The Kill Order (5 page)

Brad Pearson, the director of the Foreign Counterintelligence squad, opened the door. Tall, thin, with military-short graying hair, he pinned his gaze right on Sydney as though he’d come here looking for her, and she gripped the flash drive tight, keeping it out of sight. “Isn’t Quantico a bit farther south?” he asked.

“I
knew
I took the wrong exit,” she said. “Freeway signs. So confusing.”

“GPS. So convenient.” He eyed Scotty, saying, “You have that report for me?”

“Just finishing it up,” Scotty said, and she relaxed once she realized she wasn’t the focus of Pearson’s attention.

“Get it to me before lunch. I’d like to read it over before my meeting this afternoon.” He started out, then stopped, turned back to Scotty. “Almost forgot. The class I need you to take over for me? It’s next weekend. I had the date wrong.”

“
Next
weekend? I—”

“If you’re free that is.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I’ll let them know you’ll be there.”

Scotty nodded in return. Pearson barely glanced at her on his way out. The moment he closed the door behind him, Scotty turned the force of his stare on her, clearly unhappy about her presence, especially with Pearson so nearby. At least that’s what she thought, until he said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to take your new boyfriend to a bed-and-breakfast next weekend? It’s not like I can use it now, so it’s just going to go to waste.”

So he really had been planning a getaway with Amanda. She, for one, was glad. “Why not tell Pearson you have plans?”

“Amanda won’t mind. She’s sort of a homebody,” he said, then picked up an envelope from his desk, handing it to her. “Take it.”

She opened it, saw the certificate for two nights at a secluded bed-and-breakfast just across the Potomac in McLean, Virginia. “Pretty nice place . . .” Certainly one she could never afford.

“I won it in a drawing.”

She handed it back. “Let me think about it? Griffin never knows his schedule from one day to the next anyway.”

“You start looking into those files,” he said, placing the envelope on his desk, “you’re going to need it way more than me.” Scotty had warned her back when he’d originally divulged his knowledge of this W2 file, that if Pearson so much as found out that she was looking into the case, he’d transfer her in a heartbeat to some godforsaken outpost where she wouldn’t see the light of day.

Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket, and she pulled it out, looked at the caller ID. Speak of the devil. Zachary Griffin, the covert government agent she was currently dating.

“Gotta go,” she said, even though she wasn’t about to answer Griffin’s call. Not here. She had too much to think about, and he had an uncanny knack for knowing when she was getting into something she shouldn’t.

If Scotty thought Pearson would have objections about her seeing that file, it was nothing to what Griffin would do should he find out. Griffin’s boss had also warned her off of looking into the W2 case, as had Griffin—and this presented a whole new set of problems. Pearson had a direct pipeline to Griffin’s boss, who had a direct pipeline to Griffin.

The things she didn’t think about when she decided to start dating the guy.

She walked out, tucking the flash drive into her pocket.

Time to find out what everyone was keeping so hush-hush.

5

San Mateo, California

T
ex had no doubts about his ability to get in and out of Carillo’s condominium without being discovered. He’d called to say he might be in the area and would there be a good time to stop by—which was how he found out Carillo would be gone for a couple of hours. So why then was he hesitating? Guilt over past activities that were best left buried? Or Fitzpatrick’s reaction should she learn his part in it?

He always knew there’d be trouble, once Griffin started dating her. Especially with their mutual background, of which only
half
the party knew about. The Griffin half. Not exactly an auspicious beginning.

Still, guilt came with the territory, so it wasn’t that. Not entirely. Reality was that working with Carillo on the last two cases had complicated things, because they’d become friends.

Like it or not, Tex would have to deal with the fallout. He was doing the right thing by taking this on himself, even when Griffin had offered. He’d almost convinced himself until he saw that he wasn’t the only one interested in Carillo’s residence, a corner unit of a Mediterranean-style complex with tiled roof and sand-colored stucco siding.

A man was walking along the far side of the building, his attention fixed on Carillo’s unit.

The wind gusted hard enough to shake Tex’s car, spattering large raindrops across his windshield, obscuring his vision. Whoever said it never rained in California was an idiot. As was the agent who neglected to pack rain gear. Then again, he hadn’t arrived in California expecting to be here when the rain started.

He was supposed to be home by now,
not
breaking into a friend’s house.

Or watching someone else try to.

He got out, walked toward the complex. A newspaper in plastic wrap sat on the sidewalk in front of the courtyard entrance, and he picked it up before walking toward the arched entryway as though he lived there. From his peripheral vision, he saw the man glance over at him, then continue toward Carillo’s enclosed patio. There was no gate to the patio, the front doors to all the condos happened to be inside the courtyard, therefore no reason for someone to be loitering in the area outside. Tex tossed the paper onto the closest front porch, stepped back out, knowing without a doubt the only place the man could have been heading for was over the six-foot stucco wall surrounding Carillo’s patio.

Unless of course he’d misread the entire scenario, and it was just some poor schmuck out for a walk in the beginning of a rainstorm.

Fat drops slapped at Tex’s face as he walked to the corner, looked down the street. Not a soul in sight, which meant the suspect had to have gone over the wall. The perfect place to break in without being seen—since Tex had intended on using the same point of entry.

Nothing like being last to the party.

Tex reentered the condominium courtyard standing to one side of the stuccoed arched entry, out of the rain, hoping to approach Carillo’s unit without being seen. The security lights cast long shadows across the terra-cotta pavers, the perfect concealment as long as he stayed to the dark side of the columns.

How could he even tell Carillo that someone was breaking in without implicating ATLAS? Carillo wasn’t expecting him to be there for several hours.

He thought about going in after the guy. Except if someone was breaking in for the same reason as Tex, it was bound to turn deadly and Carillo would
definitely
notice if Tex killed the suspect in his condo.

Keep it simple, he decided, adjusting the Bluetooth in his ear. Call the police and let them do the work. Then, when the police were on their way, Tex would simply wait for the suspect to emerge and follow him. He took out his phone, and punched in 911. When the dispatcher answered, he said, “Someone’s breaking into an FBI agent’s apartment. He climbed in through the back patio and is inside now.”

“The address?” she asked. He gave it, and she followed with “Any weapons seen?”

“Unknown.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Anonymous. I need to contact the FBI agent. I’ll have him call you.” He pressed the button on the Bluetooth to disconnect, not having time to deal with the cumbersome details the local police needed, and then he called Carillo. “It’s Tex.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s been better,” he said, eyeing Carillo’s unit. “I decided to swing by your place since I got done early, just to see if you’d left yet.”

“Guess you found out I had.”

“Which is why I’m calling. There’s a man inside your condo. Saw him go over the back wall.”

“The back wall? The alarm didn’t go off?”

“No. But I called the police and I’ll be standing by until they get here.”

“Son of a bitch. I’m on my way. Be about five.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Appreciate it.”

Tex disconnected, then phoned Griffin next, keeping his eye on Carillo’s front windows. “I take it the three of you made it back to D.C. with no problems?”

“We did. How’s your, uh, thing going.”

“Slight problem,” Tex said, then informed him of the break-in.

“Maybe your garden-variety burglar?”

“Ever the optimist. What I’d like to know is—assuming whoever is breaking in is part of the affair last night—how’d they make the connection to Carillo so fast?”

“Clearly someone knew he was involved with Sydney in the case. This isn’t good. You can’t tell Carillo why you’re there.”

“Not to worry. The cops are en route. I’m just playing the part of the concerned citizen.”

“You see anything?”

“A light inside . . . Wait. It just went dark.”

“How likely is it that Carillo kept a copy of the list?”

“We’re talking Carillo. If he thought something was up, highly likely.”

“Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

To say the least. He turned his attention to the condo. If the suspect came out the front door, Tex had him . . . But he wasn’t coming out the front. And the cops weren’t surrounding the place as fast as he’d hoped. Which meant the suspect had a chance at escaping via the point of entry. Tex turned to exit the courtyard, intending to follow.

“Police! Show me your hands!”

White light flooded the area, blinding him.

“What the hell’s going on, Tex?” Griffin asked.

Tex squinted, raised his hands, palms out, and two officers approached, both with their guns pointed at his chest. One cop ordered him to turn around slowly, interlace his fingers at the back of his neck, then kneel to the ground. “A slight flaw with my plan, Griff.”

6

T
he police were walking Tex to his car just as Carillo arrived. If Carillo was surprised by the arrest, Tex couldn’t tell, but he took out his credentials, identifying himself to the officers.

“Congratulations, boys,” Carillo said. “You’ve just arrested the reporting party. He works with me.”

The female officer had Tex by the elbow. “He’s an FBI agent? He didn’t say so. Even after we found a gun.”

“His branch of the government is . . . a little more obscure.” Carillo’s smile was more sarcastic than amused. “For some reason, those handcuffs look very appropriate on you.” Then, after a thoughtful glance toward his apartment, he said to the officers, “What we have here is a bit of miscommunication. The condo’s mine. He’s working with me on a local case, and I’m sure if you look in his wallet, you’ll see an identification card from DOJ there.”

She removed Tex’s wallet from his back pocket, found the identification card as stated. “Sorry about that.” To Carillo, she added, “We saw him running out of the main entrance and he matched the description.”

Carillo eyed Tex while the other officer removed the handcuffs, then returned his gun. “He does have that shady look. Even so, I appreciate you coming out. Maybe you two can run an area check and see if the guy’s still around? He and I will check the condo. Make sure it’s clear.”

“Sure thing,” the officer said.

He and Tex entered the courtyard to the condo. “Point of entry through the back?” Carillo asked Tex.

“If he left, out the back, too. Can’t imagine he’d stick around once the cops showed up.” Tex put his hand on Carillo’s shoulder as Carillo took out his keys to unlock the door. “Assuming he
did
get out. I never got past the courtyard.”

Carillo nodded, and both men drew their pistols, standing one on each side of the door. Carillo turned the key in the lock, then pushed the door open with his foot. He entered, Tex right behind him. They cleared each room, determined that the place was empty. The back slider stood open a few inches. The window in the kitchen that also overlooked the patio was open and the screen nowhere in sight. Smeared gritty dirt, still wet, marred the otherwise clean white tiles on the counter, confirming it was the point of entry. “What’re the chances he left prints?” Carillo asked.

Tex didn’t answer. He knew there’d be none. Instead, he asked, “Anything missing?”

“Not that I can see . . . Stereo and TV are still here. Definitely not after big-ticket items  . . .” Carillo walked to his bedroom, checked the wooden box on his dresser. “Wedding ring and dress watch still here. I don’t own any other jewelry, so what were they after?”

“You have a safe or anything?”

Carillo made a beeline to his office. Tex followed.

A large gun safe stood against the wall, and Carillo spun the dial, then turned the combination until it opened. “Guns are still here. Deed to the house is still here, which means my won’t-be-soon-enough-ex wasn’t the culprit.”

“It definitely wasn’t Sheila I saw.”

“Coulda been one of her low-life friends?”

“Thought you two had sort of patched things as far as the house custody.”

“Well, we have. I just can’t figure out what anyone would want in here if not the guns or money.”

Carillo stood there looking around, and when his gaze lit on Tex, it was filled with suspicion.

He knew.

But instead of saying anything, he closed and locked the safe, left the room, walked to the kitchen. He slid the window shut, used a towel to wipe off the footprints on the counter, closed and locked the slider, then double-checked his alarm to make sure it was working.

That done, he went to the refrigerator, opened it, and pulled out two bottles of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, then the opener from the drawer, popped off the tops, and handed one to Tex. “I find that when my constitutional rights are being violated, alcohol helps dull the need to call an attorney.”

“We would have told you if we could,” Tex said.

“Yeah. Right. But breaking in seemed the better option?”

“Something like that.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“You mean I just wiped off valuable evidence and you
let
me?”

“I doubt these guys would leave any. You’re probably fine.”

“If not you, then who broke in?”

“If I had to guess, the guys responsible for the homicides in your town last night.”

“The kid from the warehouse?”

“And his friend at another apartment.”

Carillo took a sip of his beer. Apparently mulling things over. Then, “This over the hard drive from the copy machine from our office?”

“It is,” Tex said, not too surprised that Carillo knew.

“Which means those numbers Sydney brought back from Mexico don’t belong to some offshore bank accounts like we thought?”

“Correct.”

“Guess I lost that bet. So what
do
they belong to?” he asked.

“Can’t say,” Tex replied.

“What
can
you tell me?”

“Not much,” Tex said. “Except that if you have a copy, or know where it is, we need it.”

“Don’t
you
already have a copy? Fitzpatrick turned it over right after we made ours.”

“So she does have a copy?”

“She does. The
only
one. Unless you count the hard drive. I gave it to her. So what do you need with hers?”

“You saw what happened to the last person to run them. Ergo, we need to recover it and destroy it.”

“Ergo? Sounds like something in a French restaurant. And I don’t do French. What I do do is make logical deductions. One. Someone knew Sydney’s every move back when she was looking into her father’s murder. Two. She dodged a lot of bullets when that list of numbers hit her hands. Three. The moment she got back here to the office, someone swooped in and grabbed said list from us before we could even look into what it was for, hence the reason we made the copy. Four. You’re here without a search warrant, looking for something you probably wouldn’t even dare to articulate in open court, except someone beat you to the punch. Conclusion? You, or someone from your branch, were the guys shooting at Sydney in Mexico. How close am I?”

Tex refused to answer.

Carillo leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyeing him. “You know how many bullets she dodged
getting
that list? She’s not going to like finding out after the fact that you were involved. Hell. That
Griffin
was involved. Because if I’m not mistaken,
they’re
involved.”

“I’d appreciate it if you let us tell her when the time is right. Him, actually.”

“And when will that be?”

“When we recover the list from her, and when we know it will be safe to say something.”

“The honor,” Carillo said, pointing his beer bottle at Tex, “is all
yours
. But be aware she knows about this mess here in South San Francisco, because I called her the moment I learned of the murder at the warehouse.”

“What about you?” Tex asked Carillo.

“You mean how am I taking the fact you went spy versus spy on me? Keeping secrets? Breaking into my place without a warrant? Or attempting to? I’m pragmatic enough to realize if one plays with a scorpion, expect to get stung. I also know if the roles were reversed, and it was
my
case, we’d be having this conversation in
your
kitchen, not mine.” He took another sip of his beer, then set the bottle on the counter, his expression turning dark. “And before you go blaming Fitzpatrick, because she smuggled the numbers from Mexico,
I’m
the one who made the copy, not her. So
I
have to bear the guilt of this kid’s death.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tex said.

And then Carillo looked right at him. “My conscience tells me otherwise. I also know there’s enough guilt to go around. Which is why I’m cutting you some slack, so drink your goddamned beer. But a word of advice. When Griffin finally gets around to telling her about your and his involvement? I’d highly recommend he wears body armor. I can almost guarantee she’s going to go ballistic.”