Cold Pursuit (Cold Justice) (Volume 2) (11 page)

“That’s all for now folks. We’ll meet again at noon. Keep me apprised of any developments no matter how small.” The SSA left the room with the boss. The spook stared after him before turning to unerringly meet Jed’s gaze. The guy grinned then scooped up his belongings and headed out the door.

Jed didn’t trust the guy as far as he could throw him, but if he’d been sent specially for this purpose by the DNI it suggested he wasn’t all big-mouthed bullshit.

Everyone started moving in different directions. They were all about to pull some long hours. But before he dug into paperwork he had something to check out first, something his gut told him didn’t sit quite right.

***

Pilah sat inside her apartment staring at the floor. Abdullah hadn’t returned and she was glad. She’d been here for hours uselessly awaiting instructions. Waiting for word. What she really wanted to do was get on a plane to Damascus and find her children and never let them go. But Sargon would know the moment she went to the airport and he’d told her to wait. She was too scared to disobey.

Had her husband considered any of this when he’d taken up arms?

Oh, she understood the fury that accompanied grief. She’d tasted the hunger for revenge—but eventually vengeance became a vortex of hate that no one ever escaped. The images of the people she’d seen killed kept flashing through her mind, even when she’d tried to sleep, their screams wouldn’t let her.

What had she done? What had she done? She wept and rocked and prayed, but nothing could change the past. Nothing could bring her daughter or husband back.

The realization came way too late.

She paced. If she could just get her girls out of Syria they could start over somewhere. Rebuild their lives. They could go somewhere far away—Indonesia or Australia, somewhere no one would know her. She could forget all the things she’d done. Become someone else.

The phone rang. She jumped and stared at it, dread expanding in her chest. It rang again and she snatched up the handset. “Hello?”

“There is a man in the hospital. His name is William Green.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“He was injured during the attack.”

Did he want her to finish the job? The idea made her recoil.

She waited. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make Sargon angry.

“He is in a coma and has no registered next-of-kin. I need you to visit him.”

“Why?”

“It would be a kindness.”

She could hear his impatience. Did he
want
her to get caught? She rubbed her forehead and paced. “I really don’t understand.”

“You do not need to understand. You just need to visit a sick man in the hospital—as his niece perhaps.” The voice was full of cold purpose under the guise of compassion.

“Look, I said I’d help you at the mall, but that was it. I never agreed to do more.” Her fingers were rigid against the hard plastic of the phone. “I’m coming to get my children—”

“Enough! Do not think to question me again.” Fury resonated through the air.

“I won’t do it.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t do it.”

“Then say goodbye to your daughters and know that it is your fault they suffered,” he hissed.

Dizziness made her stumble. “You promised—”

“Do not dare to question me!” She heard his ragged breathing but his voice was much quieter when he continued. “I have given you a task. It is easy enough to visit a sick man, is it not?” His voice gentled further, wheedled and cajoled. “Do as I ask and nothing will change. Your daughters will continue to be raised alongside my own. You will see them just as soon as we obtain our objective.”

But Pilah had a sudden flash of insight that she didn’t know what his objective was, and probably never would. Her resolve crumbled to bitter dust. Her fingers hurt from their grip on the phone. “I need you to
promise
that no harm will come to them, ever.”

“That is up to you. What is it to be?”

But there was no choice and he knew it.

“Which hospital?” she asked.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A
fter what must be the longest night of his life it was still dark outside, blowing snow sweeping across desolate highways and the roads quiet after a shocking day of mass murder. Jed strode into the hotel and headed toward the men’s changing room for the pool. No way in hell would the operative who’d tried to drown Michael Vincent
not
have a cell phone. He eyed the area. Climbed on top of the bench that ran between the row of lockers to see if there was anything on top. Nada. Nyet. Too easy. Too obvious.

Agents had checked inside every locker, so they were all clear.

Where would he hide something he might need to pick up again in a hurry? There was a cupboard with a blue door to the left of the entrance to the shower area. Jed tried the handle but it was locked. A massive fake palm tree sat in one corner. Jed walked over and donned a pair of latex gloves, delving into the mulch. He dug around, immediately touched something solid. Gotcha.
He tugged out a black wallet, holding it by the corner of the leather.

Inside was cash—several thousand dollars’ worth—credit cards in three different names, driver licenses and more false identities. The forgeries were good. Excellent even. But no goddamn cell phone. He slipped the wallet into an evidence bag and placed it in his vest pocket.

He dug deeper into the blue ceramic pot but nothing else was hidden. He brushed off his hands. Tried to think like he was on a military op. So the guy had hidden his wallet because if things went wrong he didn’t want whatever was in it to be found.

The guy had known going in that this was a high risk operation. It was unplanned because Michael Vincent was an unforeseen complication. Jed thought for a moment. The fact this guy had stayed outside the fray during the attack on the mall suggested he was high value. Worth more to the organization alive than martyred to the cause.

So why risk revealing his identity for the kid?

Jed was missing something.

Give him a series of mutilated bodies and he could predict all sorts of salient details about the killer. But terrorists killed for different reasons—they murdered out of conviction. Now, with the attempt on Michael Vincent’s life, the motivation had switched to one of murder for elimination. Michael was an inconvenience or a danger to them. Jed just didn’t know why.

They were organized offenders. Highly organized in this case. The fact they’d taken such risks to go after the boy… Maybe the female terrorist who’d escaped was personally involved with this pool guy and he hadn’t wanted her exposed because they were lovers. Maybe they were plotting further attacks? The latter seemed much more likely considering the female tango could easily have died during the mall attack. Her escape was both bold and daring.

Was she the brains behind the organization? Were they simply trying to protect the mastermind’s identity?

What might be locked up inside Michael’s mind?

He walked into the pool area, feeling the heat and humidity cling to his skin, the slight sting of chlorine in his eyes. Sweat ran down his temple. He slipped out of his down vest and scanned the poolside. It was early but already filling with people. Kids were laughing and splashing like nothing had happened yesterday—and why not? Better than these sadistic morons disrupting people’s lives with their hatred and bitterness, which was exactly what they wanted. A pair of navy-blue eyes and red hair flashed through his mind. The sooner he could wrap this thing up, the sooner Vivi Vincent and her son could go home.

OK then.

Think
.

The injured lifeguard had sported a goose egg from where the guy had hit him over the head. What did he hit him with? Jed walked over to the secluded alcove where the lifeguard had been stationed yesterday, not far from where he’d seen Michael underwater.

A heater blasted against the window, condensation forming a dense mist on the huge panes of glass. A first aid kit was attached to the wall. Jed checked inside but nothing jumped out at him. Another fake palm sat nearby. It couldn’t be that simple, could it? He ran his hand inside the lip and touched something smooth and hard, not hidden just propped out of sight.

A gun. Holy hell. He pulled it out, recognized a Browning Hi-Power pistol. Crap. The lifeguard was damn lucky he’d just been knocked unconscious, rather than shot. Jed was assuming the terrorist hadn’t wanted to cause a ruckus and risk losing Michael Vincent in the chaos. Instead he’d been patient and pounced like a crocodile.

Jed swept his hand further inside the rim and came up with pay dirt. Cell phone.
Ding ding ding.
Grinning, he bagged it and headed out the way he’d come. This guy was important, Jed could
feel
it. These items were going to provide valuable intel and help them round up the dregs of this particular terrorist cell.

Slipping into his vest on the way out of the changing room door, he stopped dead when he saw the spook from the briefing on his hands and knees digging out a potted fern in the hotel corridor. A trail of debris circled each piece of foliage in the foyer. Jed leaned against the wall and watched the guy for a full ten seconds before he spoke up.

“Pretty good instincts you’ve got there, CIA.”

The man sat back on his heels. “Why don’t you say it louder? I don’t think they heard you in Canada.”

Jed grinned. There was no one close enough to overhear them talking and the guy knew it. The spook looked up at him. “You find it?”

Jed held back a smirk. No one liked a bragger. “Yup.”

The spook narrowed his gaze. “Gonna share?”

“I think the question is, are
you
going to share?”

“Feebs are in charge.” The spook climbed to his feet, brushed his hands on his thighs. “How about I look at it while you drive me?”

“Drive you? Drive you where?” The guy was too cocky and too confident. Frankly, he didn’t trust him.

“To visit the Vincent woman and her kid.” Jed opened his mouth to argue but the intelligence officer cut him off. “Look, I like you Brennan. I like how you think. I like the results you’ve gotten so far. She trusts you. Work with me and I promise not to break out the plastic wrap and buckets of water.”

“Not funny, asshole.”

“Agency humor. C’mon, Brennan, work with me here.” The spook trailed after him, leaving the dirt scattered for someone else to deal with—a sure reminder of how the Agency usually operated, always leaving someone else to clean up their mess.

The spook didn’t shut up. “It’ll go smoother if you’re there too. I need to talk to her. To assess her and the kid. Hey, maybe she’ll like me.” The grin was practiced and smooth and made Jed want to knock his gleaming white teeth out of alignment.

The pressure in his jaw ramped up a notch and he rubbed his neck. Sooner they figured this out the sooner Vivi and Michael would be free to carry on their normal lives. This guy
was
supposed to be on their side.

“Fine, but I want in on your intel.” He carried on walking, figuring someone from the CIA could probably manage to follow him to the car without getting lost. He climbed in his SUV and started the engine. Blew on his hands as the spook jogged through the snow to catch up. “Where’s your ride?” he asked the guy.

“I caught a cab.”

Because he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone where he was going or what he was planning.

“Where do you live?” asked Jed.

“Wherever they send me.”

“Not much of a life.”

The spook shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“What do I call you?” Jed asked. “Aside from the obvious.” He gave him a grim smile. He didn’t want this guy thinking he didn’t understand what his agenda was—and that the agenda was thousands of miles away tracing the source of the problem. Jed got that, admired it even, but he didn’t want to be anyone’s stooge. Vivi and Michael were not pawns in his game.

“Patrick Killion. Everyone calls me Killion.”

“Right, Killion, we’ve got a couple stops to make first.” He handed the guy some latex gloves out of the box he kept in the dash, then dug out the wallet and cell he’d found hidden, saving the pistol until last. “Knock yourself out.”

Killion turned on the cell just as they were leaving the parking lot. “And we have a name—Abdullah Mulhadre.” He pulled out his own cell phone and spoke to someone presumably at Langley.

“Anything?” Jed asked impatiently after a minute of silence on this end and the other guy busy scrolling.

Killion’s expression grew forbidding as he hung up. “Yeah, there’s a record of one Abdullah Mulhadre being assigned to the Syrian Embassy—they’re checking his immunity status although no one is immune from terrorism charges.” Killion’s eyes gleamed. “If it’s the same guy he’s a member of the Syrian Republican Guard.”

A wave of dread crashed over Jed’s body. “Are you saying this attack came from Syria itself?” He’d seen the cost of war up close. Hell, he’d lost his best friend to it and didn’t want more of it here.

Killion’s lips thinned. “Not a word about this, Brennan. Not a fucking word until I hear back from Langley.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. Dammit. Was he supposed to lie to his colleagues? But sharing with everyone at the field office could mean this information could leak, and a leak could precipitate a series of events that might morph into full-scale war. No way did he want to risk thousands of lives. And what about the Vincents? If it was the whole Syrian Government they were facing their lives would never be safe—or maybe, if this was the big secret the terrorists were trying to protect, then publically revealing that the Syrian Government had attacked US citizens on US soil meant the boy’s safety would no longer be an issue.

War would be declared.

It was too big to screw up.

“We tell McKenzie but no one else—that way we can control the flow of information and he can take it higher.” Jed didn’t want to be responsible for the investigation missing a solid lead or veering in the wrong direction, but he didn’t want to be responsible for starting a war either. He didn’t trust spooks. And spooks didn’t trust the FBI.
Damn
. They were in for a hell of a ride.