My Spy (42 page)

Mexico.

Waiting for a meeting that turned sour.

More memories flashed.

Riding at anchor in darkness, then two short bursts of a flashlight. Money trading hands. A computer disk. A man's face he couldn't recognize.

Frowning, Sam focused on the present. “I'll check in with Izzy, Weaver. Until I get back, your orders are to stay here and keep an eye on Ms. O'Toole.”

“Understood, sir.”

In the afterimage of another bolt of lightning, the mountain blurred. Fighting his uneasiness, Sam swung over the porch and headed through the rain to the spot where Izzy would be hunkered down, maintaining perimeter surveillance and cursing every drop of rain.

I
ZZY
MOVED
OUT
OF
A
TARP-COVERED
CRACK
BETWEEN TWO rocks as Sam approached. “You saw Weaver
?”

“He told me the plan.” Rain drummed on the ground, and more thunder roared in the distance. “What's the prediction for the storm?”

“Another six hours minimum,” Izzy said. “Heavy winds until morning. With all this lightning, I doubt we'll have communications back before dawn. All we get is static soup.”

Sam squinted into the rain, knowing the prediction was accurate and hating it. “I'll send Donegal down. Meanwhile why don't you—”

Sam stopped, registering movement up the slope. He
turned, sweeping the area with his peripheral vision, and saw a pale shape beneath the wind-lashed trees. “Did you see that?”

“I saw,” Izzy said grimly. “Let me get a better look.” He scanned the slope with his high-tech binoculars, then without a word handed them to Sam.

It took a moment to adjust to the pale green backlighting. Sam saw shaking branches, waving foliage, and a clumsy shape near two rocks. As he strained for a better view, he heard three sharp barks, followed by silence.

Three meant danger. They'd worked out the basic code through months of training.

“That was Donegal,” Sam snapped. “Something's wrong. Find your team and then pull back toward the house.”

S
AM
LURCHED
UP
THE
SLOPE,
CURSING
HIS
WEAK
LEG.
BUT
HE forgot about his clumsiness when he saw Donegal on the ground behind a boulder. The dog's body was limp, his head still. His eyes opened when Sam bent close, cradling his head gently.

“What happened to you, buddy?”

The wolfhound's tail beat weakly. He tried to bark, but the sound was faint.

Cursing, Sam cradled the dog and ran up the slope toward the darkened house.

T
HE
ELECTRICITY
WAS
OUT,
THE
HOUSE
COMPLETELY
DARK
AS SAM swept the porch with his scope. What had happened to the generator?

He didn't climb the front steps, instead making his way through the lashing rain to a storage shed just off the driveway. He tried the door, relieved to see it was still locked.

He opened the padlock and slipped inside. After setting
Donegal on the floor, he shifted several heavy wooden shelves full of garden tools, revealing a solid metal door. Beyond the door a steep stairway led down to the basement of the house. The air was chill and musty as he made his way downward, Donegal now unmoving in his arms. The dog still had a pulse, and there were no signs of blood, which left Sam certain he'd been drugged or poisoned.

“Hang on, buddy,” he said softly as he placed the dog on a soft piece of carpet outside the entrance to the basement. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Donegal was too weak to move his tail in response.

Sam reined in his fury, focusing on an unseen enemy who was one step in front of him. War was war, and you played by any rules that let you win. But whoever had hurt Donegal was going to pay. He pulled out his Glock and began a silent climb up the basement steps, ignoring the throb in his leg, prepared for what might be waiting at the top of the stairs. If not for the storm, he would have radioed Izzy and the team, but now he had to work solo.

Where in the hell was Weaver?

At the top of the stairs he paused, ear to the wooden door.

No muted voices, no faint footsteps.

Even then he didn't move, waiting for six minutes by the luminous dial of his watch. Only then did he turn the knob carefully and enter the pantry just off the kitchen.

Lightning reflected eerily off the polished black granite work surfaces as Sam entered at a crouch, gun leveled.

Still no sign of Weaver.

Light was glowing from the corridor outside the living room. Sam saw the fire and wondered why there had been no noise. He tried not to think of Annie lying hurt and bleeding.

Ingrained habits kicked in, making him slow his breath and calculate every move. Down the corridor an elaborate breakfront filled with crystal glowed icily in the flare of distant lightning as Sam passed at a crouch, following the wall and
working his way behind the big leather sofa that faced the fireplace.

The couch was empty, Annie's blankets fallen to the ground. There was no sign of her.

A book lay open on the side table. Taylor's last mystery, Sam recalled. He had watched Annie reading earlier that day, struck by her care in using a bookmark to avoid folding down the pages. Annie didn't press books facedown.

Maybe she hadn't touched this book.

Lightning flared briefly, then the house fell back into darkness. Sam crossed the rug, headed for the main staircase, his heart pounding.

Gun drawn, body low, he swung inside the next room and saw Annie sitting in a leather wing chair, her face greenish in the dim light of a banker's lamp.

She didn't move, didn't speak.

Warning bells clanged in Sam's head as he swept the room with the muzzle of his gun; he worked his way slowly toward her, his back to the wall.

“Annie, are you okay?”

There was no sign of blood. She had a book in her hands, and this one, too, was turned facedown, clutched against her knees.

Another sign, Sam thought. “Annie, where's Weaver?”

Her eyes were almost black, her lips pressed in a tight line. Her eyes flickered to the window seat bordered by velvet curtains.

Sam swung around, catching the faint smell of cigar smoke as the curtains parted. “Admiral Howe?”

A tall, uniformed figure loomed into the room. “I got your message,” he said, sounding tired. “I came as fast as I could.” Rain glistened on his hat and regulation raincoat.

“I didn't send any message.” Sam's fingers tightened on his gun. “All the phones are out in the storm.”

The admiral drew noisily on his cigar. “I sure as hell had a
message to get up here. Damned bumpy ride it was, too.” Cigar smoke swirled, growing stronger. “Maybe it was from Izzy.”

The admiral patted the pocket of his raincoat. “Now I can't find my glasses. Next thing they'll be telling me I need a hearing aid.”

This complaining was familiar at least. “I doubt it, sir.”

“We need to talk about that day in Washington, McKade. Who did you see and where did you go?”

“Sir, I don't think—”

The admiral plunged on as if he hadn't heard. “Your apart-ment's been entered, and our China Lake research program is at risk. I need answers.”

Sam heard Annie's clothes rustling on the leather chair. Her book fell to the floor.

“Sir, I—”

Again the admiral went right on, as if he hadn't heard. “Time's run out, McKade.” Slowly, as if exhausted, he moved behind Annie's chair. “I need to know what you remember.”

Sam shot a glance at Annie, who was fidgeting now, her face strained. “Ms. O'Toole needs to rest, sir. Why don't I take her upstairs, then we can go to work?”

“No more time.” The admiral's voice was hollow as he looked at Sam. His cigar fell to the expensive Tianjin carpet and smoldered.

Thunder rumbled over the mountains.

Sam's hand was coming up when the admiral dropped low, his body blocked by Annie's chair, his fingers at her throat.

“Drop the weapon, Commander.” His voice was muffled. “Otherwise your friend is going to die very badly.”

“A
T
LEAST
SHE'S
SMART.
”
ANNIE'S
CAPTOR
WAS
STILL
BEHIND HER
chair. “I told her to keep quiet or I'd have to shoot you.”

Now Sam understood Annie's tense, unnatural silence, and he was starting to understand her captor's muffled voice.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as he turned into profile, making a harder target. “Why?” he asked softly, betrayal an acid taste in his mouth. “
Why
, Peter?”

“Forget about why, McKade. My time's run out. I need to know exactly what you did in Washington and who you saw before you decided to become a hero.”

“And then you'll kill us.”

Admiral Howe's son shrugged. “We all have to go sometime.”

Sam sidestepped to the left. “I don't know what I did. But I figured out something else in the last week. The man I was trying to remember was someone close to me. Maybe that's why I kept blocking your name.” Sam's hands tightened as he stared into remorseless gray eyes starkly similar to those of his commanding officer. “Did you bug his office at home?” Sam asked his old friend. He tried not to think about the gun Peter now had wedged against Annie's throat. “Is that how you found out everything your father knew?”

“Easy enough with superior equipment and manpower. I had both.” With one hand, Peter removed a small tape recorder from a strap around his neck. “Nice sound quality, wasn't it? New Japanese technology. Splicing together a sample conversation for my father wasn't difficult, since his choice of topics is always limited. National security, Washington politics, and
you.
Too bad impersonating my father didn't finesse any new
information out of you.” His face was hard as he dropped the tape recorder into his pocket. “Empty your pockets, Commander. Everything, including that knife in your boot.”

Peter would remember that. “I don't think so. This way we're even.”

“Except that I've got the girl.”

Sam didn't want to think about that. “Someone said that you had a broken arm.”

“X-rays can be substituted when you have helpful friends. They bought me all the time I needed.”

“Nice.” Sam stared at the traitor before him. “But I still want to know why you sold out.”

“For the game. For the challenge and because I know I'll win.” The admiral's son shrugged. “Remember how you taught me to snap a football? Remember those muddy games on the lawn? Hell, I idolized you, McKade. When I had that losing streak in college, you talked me back into one piece and made me a winner again.”

“Number sixty-one,” Sam said quietly. He'd come so close to remembering.

But not close enough. Now Annie was a target.

“You sold out your country, Howe. That wasn't a game, that was a
sickness.
”