Withholding Evidence (16 page)

Why had Ruby, an antigovernment activist, requested an interview with Walt in the first place?

What if
…

No.

His father didn’t even know Keith had been in Somalia.

Trina knew, but she had access to his service record, while his father didn’t.

He thought back to his visit with his dad three months ago. A last-ditch effort to salvage a relationship, it had been a fiasco. The only saving grace was seeing his brothers briefly at the end.

While he was there, Josh had called him several times. They’d been trying to work out the arrangement with the rehab center for Owen. Had he uttered the word “Somalia” at a time when his dad could overhear? They’d certainly discussed Owen’s injuries from five years ago—the rehab center needed his full medical history. His dad knew Owen was his spotter. If he’d picked up that Owen was injured five years ago and had an inkling they’d been in Somalia, it could have set his bastard father on a quest to connect the dots. And his dad was brilliant at connecting—even when there were no dots.

He picked up his cell, then hesitated. But there was no one else to call. The attorney general answered immediately. “Dominick, there’s a chance this could be about me after all.”

“How so?”

“You need to dig to see if there’s a connection between Ruby and my old man. Like I told you before, he’s antigovernment. My dad might be trying to ferret out information on a classified SEAL op.”

“Can you tell me any of your dad’s avatar names?”

“No. I never read the crap he sends me.”

Ruby’s head appeared in the window again.

“Is there any chance your father is connected with WikiLeaks or RATinformant?”

Dread settled in his gut as he admitted the truth. “It’s possible.”

“We’re working on a theory right now that Brian Ruby is one of the rats at RATinformant dot com.”

Keith rubbed his forehead. Was it possible his dad was so far gone he’d joined up with government leakers to reveal top-secret information about military operations? Was his own father trying to destroy him? “I need to talk to Ruby.”

“We have enough now to bring him in for questioning. I was just sending a team to his apartment.”

“I want to be—”

Keith heard the pop first. The living room window he’d been watching shattered. The backlit man dropped from view, but the spray of red on the wall beyond the window told Keith everything he needed to know.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

T
RINA REMAINED AT
the table long after Owen Bishop left the conference room. She was surprised—and grateful—that Sean left her alone. She needed time to think. To gather herself. To figure out which way was up. And possibly the fastest route to get away from Keith.

No. Lieutenant Bishop hadn’t—couldn’t have—told the truth. If it were true, Keith would have been court-martialed. Imprisoned. Maybe even executed.

Except, a Pentagon cover-up would have been the first priority. There couldn’t be a court-martial if there’d been no crime. And this crime sure as hell had not happened. At least, nothing had ever been leaked.

Trina had been in graduate school five years ago. Intensive study of current military action had been part of the coursework for a doctorate in military history. Today’s news was tomorrow’s history.

Somalia would forever trigger an association with the 1993 military action—the Battle of Mogadishu—that was described in the book and later movie titled
Black Hawk Down
. And for that reason, any military action in Somalia warranted notice. Nothing she’d read at the time hinted at what Bishop had described.

Cold sweat broke out on her brow. Jesus, she was just sitting still, and yet she was sweating. Shaking.

Keith was a sniper. He’d killed. She understood that. But this wasn’t killing to serve his country. This was murder.

K
EITH KNEW BETTER
than to try to locate the sniper. Odds were the man—or woman—was long gone, and if not, Keith would only be making a target of himself. Dominick had told him to sit tight, he’d be there in a flash with federal agents.

Fortunately for Keith, he had an airtight alibi, having been on the phone with the attorney general when the shot was taken. Except…who was to say he hadn’t taken the shot, then called Dominick? The Raptor operative couldn’t help him. His view was limited to the back bedroom window. Ballistics would exonerate him, but that would take time.

He called Sean. “Is Trina still talking to Bishop?”

“No. He left five minutes ago.”

Damn
. “Put Trina on, then.”

“She’s still in the conference room.”

Yet more dread snaked up his esophagus. “Alone—?”

“Yeah. Door’s cracked open. I can see her. She’s not in any danger. She’s just…frozen. I’m guessing Bishop told her something she didn’t want to hear.”

Keith wanted to close his eyes. Or curse. Or smash something. But instead he said calmly, “I’ve got trouble here. Ruby is dead. Dominick and the feds are on their way. Keep Trina there. It’s the safest place while we sort this out.”

Sean swore. “Dead? How?”

“Sniper shot.”

Sean let out a low whistle. “That’s not going to look good for you.”

Keith glanced at the sniper rifle on the floor next to him. He really should have left it in the trunk of his car, but some habits ingrained from years in the navy were hard to let go. “No. It’s not.” He didn’t make a denial, and Sean didn’t ask for one. A point in the operative’s favor.

“I’ll keep Trina here, but she’s going to ask questions.”

“Tell her. She has the right to know about Ruby. About everything.”
Except Somalia.
No. Only a select handful of people had the right to that information. But Keith had a feeling poor Owen had just broken the one and only vow that actually mattered.

He’d hung Keith out to dry. And the hell of it was, he couldn’t go straight to Trina and separate fact from fiction from delusion.

T
RINA PACED THE
conference room. The tension in her gut had transcended to a point that could only be explained with particle physics. Operating on the usual three spatial dimensions plus time as the fourth, fear was now her own personal fifth dimension. Fear that manifested as pain. Everything hurt more, lasted longer, intensified to the degree that even the blood rushing through her veins hurt.

Sean had purchased chocolate bars from a vending machine, but she couldn’t face the sweetness of caramel or the salt of peanuts. All she could do was pace.

And wait. Finally, Keith stepped into the conference room and shut the door, leaving Sean and Curt on the other side.

“Did you do it?” Trina asked. A fear cramp nearly stopped her in her tracks.

“Do what?” Keith asked.

“Shoot him?” A surge of anger took over her tongue. “Wait, I suppose I need to be more specific with you—”

Keith flinched.

“Did you shoot Ruby?”

His eyes flashed with anger. “Hell, no. And I’m appalled you even asked.”

But if Ruby knew, or was trying to uncover what happened in Somalia, Keith had motive. “My guess is I’m not the only one who’s wondering.” She nodded toward the door that blocked Curt from view. “I bet it was the first question Curt asked.”

He took a step toward her, his broad shoulders stiff with tightly held fury. “It’s
his
job to ask that question. Not yours.”

She crossed her arms over her chest as if she could protect herself from the angry man—
murderer?
—who stood before her. At least Sean and Curt were right outside the door. One scream and they’d intervene. “I imagine my job is to fuck you and not ask questions like a good little girl. News for you, Keith. That’s not me.”

His gaze narrowed. “And that’s not news.”

“Did you shoot him because he knew the truth?” She almost had to choke out the question. The words felt raw on her tongue.

“I’m not a murderer.” Keith’s hands curled into tight fists.

“Really? Well, that will be news to your buddy Owen Bishop.”

His head lowered, and he took a slow, deep breath. “Owen
is
my buddy, so I’ll thank you to drop the sarcastic tone.” He met her gaze again and continued, “And if I find out you had anything to do with extracting him from the rehab center I spent my last signing bonus getting him into, then we’re done.” He held his jaw so tight his lips barely moved.

“We’re already done.” She took two steps past him, toward the door.

Keith’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Where is Owen?”

Her protective instincts flared. “Don’t you
dare
hurt him.”

His eyes flashed with a hard, harsh light. “I need to get him back to rehab. Tonight. He’s just revealed details of an op he swore an oath to keep secret. He’s bound to be looking to score heroin right now. I need to find him before he does.”

Jesus. What have I done?
“I reached him at his aunt’s. He gave me a cell phone number. Lee Scott should be able to track him through the number.” She retrieved the number from her phone, then turned again for the door.

Again, Keith’s hand stopped her. The fingers that had touched her everywhere, that had made her gasp and cry out with pleasure, were now hard and unforgiving against the bare skin of her arm. “You aren’t leaving without telling me what Owen told you. You owe me that much.”

She paused. What did she owe him? She’d paid him back for the orgasms in kind. Dinner and a hotel room?

A few hours ago, she’d thought she owed him a town house, but now? She had a feeling this had been about him all along.

But fine, he wanted to know what Bishop said? She’d tell him. He was the only fucking person in the world she could tell, because there was no way this would ever go in any official navy report, and he damn well knew it. “He said he was injured in a firefight that ensued after you fragged a UN force commander.”

Keith’s gaze dropped to the floor. For one brief moment, he had no poker face, confirming her accusation.

Pathetic, feeble hope that Bishop might have been wrong fled. “You did it, didn’t you? You shot Major General Kassa.”

He met her gaze straight on. “Yes.” Then he marched to the door and jerked it open. “Dominick, take her to a new safe house. I’m done with her.”

C
HAPTER
F
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