A Kiss to Kill (15 page)

The apartment was totally trashed.

Quinn and Reeves were poised just beyond the foyer, listening for intruders. After a lengthy pause, Quinn shook his head, and with military hand signals directed Wade and her to go left into the kitchen, while he and Reeves went right into the hallway that presumably led to the bedroom area.

Sarah ground her jaw. This was
her
case and
her
goddamn victim’s apartment.
She
should be giving the orders here.

Yeah, good luck with that. Between Quinn and Wade, the cloud of testosterone filling the air was nearly lethal.

Though both men were striving to be professional, she got the distinct feeling there was some bad blood between them. She wondered what that was all about. A woman, perhaps? Gina Cappozi, for instance? Had they been in conflict during her rescue for some reason? Or was it more personal . . . ?

Not her business, she reminded herself, and doused the annoying spark of jealousy that appeared at the thought of Wade Montana fighting over another woman.

How stupid was that?

“Thanks for the help, Commander,” she said tetchily when they’d cleared the apartment. “I can take it from here.”

“Sorry,” he said with a lazy grin. He shrugged. “No disrespect intended, ma’am. Sometimes the training just takes over and I forget myself.”

Sure he did. However, it was only thanks to Quinn’s largess she was here at all, so she smiled back. “Not a problem.”

Tara Reeves pulled a video camera from her shoulder bag. “Mind if I shoot some video, Detective? Naturally we’ll supply you with a copy.”

“Please, go ahead,” she said, grateful she wouldn’t have to delay the search until a CSI could get there to do it. She figured if STORM’s creds were good enough for DHS, they were good enough for D.C. Metro.

Reeves turned on the camera and they all took a moment to study the mess.

The contents of the upscale apartment were thrown everywhere: bookshelves were swept bare and the expensive-looking decorative items smashed, furniture slashed open so their stuffing poured from the gashes, cushions were ripped, drawers emptied onto the floor; even the food from the refrigerator and freezer were heaped melting and festering on the kitchen floor. In the bedroom, the mattress had been savaged and the closet emptied of clothes, which now lay scattered about in tatters. Holes had been punched in the walls.

“Jesus,” Quinn said with a low whistle. “The bastards were certainly thorough.”

“Wonder what they were looking for?” Tara Reeves said, slowly panning the room with the video camera for a master shot.

“Same as us, I’d wager,” Wade said grimly. “Incriminating evidence.”

“Whatever it was, the good news is, it doesn’t look like they found it,” Sarah ventured.

Wade nodded. “Or they would have stopped searching.”

“Unless they weren’t exactly sure
what
they were looking for,” Tara suggested. “Or didn’t want to inadvertently miss anything.”

True. “Let’s hope they
did
miss something,” Sarah said, and called Lieutenant Harding to inform him of the development. He said he’d send CSI, and Jonesy, who was back on duty because his court case had been delayed.

“Metro is sending Crime Scene to check for prints and trace,” she reported after hanging up. “My priority is still the murder case, but Commander Quinn, once the rooms have been videotaped, you and Miss Reeves have been okayed to do a visual search for evidence of the cousin. However, anything you find stays with Metro until I get orders otherwise.”

“Understood,” Quinn said. “And Montana?”

She turned reluctantly to Wade, irritated that she
still
felt an attraction to him. And it didn’t help that he was acting so damn contrite. “I guess I could use an extra set of eyes, if you want to come with me.”

“Thank you,” he told her quietly as they gloved and booted up. “I appreciate you letting me stay.”

She glanced at Quinn and Tara, who were going into the kitchen, then leveled him a look. “I keep my promises.”

His mouth thinned at the unspoken rebuke. “Sarah—”

“Forget it.” She turned away, but he caught her by the arm.

“Honey, your talking to Quinn yesterday took me by surprise, that’s all. Being overly suspicious is an occupational hazard. Trust me, I didn’t sleep a wink thinking about what a complete ass I was.”

Despite herself, she half smiled. “At least we have something in common.”

He stepped in closer and murmured, “But an ass who’s crazy about you. Forgive me?”

She sighed, even
more
irritated that she was entertaining the notion of giving in to his dubious charm. But there you go. She wanted him. Simple as that.

However, she refused to let him off so easily. It was one thing to know she was weak, another entirely to show her weakness to others. Just look where that had gotten her in the past. “I’ll think about it,” she said, and took back her arm.

He got the hint. “Okay. I’ll try to be patient.” And they went to work.

For being so lavish, the apartment was amazingly devoid of personal items. No letters, no bills, no diary, not even a scribbled inscription in Mahmood’s few books. But oh. My. God. What they
did
find was an eyebrow-raising collection of sex toys scattered amongst the ruins of the bedroom.

At least Sarah was pretty sure that’s what they were. Most of the items she recognized, but some of them . . . Okay, just . . . yikes.

“A call girl?” Wade ventured.

She glanced at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Fairly standard assortment for someone in that profession,” he stated, cataloging them with a practiced eye.

A bit too practiced.

“Is that so.”

He looked up, realized what she was thinking, and made a face. “I worked on an international prostitution trafficking case for three years, thank you.”

“Picked up some interesting educational tidbits, I take it.”

“Oh, yeah.” The corner of his lip flicked up. “I’ll gladly teach you everything I know.”

To her chagrin, her face heated. “I haven’t forgiven you yet.”

“Oh, you’ve forgiven me.”

“And you know this how?”

“You keep staring at my mouth.”

She jerked her gaze up.
Damn
. Her cheeks blazed hotter.

Just then Quinn poked his head into the bedroom. “Any luck in here?”

Wade kept his eyes on her as he said, “As a matter of fact”—he casually glanced away, down to a large square metal object he’d been excavating from under a pile of linen—“I found this.” He gingerly lifted it up. It was a shredder. He raised the lid for them to see. It was filled with confettied paper.

Quinn walked over and peered into the container. He smiled. “Oh, yeah. Touchdown, baby.”

“What?” Sarah asked, following the two of them into the kitchen, where Wade set the machine on the table.

“Some of the strips of paper are badly wrinkled,” Quinn explained as he reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a square leather case. “Which means the thing jams. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

The case contained a dozen shiny metal tools, like a cat burglar’s kit. Two minutes later, Quinn had the machine taken apart. With two latex-gloved fingers he extracted a torn quarter page of paper that had gotten stuck between the blades. He grinned triumphantly at it, then handed it to her.

“I’ll be damned,” she murmured, giving the paper a quick study. Her eyes halted in mid-scan. “It appears you were right about the connection with the cousin.”

“What is it?” Wade asked, looking over her shoulder.

“It’s a printout of a statement from an online bank account—in the names of both Asha and Ouda Mahmood.”

Tara made a noise over Sarah’s other shoulder. “The balance is over seven hundred thousand dollars!”

Sarah slid the paper into a plastic protective folder and passed it over to Quinn, who said, “The statement is dated six months ago.”

“Six months?” Tara repeated.

Wade snapped to attention. “That’s during the time Gina was being held hostage.”

“Too bad the rest of it’s gone,” Tara said, pursing her lips.

Wade flipped out his phone. “Read me the account number. I’ll have the Bureau subpoena the bank records.”

Sarah shook her head. “FBI’s not involved in this case, remember?” she reminded him. “Not unless I request their help.”

“Damn it, Sarah!” he said and angrily snapped the phone closed again. “Then fucking request it!” He quickly added,
“Please.”

“You really want some other FBI agent looking up your ass on this?” Quinn interjected.

Wade did not look pleased at the reminder that his presence was anything but official. He glared at Quinn, then backed down. “Point taken.”

“I understand you’re anxious for answers,” Sarah said to him, breaking the tension and reaching into her pocket for her cell phone. “I can just as easily—”

Commander Quinn put a hand on her arm. “As it turns out, you have no jurisdiction.”

She frowned. “What?”

“This is a foreign bank,” he pointed out. “Cayman Islands. Let me make a call. I have a friend there. And I’ll be happy to share.”

She got the distinct feeling it didn’t matter what she said, he’d make that call anyway. She might as well see the results. “All right. Have them e-mail me the account records, if you can get them.”

“I can get them.”

Meanwhile, Tara had been studying the bank statement through the protective plastic. A scowl suddenly swept across her face. “Look at this!”

“What?” Quinn asked.

She pointed to a line on the statement. “This check was made out to an American political campaign.” Tara looked ready to spit nails. “Twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth!”

“That’ll buy you a bit of influence inside the beltway,” Sarah said disgustedly.

Tara glanced at Quinn. “And you’ll never guess whose campaign fund.”

Quinn had gone deadly still. “Whose?”

“The Committee to Reelect Lester Altos. The congressman from
Louisiana
.”

At that, Wade’s eyes flashed wide. But just as quickly, his face went completely blank. If Sarah hadn’t been looking right at him, she’d have missed it.

Hmmm. What was going on
there
? “And that’s significant why?”

Quinn turned to her, his voice cold as steel. “Louisiana is where the al Sayika terrorists maintained their sleeper cell. It’s where they held Dr. Cappozi for three months, and tested the bioweapon they forced her to perfect.”

What he was hinting at hit Sarah like a blow. My God! A
congressman
? No, she must have misunderstood. “So, what exactly are you saying . . . ?”

“I’m saying it’s one hell of a coincidence, don’t you think? And I do not like coincidences. Not one little bit.”

FOURTEEN

GINA
snuggled into the buttery leather seat of the Mercedes Roadster that Gregg had somehow acquired—she’d deliberately not asked how—and wrapped the cashmere sweater he’d bought for her more tightly around her midriff. It was a gorgeous magenta color and looked beautiful with the soft gray skirt and black leather knee boots he’d gotten to go with it. Not to mention the silver necklace and earrings that matched the heart anklet he’d given her. The man had wonderful taste.

“Gotta learn about style when you live undercover,” he’d said, looking embarrassed when she’d told him so. “Can’t get the details wrong.”

“I s’ppose not,” she agreed.

“Besides,” he’d added, reaching over from the driver’s seat to touch her thigh, “I like you in that color.”

And she knew why. She owned a set of sexy lingerie in nearly the exact same shade. They’d been his favorite, back before . . .

Once again, involuntary memories of her captivity shivered through her. Would they never stop? She gripped the armrest with white knuckles, fending off her thoughts. The painful images always hit her at the most inappropriate, random moments, and she was never prepared for the onslaught. She hated it.

Gregg’s fingers tightened on her thigh. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She turned to gaze at the passing landscape.

They were traveling south on I-95, making the four-hour trip to Washington, D.C. She could scarcely believe in two short days she had changed her mind so thoroughly about Gregg that she had stood silently by as he called the kid next door to take care of Penny the cat—apparently a standing arrangement between them—and come willingly along on this crazy D.C. expedition. Had offered to help him in his search for a traitor who was starting to seem more phantom than real. She prayed she’d made the right decision to trust him.

“Tell me your plan,” she said, turning back to him.

He glanced at her from checking the rearview mirror. If her question surprised him, he didn’t show it. “I was able to persuade Frank Blair to give me contact information for his Pentagon source. I’ll start there. Meet with the guy. See what he has to say.”

“Blair?” Alarm zinged up her spine. “But it could be a trap!”

“Which is why you’re staying at the hotel. In case something goes wrong.”

“And if it does, what am I supposed to do? Call the D.C. police?”

“Hell, no.” He moved his hand from her thigh to the steering wheel. “You hightail it back up to Haven Oaks Sanatorium and lock yourself in until you hear from me, or until the traitor is exposed.”

She frowned in vague surprise. “But STORM runs Haven Oaks. I thought you didn’t trust them.”

“I don’t trust
any
one. But the security at Haven Oaks is good. You’ll be safer there than anywhere else.”

She pondered that for a moment. “But
you
got inside.”

“Baby, I could get into Fort Knox if I wanted to. But Haven Oaks will do fine to protect you. I’ve decided the man we’re looking for is probably not a professional operator. He’s most likely a damn paper-pusher.”

That seemed a leap. “How do you figure?”

“Because al Sayika is doing all the dirty work. They’re running him, not the other way around. He’s a coward. Just sitting back and reaping the rewards of his treachery.”

“You think he’s doing this for money? The blood diamonds everyone keeps talking about?”

“Let’s hope so. Because if he’s betraying his own country out of some twisted moral conviction, it’s a whole other ball game.”

She thought about that, and about everything she’d suffered at the hands of her captors. If it was all because of simple greed . . .

Emotions she’d kept carefully locked away for months suddenly cracked loose and a bone-deep fury swept through her, bubbling and roiling in her chest. It had been easier when she’d thought Gregg was the villain. She’d been able to focus all her negative energy on him. But now, the rage grew inside her, like an ugly, festering cancer, wanting to explode.

“We’ll get him,” Gregg said, bringing her fingers to his lips. “I swear to you, Gina. We’ll get the bastard.”

“That’s not enough,” she said with a hatred that went deep, to her very soul. “I want him dead.”

“That can be arranged,” he said evenly.

And she knew he would.

Despite her hatred, a chill went up the back of her scalp. “I don’t know how can you do this,” she said. “Be involved in such terrible things, with such brutal people, day after day, year after year.”

He kissed her fingers again, then let them go, his gaze on the road ahead. “Someone has to.”

“But why you? What makes you want to do it?”

He let out a long sigh. “You don’t want to know.”

Except she did. She wanted to know everything about him. What made him tick. Why he could be the way he was and still attract her, inside and out, as no other man ever had.

“Something happened to you,” she said, and watched his handsome face cloud over to a grim blank. “Maybe when you were a child . . .” She remembered his statement about being thrown into a foreign prison. “Or maybe you were imprisoned somewhere awful?”

“Gina, leave it alone.”

“No,” she said. “You’re asking me to trust you. I deserve the same trust from you.” His mouth thinned, but he still didn’t say anything. “I just want to understand you, Gregg.”

He shifted in the driver’s seat, stretching out his arms and gripping the steering wheel rigidly. “There’s nothing to understand,” he said, his voice gritty with long-suppressed anger. “I’m fucked up because my mom made me hide in the closet while my father beat her. I tried helping her once and he put me in the hospital. When I was five she died, and we moved. Dad found another woman, then another. I tried to warn them.” He shrugged, but unconvincingly. “I finally took off.”

Jesus. “How old were you?”

“Ten.”

“My God, who took care of you? Did you have relatives?”

He just looked at her, then back at the road. “I got by okay,” he said. He uncurled his fingers from the steering wheel and stretched them out. “A couple years later I got hired on as a farmhand up in Indiana. The place was owned by a Vietnam special forces vet. He told me stories, taught me how to hunt, and take care of myself. When he lost the farm, I figured the military was as good a place to be as any. He forged me papers and I joined up.”

“Oh, Gregg, I’m so sorry. No child should have to go through that.”

“Don’t be. I’m fine.”

His advice earlier about not blaming oneself for others’ actions echoed in her mind. He
wasn’t
fine. Who would be? But now she understood his need for complete control—because he’d had none as a child and awful things had happened as a result. She also understood his need for justice from the dark forces of the world who inflicted evil on the innocent.

Her heart went out to him completely.

At first sight, Gina had fallen in love with Gregg van Halen because of his physical beauty and his sexy demeanor. She’d fallen even harder when she’d experienced his edgy, exciting lovemaking. But it went so much deeper than that. Even back then, she’d sensed a vulnerable soul within the man that he worked hard to keep well hidden from everyone around him. But he had responded to her love with a mirrored need and a loyalty that had taken her breath away. They still did.

She leaned across the center console and placed a tender kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good man, Gregg.”

She wanted to show him there was someone in the world he could always count on being there for him. She would love him, and listen to him, and let him save her.

Then maybe he would stop blaming himself for not being able to save the others.

“I
need to talk to you,” Alex told Bobby Lee Quinn as soon as he stepped aboard the
Stormy Lady
from the small speedboat the STORM commander had arrived on.

Quinn’s eyebrows hiked. “Okay. But I have some pretty important information to relay and I don’t have a lot of time. So make it quick.”

“Not a problem,” Alex said, folding his arms over his chest. “I quit.”

Quinn’s brows shot even higher. At the same time, a soft gasp sounded behind them. Alex turned to see Rebel standing there, her expression bleeding hurt and disbelief. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Fuck
. She was supposed to be below making coffee. He hadn’t wanted her to hear he was leaving. Not yet.

Cowardly? Yeah, so what else was new?

“You can’t quit,” Quinn said, yanking him back to the conversation. “You’re in the middle of an op.”

“All the more reason,” Alex returned. “I’m having flashbacks. Screaming, black-outing, striking-out-at-anything-that-moves flashbacks. I’m a danger to myself and everyone around me.”

Quinn dropped a duffel bag to the deck. “I’ll be the judge of that, Zane.” He turned and smiled at Rebel. “Special Agent Haywood. Hope my man here has been treating you well. Is that coffee I smell?”

Alex winced as she jerked her gaze away from him. “Yes,” she said to Quinn. “Please, come below and have some.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Believe I will.”

Down in the small salon, Alex bit his tongue until they’d gathered around the table. It was shaped like a horseshoe booth at a diner. Quinn slid in first, and Alex took the spot opposite while Rebel brought out some sandwiches she’d made and poured mugs of coffee. She then sat down next to Quinn. Her expression told Alex the choice of seats had not been accidental.

“I’m serious about quitting,” he persisted despite the shitstorm coming from the other side of the table, and told Quinn in detail about the diving incident this morning, as well as the episode in the car while on surveillance. “I’m unreliable,” he said. “Hell, I’m just plain dangerous.”

“I hear you,” Quinn said, and turned toward Rebel. “What’s your opinion, Agent Haywood?”

She’d been toying with her sandwich the whole time Alex was speaking. She didn’t look up. “Zane’s right,” she shocked him by saying. “He shouldn’t be allowed in a position where he could hurt someone.”

Inwardly, he sighed. Hell, she was not talking about flashbacks,
that
was for damn sure. Probably even Quinn knew that, judging by his narrowed eyes as his gaze slashed from one to the other.

“All right,” the commander said briskly. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I discovered some things this morning about—” Just then his cell phone rang. He plucked it from his pocket. “Quinn.”

Alex waited impatiently for the conversation to end. It didn’t take long. Mostly Quinn just listened and cursed repeatedly under his breath, shooting apologetic glances at Rebel each time. Alex wanted to strangle the man for his fucking good manners. Jesus. Southerners!

Finally Quinn hung up, motioned for Rebel to exit the booth, and scooted after her. He grabbed his sandwich on the way out. “Gibran Allawi Bakreen, your suspect from the yacht? He was just murdered in the D.C. hospital where he was being treated for his gunshot wound. We’re oscar mike, people.”

“Wait!” Alex protested the order. “Damn it, Quinn, I—”

“Murdered how, sir?” Rebel interrupted, passing the commander a Ziploc bag for his sandwich.

“Someone swapped his antibiotic IV drip for a lethal dose of tranquilizers.” Quinn took the stairs up to the deck two at a time. “You can damn well forget about quitting,” he said over his shoulder as Alex followed. “Aside from anything else, you signed a contract and have a legal obligation to STORM Corps. I’ll put you with Darcy on tech if you want out of the field.”

“But—”

“And if you feel unable to fulfill
any
duties, Mr. Zane, report the hell back to Haven Oaks and let the psychs finish their job.”

“Jesus, that’s not—”

“Fuck, man, there isn’t an operator I know doesn’t have flashbacks. We have options now. Deal with it.” Quinn shot him a backward glare. “And here’s a piece of free, hard-earned advice. Relationship distractions are far more lethal in this business than anything the enemy can throw at us. Get your dick screwed on right, Zane, and do it now.”

Alex’s mouth dropped open. He had no response for that.
Je
sus. Was it all so freaking obvious?

Rebel made a choking noise.

“Sorry ’bout the French, ma’am,” Quinn said.

She had turned bright red, but soldiered on. “About the evidence we found on the
Allah’s Paradise
, sir. Should I send it to Quantico for analysis?”

Quinn shook his head. “Because of the time factor, DHS has authorized STORM to process whatever we find.” He paused as he straddled the ladder down to his speedboat. “Since despite everything, y’all were able to conduct a fairly extensive search of
Allah’s Paradise
today, I’m going to turn the rest of the search over to the Coast Guard. I want you both up in D.C. immediately,” he instructed them. “I’ll send the jet back for you.”

“Me, too?” Rebel asked in surprise.

Alex’s stomach knotted in consternation. Fucking
great
.

The fucking
last
place on earth he wanted Rebel anywhere near was fucking Washington, D.C.

“I still need an FBI liaison,” Quinn said, making Alex’s head nearly explode.
Shit
. “Tara’s setting up our D.C. headquarters as we speak,” Quinn continued. “Pack the collected evidence with care and bring it with you, okay?”

“What about the diamonds we found?”

“Those, too.”

Alex’s mind was too busy planning the untimely and permanent disappearance of Wade Montana to respond, so Rebel said, “All right, sir.”

Quinn grunted, grabbed his duffel bag, and was gone. Seconds later a fantail of water sprayed over them as he gunned the speedboat and headed back toward the distant skyline of Norfolk.

Alex let out an angry, pent-up breath. “Bastard,” he growled, debating inwardly whether he meant Quinn or Montana. It was a toss-up.

Wordlessly, Rebel turned on a toe, stalked back to the ladder, and disappeared below. He darted his gaze after her. And rewound back to their present issue.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck,
fuck
.