The Kill Order (4 page)

4

FBI Academy

Quantico, Virginia

“G
un!”

Special Agent Sydney Fitzpatrick drew her weapon, fired twice, then scanned her surroundings. The agent next to her did the same.

“Holster!” the range master called out, then walked down the line, making sure everyone had complied. When he reached Sydney’s side, he eyed her target, saw a tight pattern that would have been excellent—had it not been to the right and slightly below the ten X. “You’re pulling.”

“Trigger’s a lot stiffer than my normal weapon,” she explained. Her issued weapon had been secured after a recent on-duty shooting, and this, her temporary replacement, same make and model, Glock 22, was brand-new out of the box.

“Until you get yours back, this is what you’re working with. Take it up to the armorer. Have him lighten that trigger pull, see if we can’t move that pattern back over.”

She did as told and was standing by while the armorer stripped down the weapon, adjusted the trigger pull, and was putting it all back together when her cell phone rang. It was Tony Carillo, her former partner, calling from the San Francisco field office.

“Any chance you have a few minutes to talk?” Tony asked.

The sharp crack of gunfire echoed in the distance, as she said, “In the middle of qualifications. Why?”

“Call me as soon as you can.”

He disconnected before she could ask what was going on.

“Here you go, Fitzpatrick,” the gunsmith said, wiping the excess oil from the empty weapon, then handing it back to her. “See if that works a little better.”

“Thanks.”

She carried it to the range, put on her shooting glasses, and waited for the range master to give the okay to reload and fire. This time the pattern was mostly in the center. The moment he signed her off, she cleaned the weapon, then hurried off to her basement office in the academy building, calling Carillo from the landline phone. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Trivia question. Guess what office item besides your computer has a hard drive?”

Even though she thought the question absurd, her gaze flicked around her office. “A printer?”

“Besides that,” he said.

“No clue.”

“Copy machine.”

“And your point?”

“There was a murder in South San Francisco that was connected to the machine from our San Francisco office.”

“What makes you think that?”

“We recently had ours replaced after it went kaput, along with several others. Only someone forgot to remove the hard drives from said machines prior to their being auctioned off at the surplus warehouse. Apparently, this was an oversight, as the tech folks are aware of the hard drives, and they’re
supposed
to remove them before the machines leave the premises.”

“How do you know all this?”

“It’s in the policy and procedures manual.”

“Not about the copy machine hard drive. About the murder being related?”

“Because the South San Francisco PD has spent the last several hours collecting evidence on a murder victim’s place of business, and they apparently found a number of machines to which they ran the serial numbers, which led to our office. They also found most of the hard drives to the machines still intact.”

Sydney leaned back in her chair, not sure where Carillo was heading with this. “What do you mean
most
of the hard drives?”

“Because the one that’s missing? It was from the machine in
this
office. This floor. The one you and I made a certain copy on. And in case you’re forgetting
exactly
what that copy is of, maybe a certain trip you took to Mexico to investigate your father’s murder might help to refresh your memory.”

A sick feeling started in the pit of her stomach. “Someone was killed?”

“Yeah. Shot in the head. Point-blank.”

“Oh my God . . .”

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Shot . . .

Because of her.

She’d been the one to track down Robert Orozco, all because she’d wanted answers about who had killed her father. She’d used every FBI resource at her disposal to find Orozco, who’d apparently spent the last two decades in hiding for some crime that he and her father had committed. Orozco had been certain that once he turned over the list of numbers to her, he and his family would be safe . . .

It simply never occurred to her that someone completely uninvolved with the case could be targeted.

“How do you think they found him?”

“The copy machine guy? You know how Doc warned us not to run the numbers on the computer?” he said, referring to his current partner, and the only other person who was aware of how she’d acquired that list of numbers. “He thinks the kid did just that. Ran them on his computer.”

She thought about that trip to Mexico. Someone had tried to kill her, and she’d had no doubt it was a government agent. She’d barely escaped . . . “You think the government did this, too? Murdered this kid because he found the numbers?”

“Can’t say. But if there were any doubts that someone’s watching our every electronic move, this should erase them.”

“What about Orozco? Someone needs to warn him.”

“Not to worry. I’ll call Agent Venegas as soon as I get off the phone with you. I just figured you should know.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll get back to you once I find out more. I’m on my way to South San Francisco now.”

She hung up, stared at her phone while the news sank in. And then she unlocked her desk drawer, saw the envelope with her name on the front. Carillo had figured her office in Quantico was probably the most secure location for what it contained, Orozco’s list of numbers, and she picked it up, weighed it in her hands. Hard to believe something so seemingly insignificant—just a page filled with indecipherable numbers—could be the means to such a deadly end. Then again, maybe not. Hard to overlook that
she’d
almost been killed retrieving the envelope from Orozco in Mexico.

Had someone murdered this kid for the same reason, because they thought he had the numbers? She’d turned over the original list to the U.S. government. And until now, this copy she held was, she thought, unknown by all except her and Carillo.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor toward her office, and she shoved the envelope in the drawer, closed and locked it. This was not the place to be waving around something that she was not supposed to have in her possession. Her boss, Terrance Harcourt, stopped in her doorway, carrying a manila folder. The gray-haired man eyed the keys in her hand. “On your way out?”

“I just got back, actually. Qualifications.”

“How’d the new gun work out?”

“Fine after a few adjustments.”

“I hate new guns.” He took a step in, held out the manila folder. “Letter of commendation for your work on the terrorist explosion,” he said, handing it to her, then turning on his heel.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” she replied, even though he was halfway down the hall. Harcourt wasn’t the social type. Just as well, since she had a few things on her mind at the moment. She flipped open the folder. Her name was typed at the top of the letter, and it was signed by Brad Pearson, the director of the Foreign Counterintelligence unit. Pearson was someone who probably knew what those numbers in her desk meant—never mind he was one of the
last
people she’d want to show them to. A bit hard having to explain why it was that she and Carillo had a copy, when they’d been ordered by Pearson to turn them over to the government agents to begin with.

She let the folder drop shut, not caring about any letter of commendation. She’d brought those numbers into this country, having no idea what they belonged to, except that Orozco told her they were important and the government wanted them back. If this young man was killed because someone thought those numbers were in his possession, then she damned well wanted to know what they were for and who was looking for them.

Her father had been murdered because of his connection to Orozco and this list of numbers. And even though at the time of her own investigation into his death, she’d felt certain that she knew all the facts surrounding the case, her ex-boyfriend, Special Agent Scott Ryan, had recently mentioned that what she’d discovered, her father’s and Orozco’s involvement, was only the tip of the iceberg. Apparently Scotty had some old files on the case that she had not yet seen.

To her, her father’s case was closed and she had no interest in reliving the nightmare of his murder.

With the news about the recent killing in South San Francisco, perhaps she needed to reassess her conclusion. Not about who killed her father—that she knew—but about the circumstances that led up to his death.

Clearly it was time to pay Scotty a visit and see if he had something of value, or if he was using this so-called mystery file as a way to maintain a connection with her, now that she was dating someone else. Hoping for the former, not the latter, she grabbed her keys and headed out the door.

Sydney drove straight to FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., where her ex-boyfriend Scotty worked. It was the perfect locale for him, since it kept him close to the movers and shakers. When they’d first started dating, Sydney had admired his determination to promote himself to get ahead, and had even harbored similar aspirations. Now, however, she preferred her basement office at the academy in Quantico, where she taught forensic art to law enforcement officials—when she wasn’t working actual cases. Far removed from the political scene, it offered solitude, something she found herself seeking more often of late. Being involved in several high-profile cases that had nearly cost her and her family their lives will do that to an agent.

And yet, here she was, about to involve herself in yet another one?

Not another one. A continuation of one, she amended. She thought of her young sister, her mother and stepfather . . . If it meant keeping them safe, she told herself, she’d go to the ends of the world. She paused, reaffirming in her mind that she was doing the right thing, then knocked on Scotty’s door.

He was typing a report when she entered.

“Sorry to disturb you.”

“You’re not,” he said, his focus on the computer screen. “Just finishing a few last details. What’d you want to talk about?”

“I came to see the file you promised.” He continued typing, and she had a feeling he was only half listening. She closed the door behind her. “The W2 files,” she said, referring to the law firm being investigated in secret by the Department of Justice, Wingman and Wingman—aka Wingman Squared or W2.

Scotty’s fingers stilled on the keyboard at the name and he looked up at her.

He was listening now. “Why?”

“You told me there were things about my father’s death I didn’t know, and that Wingman Squared was somehow involved.”

“Jesus.” He got up, opened his door, looked out, then closed it again. “Look, Syd,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The only reason I told you about the Wingman Squared files was because I thought it might shed some light on the questions you had about that law firm and the link to your father’s case. I didn’t intend for you to actually start investigating it yourself.”

Scotty’s sudden reluctance to turn over the promised files confirmed in her mind that he’d only been using them as a way to maintain his connection to her. He, apparently, had known about them from the beginning, when she’d first started looking into her father’s murder. And yet the moment she started dating another government agent, Zachary Griffin, Scotty suddenly decided to reveal their existence? “You only dangled that case in front of me because I was about to walk off with another man. And now that he and I are a couple—”

“News flash, Sydney.
I’ve
moved on. Or did you forget about Amanda? In fact, she and I are going away next weekend. Together. Overnight.”

“Why promise the files, then change your mind?”

“Because I’ve had time to think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?”

“You might not like what you find.”

“Because it involves my father? Could it be any worse than what I’ve already discovered about him?”

“That all depends on your perspective.”

He was talking in circles, and she wasn’t sure why. “How about you let me see it so that I can decide for myself?”

Scotty stared at her for what seemed several seconds, then moved to his desk, pulled a handful of pens from an FBI Academy mug, and dug out a USB flash drive from the bottom. He returned the pens, then held the drive out to her. When she took it, he closed his fingers tight around hers. “Do
not
,” he said, keeping his voice low, but firm, “let anyone know I gave this to you.”

“I won’t.”

“And for God’s sake, Syd, don’t open it on any work computers, or anything connected to the Internet.”

“I get it.”

“I don’t think you do.” There was a knock at the door, and Scotty gave her a pointed look, then sat on the edge of his desk, as though they’d been shooting the breeze, not having some conversation that could get either one of them in trouble. “Come in.”