11:11 a.m.
Cocoa Beach, Florida
Dahlia pushed a button before using the wrought iron doorknocker. Turning around, she glanced up and down the street of the quiet seaside community. Ocean waves from the back of the house added to the area’s sleepy, relaxed nature.
She cast a look at the black SUV—her teammates inside—parked down the street. Since chances were good Hardy, Cruz and Pence would be recognized by Isaac Well’s assistant, Johnny DeLucci, Dahlia was to make first contact with the man.
Repeating the ringing and knocking process, she spoke softly. “No answer so far, and I can’t tell if anyone’s home. The shades are drawn.” She patted the set of lock picks in the pocket of her lightweight charcoal gray blazer. “Say the word, and I can be in in five seconds.”
Cruz: “You’ll screw up the warrant if you do.”
Dahlia grunted. “You’re worried about that, knowing what could happen if—”
A deadbolt released and the doorknob turned.
Dahlia pressed an elbow against the Walther PPQ M2 on her belt, under the blazer. “I’ve got movement. Stand by.”
The door opened. A man in a black robe filled the doorway. Undone to the waist, the silky garment revealed a thick mane of dark chest hair, which matched the homeowner’s slicked back, parted-on-the-side hairstyle. Above black silk slippers were tanned and skinny legs.
“Johnny DeLucci?” said Dahlia.
The man’s face wrinkled. “Who’s asking?”
She showed a leather bi-fold wallet. “FBI. Are you Johnny DeLucci?”
He studied her credentials. “Yes. What’s this all about?”
“I need to ask you a few questions. May I come inside?”
The man hesitated, glimpsed the SUV with blacked out windows and stepped back, closing the door after his guest had entered. “Okay, you’re inside, Agent St. James. What do you want?”
Dahlia faced him. “Do you have somewhere we could sit down and talk like civilized people?”
DeLucci sighed, “This way,” and led her to the living room around a corner. After offering the sofa, he claimed a recliner and crossed his legs before quickly closing the ends of his robe, a little too late.
Dahlia whipped her head to the left and sat, A little more of you than I wanted to see, Mr. DeLucci. She crossed her legs and gently tugged on the leg opening of her over-the-knee black boot.
The man smoothed the robe. “What can I do for you?”
“I need to know where to find your employer, Isaac Wells.”
“I’m sorry, but I do not know where he is.”
“You’re his assistant, right?”
DeLucci nodded. “Yes.”
“Then you know his comings and goings. I know he came to Florida yesterday and left from Palm Beach Airport. What I don’t know is where he was going.” Dahlia pointed. “That’s what you can do for me. Where was his plane going?”
“Again, I am sorry. Mr. Wells did not inform me of his travel plans. Despite what you may think my boss does not share every detail of his life with me.” DeLucci held his hands out to the side. “Why would he? I work for him. He doesn’t work for me.”
“Sir, I’m sure you have some way of contacting him. It’s very important that we speak.”
“Is Mr. Wells in trouble?”
Dahlia shook her head. “I can’t tell you that. Now how can I reach him? What’s his cell number?” When the man balked, she struck a tougher tone. “Look Mr. DeLucci, I’m working a case and any interference from you will be treated as obstruction of justice. In case you don’t understand what that means, I’ll spell it out for you. If your boss is found guilty, then you’ll be charged as an accessory.”
“Johnny, are you coming back to—”
Dahlia turned to see a leggy blonde woman wearing a robe matching DeLucci’s; a pair of perky breasts gaped back at the FBI agent.
“Oops,” the woman fumbled with the material, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know we had company.”
DeLucci jumped up, met the woman at the side of the sofa, “She was just leaving, dear,” and escorted the blonde woman back the way she had come. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He returned and stood in front of Dahlia. “I believe you’ll have to conduct the rest of this conversation through my attorney. I have nothing left to say to you.” He motioned toward the door. “Please leave my home.”
Dahlia stood and passed in front of the man, a voice in her ear.
Hardy: “He’s not rattled, Dahlia. Set the hook deeper. Set it deeper.”
The agent whirled around and squinted at her suspect. “I know about the software program…and the auction that took place on the island.” She saw a flicker of recognition flash across the man’s face. “This is a matter of national security. As such, anyone involved will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” No response came from DeLucci.
Walking away, her three-inch chunky heels thumping off the hardwood floor, Dahlia cast a glance over her shoulder. “That is if you even make it to a courtroom…and aren’t whisked away to some black site that doesn’t exist.” She twisted and pulled the doorknob, “Have fun with your buxom beauty, while you can still take pleasure in the opposite sex,” before closing the solid oak door behind her.
… … … … …
Dahlia got in on the driver’s side, slammed the door and faced Hardy in the other front seat. “Anything yet?”
Strumming his fingers on the door trim, he shook his head. “Nice work in there. I think that last part got his attention.”
She shifted in the seat and pulled her jacket out from under her butt. “Let’s hope so. What’s happening, Cherry?”
Charity was in D.C., monitoring the house. The rest of the team communicated with her via earpieces. “I have the best software our nation can buy waiting to intercept any calls made from the structure. If DeLucci contacts anyone, I’ll know about it. Hang tight, guys.”
Leaning right, Dahlia peered into the rearview mirror and glimpsed the man sitting behind her. “So what’s your story, Pence?”
The man faced forward. “Excuse me?”
“How’d you go from drill sergeant to freelancing for the CIA?”
He gazed out his window for nearly a minute, his mind playing images of a young boy and a woman; one was dead, and the other he had not seen in years. “Crap happens, I guess…” he washed a hand down his face and let out a quick breath, “and one day you find yourself in a place you never thought you’d be.”
“I got something.” Charity’s fingers tapping keys sounded through their communication devices. “I’m bringing up audio…” more typing, “as we speak.”
Everyone heard dialing before a stoic voice. “What is it?”
DeLucci: “The FBI was at my house. They know about the island. They—”
Voice: “Not over the phone.” Silence ensued. “Don’t panic. Tell them nothing. Just go about your routine. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
DeLucci sighed. “I understand.”
Voice: “What little the FBI has, none of it traces back to you, Johnny. You’re safe if you keep your mouth shut.”
Charity cut in after ten seconds of stillness. “That’s it. The line went dead.”
Hardy sat up straight. “Were you able to trace the call?”
“This isn’t a novel or the movies where you have to keep the caller on the phone for five or ten minutes to get a lock. In the real world—”
Hardy rolled his head. “Yes or no, Cherry…all I need is a yes or a no.”
“Of course I got it. The call went through several servers, but ended up terminating in Switzerland. Give me some time, and I’ll have a more specific location for you.”
“When you have it, let Jameson know, so he can get a plane and equipment ready for us.”
“Will do.”
After a glance around the vehicle’s interior, Hardy put a shoulder to his door. “Let’s go serve a warrant on Mr. DeLucci.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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