IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT by the time Devon had taken Zach out of the service area of Chad’s home and had driven back to her apartment. At this time of night, it would be easy to let down her guard, but she remained hyper-vigilant. Nothing on the street seemed threatening. No one loitering, pretending to be waiting for a bus. No one walking a dog. No suspicious vehicles.
There was a van way down the street. She decided to drive by it rather than head for her parking space behind her building. No one was in the van as she passed it. Aloha Flowers and Leis was painted on the side. It didn’t appear to be the type of van Derek had warned her about.
She drove around the block and went into the apartment building’s parking lot. Her assigned space was vacant. She parked and carefully surveyed the shadows before getting out with Zach.
Her studio faced the courtyard where a lone palm was surrounded by scarlet bougainvillea that prevented her door from being seen from the street. There was only one entrance to her apartment, but a window at the rear could be used as an exit in an emergency.
She’d checked to make certain she hadn’t been followed home. Now she stopped and casually looked over her shoulder to double-check. No one was around. Even the kid in the apartment opposite hers had turned off his boom box.
She slipped the key into the lock. With a click that echoed across the courtyard, the door opened. The lamp on the table had a cell that automatically switched on the light when the sun went down. From the door she could see no one was in the room.
That left the bathroom and the closet.
She pulled the Sig Saur 225 that she’d bought on the street out of her straw bag as she walked into her studio apartment. It held nine bullets—eight in the magazine and one in the chamber. She would have liked more firepower, but that would have meant a bigger weapon and it would be obvious she was carrying a gun.
A quick look assured her that no one was inside the bathroom. The closet couldn’t conceal anything more than her meager wardrobe, but she checked it anyway—just in case.
“We’re safe,” she told Zach, “for now.”
He wagged his tail, seeming to understand. Devon slipped off her shoes and inspected the blister on her instep. It was puffy and filled with fluid. She hadn’t wanted to waste money, so she hadn’t purchased Band-Aids or Neosporin. Instead she’d splurged on the lavender dress.
“The blister can wait until tomorrow,” she said to Zach as she bent down to pull off the sofa’s cushions to make it into a bed.
A firm knock hit her like a jolt of electricity. She tiptoed to the door and peered out the peephole, thankful she’d replaced the outside light with a higher watt bulb. Warren was standing there, a box under each arm.
She opened the door, saying in a low voice, “What’s going on?”
“Your things from Santa Fe arrived.” He walked inside and set both boxes on the kitchen counter.
“It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“No. I’m off to DC for a WITSEC field training exercise. A continuing ed thing.”
“How’d you know I was home?”
“I was down the street watching.”
She cursed her own stupidity. When she’d driven along the street, she’d checked for occupied cars, but she hadn’t noticed any. “I should have—”
“I’m in the van parked halfway down the block.”
“Aloha Leis and Flowers?”
“Good. At least you spotted it.”
“There wasn’t anyone inside.”
“You’ve got to look for magnetic mat signs that can easily be changed or removed. Tricked out vans with extended wheel bases. Windows on the sides that are so black you can’t see into them and find the video equipment.”
“They trained me to check for those things, but I didn’t notice—”
“Come with me to get the rest of your stuff, and I’ll show you what you missed.”
She slipped into flip-flops, followed him out of the studio, and down the dark street, Zach at her heels.
Warren pointed to the spotlights on the roof of the van. “See those spotlights on the roof and the extra lights on this van?”
“Yes. More lights than usual.”
“Except for expensive tricked-out vans, it’s not normal. It’s a red flag. The spots on the roof are really microwave transceivers linked to the computer in the back. The other lights are collection dishes for directional microphones.”
Devon looked more closely at the van. Back in Santa Fe, Derek had warned her about special surveillance vans like this, but she’d never seen one until now.
“If they—somehow—track you here, they may have doubts about your identity, since you look different. They’ll observe you until they’re positive.”
A frission of alarm prickled the fine hairs across the back of her neck. Despite his reassurances, Warren wasn’t certain she was safe.
“All they have to do is lift a fingerprint,” she said.
“Your fingerprints have been removed from every database.”
“I was fingerprinted at PowerTec.”
“Before Rutherford and Ames could make a copy?”
“That’s what I’m told.” Warren’s voice sounded strained. He opened the front door of the van. “Take the two smaller boxes. I’ll carry the larger one.”
End of discussion, she thought. I’m on my own. Once the idea would have frightened her, but not now. It was much better not to rely on anyone except herself.
“When are you coming back?” she asked.
“In a week. Any problems call the 800 number or contact the FBI field office here. You’ve memorized the numbers, right?”
“Of course.” She didn’t want to remember what had happened the last time she’d called the 800 number, then tried to contact the FBI. If it happened again, she was running—not calling. She had cash and phony ID hidden and ready to use.
They walked in silence the rest of the way to her apartment, stopping once to let Zach lift his leg on a hibiscus bush. Inside they placed the boxes in the corner near the closet.
“Are you positive Chad Langston bought your story?” Warren asked.
She prayed her eyes didn’t reveal what had happened tonight. “Absolutely.”
“I’ll take your word for it, but I’ll discuss the situation with Masterson. He may want to move you anyway.”
“Please discourage him. You don’t know how hard it is to start over. I won’t be able to call my sister again for months.”
“I realize it’s difficult.” His voice, usually flint against steel, now seemed sympathetic. “I’ll do my best. Just promise me you can handle Langston.”
“I can handle him as long as you’ve backstopped my story.”
“Don’t worry. I fixed everything.”
Without another word, Warren walked out and closed the door.
“How am I going to get rid of Chad?” she asked herself.
The hot kiss in the side yard proved how vulnerable she was. She’d ached with need and had almost given in to it. She’d been kissed by a fair number of men over the years, but none of them did it with the same intensity, the same passion. If she responded to a couple of kisses, what would a night in his bed be like?
Don’t even think about it.
BROCK WAITED two long days until his contact at the DoD came back from vacation and called him.
“You idiot! You had me send a kick-ass agent after a worthless gadget that’s still in the developmental stages.”
“No way!” His source sounded genuinely shocked. “DARPA’s about to put it into production just as soon as these final tests are complete.”
“I’m telling you the thing isn’t worth shit!”
“Th-there’s got to be some mistake. Archer Danson himself is heading up the project.”
“You’ve been snowballed.”
Two beats of silence. “Maybe something went wrong with the one you have. Your agent could have damaged it in transit.”
Brock snorted his disgust.
“There’s got to be one, maybe two, more. Danson wouldn’t leave all the testing to just one person. I’ll check on it and get back to you.”
Brock slammed down the receiver. He stared at the liquid plasma TV screen. Solar flares had wreaked havoc with the satellites. Several were out. Electricity was down in Sweden.
“Who cares?” he asked out loud.
He picked up the telephone again and dialed Jordan’s number. He’d tracked her home address to a condo complex in McLean, Virginia. He’d left several messages on her machine, but she hadn’t returned his calls.
After the seventh ring, Jordan’s sultry voice came on the line, delivering the same message he’d heard before. “Hi, there. It’s Jordan. I’m out having fun or working hard so I can afford to have fun. After the beep, leave a message. I’ll get right back to you.”
Could she be deliberately not returning his calls? It was possible, he silently conceded. He didn’t remember all of what had happened between them. Maybe he’d done something…or she’d done something embarrassing.
Perhaps he should leave a less formal message. Something romantic like “thinking about you.” No. “Missing you” would be more romantic. Women went for that bullshit.
Line seven rang, the number his operatives used. The only call he was expecting was from 251. The operative hadn’t used the uplink to the satellites in two days. The way his luck was going, 251 had been murdered by the drug lords.
“Numero Uno.”
“Operative 251 here.” The rasp in his voice reminded Brock of a chain smoker. He hated smokers because the habit owned them. They left their posts to smoke, jeopardizing missions.
“Do you smoke?”
“No. It’s not allowed. You should know that.”
Jesus! The guy had some nerve. He didn’t sound the least bit impressed to have Brock call him.
“We need to meet in person,” Brock told him.
251 didn’t hesitate. “San Pedro, Belize. The Mayan Princess on Ambergis Caye this Friday.”
“Wait a minute.” Brock didn’t like someone else calling the shots. “Costa Rica.”
“No. Belize. I’ll register under the name of Scott Andrews.”
Brock weighed his alternatives. He was tempted to tell him to fuck off and die. But no one was as good as this guy, and Brock needed the best for his plan to succeed.
“Why Belize?” Brock asked.
“I’ve got business there.”
“Gottcha.” That explained a lot. Central America was a haven for drug smugglers. No doubt 251 needed to be there as part of his project.
Obelisk was a rigidly compartmentalized operation. Members of some teams didn’t know other teams existed—or what they were doing. Checks and balances. Even Brock, who knew more than anyone, wasn’t sure what 251 was actually doing in Colombia. He assumed the kid was selling military equipment diverted from military projects to drug lords.
Brock agreed to the meeting, saying he would contact him at the Mayan Princess. He hung up, a little uneasy. He was breaking one of his rules. Never meet an operative in person.
He reminded himself that he didn’t have a choice. His number one priority was killing Samantha Robbins. He couldn’t risk another debacle like Santa Fe. If he intended to take over Cassidy’s position, he had to whack the bitch.
He tried Jordan again. Her damn machine kicked on, but this time the message said she was away on business and would return calls from the road.
Brock had bigger fish to fry than some dumb twit who didn’t call him back. He would take care of her later. He needed to find someone to take his place when he moved into Cassidy’s position.
“You’ve been way too smart on this,” he said out loud.
In keeping his operation a one-man-show, Brock hadn’t trained his replacement. No one had any idea how to run the sensitive, super-secret equipment. Most of it wouldn’t be hard to learn, but deciding who could be trusted to head security, was another matter.
A big problem.
Anyone who took over his job had to know exactly what Obelisk was doing. It wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to him, but only now did he appreciate how difficult this was going to be. Virtually all of the personnel at Obelisk were operating under the illusion that they were doing a patriotic service to help America.
It was better to go to the outside, Brock decided. A disgruntled worker at the Pentagon or CIA would be ideal. Someone like him, a guy who wasn’t being given the credit he was due, a guy who wasn’t being paid enough.
A lot of guys fit the profile. He just had to do a little research.