his disdain for her career choice, Siegel smiled. “You got a better offer?”

“Actually, yes,” she said, and turned to Turcotte. “Whatever strings Norris or Arsenault may be pulling, they’re not
here yet. If they do show up before this goes down, I want them detained. Unless they have a goddamn army with them, I don’t want them anywhere near this situation.”

Turcotte did not smile, but she had the sense that he wanted to. He nodded. “Whatever you say, boss.”

That got everyone’s attention. Voss didn’t have time to get them up to speed on chain of command.

“SSA Siegel, gentlemen, here are the rules. If Sergeant McCandless and her companion—not accomplice, because I can’t think of a crime we know they’ve committed—attempt to drive off, they will be surrounded by police vehicles, so they cannot mistake our stopping them as anything but an official act. No weapon will be pointed at either of them unless they open fire first. Even if one or both of them does open fire, all of your people are to choose their shots carefully. There’s a baby in that car, and I don’t want to see her in my dreams for the rest of my life. Similar rules apply to apprehension if they do exit the vehicle. I want to talk to Caitlin McCandless without all of this getting out of control. I have a lot of questions for her, and I’m not going to be able to ask them if bullets are flying. Is all of that clear?”

The police captain and the agents stared at Siegel, who looked at Turcotte, who nodded once.

“The case belongs to ICD, Todd. Rachael’s ex-Bureau. She knows what she’s doing. And we don’t have time for hesitation,” Turcotte said.

Voss gritted her teeth at his use of her first name and fought the urge to kick him. “They know their job, Agent Turcotte.” She turned to Siegel and repeated herself. “Is all of that clear?”

Stoic and grim, he nodded. “Crystal.”

“Do it,” she said.

Siegel lifted a handheld radio and rattled off her instructions, turning them into his own orders, leaving no possible uncertainty as to how they were all to conduct themselves.

While he did that, Voss turned to Turcotte. “No one calls me Rachael,” she said, voice low.

“It makes you more human,” Turcotte whispered, trying to reason with her.

“I can’t afford to be human.”

Seconds later, a radio crackled and the news came through. Mellace and Katz had arrived. McCandless and her companion were out of the car, the woman carrying her baby.

Answers were within reach.

At her first glimpse of Jordan and Ronnie, Cait felt a rush of relief greater than she could have imagined. Her problems were far from solved, but now she wouldn’t be alone. She saw Jordan frequently at work, and elsewhere, but the sight of the two of them together brought her back to grim months in Baghdad and the way she had felt when the three of them had been together. A new courage filled her, along with a glimmer of hope.

“They’re not stupid,” Lynch said, his surprise evident.

“No, they’re not,” Cait agreed.

The guys had parked at the curb in front of the tanning salon next to Wendy’s. They’d walked to the Wendy’s parking lot but immediately slipped into a bus shelter, partially hidden by the dirty, scratched-up Plexiglas. Ronnie had a Red Sox cap perched on his head and a thin, dark scruff of goatee. Jordan had buzzed his hair short to match the stubble where his beard had been. They wore jeans and T-shirts they had probably pulled on in seconds when they’d learned she was in trouble.

“Let’s go,” she said, and climbed out of the car.

The dome light did not go on. Lynch had taken care of that during their first stop. Cait slid her gun into her rear waistband and the go-phone into her pocket, then she opened the back door and extricated Leyla from her car seat. The baby’s eyes opened and she looked around, blinking dreamily, but the moment Cait held her close, she put her head on her mother’s shoulder and sighed contentedly.

Lynch left the Caddy unlocked and they started along the sidewalk toward the Wendy’s parking lot.

“Quiet,” Lynch said.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

He said nothing more but they both glanced around cautiously, checking up and down the street, looking down a side alley, before picking up the pace as they headed for the Plexiglas bus shelter. Cait knew they were being too paranoid—no one knew they were here except for Ronnie and Jordan—but she had accepted paranoia as the only rational response to the ruin of her life.

The guys saw them coming. Ronnie stepped outside the bus shelter, face etched with concern.

“Oh, my God, thank you for coming,” she said, hugging him with one arm as she cradled Leyla in the other. Ronnie bussed her cheek and then planted a gentle kiss on the baby’s head.

“How could I not? Jordan’s not the only one who loves you, y’know?”

As he spoke, Cait saw Jordan emerge from behind the Plexiglas. He smiled, and his eyes lit up when he saw Leyla. He kissed her sleeping head.

“If you wanted to come visit Ronnie, you could’ve just asked,” he said. “We could have carpooled.”

“Funny guy,” Cait said.

Jordan’s smile faltered and for the first time she saw the real depth of his concern.

“I guess now’s not the time for funny,” he said.

Cait took his hand and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, clasping his fingers tightly. “It’s the perfect time.” She glanced at Ronnie. “So glad you’re both here.”

Lynch nudged her. “Get inside. We’re too exposed out here.”

Ronnie and Jordan both took his measure, trying to figure out who he was and what he was doing with Cait, but they obliged, stepping back into the bus shelter. Cait followed, but Lynch turned his back to them, on guard. He’d untucked his shirt to cover his gun, but Cait could see the bulge of it against the fabric. The guys were armed as well, Ronnie strapped at the ankle and Jordan carrying at the small of his
back, like Lynch. They knew there had already been a firefight tonight and none of them were taking any chances.

There were two entrances to the shelter, one at the front and one at the back. The metal benches inside were engraved with graffiti, but otherwise it was clean. She sat on the edge of a bench, comforted by her friends and by the weight of her daughter in her arms.

“Talk to us, Sarge,” Jordan said. “ ’Cause on the news, they’re saying some ugly shit.”

It hurt her heart to even hear him say that. Quiet, handsome Jordan—a hell of a man, but still with the shy demeanor of a boy. When they had returned to civilian life and begun to work together, they’d had to learn to relate to each other on civilian terms. They had helped each other figure out how to live an ordinary life, complete with paychecks and office parties and watercooler gossip. Now all of that had been obliterated, and they were carrying guns again—at war, again.

“Please tell me you don’t believe any of it.”

Jordan arched his eyebrows in surprise. “ ’Course not.”

Lynch stuck his head in. “This isn’t the place, Cait.”

“I know, I know,” she said, then turned to the guys again. “Look, we all know there’re some devils in D.C. Some of them want Leyla, and they’re not the only ones. I had al Qaeda or something on my back doorstep. Neither side has good intentions—”

“Listen to yourself, Cait,” Ronnie said.

She froze, hating the tightness of his voice. “What?”

“All right, Washington has some shady bastards, but the whole government isn’t corrupt. Not enough to hunt a seven-month-old baby. You never should have run. If you just talk to the FBI, go public, it will all get straightened out.”

Cait stared at him.

Jordan ran a hand over his stubbled head, mystified. “Dude, are you listening? You saw the news. They’re calling her a terrorist. People are after the baby. She’s not talking to anyone until we can make sure they’re safe, guaranteed protection or whatever.”

Ronnie scratched at his arm, drew a hand across his mouth. “It’s already guaranteed.”

The words sunk in fast. Cait shot to her feet, clutching Leyla to her, stunned that Ronnie would betray her but knowing he must have been frightened and confused by the news stories and tried to do the right thing.

“Lynch—” she started.

The old man stepped into the shelter. “We’ve gotta move.”

For a second she thought he was reacting to what Ronnie had said, and then she heard the roaring of engines and the squealing of tires and the static crackle of a distant radio. Ronnie started trying to tell them to calm down, that it would be all right. Jordan hit him so hard that his head snapped back and he staggered against the Plexiglas shelter.

“Son of a bitch!” Jordan shouted, grabbing a fistful of Ronnie’s T-shirt and hitting him twice more.

Ronnie staggered and went to his knees. As he tried to rise, Jordan went to kick him but Cait caught him by the wrist and got him moving out of the shelter. She released him and drew her gun, saw Lynch do the same, and the three of them started running toward the Caddy—but too late.

Police cars tore out of connecting streets and shot from the alley beside a nearby donut shop, blue lights flashing but running without sirens. One by one they skidded to a halt, officers jumping out, weapons drawn. They’d boxed in the Cadillac—Lynch’s stolen car wasn’t going anywhere. On the roof of an office block across the street she saw several snipers taking position.

Squads of cops and FBI agents in bulletproof vests and flapping jackets ran from alleys and storefronts and hustled to join the party.

“Sergeant McCandless!” someone said over a buzzing bullhorn. “Think about your baby. Surrender now, for Leyla’s sake.”