Operation Proof of Life (17 page)

Her assessment made his skin itch. He was so far from perfect on the inside, it terrified him. He couldn’t take a break from life, though, not even to be late for work. The Michael Stone persona wouldn’t let him.

“I’m going to jump in the shower.” He held up the cup. “Think you can make plain coffee?”

“You have a top-of-the-line espresso machine and all you want is coffee.” She sighed and stood up, reaching for his cup. “No further analysis necessary, but psychotherapy is advisable.”

He frowned at her back as she left the room.

Chapter Twenty-Five

By noon, Brigit was stationed on a bench at the park across from her charred loft. She’d picked up the impounded Ford from the police lot and recovered her wallet before visiting The Gap for clothes and a kiosk for a new mobile phone, all under the watchful eye of the security detail Michael had assigned her. She was no longer a suspect in Ella’s kidnapping and the guard had left her once she landed at the DHS headquarters on Murray Lane, where she’d promised Michael she would stay put until he called.

That morning, she’d shared some pertinent facts about Peter which were missing from his dossier so Michael and his band of merry men could start digging. That way, she looked like she was cooperating while giving herself breathing space to do her own behind-the-scenes work. The first of which was to visit her loft.

Two I-beams jutted out of the debris at opposite sides, pointing black fingers at the sky and resembling a weird jack-o-lantern grin. The lower section of the building had been damaged as well, just not as extensively. Yellow tape cordoned off half the block and the State Fire Marshall’s official investigation had begun before the site had cooled.

Less than thirty hours after the fire, though, the place sat alone, abandoned. Reporters had gotten video for their stations. Gawkers had taken photos. No-trespassing signs had been posted along with the yellow tape, but no one was around, except for the occasional street patrol driving by to make sure looters weren’t pilfering anything from the store or destroying potential evidence.

Brigit forced herself to stare at the I-beams and the charred half-walls. Was it Peter’s fault or was it hers? He’d never harmed any of the children he’d kidnapped before. Was it her interference with O’Bern that had driven him to set her up for the kidnapping? Even so, why the fire? He had definitely wanted to drive home his point. If only she knew exactly what the point was.

She’d started the fire, albeit accidentally, that had taken his mother away from him. Maybe this was some kind of long-coming retaliation.

Low clouds rolled in from the southwest as Brigit sat wrapped in a new trench coat. A few errant raindrops heralded an approaching downpour and she was glad she’d bought an umbrella. Absently twirling it by its handle, she scanned the windows and rooftops of buildings to the north and east.

Something told her Peter had been close by, not just watching her from this park a few mornings ago, but actually living in the vicinity. He might still be there, knowing she would come back to the loft, as all victims of a fire did.

If he, Tory and Moira were still in the neighborhood, they might have front-row viewing of Brigit sitting alone, and that’s exactly what she wanted. There were no cops, Feds or other undercover law enforcement anywhere in the vicinity. Because of the impending storm there wasn’t even a mother-child duo in the park.

Come on
, she willed one or all of them to appear.
I’m here, come get me.

It was foolhardy, and probably pointless, to put herself out as bait. Yet she continued to sit on the bench and wait. Human motivations were typically illogical. The intensity of those motivations even more so. It was easy to grasp a motivation like Michael’s because the situation involved a direct assault on a child in his family. Motivation for revenge and the intensity of his reaction were normal.

From her case studies, though, Brigit had found most people’s motivations and the intensity attached to them were as ambiguous and individual as their fingerprints.

Like her hatred of nightlights. At thirty-three years old, she was still scared of the dark. Irrational, illogical, but deep-seated. The prospect of sleeping in the dark could bring on a panic attack and yet the sight of a harmless nightlight did the same.

While she wanted revenge for her mother’s death and she certainly wanted to stop Peter from injecting fear into other children, her real motivation to hunt him down was to free herself from the fear of the dark. The night of the kidnapping, he’d snatched her from a warm bed and she hadn’t been able to see his face in the dark room. He’d terrified her so badly she’d never again been able to survive a dark bedroom. Locked in the bathroom with Tory, she’d cried hard and long enough Peter had brought in the nightlight.

After years of therapy and nightmares, Brigit had a favorite fantasy. She shoved the nightlight down Peter’s throat.

It was irrational, illogical and something in real life she would never do, no matter how much she hated him. She would not become a murderer like he was, and the very thought of such blatant personal revenge made her sweaty with guilt.

But the fantasy reoccurred after every incident she linked to Peter, and grew along with her frustration when he managed to escape police time and time again.

The day had turned dark as night and streetlights sprang to life. Rain began to fall in earnest. Brigit rose from the bench, opened her umbrella and started for her car in the lot a block down.

A torrent of rain burst loose before she took two steps. She jogged to her car, grateful she was still wearing her running shoes. Just as she slipped the key into the car door’s lock, a gust of wind jerked the umbrella and she nearly lost her grip. By the time she got it under control and slid into the car, she was drenched.

She wasn’t sure what fired up her instincts, but immediately she knew she wasn’t alone in the small space.

Self-defense training kicked in, prodding her to get out of the car. Tamping it down and the urge to look in the rearview mirror to discover her visitor’s identity, she shook her head to knock some of the rain out of her hair.

Tilting her head down, she used her right hand to lift wet strands from her neck, and wondered if her intruder meant to harm her. As she straightened her head back up, a cold gun muzzle pressed into her neck.

Harm intended.

Her gaze darted to the rearview mirror. A hooded figure with eyes rimmed in dark eyeliner stared back at her. The woman grabbed a handful of Brigit’s hair and gave it a jerk, snapping Brigit’s head back against the headrest. “We’re going to make a deal, so listen carefully.”

The accent was Palestinian. Brigit swallowed hard, but this was what she’d been hoping for. Contact. “Moira. It’s been a long time.”

“Put your hands on the steering wheel.”

Brigit complied. “Can’t keep my left arm in this position long,” she said. “Thanks to you.”

“I aimed for your heart.”

The lump in Brigit’s throat grew. “I know. What I don’t know is why.”

“Why?” Moira laughed without humor. “You have screwed everything up, all along, hunting Peter, hunting me. I wanted it to end. You gave me the chance when you walked to the podium.”

“I don’t want you, or Peter. Just Tory.”

Anger made Moira’s voice shake. “Yes, well now I want Peter, to kill him, and you’re going to help me.”

Peter must have really pissed her off. Had he double-crossed her? Promised her an easy escape and then failed to follow through?

But why? She worked for him. Knew how to pull off assassinations without leaving any trace evidence behind. Brigit suspected the woman had even tapped witnesses to Peter’s misdeeds before. Moira tied up his loose ends with efficiency and mercilessness. What would make him ruin the arrangement?

The old adage about no honor among thieves was true, yet love and passion still motivated them. Thieves, terrorists, assassins…all were human at their core, and hence, prone to human vices. Moira had loved Peter once, maybe still did, and he’d risked ransoming her to take out O’Bern.

“Why do you want to kill Peter now, after all you’ve done for him?”

Moira pushed the hood back from her face. “Because of this.”

Even in the shadows of the car, Brigit could see the fresh bruise on Moira’s cheek. Her bottom lip had been split as well. An old bruise yellowed her left temple. “He beat you up? Why?”

“Because of you.”

It was hard to believe Peter would get upset with Moira for trying to kill her, and yet the thought gave her pause. Did Peter still care, just a little, for her?

“Shooting you was a federal offense. I broke the rules, never kill a government agent, here, Britain, Ireland, wherever. It brings too much heat, too much need for vengeance. You hit one of their own and the police, in whatever country, want your head on a stick. Peter now has to be extra vigilant. Our escape was made ten times harder.”

She should have known Peter’s anger at Moira was not based on any emotion for her. “So he beat you up and left you behind as a scapegoat.”

“If the authorities have me, they won’t care about Peter, even though he is the one who orchestrated the assassination.”

“So where is he? I can call the police and have him arrested.”

“Tory is with him. You call in the cops and they’ll arrest her too. Or Peter will use her as a hostage. Is that what you want?”

Brigit took a deep breath and considered her options. She didn’t seem to have many again. Moira was only trying to save her own skin, but her point was still valid. Peter could use Tory as a hostage. “What’s your plan?”

“Cormac O’Bern is about to leave Layton Airport on his private jet bound for Dublin.”

Her brain spun through scenarios. “Peter’s hijacking his plane?”

Moira snorted. “It’s an easier way to get back to Ireland than his original escape plan.”

Brigit stuck her key in the ignition and cranked the motor. “How much time do we have?”

Moira lowered the gun and sat back. “Less than forty minutes. Can you make it?”

As with all things in and around D.C., the answer depended on the traffic. Brigit shifted into drive, flipped on the windshield wipers and wheeled the car out of the parking spot. Pressing her foot to the accelerator, she ignored the lot’s stop sign and the blare of a car horn as she pulled out in front of a gray sedan. “Of course I can.”

Fifty feet away, Conrad Flynn started his Jeep to follow Brigit. Before he could put it in gear, though, Julia knocked on his window.

She had a hat on and the collar of her windbreaker up. He rolled down the window. “You following me or Kent?”

“You. We need to talk about Zara.”

The green car was quickly disappearing down the street. He couldn’t lose her. “Get in,” he told Julia, motioning her to hurry.

She ran around the front of the Jeep and slid in, wet jacket and all. Conrad shifted into gear, one foot still on the brake. “One thing. You’re in this car as my wife, not an FBI agent. Anything that happens on this run is off the record for you. You feel me, Ms. Torrison?”

Her eyes flashed annoyance but she pulled her hat off and sighed back against the seat in acceptance. “It’s Mrs. Flynn to you.”

Conrad grinned, releasing the brake and gunning the gas, and they shot out of the skinny alley after Brigit. He shifted on the fly, the Jeep responding like a well-tuned instrument. Julia stayed quiet until he had the green car in sight again.

“Del Hoffman called this morning,” she said, shaking out her wet hair. “He told Zara her group of sisters is headed back to London. She’s already booked a ticket.”

“Look, I don’t want her in the field any more than you do, but the doctor told her she could return to work.”

“The doctor doesn’t know she’s a spy.”

“Actually, he does. He’s one of our go-to guys. She was dehydrated and anemic. He pumped her full of fluid and got her eating again.”

Julia stiffened and turned to look at him. “But it’s too dangerous, for her and the baby.”

He agreed, but ultimately it was Zara’s decision. Bottom line, Julia knew it too. She was just worried. He kept his eyes on the traffic as he changed tactics to make her realize what Zara was dealing with. “What if you were pregnant? Your job’s just as dangerous. What would you do in her place?”

The pause was long enough to make Conrad glance at her from the corner of his eye. Her forehead was creased, her bottom lip skewed to the side in concentration. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

“Maybe you should.”

The crease deepened. Conrad shifted his attention back to the road. “Would you take a desk job if, you know, you were pregnant with our kid?”

She touched her stomach reflexively. “I can’t get past the me-being-pregnant part to even consider what I’d do about my job.”

“So you’re not…”

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Part of him was in Julia’s camp trying to wrap his head around her being pregnant. The other part wanted to pat her stomach too.

Her head snapped around so she could look at him again. “Pregnant? Me?”

His business cell beeped in its holder on the dash, the loud noise vibrating between them as he returned her stare. The surprise on her face and incredulous tone of her voice was the only answer he needed. “You’re not pregnant.”

She smiled and shook her head no. Again his feelings about a kid divided into two camps. One of relief, the other of disappointment.

The phone blared again. Caller ID registered it was Smitty. “I’ll see if I can find a safe but attractive desk job for Zara,” was all he could say.

Julia touched his arm as if she read the conflicting emotions in his face. “Thank you.”

Shoving his mixed emotions aside, he put on his Bluetooth headset and hit the connect button. “What did you find on Gunn?”

Ryan Smith sighed. “First, tell me what’s happening with Zara. She left some flippant message with my secretary about being Super Woman and returning to London tonight.”

“She’s Super Woman all right, but I’m pulling her off that case.” He glanced at Julia who still had her hand on her stomach. “She won’t be back in your camp for awhile.”

“You putting her on the Kent case instead?”

The idea sparked a dozen more in Conrad’s brain. If he put Zara to work on following Brigit, he could keep an eye on her. Julia could keep an eye on her. Everyone would be happy. Even Zara. “Uh, yeah. I need her to do some behind-the-scenes stuff on Kent and Donovan both. What’d’ya find out about Gunn?”

“He’s a spy, definitely MI5. Why he’s been paired with Dr. Kent isn’t clear. On her though, I did more research and found a cold-war spy in Madrid who knew her father, might’ve even trained him. He was sort of purposely fuzzy on details, but he did tell me Brigit’s father, William, was a senior MI5 officer running agents while pretending to be a British parliament member. After the death of his wife—a suspicious death, I might add—he uprooted Brigit and Tory and moved them to America.”