The Kill Order (15 page)

He quickly scanned through the pages, pulling out all he thought he could get away with and leaving only a shell of the case behind.

Throwing everything including Sydney’s sketch into a slim accordion folder, then securing it closed with the string tie, he shoved the remaining files back into the safe, locked it, then walked out, intending to give the packet to his secretary to shred. He hadn’t taken two steps when he realized that the biggest threat might not be the handful of files after all. He stopped, turned, stared at the copy machine down at the end of the hall.

Every copy they’d ever made the last few years was on that machine. ATLAS ran covert ops, and more often than not, unsanctioned black ops. Every one of those cases could be turned against them, not only to shut down ATLAS, but to prosecute each and every one of them. And the sad thing was that prosecution was the lesser of the evils. If what was on that machine got into the hands of Kane or the Network . . .

Hell . . .

He set the files on top of the machine and opened the side panel, wondering how difficult it would be to remove the hard drive. He stared at the plate covering it. His kingdom for a screwdriver . . .

The elevator dinged.

“I’m sure Director McNiel is up here,” he heard his secretary say in a louder than normal voice when the elevator doors opened.

He eyed the folder, then the open panel of the copy machine. He was trapped, with nowhere to go as he heard their footsteps behind him.

Sliding the folder toward the back of the machine, he pushed it between the wall and heard it drop to the floor. Then he kicked the access door shut with his foot, hiding the cover of the hard drive, then opened one of the drawers with paper.

He turned around, held up his hands. “Sorry,” he said as she and Ellis walked down the hallway toward him. “I thought I could fix it for you. I have
no
idea what’s wrong with the thing. How long has it been acting up?”

She glanced at the copy machine, then him. “Since this morning,” she said. “And I have all those time sheets due tomorrow.”

He pushed the paper drawer shut, hoping that Ellis wasn’t aware the time sheets were all computerized. “They can wait. As you can see,” he said, nodding to the man standing next to her, “we have company. Put in a work order tomorrow.” He gave her a neutral smile. “Weren’t you on your way to the doctor’s?”

“Uh, I—”

“Since I won’t be here, you should follow protocol. Go take care of it. Your health is more important.”

“I’ll just get my keys from my office and be on my way.”

The moment she left, the federal police officer said, “Director McNiel, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but my orders have changed. They’ve asked that I relieve you of duty immediately. And, uh, not allow you to access your office. You’re to report to the Senate Intelligence Committee at once.”

He wasn’t surprised. At least now, if they were inclined to go through his safe, he could live with what they found.

As long as they didn’t look too closely at the copy machine before he could get someone in there to retrieve what was left behind.

23

Capitol Building

Washington, D.C.

M
cNiel leaned his head back against the wall, listening to the footsteps echoing down the hallway outside the room he was sitting in, while he waited to hear what the outcome of the hearing would be. No wonder Parker Kane hadn’t been at the earlier meeting. He’d been here, pleading his case to absorb ATLAS into his domain. And what was McNiel supposed to do? Show his hand too soon, by announcing that he suspected Kane of espionage? That the entire government was being set up? He’d look like a fool making a desperate bid to save his place in the kingdom. They’d castrate him.

Hell, they’d already castrated him. He was now without a job. The only reason he was here was because they wanted to find the girl.

What he needed to do was bide his time. McNiel had faith that his team could survive without him temporarily or otherwise. Still, it was damned unnerving.

There had been warning signs, of course. He should have seen them. Hell, he had seen them. Like a goddamned avalanche sliding down the mountain, bringing ATLAS with it, starting with the debacle in Mexico last October. And as much as he wanted to blame Sydney Fitzpatrick for starting that avalanche, he couldn’t. He’d have done the same thing if he were she. Everyone on his team would have. They were not automatons. They were human, and that was why he’d handpicked each one of them. The human element might get in the way at times, but it was the very thing that kept them centered, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The difference between him and Sydney was that he wouldn’t have gotten caught. The advantage of being better trained in countersurveillance.

In a way he should probably be grateful for her sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. She’d turned up a couple of choice items that had been missing from his investigation all these years. Like Parker Kane. And the location of the damned Devil’s Key that was now sitting in some poor college kid’s head, turning her into the most wanted woman in America.

Who could have foreseen
that
lapse in security?

“Hindsight,” he whispered, as he heard the footsteps of someone walking down the corridor outside his room. When he’d sent a team to the San Francisco FBI office to recover the bank bag Sydney had found in Mexico, it never occurred to any of them that she’d have made a copy.

And that was their downfall.

A simple oversight in allowing that copy machine out of the building without removing the hard drive had turned into the pebble that started the avalanche.

The footsteps stopped and he realized someone was standing outside the door. Waiting.

Several thoughts went through his head. He didn’t think anyone would be brazen enough to kill him in here. That would raise too many questions. Not when there were so many better ways to do it. Suicide—the covert favorite assassination method—only worked when there were no witnesses to discover it wasn’t suicide at all. He glanced up at the lens that was focused on him at the moment, thinking that even if it did stop working due to a malfunction, manmade or otherwise, his team would raise too many questions. As long as they were around to do so, that was.

That ATLAS had been effectively disenfranchised made things a bit . . . trickier.

The lock to his door clicked open, and he tensed.

A guard entered. Different from the last one.

“Your attorney’s here to see you,” the guard said.

“I didn’t call him.”

“Regardless. He’s here. Take it or leave it.”

McNiel focused on the man’s posture, the expression on his face. Relaxed. Unconcerned.

“Where is he?” he asked, that suspicion rising to the forefront again.

“They’re bringing him up now.”

McNiel nodded, then took a seat at the table so that it was between him and the closed door. And anyone who might walk through it.

A few minutes later, it opened.

Zachary Griffin stood there. A sight for sore eyes.

“Heard you could use some legal advice?”

McNiel smiled, waited for the guard to close the door. “How’s my case looking?”

“Might take a little work, but nothing’s insurmountable.” He put what looked like a small digital recorder on the table, then clicked the button. It was not recording. It was a pocket-sized jammer that would mask any listening devices in the area. “I don’t have long,” Griffin said. “We’ve got a lot on our plate. Tex is still in Mexico. He’s called Carillo in to help. I haven’t yet heard back from him.”

“What about Piper?”

“There’s actually some good news on that front.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I just got off the phone with Giustino. I suppose you could say it’s one of the more unusual witness protection programs. A convent in Venice.”

“Come again?”

“I know it’s unorthodox, but it can work.”

“A convent? When I said the last place they’d look, that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“I’m not sure he had a lot of choices. Once they left the airport, he was informed by one of his men that inquiries were being made about the passenger Lisette Perrault. He’s also worried someone’s monitoring any electronic movement. On the positive side, she won’t have access to computers, credit cards, or stolen vehicles. And as long as everyone follows protocol, it is as secure as any safe house we have used.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“He’s used this particular location before. Dumas made the arrangements, and Lisette and Marc should be there by morning.”

Father Emile Dumas was what could be described as a covert operative for the Vatican, if one could get past the notion that the Vatican could even have spies. He didn’t carry a weapon, but he did investigate matters of security and terrorism against the church, and there were times when his cases and those of ATLAS overlapped.

While Griffin and Dumas did not always see eye to eye, there was no doubt in McNiel’s mind that Dumas would do everything in his power to protect the girl. And really, could it be any worse than keeping her here in a military facility against her will? “At least that’s one less thing to worry about. What about ATLAS?”

“We’re locked from the building. Guard posted inside and out.”

“Anyone else being questioned?”

“Not sure. I didn’t get close enough to see. It looked pretty empty, though, so I’d guess everyone was following protocol.”

Apparently his secretary was able to get out the word, which meant the entire staff would shut everything down, wipe computers, then make themselves scarce, until they were notified otherwise.

The fewer people around for questioning, the better. “Good. Next step, I want Parker’s head before he gets mine.”

“Except you’re here under surveillance. That makes him one up on you.”

“And if you’re not careful, you’re going to be joining me. I cleared the safe, but there was a slight glitch on my way out the door. The sketch and my files got stuffed behind the copy machine. I definitely don’t want that sketch getting out. The files are on the W2 case. You’re going to have to break in to get them.”

“Just out of curiosity, how’d they get behind the copy machine?”

“I wanted to recover the machine’s hard drive before they took over the building.”

Griffin let out a breath. “I hate to think what’s on there.”

McNiel felt the same. Between their various investigations into the Black Network’s activities to the detailed op plans of missions that wouldn’t pass muster should they be put in front of the wrong people, anyone who worked for ATLAS was in a world of hurt if that hard drive was looked at. “The short time I’ve been confined to this room is enough to convince me I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to. And if I’m not careful, they’re likely to take me into custody for contempt.”

“When have they ever done that?”

“You want to test them? I don’t.” McNiel glanced toward the door. “We have to assume that Kane is waiting to see what my next move is. When I get out of here, I intend to take a long drive up the coast. If they want to follow me, they’re in for a long ride. And while they’re tailing me, I’d suggest that if you have any intention of preserving your career, you take action at the first opportunity.”

“This would have been a hell of a lot easier getting past the armed guards if we hadn’t just enhanced our building’s security.”

“Find a way around it. Because the security’s the least of your concerns. If they get what’s on that hard drive, you and I will be sharing a cell in the federal penitentiary along with the rest of our team.”

“Cheery thought.”

“Not as cheery as the fact that
no one’s
supposed to be in that building. Which means no one’s going to think twice if you’re killed after having been caught breaking and entering.”

24

North of Ensenada, Mexico

T
he offshore breeze swept through the courtyard of the Orozco Villa, bringing with it a faint and refreshing tang of salt. Tex breathed in deep. After the cloying scent of death still evident inside the house, he was grateful to be standing outside.

When McNiel had ordered Tex to Mexico, he thought it was going to be a short trip. Fly in, advise Pedro Venegas of the Federal Ministerial Police that he’d be in the area, talk to Orozco about the possibility of his still having a copy of the Devil’s Key, recover it if he did, then fly out the next day. No one said anything about walking into a mass murder scene. Or that a witness might have survived.

Apparently this last fact was being kept off the record. In light of the sensitive nature of the investigation, Venegas felt it best to let everyone assume that Orozco’s entire family had been killed. Once Venegas had informed him that it was possible Orozco’s daughter might have escaped, he couldn’t just leave.

It was also why he’d called in Tony Carillo to help. For one, Carillo was familiar with Venegas, apparently having dealt with him in the past. Two, Carillo had experience working homicides, whereas Tex did not. Being a spy and investigating espionage was not the same thing as working a murder case. Three, even though Carillo had every reason to hold a grudge about the debacle with his condo being searched, Carillo owed him big-time, and he was calling in his marker. Of course, he also sweetened the deal by adding that it was, after all, Mexico in January, and on the government’s dime, so to speak. At least until someone got wise and cut off his credit card, and judging by what was going on back at the office, that was likely to happen any time. He only hoped Carillo’s credit card still worked, because Carillo was expecting a lobster dinner with margaritas at the conclusion.

Carillo stood a few feet away, talking to Venegas about his preliminary findings, both men with their backs to a wall covered with bougainvillea vines, the bright pink flowers shimmering in the breeze. The petals were so bright, they could be seen from the beach below, something Tex noticed when he’d first arrived.

While the two men went over the particulars of the case, Tex walked across the brick pavers out the drive to take a look. The villa property held a clear view of the coast from its perch on top of the hill. It was too far away to hear the break of the waves, or see anyone on the beach. Earlier this morning, Tex had gone down there to see if he could find anything. Tire tracks were visible where a vehicle had pulled onto the shoulder of the road, but nothing detailed enough to figure out what sort of tires or provide any useful leads, because it could have been a tourist, stopping to snap a photo. And since the beach had been empty, and he wasn’t sure what, if anything, he’d hoped to find, he’d returned.

Carillo walked over, interrupting his thoughts. “You ready to go back in?”

“Not really. I don’t think anything prepares you to see an entire family slaughtered. Not even in my business.”

“Not in mine, either. But you never know when you might have missed something the first time around, now that they’ve gotten the bodies out. Venegas says the locals are insistent on it being a cartel hit.”

“Highly unlikely, considering the reason we were coming here. Unless you believe in coincidence.”

“Which I do not.” Carillo looked out over the wall toward the beach. “What we need to do is determine if Orozco’s daughter really did escape. Orozco, apparently, wasn’t big on permanent identification, and they don’t have a positive ID on the girl who was killed. Right now it’s only a suspicion on Venegas’s part.” They stood there in silence, watching the ocean, though, at least in Tex’s mind, not really seeing it. Eventually Carillo put his hand on Tex’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Tex nodded, then followed him into the villa. Venegas walked in after them. The windows had all been opened, to allow the breeze to air out the scent of dried blood. The main living area was where two of the bodies had been found. The young woman who was believed to have been Orozco’s daughter, and the man believed to be her husband. The third and fourth, Orozco and his wife, were in what was clearly his office, a room with a view of the courtyard, a large desk, and a wall safe, which stood open, and was now empty.

“How much cash did the officers find in there?” Carillo asked Venegas.

“Several thousand dollars, American.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing. If this thing they were searching for was in there, it was not when the officers arrived. It was, however, standing open.”

“That’s an awful lot of money to leave lying around.”

“Agreed. So we know that is not what they were after.”

Carillo said nothing, just looked at Tex, who eyed the open desk drawers, as well as the rooms beyond that were in similar disarray. “I’d have to guess it wasn’t in there, and they hoped to find it elsewhere. Assuming it was here at all.”

They finished walking the downstairs, where the fifth body had been found, Orozco’s brother-in-law, in a hallway just off the kitchen leading to a back door, undoubtedly as he tried to flee. Carillo directed Tex and Venegas to the upper floor, going from room to room. It was clear that someone had searched this part of the house, especially the master bedroom, which opened up to a wide veranda. Carillo made a cursory search, then walked outside, though what he was looking for, Tex had no idea.

Tex was flipping through an address book he found on the floor that had probably landed there when someone pulled the drawer out of the nightstand, when Carillo called him over. The veranda opened up to the backyard, and beyond it and the bougainvillea-covered wall, the ocean.

“Find something?” he asked, walking over to where Carillo stood at the balcony’s edge.

“Look there.” He pointed to the terra-cotta tiles on the balcony’s floor. Muddy footprints.

Tex noted they pointed toward the house, but had originated from the wrought-iron balcony’s edge, where he could see the heart-shaped, leathery leaves of some vine that had twisted its way up a trellis from the garden below.

He walked over to look into the backyard that could grace the cover of any gardening magazine, with its meandering paths of crushed rock and well-tended flower beds. Stone benches inset with brightly colored Mexican tiles were interspersed throughout, giving one any number of places to sit and enjoy the view. At the far end of the yard stood a child’s swing set, the empty swings moving as the breeze swept in from the coast and across the stretch of lawn, a reminder that a very young child had lost the only family she’d known.

Tex forced his gaze from the swing set to the ground below the climbing vines, noting the area appeared to have been disturbed, probably when someone climbed up the trellis. “Undoubtedly a point of entry, but by whom? We have the witnesses on the beach who picked up the little girl, saw a man who matched Orozco’s description get into a car with two men. Who was this, then?”

Carillo put his foot next to one of the prints. “Pretty small for a guy. Could be a child, but I’m thinking a woman.” Then, careful not to disturb the prints, he stepped over them and to the bedroom, calling out to Venegas, who was going through a box he’d found up in the closet. “Can I see those crime scene photos again?”

“Of course.” They were in his portfolio, which he’d set on the bed, one of the few clean surfaces that didn’t have fingerprint powder upon it. He opened it, then handed the photos to Carillo, who looked at each in turn.

Carillo pulled out one photo and held it up. “Anyone see footprints there?”

Tex took it from him, saw it was of the master bedroom veranda. Other than a few yellowed leaves from the vine scattered about, the tiles looked clean, he thought, handing the photo to Venegas. No footprints anywhere.

“Someone,” Carillo said, “entered
after
this place was processed.”

Tex picked up the rest of the photos, looking at each one. “If the entire family was killed, who was here and why? Someone searching for whatever the killers were searching for? Or Orozco’s daughter?”

“The latter,” Venegas said. “At least a good case for it. There were armed officers out front, protecting the premises. Whoever came in knew the ins and outs.”

Carillo examined the photos again, one by one. He paused on a shot of the main living area, the young woman’s body by the front door. “The girl lying there. Does she look pregnant to you?” He handed the photo to Venegas.

“She was allegedly not very far along. Four-five months. A girl slightly overweight, how can you tell?”

“I’m not the expert,” Tex said, “but I think you’d be showing, at least a little.”

“The girl,” Venegas said, “has no prints on file. But this is a small village and that’s to be expected. So we cannot disprove it until the autopsy is done.”

“No time to wait,” Carillo said, then walked through each of the bedrooms again, this time going through the closets. “The clothes tell me that the girl in the photo is not the girl who wore these clothes, which are definitely too small.”

“You think it’s possible the daughter survived?” Tex asked. That would be a break they truly needed.

“Why not?” Carillo said. “Either she wasn’t here at all, or she got an early warning of what was taking place. Her window overlooks the courtyard.” He nodded in that direction, then walked over, looked out. “Let’s say she sees her father being brought in at gunpoint. She’s not very likely to go running down there. You’ve got someone killed right there at the front door, and someone at the back. So maybe she hears the shots and escapes down the trellis. Or she wasn’t here at all. One way to possibly tell . . .” He walked over, picked up a shoe from the closet floor, then carried it out to the veranda off the master bedroom. The sizes matched.

Tex walked over to the balcony’s edge, and eyed the garden wall and the thick vines covering it. “We might want to have a closer look at the perimeter.”

They found the hidden gate beneath the bougainvillea leading to the chaparral-covered hillside beyond, like stepping from a lush oasis into a different world, this one brown and dull. The dirt was dry on the outside of the wall, the footprints almost nonexistent. But it seemed there was a worn path through the low shrubs, the gritty soil freshly disturbed as though someone had recently walked upon it.

They followed the trail and as they crested the hill into a shallow valley, they saw a ranch house with a few donkeys in the yard behind a barbed-wire fence. Venegas nodded at it as they walked down the hill. “Perhaps she came here for help.”

“You’d think they’d call the police,” Carillo said.

A sharp crack echoed across the valley as dirt sprayed up beside them.

Tex dove to the side where a few small boulders offered some cover. Carillo followed, but Venegas stood there, pulled out his badge, holding it up, trying to flash it in the sunlight. “
Policía!
” he yelled.

He was a braver man than Tex—or far more foolish—because he didn’t move. Nor did he draw his own weapon.

Several tense moments passed, and the only thing Tex heard was a donkey braying, then Venegas saying, “
Por favor. Debemos aquí ayudar—
”

“I know who you are. It’s the other two I’m worried about. Keep your hands where I can see them!” A female voice. Speaking English with a faint Mexican accent.

Venegas kept his hands up. “They are friends. Here to help.”

“You tell those other two I want to see their hands up in the air.”

Tex peered between the boulders and saw a woman on the porch, pointing a long gun at them. She was dressed in blue jeans and a plaid shirt and wore a baseball cap.

“Now!” she ordered.

Tex rolled to his side, put up his hands. Carillo waited a heartbeat. When no shots were forthcoming, he rose, keeping his hands up about shoulder level.

“The three of you walk up here. Nice and slow.”

They walked down the hill toward the house, and as they neared, Tex saw she was in her late fifties or early sixties. Hard to say, since her skin was tanned and leathery, her arms muscled, as though she did a lot of the ranch work herself. Her light brown hair, flecked with gray, was pulled back in a ponytail beneath the cap, and he could see her eyes following their movements, her gaze fixed on their hands, not their faces.

When they reached the ranch house, she lowered the barrel to about their knees and Tex felt infinitely better. Until a curtain moved at the front window, and he wondered if someone inside had a gun on them, as well.

“Who are you two?” she asked.

And Tex said, “James Dalton, reporter with the
Washington Recorder
.”

“Newspaper? That’s a new one. You?” she said, pointing her gun at Carillo.

“Tony Carillo, ma’am. Special agent, FBI.”

The front door flew open, and a young woman with dark hair and blue eyes, and a slightly rounded stomach, stepped out, pointing a gun right at Carillo, saying, “You know an agent named Sydney Fitzpatrick?”

“I do.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right where you stand.”