The Echo of Violence (23 page)

But she’d already made up her mind. No matter what happened, she wasn’t leaving Jackson Kinkaid.

Once they were given their freedom, Dr. Gomez and his wife offered breakfast and coffee to their guests. Hank accepted if he and Adam Booker could cook. That allowed their hosts time to change out of their pajamas and join them without lifting a finger. Alexa left three of her men on guard duty as a precaution. And she took a walk outside with Father Ignatius to have a few words alone with him.

They headed toward rolling foothills and walked down a dirt road. The morning sun brought heat and had burned off the clouds she’d seen at dawn. If she hadn’t been worried about Kinkaid, she might have appreciated the beautiful day. They walked in silence, something she hadn’t expected from a man who venerated the spoken word, especially coming from him.

“You’re an artist, Father Ignatius,” Alexa began. “But your rendering of Ghazi’s estate didn’t include a helipad. For a guy with an eye for detail, I found that odd. I hope you gave yourself at least ten Hail Marys for your lie of omission.”

“Ten? You drive a hard bargain, but ten it is.” He smiled. “I wasn’t sure who you worked for, my dear. I’m still not clear on that point.” Father Ignatius clutched his hands behind his back and squinted into the sun when he looked at her. “That gave me no choice. I left off the helipad for a reason. I had to intervene.”

“And how exactly did you do that?”

“You might be curious about that point, but it’s really not very important in the bigger scheme of things. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” He winked. When she nodded, he continued, “I had an opportunity to question Sayed and Ghazi. And they were most cooperative.”

“They must have seen the error of their ways.” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you threaten them with eternal damnation?”

“You might say that, yes.” He chuckled. “Sayed wasn’t keen on being dismembered. Can’t blame him actually. I’m not too keen on it myself.”

Alexa grimaced at the man. She had a hard time picturing what he meant by “being dismembered.” A part of her didn’t want to know, but he never gave her a chance to ask.

He told her about Sayed’s plot to explode a radioactive dirty bomb near Chicago using spent nuclear fuel rods stockpiled at one of the larger nuclear plants in the area. The terrorist had planned to enter the United States using phony documents issued by his Venezuelan government contacts. And he had members of his terrorist sleeper cell working in security and other critical operations within the targeted facility.

Alexa had heard about such a conspiracy theory
before. Each year, spent fuel rods were removed from nuclear cores and stored in pools to cool down. It took years for that to happen. Eventually, the waste would be encased in concrete or glass and consigned to dry storage before it got transported to a long-term facility—in theory.

But without resolution on the issue of developing a longer-term storage site, nuclear waste across the country had been stockpiled for years. Until a year ago, the Yucca Mountain Repository in Nevada was the proposed storage facility for spent nuclear-reactor fuel and radioactive waste. Given the delays in upgrading the site and the most recent withdrawal of government budget dollars to develop it, that left nuclear facilities across the country with no place to store waste.

If not controlled on a very tight basis, nuclear waste could be stolen by domestic or foreign terrorists. The homegrown material could be fashioned into a dirty bomb. She knew stringent controls were in place to protect against such a thing, but this was a case where not one single failure could be allowed. There’d be no such thing as being wrong once.

And if Sayed and his men had been successful, the full extent of the damage would be hard to assess. The blast radius would be an immediate concern for casualties and damage. And depending on how much radiation would be present, only a limited area would be directly impacted, but the long-term aftereffects could be more demoralizing. Exposed individuals would have a greater potential for developing cancer in time. And buildings and land would be unusable for years.

“I turned Sayed and Ghazi over to my local counterpart in the NSA. And I’ve provided details of my interrogations. We have Sayed’s funding sources and other key contact information. And arrests are being made as we speak, from what I’ve been told,” he said. “We built quite a case against him with his abductions and killings in the British Virgin Islands. And between his offenses toward your country and mine, I’d say his days of freedom are over.”

If she believed what he’d told her—about working with the NSA—that meant the so-called priest worked for Britain’s GCHQ, the Government Communications Headquarters. It made sense.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like a name at the NSA to confirm what you’ve told me. No offense,” she said.

“Oh, none taken, my dear. I completely understand.” He stopped and looked her in the eye. “If you’d like, I could call our operation a joint effort. Your government should know that if it weren’t for you and your young man in there, we never would have tracked down Sayed. He might have slipped through our hands and not surfaced until it was too late.”

“I appreciate the thought, Father Ignatius. But no, recognition isn’t necessary. And I’m sure Kinkaid would feel the same. I’m just glad Sayed was stopped…and most of the hostages were rescued.” Her thoughts turned to the dead. And she hoped Kinkaid wouldn’t be added to that list.

“Yes, I thought as much,” he said. “I admire quiet heroism…yours and the people who work with you.
For most, freedom and democracy are taken for granted. Yet every day, there is a price to be paid by a brave few. I make my contribution to the cause, but not like you. You risk your life, and yet you’re content to operate in anonymity. People in your country, and dare I say the world, will never know your name or see your face.”

“With any luck they won’t.” She felt an uncomfortable rush of heat to her cheeks, caused by his unnecessary praise. “But if you’re looking for the real hero in all this, he’s lying on that bed in there. If it hadn’t been for him…” She fought to stay in control, but the catch in her voice gave her away. “…many more people would have died.”

“It never gets any easier, does it, my dear?”

She took a deep breath and stared into the foothills to regain her composure. And the priest let her do that, without feeling the need to fill in the void in conversation.

“No, it doesn’t, but I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Given what Father Ignatius had shared about Sayed—something he didn’t have to do—she felt comfortable trusting him to a point. Although she’d have to verify what he’d told her through Garrett, she’d need a favor and someone local to help.

“As soon as I make a call, I’m sending my team back, but I’m staying with Kinkaid. I can’t leave him in his condition.”

“Yes, I wondered about that,” he said. And as they made their turn to head back to the hacienda, he added, “I’ll be happy to provide my car…and anything else you require while you’re here. I would consider it an honor.”

The only thing Alexa really needed was out of her hands. She’d never thought of herself as religious or even spiritual, but with Kate putting in a good word for Kinkaid, she hoped a few prayers couldn’t hurt.

It didn’t take long for Alexa to place the call to Garrett from the Gomez hacienda to confirm the story from Father Ignatius. She cut Hank and the rest of her people loose, and they made arrangements to go, but Jessie was reluctant to leave until Alexa convinced her. She had explained that the Sentinels preferred to minimize their presence on foreign soil, and their success relied upon their continued anonymity. And she finally had to admit to her new partner that her need to stay had become personal.

But before Jessie got in the SUV, she had something to say.

“Thanks for arranging Seth’s visit to New York City. Apparently you knew before I did. That guy can grow on you…” She grinned. “…like a wart.” When her smile faded, she said, “It’s always been hard to know what’s good for me. I never learned that skill. My whole life, I feel like I’ve been whacking myself in the head with a hammer. And someday, it’s gonna feel real good when I stop.”

“Self-destructive behavior. I get it. Good analogy.” Alexa nodded. “Mind if I use it sometime? I’ve gotten pretty good at swinging my own hammer.” She shook her head. “But I had a hunch about you and Harper. He’s…special. And you deserve to be happy.”

Take your own advice, Marlowe.

Jessie had made the assumption that Harper’s trip had been solely intended for her benefit. Alexa didn’t consider herself
that
altruistic. In hindsight, she’d let her libido do her thinking when she asked Harper to make the trip. The idea of taking on a younger lover had driven her to extend the invitation, but she was thankful that she’d forced Jessie to make a choice one last time before she crossed the line. For once, she’d exercised restraint, and it had paid off in a way she hadn’t expected. She felt closer to Jessie, like a big sister.

And although being with Kinkaid on this mission had opened her eyes to how things could be with someone she really cared about, the reality of her feelings scared her. She wondered if she could open her heart to a man like Kinkaid, but maybe it was already too late.

“You seem to have some history with Jackson Kinkaid,” Jessie said. “…like he was the one who got away.”

“So far.” Alexa raised an eyebrow and smiled, hoping she looked more confident than she felt. “See you stateside, partner.”

“Call me if you need to talk. Anytime, day or night.” Jessie reached for her shoulder, but Alexa opened her arms for a hug.

“Yeah, you got it. And thanks, Jess.”

After her partner got into the SUV, Alexa waved good-bye to the rest of her team. They drove from the
Gomez hacienda, leaving her with a growing emptiness deep inside. Whatever was about to happen, she’d have to face it alone.

She hoped the ache she felt wasn’t a premonition of bad things to come.

Hours later

Dr. Gomez and his wife had offered her a bedroom. A very kind gesture considering her team had held them at gunpoint only hours ago. After thanking them for their hospitality, Alexa turned down the invitation. She wouldn’t leave Kinkaid’s side, even if she had to sleep on the floor.

If something happened, she didn’t want him to die alone.

She pulled up a chair next to his bed and held his hand until she got antsy and made herself useful. As the hours went by, she cooled his skin with compresses. She wiped his brow and ran a damp washcloth over his chest and down his arms.

Touching him. Helping him. It was all she had left.

She whispered to him and told him things she never would have said if he were awake. Intimate things she felt for him. He never woke up. She watched the sun set through a window, but as darkness settled in the room, she didn’t turn on a light. She let the shadows close in and swallow her.

Alexa sat with Jackson in the dark and listened for every breath he took.

She must have fallen asleep, because when she awoke,
it was nearly midnight. Someone had draped a blanket over her shoulders as she laid her head next to him on the bed. And a small lamp shone its light into the room, cutting through the darkness.

Kinkaid’s IV drip had been changed, too.

Alexa stretched and took a quick break. The house was dark and quiet. The doctor and his wife had gone to bed. And she noticed the priest had taken off, leaving his car parked in front as promised. When she got back to Kinkaid’s room, she saw that his clothes had been cleaned and folded on the dresser next to his tactical gear. And the pouch where he kept his iPod and the tracking beacon was there, too. When curiosity got the better of her, she walked toward the dresser and pulled out his iPod and searched through it.

She had expected to see his play list, but that didn’t happen. Only one recording was listed, and she found it odd. That alone intrigued her. The iPod was intended for multimedia use—music, videos, and electronic downloads of all kinds. It had a capacity for thirty-thousand-plus songs and hours of video.

But Kinkaid only had one recording on it.

She plugged the iPod into her ears and listened to his only song. From the sounds of it, someone had made a special recording for him. There were voices and muffled laughter. And a contagious giggle that made her smile.

“Come on. Talk now, silly,” a woman prompted. “Just like we practiced. Remember?”

In the background, there was a garbled sound of a microphone brushing against cloth, but eventually a little girl’s voice came on.

“This is
my
song…for you, Daddy.” The child couldn’t have been more than five years old. “I miss you, Daddy.”

“Daddy’s little angel insisted on playing this for you, honey. She knows it’s one of Mommy’s favorites,” a woman said in a playful voice. And in a more intimate tone, she added, “I miss you, too. Please come home soon. I love you, Jackson.”

The haunting melody of “Angel,” a song by Sarah McLachlan, began to play.

Her smile vanished. And Alexa felt her heart beat faster when the song talked about second chances. At first, she felt like an intruder into his life until anger bubbled to the surface. Why hadn’t he told her that he was married…and that he had a child? She looked at his reflection in the mirror as if seeing him for the first time. And a flood of memories and quiet conversations rushed through her mind as the song played.

Had she seen the signs and ignored them? Or had he deliberately lied to her and kept his marriage a secret? She couldn’t reconcile Kinkaid earning money from drug cartels and going home to his sweet little “angel.” Did his wife even know what he did for a living?

She fixed her gaze on Kinkaid through the mirror and forced herself to listen to the whole recording. The sad lyrics conjured a pervasive loneliness. And with nothing but her solitary existence ahead, she felt exhaustion bleed from her veins. Her fatigue made it easy to imagine that he’d somehow betrayed her.

And she wondered if he even knew the story behind
the song. It had been written for a drug-addicted keyboard player who had overdosed on heroin. The angel in the song referred to the drug that eventually killed him.