Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) Page 7

  “Shit, man. The bitch made us from the beginning.” Mike Dillman had hired out as a mercenary/assassin since he’d left the Marines via a dishonorable discharge. Crocker had used him on several other missions, and the man was usually good at not being seen and securing his objective.

  Crocker took a long gulp of beer. “Maybe she’s observant. Don’t underestimate her again.” He turned an eye on Ed Peavey, another former Marine, though his discharge had been honorable. “Same goes for you, Ed. Our employer’s getting us the tracker code for the Hummer and any intel on the driver he can.”

  Peavey’s lips twisted into a smirk. “You should’ve asked. I could’ve saved y’all the aggravation of talking to the fat-ass son of a bitch.” Peavey tossed back his whiskey; his slitted, amber-eyed stare fixed on Crocker.

  Crocker repressed the urge to draw his weapon. Peavey had always unnerved him. The lanky Marine was smart—scary smart. Crocker would die before letting the man know his uneasiness.

  “I got the plates on that Hummer.” Peavey tapped his empty glass on the bar; the bartender brought a bottle of Rebel Yell over and poured two finger’s worth into the glass. Peavey took a slow sip of the potent brew and waited until the bartender had gone back to the other end of the bar.

  “And what good does that do us, Ed?” Dillman asked.

  “Tracked them.” Peavey tossed back his whiskey. “Know exactly where they are.” He indicated the monitor on his mini-iPad. “As for the driver, well, can’t tell y’all about him. With some time, I might be able to hack deeper into the rental agency’s files, but since he’s a dead man walking, who in the hell cares?”

  “Good work, Ed.” Crocker peered at the small screen. “They’re heading into Virginia on I-66.”

  “Yeah. They’re still movin’,” Peavey said in his slow Georgia drawl. “But I suspect they’ll have to stop sooner or later to care for the lady. I hit her. Right side. We’ll get them then.”

  Crocker chugged the rest of his beer and then slapped the bar top with the flat of his hand. “Then what the fuck are we sitting here for? Let’s move out.”

  * * * *

  Saturday, December 3rd, 3:00 P.M. (EST), DIA Headquarters

  Captain Syd MacLean, aide to the Director for the Counterintelligence and HUMINT Center of the DIA, or DX for short, was sweating big time when he finally closed his office door after an emergency briefing with the heads of the various DX sections on last night’s shootings at the Georgetown University library and today’s shootings on the Mall. The two incidents were being treated by the intelligence community as acts of terrorism because of the connection to the government contractor, SSI.

  The good news was, no one knew he was the traitor among them…yet.

  The bad news was—something big was going on and Syd was out of the loop. He didn’t like being out of the loop, especially when his ass could get fried as a traitor. His boss, Major General Joe Higgins, had been called to attend an emergency meeting with the DIA Director and all the DIA department heads, leaving Syd to run the emergency briefing for their particular department.

  With a growing mixture of anger and dread, Syd turned and watched CNN’s ongoing rehash of this morning’s Mall shootings on his muted flat screen.

  Goddammit, Crocker! You stupid, fucking-son-of-a-bitch asswipe.

  After Syd had read the morning intelligence briefing reports on the Friday night library shootings, he’d then called Crocker, informed him who the witness was, where she could be found, and ordered the merc to eliminate her.

  He’d sent the man on a straightforward black bag job, and by noon, Crocker’s two stooges had blown it up into a national fucking news incident.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Syd kicked his desk chair across the room, its wheels scraping the wood floor of his cushy office. He could almost feel his enemies’ breath on the back of his neck.

  “Get your ass in gear, Syd,” he muttered as he pulled his chair back to his desk. The sooner he obtained the whereabouts of Elana Cruz a.k.a. Elana Fabrizzio, the sooner the woman who could link him to acts of treason against the United States would be silenced.

  Using a burner phone he kept on hand for communicating with his NSA contact, he punched in the number. Terri Roberts was the dupe who’d assisted him with his past illegal endeavors, all under the cover of him doing his normal day-to-day intelligence job.

  Syd was fairly sure Terri didn’t have a clue what he did with the intel. Hell, she’d never even questioned why he always made contact with her on a non-DIA phone line. She was that much of a naïf. She thought she was helping him keep the world safe from terrorism. If his cover were blown, she’d take a fall as collateral damage.

  He could care less. She’d been a mere tool.

  Terri had also been his “lover” ever since she’d begun working at NSA. It was one way of ensuring her loyalty to him. Unfortunately, she was clingy, irritating, and boring in bed—but on the other hand, had been damn useful to his bottom line. With Terri’s unwitting assistance, he’d become a very rich man. His assets were safely parked in offshore accounts and real estate.

  “Roberts,” she answered.

  “Hey, babe. It’s me.”

  “Syd! Are we still on for dinner?” Terri’s nasal voice grated on his nerves.

  “Yes. I’ll pick you up at eight.” He lowered his voice to a sexier tone. “Wear the outfit I bought you last week at that boutique in Georgetown.”

  “Oh, Syd. I can’t wait!”

  Yes, she actually squealed in her excitement. What a needy loser.

  He cut off a stream of her babbling he wasn’t even processing. “Terri, we can socialize later, babe. I called because I need to follow up on some potential terrorist activity. I need to track the Hummer used in the shoot-out on the Mall today.”

  “Didn’t the General tell you?” Terri sounded puzzled.

  For a second or two, Syd couldn’t breathe. His worst fears had been correct—the General was hiding things from him. Did the old man suspect Syd was the traitor? Were they even now monitoring his office? Coming for him?

  His vision blurred, and he gripped the phone until his fingers cramped. He shook his head and forced himself to focus on his office to look for anything out of place. Everything looked normal, but he knew that NSA had devices so small that he’d never see them. If his office was bugged, he was toast.

  Stop it. You’d be in cuffs already if the General knew. You’re fine.

  Maybe. Maybe not. He’d rather err on the side of not.

  First, he had to get all the intel on what Terri knew and he didn’t. Second, he had to pacify the bitch so she wouldn’t get suspicious and call out the dogs. Then he had to get off the phone, out of the building before the General returned, and disappear…forever. His exit strategy, in place since he’d begun betraying his country for money, was about to become effective.

  With a workable plan fixed in his mind, he took a breath and forced calm into his voice. “Tell me what?”

  “NSA has been instructed to track the vehicle and any communications coming from it. Let me see where it is now,” she offered in her I’ll-do-anything-for-you voice, the saccharine sweet tone that made him want to puke.

  Syd heard her typing away in the background. As time ticked by, putting him ever closer to being retained for questioning or, worse, arrested, she finally chirped out, “Um, the vehicle is on I-66 heading into Virginia. Want the tracking code?”

  “Yeah, babe, that would be helpful.”

  Terri read him the code and, using a smart phone registered under another DIA employee’s name, MacLean entered it into an e-mail draft for Crocker to read and delete.

  “Um, babe, did you find out whose vehicle it is?” His tone was casual, maybe too casual, but he had to know.

  Terri hummed as she typed. He gnashed his teeth, barely able to keep from shouting at her to hurry up.

  “A Vanko Petriv signed for it.” She spelled the name for him. “General Cowan, um, had one o
f his aides pick it up from the rental agency that provides vehicles for diplomats and drive it to Reagan National. He also had the aide deliver a weapon and some other things requested for the op.” She took a deep breath. “SSI has been contracted for this situation. Petriv is one of their operatives.”

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  Cowan was the Director of DIA, and his boss’s boss—and Syd was now positive the emergency meeting General Higgins attended had to do with rooting out the traitor in DIA—him—because of the incidents last night and today. They were zeroing in. How much did they already know or suspect? God, how long had the old man been looking at him? And why hadn’t Syd seen or sensed it? Had the librarian already identified him?

  The answers to those questions weren’t important now, but getting the hell out of the U.S. was.

  “Um, babe, got to go.”

  “See you tonight,” she cooed.

  No, she wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be in D.C. tonight.

  “Later.” He deserved an award for keeping the urgency out of his voice. “Pick you up at eight.”

  Syd hung up the burner phone and pulled over the smart phone, finished the message to Crocker, and saved it as a draft. He also attached a dossier he quickly accessed on SSI operative Vanko Petriv. He’d leave the phone on his desk to muddy the waters a bit more; he’d always hated the fucker he registered the phone to and hoped their interrogation of the brown-nosing SOB would give Syd enough time to get out of the country.

  Crocker killing the Fabrizzio bitch and Petriv would also be a good distraction and put the heat in the short term on Crocker and his fuck-ups. One or both diversions would buy Syd the extra time to reach his hideaway, obtain some plastic surgery, and then don the alternate identity he’d created years ago for just such a situation.

  He packed his personal laptop in his brief bag, pulled on his overcoat, and left his office for the last time. He stopped by his secretary’s desk. “Cyn, I’m taking a late lunch. Tell the General I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Cyn smiled. “Sure, Syd. I’ll have the section heads’ meeting transcript ready for review and signature when you get back.”

  “Thanks, Cyn.” Syd waved and left the office.

  He took the elevators to the underground parking garage and headed for his car. Using another throw-away cell, he contacted the private airfield in Virginia he used and had them fuel up his jet. The jet was owned by a holding company made up of other holding companies, all of which he owned under various false identities. Traceable? Eventually, but not soon enough to stop him.

  Once that task was done, he ground the cell under his heel and tossed the pieces into the trash, got into his Volvo, and pulled out of the garage. He drove to a storage unit in the suburbs which had been rented under another alias. He backed out an Audi stored there, already packed with essential items and weapons. He pulled the Volvo into the unit and then closed and locked the door.

  Checking around, he spotted no one. Yes, the storage area security cameras would’ve recorded him, but by the time the Feds figured out he’d leased the storage unit and found his abandoned Volvo, he’d be in Rio getting his new face.

  As he drove toward Virginia and the Lear waiting for him, the itch on his neck—which had started when he’d realized Higgins had cut him out of the loop—disappeared. He was safe.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, December 3rd, 4:00 P.M. (EST), Springhill Suites, Centreville, Virginia

  Elana drifted in a half-asleep state filled with monsters and pain. Fiery claws scraped over her side along the top of her right hip. She moaned low in her throat and then bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  Control, Ellie. Don’t let him see you cry. He’ll just hurt you more—

  “Shh, Elana. You’re safe,” a deep male voice rumbled near her ear.

  She whimpered and tried to move—to escape—but she couldn’t. Something trapped her. She struggled harder. What had happened? Where was she? She never allowed males around her while she slept. Bad things could happen when she was vulnerable and unable to control the situation.

  Then she was lifted and held firmly against a warm, hard body. She inhaled sharply, taking in a musky male scent. She struck out at the man who’d trapped her within his arms. “No! No! Don’t hurt me.”

  “Elana. Stop.” The man’s voice was low and calm—and somehow soothing. “Hush now, zaychik moy. You’re having a bad dream. You’re safe.” He rubbed his cheek over the top of her head.

  She flinched, waiting for the pain that always came. Instead, all she felt was a brush of firm, warm lips over her forehead. Then she opened her eyes and looked into the man’s concerned eyes; this was Vanko. Keely’s friend. Not Demidas.

  She let out a shuddering sigh. “Sorry. I have nightmares. This situation—”

  “Elana,” his light hazel gaze was warm and gentle, “it’s understandable. You’re tired, hurting, and stressed.”

  “I’m a mess.” Gritting her teeth, she vowed to have better control over her reactions to this man—a good man who’d dropped everything to come to protect her. She laid her head on his firmly muscled, and oddly enough, comfortable shoulder.

  “You’ll tell me about the dreams.” His tone was no-nonsense. And his words weren’t a request, but an order. He was a very autocratic man.

  She really didn’t want to share her nightmares. But Vanko did need to know she had all sorts of issues about being around men since it looked as if they’d be together for a while.

  He must’ve taken her silence for acquiescence since he continued, “Now, bear with me until I get you inside the motel. Then I’ll give you something stronger for your pain.” He shoved the Hummer’s door shut with his hip and clicked the key fob to lock the doors.

  “It’s okay…um, I mean I don’t hurt that much.” Unless she moved too quickly, then it was serious “oh shit” pain. “Motel room?”

  Elana lifted her heavy head from his shoulder—she was so tired—and looked around. She spied a nearly empty parking lot and a busy interstate in the distance. She was glad Vanko held her securely against his chest as the whole world spun around her. “Where are we?”

  “Centreville, Virginia…” He shot her a curious and even more concerned look, as if she should’ve known this. “We’ll rest for a short while. I’ll care for your wound. After…we’ll go to a place where we can safely hide out until SSI can get backup to the East Coast.”

  Then she recalled the phone conversation with Ren in the Hummer. God, Vanko must think her an idiot.

  “Oh, yeah, I remember now. There’s a blizzard in Idaho.” Still dizzy, Elana closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. She stiffened and inhaled sharply as a shooting pain clawed over her body. Conquering the need to cry out, she concentrated on breathing slowly, taking in the cool December air along with a healthy amount of Vanko’s scent.

  God, he smelled…right was the only word she could come up with. His scent soothed her, took her mind off the incessant pain battering her body and tired brain. It was all smoky citrus and the musk of clean male sweat overlaid by the leather of his jacket. Someone should bottle his aroma—they’d make a mint. She turned her nose more fully into his neck, sniffed again, and then sighed.

  Vanko’s arms tightened briefly at her action, but he didn’t call her on her forward behavior. He was probably cutting her some slack since she was out of her head with pain. She let her mind wander as he carried her. It amazed her that he bore her weight so easily. Pilates, ballet, weight training, and running kept her muscles in good shape, making her heavier than she looked.

  Why was it so easy to let Vanko handle everything? She didn’t allow men―especially alpha-types―to get close to her. Well, none other than her uncles, but they were family, the only family she had left.

  Why did she trust Vanko more than other males she’d met?

  It was a conundrum, and one she didn’t have the energy to figure out. Instead, she’d take the easy answer and blame it on the circumstanc
es. For the moment, she was a neophyte involved in a dangerous situation and had to depend on someone. Vanko had the appropriate skill set, and she needed him to keep her alive.

  As they approached the motel’s exterior metal door, something primitive in her re-engaged and the feel of his arms tightly around her became too much. Reality bled away. All she could think of was another place, another time, another man carrying her into a strange place, and then…bad things had happened.

  Logic had flown out the door. She couldn’t overcome the feelings of being trapped. She struggled and whimpered.

  “Elana, stop!” Vanko tightened his arms, and she fought the urge to scream as nascent memories rose to the front of her mind…pain…blood…degradation.

  Crap, crap, crap. Ellie, this isn’t twelve years ago. He isn’t Demidas. Get a grip.

  Elana gritted her teeth against the mewling noises coming from the back of her throat and clenched her fingers into the soft leather of Vanko’s jacket as she reined in her fears. Vanko murmured soothing nonsense against her hair and waited for her to regain control. His patience seemed infinite.

  No, he wasn’t anything like Demidas in looks or actions. Oh God, why was she such a freaking cowardly mess?

  Vanko whispered against her ear. “Elana moy? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

  “No, no…please, put me down. I can walk. You need both hands for the doors, and besides, I’m too heavy.”

  Lame, really lame, Ellie. Just admit what the problem is…he’ll understand.

  For once the little voice in her head made sense.

  “Um, I have this issue about being held…by a man. Sometimes, I, uh, sort of freak.” She found only genuine concern on Vanko’s face. “It’s not you.”

  Grim-faced, he nodded. “Can you bear it for just a while longer? You’re tired and weak. I’ll put you down as soon as we get inside. Okay?”

  “O-okay…th-thanks.” She bit her lip to hold back the sobs that had come out of nowhere. “I’m s-sorry—”