Breaking Away (3 page)

THREE MONTHS LATER

San Diego, California

T
his would be over in an hour and he’d be back to his old life. He’d go fishing with Doc and Bowie. And hang with Cutter and help him with his physical therapy, if he needed it.

If we don’t get called up.

Flash picked up the Babylonian stone seals from the kitchen counter, wrapped them carefully in bubble wrap and shoved them into the gym bag. He’d complete the meet he’d set up, the FBI would move in, and that would be the end of this mess.
Thank you, Jesus!

He studied the seven-by-five inch stone tablet, the real gem of the FBI sting. Why would anyone want a hunk of stone with cuneiform writing on it? And pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for it? It wasn’t like they could hang it in their house and show it off to visitors. And even if they could, who would be interested in it besides other collectors? He wrapped it securely in the protective plastic and placed it in the gym bag as well.

Had anyone but Agent Rick Dobson asked him to do this mission, he’d have told him to fuck off. But he and the team had worked with Dobson on other missions in Iraq. And the guy’s Intel had always been solid.

In the five months he’d taken part in this investigation, he’d felt isolated. Working with his SEAL team, hanging with them, had spoiled him to having backup. SEALs were pack animals. They worked together as a unit. Since taking on this assignment, he’d never been more aware of how much he depended on the guys.

Wasn’t that just a kick in the balls? For someone who’d been so solitary his whole life, becoming a team player had been…difficult. It had taken him months to adjust to the dynamic of working cooperatively, and to learn to trust. And now he was back flying solo and didn’t like it one bit.

After all the work he’d done to turn his life around as a teenager, playing the part of smuggler didn’t come easy for him, either.

He picked up the letter from the counter. He’d never written one before. Never felt the need. He’d addressed it to Captain Jackson, to be passed on to Hawk. Hawk would understand why he’d remained mum about the investigation. As his commanding officer, Hawk was the ultimate professional and a trusted friend. He’d back him up with the guys and explain. And he’d know to visit Travis and Juanita to break the news. He slid the letter into his front jacket pocket.

His cell phone vibrated. He thrust his hand into his jeans pocket and dragged it free. “Carney.”

“Everything’s a go,” Dobson’s partner, Eric Gilbert said. “Remember this is just like the other two drops you’ve done for us.”

“I still don’t like this last-minute change. Why would these guys decide to move their operation onto American soil? They have a lot more control of the situation across the border.”

“We’ve been over this before, Carney. Just do this drop and you’re done.”

Fuck. He didn’t want to do this
. “Okay. I’ll be there at six.”

“Don’t be late.”

Flash bit back an impatient retort and instead hung up.

He didn’t like that guy. But then distrust ran deep for a guy who’d spent most of his early years in foster care. His wariness had led him to pay Gilbert’s house a visit. He’d done a little snooping and hacked into the guy’s personal computer. The only incriminating thing he’d found on the man’s machine was a little porn.

And still that itch niggled between his shoulder blades. Like being in the cross hairs of a rifle’s scope and the bullet had his name on it. What had set off this edgy awareness? Something about the last meeting he’d had with Dobson and Gilbert. But he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Reaching out to anyone on his team wasn’t an option. It was already too late.

After a brief moment, Flash picked up his Sig Saur P226 from the counter. Gilbert had instructed him to come unarmed, but he’d be damned if he’d do it. The gun was registered to him and he had a permit to carry. He tucked the gun into his waistband at the hollow of his back and pulled his windbreaker over it.

Flash checked his watch, grasped the handles of the duffle, and walked from the pocket-sized kitchen into the living room. He looked around his barren apartment. Certain the smugglers had someone watching him, he’d rented this place to help make it look like his lucky streak had taken a nosedive, and left the leased Porsche in a parking structure. The car’s disappearance would be more telling than the missing electronics. He’d pick up the car and his stuff from the storage unit as soon as this bullshit was over.

One more hour and he’d get back to his life.

He rolled his head in an attempt to relieve the tension building across his shoulders.
Just one more hour.
He shut the door behind him and strode down the hall to the elevator.

Behind the wheel of his Toyota, he pulled into the San Diego traffic, turned onto Euclid Avenue, and looped through a bank parking lot to drop the letter to Hawk into a postal box. If nothing happened, he was gold. If it did, Hawk would know what went down. He pulled through the lot and turned east up a back street behind it.

He had to shake free of all distraction and focus. Just get the job done.

A black SUV swerved into his lane and kept coming at him. Flash jerked the wheel to the right and stomped the gas pedal. His car swept around the larger vehicle with only a gnat’s ass worth of space between them.
Prick. What the hell was wrong with him?
He couldn’t afford to get into a traffic accident before the buy went down. He floored the gas pedal.

In his rearview mirror, the SUV spun around and followed him. He glanced at the bag in the passenger seat.
Shit!

The SUV grew large in the mirror. Its bumper crowded close. Adrenaline kicked through Flash’s system and his breathing quickened, but he shoved the feelings aside as he strained to see the driver through the tinted windows. Sun glanced off the glass making it impossible, and nearly blinding him.

He whipped into a parking lot, raced through to the other side, and turned a corner. The larger vehicle followed, but he managed to put some space between them. Turning north on Euclid, Flash merged into the line of traffic and kept an eye on the black vehicle, which now lurked three cars back.

Tension ratcheted tighter across his shoulders and up the back of his neck. He turned onto Home Avenue. The SUV continued on Euclid. Some of his tension eased, but he remained hyper-aware of the other vehicles around him.

Ten minutes later he circled the storage facility, checking the tops of the buildings for snipers before pulling his car into the parking lot. He turned the car so it faced the open gate and parked in front of the large metal structure as instructed.

How many high-priority missions had he participated in during the six months he’d been stationed in Iraq? At least sixty. But they’d used him almost continuously as a sniper.

How many times had he felt that contraction between his shoulder blades, as though his body were bracing for a bullet? Only twice. And both times his instincts had been on the mark.

Something wasn’t right. But he’d given his word. He had to see this through and help get these guys. And a SEAL never gave up. Not unless he was dead.

A black SUV pulled around the corner and stopped twenty feet in front of him.

Showtime.
Sweat ran from his armpits down his sides.

Was it the same SUV that had played chicken with him before? Two men got out of the vehicle. He recognized his contact, Unger—no first name, just Unger. And the other guy, his protection.

Flash grabbed the handles on the gym bag and opened the car door. His heart rate tripped into a jog and his breathing quickened. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He resisted the urge to turn and look behind him and instead focused on the two men walking toward him. One carried a bag, the other held his hands out, away from his body but close to the bulge of his pistol.

Flash eased out of the car, and swept the area and the rooftops again.
Nothing.

He straightened and sauntered forward. “Unger.” He nodded to the man holding the bag. He’d passed on other small items the FBI had given him without a problem, but those were just warm-ups for this one. Flash set his gym bag on the asphalt at his feet. Unger did the same.

“Go,” Unger said.

Flash shoved the bag with his toe, sending it forward at the same time Unger slid his across the space toward him.

Flash’s phone vibrated against his hip, but he ignored it and bent to open the container and check the money. It lay in nice neat bundles in the bottom of the bag.
A hundred thousand dollars’ worth
. Looping his hand through the handle, he straightened.

His phone vibrated again, and he half reached for it, then hesitated, his head still bent. He almost missed the distinctive sound, like the air itself had been displaced. A wet spray splattered his face.

Instinct kicked in and he hit the asphalt. Unger tumbled to the ground next to him, his face now a crater filled with brains, blood, and splintered bone. In the second it took to register the other man’s death, Flash rolled toward the front of his car for cover, hugging the bag full of money to his chest. Unger’s sidekick fell to the ground, his chest bloody, his hand clenched on the grip of his holstered sidearm.

The coppery scent of blood blended with the oily smell of asphalt. Bits of bone and gray matter clung to his windbreaker. Flash’s stomach turned and he closed his eyes for a moment and fought back sickness. Heart pounding, he drew his Sig with his right hand and reached for his phone to call for backup with the other. Dobson’s number flashed across the screen. He hit the receive button and speaker. Rick Dobson’s voice came over the line, muffled. “Flash, you have to run. It’s a setup. Get the hell out of—” A loud, familiar sound came over the connection and the line went dead.

That was a gunshot.
Jesus! What the fuck is going on
? He shoved his cell back into his pocket.

Keeping low, he edged to the car’s headlight. He bobbed forward, searching for the sniper who’d fired on them. The next second he was on his back, his ears ringing. Darkness threatened to swamp him. He forced his eyes open and rolled to his knees. His fingers brushed the barrel of his Sig and he grabbed it. Blood ran down his cheek and dripped onto the asphalt beside his hand.

Jesus, he was hit!

Get on your feet. Get the hell out of here.

He waited for the earth to stop rocking and braced his shoulder against the car to keep parallel to the ground. He crawled forward. The bag of money lay close by. He shoved it around the side of the car and followed at a snail’s pace. Blood trickled down his face and he used his jacket sleeve to wipe it away. Gray static filled his vision. Nausea crept up his throat and settled there.

If he lost consciousness he was a dead man.
He dragged air into his lungs and forced his eyes open.

The sound of approaching footsteps reached him. He pushed the slide back on the Sig, checking the chambered round, and leaned back against the front quarter panel, trying to make himself as much a part of the vehicle as possible.

The barrel of a rifle came into view followed by a man dressed in black from head to toe, a ski mask covering his features. He pivoted to take aim and Flash fired, striking the rifle and sending up sparks. The man staggered, and dropped the weapon. Flash fired twice more striking him in the chest. The shooter dropped, his head thumping on the asphalt.

Movement came from the left and Flash was already firing as he turned to face it. A bullet ricocheted off the passenger door inches from his head, making his ears ring again. The second man dressed in black hit the asphalt, bleeding from bullet wounds to each thigh. As he fell, his rifle flew through the air to the right and slid across the asphalt stopping ten feet away.

With both men down, Flash staggered to his feet and kicked the rifles under the car. He bent over the man he’d shot in the chest, ran his hands over him checking for weapons, then jerked his shirt up. Kevlar had kept the bullets from penetrating, but he remained unconscious.

Flash wiped the blood back again as it streamed down the side of his head. He crossed to the man rolling on the ground in pain, bent and jerked the mask from the sniper’s face.

A stranger.

“Who the fuck are you?” Flash demanded. His temple pounded with every beat of his heart.

“Fuck you,” the man answered.

Not an acceptable answer, since the son of a bitch had shot him. He kicked him in the head and the sniper went still, unconscious.

He flipped back the shooter’s jacket, pulled a wallet from the inside pocket, and opened it. A badge glared up at him. His heart seized along with his breath.
FBI. He’d shot an FBI agent.

These guys had been sent to assassinate him, Unger, and his sidekick. To kill them all.

What the fuck was going on? Who had arranged this? Was it Gilbert?

He reached for his cell phone and hit speed dial. The phone rang and rang, then went to Dobson’s voice mail. It
was
a gunshot he’d heard. He was certain of it.
Was Dobson dead? And where the hell was Gilbert
? He ended the call without leaving a message.