Crossfire (2 page)

‘‘I understand,’’ the voice said. ‘‘But—’’

‘‘Give me that.’’ Zach grabbed the radio. ‘‘We’ve got men dying here, dammit,’’ he shouted.

‘‘Who is this?’’ the disembodied voice demanded.

‘‘Chief Zachariah Tremayne, U.S. Navy SEAL Team 11. We were on Falcon 01 when it went down after taking a bullet at the LZ. And we need some exfil. Now.’’ His jaw was clenched as tight as his fist. ‘‘Sir,’’ he managed to tack on.

‘‘I’m sorry, Chief,’’ the voice said. ‘‘But attempting to evacuate your team now would be unsafe and unsound.’’

Damned if he didn’t make it sound as if he was being asked to do them a fucking favor, Quinn thought.

‘‘Are you under fire?’’

‘‘Not at the moment,’’ Zach admitted on a frustrated huff of breath. ‘‘We managed to take out the tangos that shot down our bird, but—’’

‘‘Then hunker down and stay put. Your rescue copter will be there at eighteen hundred.’’

Zach continued to argue, getting nowhere.

‘‘This is a joint mission,’’ the voice said, finally cutting him off. ‘‘You’re not the only players on the board today, Chief.’’

And that was it.

Over and out.

Quinn had never heard dead silence before.

But as they stood there on the mountain, which had gone as quiet as a church on Monday morning, he realized that despite the American military being the toughest, most well-armed in the world, they were truly all alone.

In one of the most dangerous places on earth.

The cops had already taped off the scene by the time FBI special agents Cait Cavanaugh and Frank Angetti arrived at the tidy little house. Given that crime in this leafy suburban enclave usually involved vandalism by kids whose embarrassed parents proved a lot tougher on the offenders than the justice system would be, the sight of seven flashing black-and-whites, two unmarked detective cars, a fire truck, a medical examiner’s van, and an ambulance had definitely drawn a crowd of neighbors.

Adding to the carnival atmosphere was the flotilla of news crews from television stations as far away as Charleston and Savannah; satellite uplinks pointed into a sky that had turned from robin’s-egg blue to steely gray as a storm rolled in from the sea.

The street was blocked off in front of the house by two black-and-whites parked nose to nose, forcing the rush-hour traffic to have to turn around, which only added to the congestion.

Cursing beneath her breath, Cait pulled the black SUV—which, with its dual whip antennas screamed federal government agent car—into the driveway of a house two doors down from the crime scene and parked beside a white WBUC van from the Somersett ABC affiliate.

Reporter Valentine Snow, who was getting ready to do her stand-up on the front lawn, beneath a bright pink canopy of crape myrtle, called out to Cait as she climbed out of the van.

‘‘Can I steal a sec for an interview?’’

Cait shook her head, wondering how the newswoman managed to run across grass in those killer high heels. ‘‘I don’t even know what I’m dealing with.’’

‘‘Afterward, then.’’ The reporter flashed the coaxing smile that had, before she’d left the high-flying world of network television, won more than her share of high-profile ‘‘get’’ interviews with leaders all over the world. ‘‘This murder’s going to hit the city like an IED. Better for you if you get a head start framing the message. Hard to put the genie back into the bottle once it blows up.’’

Cait hated that she was right. ‘‘Why should I talk to a reporter who doesn’t know enough not to mix her metaphors?’’ she asked as she kept walking toward the barricades.

‘‘Maybe because I’m right? And because I’m offering to take one of those kittens off your hands?’’

Cait stopped in her tracks, the pause allowing Val to catch up with her. ‘‘How did you know about them?’’

‘‘I’m a reporter.’’ The strobelike smile flashed again, making Cait think that if those straight-as-a-ruler, toothpaste-commercial teeth weren’t caps, life was truly unfair. Two years of childhood braces, and she was still left with an overbite. ‘‘With a nose for news.’’

The brunette newscaster tapped a slender patrician nose as perfect as her pearly teeth. ‘‘You rescued a pregnant tabby who got stuck in a tree outside your apartment when a group of nasty boys were throwing rocks at her. Since the shelter warned you that there’s not a big market for pregnant cats, you, harboring a generous heart beneath those ugly FBI suits you usually wear, took her home, set up a kitty nursery, and are now trying to unload seven kittens.’’

‘‘Shows what you know. There happen to be just four.’’

Two had gone to the owner of her favorite Greek restaurant, which, with its beautiful waterfront location, had a bit of a problem with rats. She’d convinced him that what he needed was a pair of good mousers.

A third had gone to an ER doctor at St. Camillus, who, thanks to increased business during Buccaneer Days, hadn’t had time to go shopping for her five-year-old daughter’s birthday present. Cait had suggested that a fuzzy orange kitty with white paws would win huge mom points.

‘‘Three minutes. Make that two,’’ Val amended quickly, when Cait opened her mouth to argue. ‘‘And you’ll be down to three homeless tabbies.’’ She held up the appropriate number of fingers tipped by—what else?—perfectly manicured nails the exact same sea coral color as her snug, short-skirted suit.

‘‘Stick around and we’ll see once I know what I’m dealing with.’’

‘‘Hey!’’ A man in a Somersett Buccaneers T-shirt with baggy shorts flapping around his knees came lumbering toward her. ‘‘You can’t park there. It’s private property.’’

‘‘The news van’s there,’’ Cait pointed out.

‘‘Yeah. Sure. Because the station paid the rental fee.’’

‘‘Rental fee?’’

‘‘It’s private property,’’ he repeated. ‘‘Consider it pay-to-park.’’

‘‘We’re FBI.’’ Cait’s partner countered on a New Jersey accent straight out of The Sopranos. ‘‘We don’t pay nobody to park nowhere.’’

‘‘I don’t care if you’re the president of the freaking U.S. of A.’’ the guy shot back. His face turned as red as his shirt. ‘‘This is America. Where we have laws protecting—’’

‘‘Private property,’’ Cait finished up for him. She managed, just barely, to keep from sighing. ‘‘So, how do we even know you own this driveway?’’

That stopped him. ‘‘Why the hell would I be renting out space in someone else’s driveway?’’

Cait didn’t have time to argue. ‘‘How much?’’

‘‘Fifty bucks.’’

‘‘Fuck that,’’ Angetti growled.

‘‘My driveway. My price.’’ When the guy shoved out a gut that revealed a fondness for Lowcountry cuisine, Cait realized the two men were about to get into a pissing contest. Which she so didn’t need.

‘‘Here.’’ She pulled two twenties and a ten out of her billfold and shoved them at him. ‘‘I’d better not come out and find anyone else parked behind me.’’

‘‘I’ll watch your rig for you,’’ Val offered cheerfully. ‘‘Since I need to stick around for our interview anyway.’’

If she didn’t get to the crime scene, there wouldn’t be any need for an interview.

‘‘Whatever.’’

‘‘What a freaking circus,’’ her partner muttered as they walked toward the scene.

Angetti, aka the Bane of Cait’s Existence, was wearing one of his two black suits and dark shades, which made him look as if he were auditioning for MIB III. He was mid-fifties, less than a month—thank you, Jesus!—to retirement, with an ego off the chart. He also possessed the unique talent of annoying everyone he interviewed, which wasn’t real helpful.

‘‘Murder sells,’’ Cait murmured. As entrepreneurial showmen—from Caligula to Shakespeare to Scorsese— over the centuries had proven.

‘‘Maybe. But this murder just happens to be local. So what the hell are we doing here?’’

‘‘General Jacob was on the short list to becoming commander of ASMA,’’ she said, sharing what the Columbia field office had told her when assigning them the case as she worked her way through the throng of neighbors pressing against the wooden barricades. ‘‘He’s also connected in Pentagon circles.’’

‘‘So?’’

‘‘So, apparently certain people above our pay grade feel that him getting killed just might be part of a larger terrorist threat picture.’’

‘‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’’ The uniform cop assigned to guard the ramparts held up a hand as she started to dodge around the wooden barricades. ‘‘No civilians allowed.’’

‘‘Good thing I’m not a civilian then, isn’t it, Officer?’’ She flashed her red, blue and gold South Carolina FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force shield. ‘‘Special Agent Caitlin Cavanaugh, and this is Special Agent Frank Angetti.’’

The patrolman’s gaze moved from her light auburn hair to the white T-shirt and cropped khaki pants, which certainly weren’t usual agency attire.

She’d been at a family barbecue when the call had come in, unfortunately just as her brother-in-law had taken her sizzling, mouthwatering, medium-rare strip steak off the grill.

At least, in deference to her mother, who’d been a what-not-to-wear maven long before that fashion show had appeared on cable, she was wearing proper sandals instead of flip-flops. Though they did bare her toes, which she suspected could well cause J. Edgar Hoover to spin in his grave.

Although the cop looked surprised, and more than a little curious to see the feds on the scene, he waved them through.

‘‘It could be some cadet pissed about getting a bad grade,’’ Angetti continued the argument. ‘‘Or one who had some other grudge to nurse. Jacob is head of athletics, right? Maybe some hothead jock didn’t get a scholarship. Or could be some old grad pissed about them losing to Duke in the Elite Eight this year.’’

‘‘No one would kill over a stupid basketball game.’’

‘‘March Madness is a helluva lot more than a mere basketball game,’’ he countered. ‘‘There’s big bucks bet on that tourney. Besides, people have killed for a lot less.’’

She couldn’t disagree. ‘‘Well, college basketball would definitely be one of the more ridiculous reasons.’’

Brigadier General John Jacob was lying supine on the brick driveway, a hole drilled dead center through his forehead.

One shot. One kill.

Even if she hadn’t attended the bureau academy, Cait would’ve known the sniper maxim from the military thriller novel that had kept her reading all last night. The general’s expression in death seemed to be one of annoyed surprise, making her wonder if he could have actually heard the shot that had nailed him.

Although classes wouldn’t start for another two weeks, a new-class orientation was currently taking place on the ASMA campus, which undoubtedly explained why the victim was in summer uniform. A silver star winked on the epaulet of his snow white shirt, an inch-wide bloodred stripe ran down the knife-edge-pressed legs of his white trousers, and his spit polished white shoes shone like a glacier in the late-afternoon sun. The front of the still crisp, snowy shirt provided a billboard for the multicolored ribbons acquired during his army service.

Cait decided she’d gotten perverse when the sight of the body lying on the driveway caused a little boost of not exactly pleasure but definitely anticipation.

Most people went through their entire lives without ever seeing a dead human being. Or, if they did, the body was nicely dressed, coiffed, laid out on slick silk in a polished wooden casket, appearing to be merely sleeping.

To Cait, a body offered both a puzzle to be solved and a challenge to overcome. She hadn’t realized, until now, how much she’d missed both.

She understood—really she did—that fighting terrorism was the nation’s highest priority. Which meant that all the hours surfing the Internet, reading through ship manifests, and patrolling Lowcountry harbors were hugely important to the entire free world.

But the pitiful thing was that while Jack Bauer might be able to save the world in twenty-four hours, trying to accomplish the same thing in real life was, well . . . tedious.

She’d left the Somersett PD after her longtime partner, Detective Joe Gannon, had gotten married and gone to work for Phoenix Team. Murder just hadn’t been nearly as much fun without Joe. He’d tried to recruit her to come work with him at the private international security firm based on nearby Swann Island, but about that same time Uncle Sam had come calling, bearing apple pies, waving the Stars and Stripes and singing ‘‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’’ and well, the possibility of having to play bodyguard to some pampered, self-indulgent pop star hadn’t sounded nearly as appealing as tracking down terrorists.

After three years as a ‘‘force multiplier’’ in the JTTF, Cait had begun rethinking that decision. Especially after consulting on the recent case of the Swann Island Slasher.

She had no doubt that a guy as high up in military circles as Jacobs had been would go out with all the pomp and circumstance a general was due. A horse-drawn carriage with an escort platoon carrying the flag-draped casket, a military bugler playing taps, a gun salute over the gravesite.

There’d probably be enough military brass on hand to make up a full marching band, but she would be the one standing for the general. Making sure that whoever had taken this man’s life paid for the crime.

‘‘Not much of a house for a guy with all that fruit salad on his shirt.’’ Angetti broke into her thoughts.

‘‘It’s not his.’’ Coincidentally, the general lived across the street from Cait’s parents. In fact, he’d probably been invited to today’s barbecue. Too bad he hadn’t accepted.

‘‘Well, then, looks like he got caught making a boo-tie run.’’ Angetti nodded his graying crew cut toward the thirtysomething blonde who was seated on a porch swing, dabbing tears as she talked with two plainclothes SPD detectives. ‘‘And got himself nailed by an angry husband.’’

‘‘We don’t know what the vic was doing here,’’ she pointed out. ‘‘He could have dropped by on academy business.’’

‘‘Sure. Or he could’ve been going door-to-door selling Girl Scout cookies.’’

‘‘It’s a good thing you’re retiring soon. Because obviously all the years working in the Bureau have made you cynical.’’

He waved his hand in front of her face. ‘‘Hey, Special Agent Kettle. This is your partner, the pot. Calling you black.’’

She couldn’t deny it. She’d joined SPD right after graduating from USC, and although she’d never considered herself naive, it hadn’t taken her long to come to the conclusion that the much-more-seasoned Joe Gannon hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her that everyone lied.

Even she did. Hadn’t she, less than two hours ago, told her youngest sister, who’d recently had a baby, that the new short haircut looked great, when in reality it looked as if Little Orphan Annie had stuck her finger in a light socket?

Ignoring her partner’s sarcasm, Cait glanced around, taking in the wrought-iron-fenced cemetery across the street. While some people might be unnerved living in such close proximity to a graveyard, given that Cait’s apartment was located on the cobblestone street currently serving as Buccaneer Days party central, she found the idea of all those silent neighbors hugely appealing.