17

I watched a man waiting in line at the ATM, wondering if he was the one. He fidgeted back and forth, from one foot to the other, wearing bedraggled jeans and canvas shoes. He could be the target. He was standing behind a couple who were clearly tourists. Dressed in ratty clothes, and at an age that we would call a MAM—military-aged male—he fit the profile of our target set.

The couple took their money and left. The MAM inserted his card, and I waited on the call from Creed. The man punched a few buttons, withdrew his cash, and left. I received no call.

I shook my head and Jennifer said, “He’ll come back, soon enough.”

I said, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Well, Creed’s got a handle on the account, so if he does something anywhere, we’ll know.”

Surveillance work was always boring, but I couldn’t really complain this time. I was sitting at an outdoor café called La Vinoteca at the Plaza Santa Ana in Madrid, Spain, drinking a blackberry mojito that looked like it had taken an hour to make.

In essence, this detour was nothing more than a date with Jennifer, and the US government was paying the tab. Well, they wouldn’t pay for the mojito unless I camouflaged it as lunch, but Jennifer wouldn’t allow me to do that.

The last forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind, to say the least. Not that I’m whining. Living in the whirlwind sure beat binge watching House of Cards on Netflix—which is what I would have been doing after the Bahamas.

We’d reported back to the Taskforce, and, as expected, the first thing the Oversight Council had done was go apeshit over the fact that I had murdered a “whistleblower” in the course of my duties. I should have been pissed at the accusations, but given my past transgressions, I’d earned the right for them to be suspicious. Jennifer was another story. They’d questioned us both, spending most of their time on me, but ran out of steam on her within ten minutes, because there was just no way she would ever do such a thing.

The grilling took about an hour, and by the time we’d left the grounds of the White House and returned to Taskforce headquarters in Clarendon, the computer data had been analyzed, and it looked like the Taskforce was in the clear for whatever leak had been planned: There were no bank accounts associated with any of our cover organizations. Not that it mattered now anyway, as the intrepid leaker had met his fate head-on.

Nobody in the Taskforce was too keen on looking into the death, as his previous leaks had upset just about every organized crime outfit on earth. It would be a waste of effort to determine who’d killed him, as there was undoubtedly a long line, and it had nothing to do with our charter of counterterrorism. Then, unexpectedly, some of the data we’d brought back did have a connection.

Three days earlier—when we were operational in the Bahamas—some asshole had flown a commercial drone into the car windshield of a US Air Force UAV pilot in Nevada and had killed the driver with a homemade white phosphorus grenade. The fiery death had ignited cable news and social media, so much so that it had been nonstop coverage since it had occurred and was just now winding down.

The authorities, of course, jumped all over the crime scene like a hobo on a ham sandwich but found very little. FBI, ATF, local police, sheriffs’ departments, DHS, you name it, they all took a turn behind the microphone to say one thing: We have no leads. They tried to dance through it politely, but the brutal truth was they had nothing at all to go on.

The drone had self-immolated in the attack to the point where the only thing they could ascertain was the model, but that was about it, and there was no further evidence at the scene. There were plenty of witnesses of the event, but none for the drone pilot himself. Unlike today’s usual crimes, for this one there was no cell phone camera or surveillance footage, no reports of someone fleeing the scene, and no suicidal jihadi spraying bullets after the fact. Nothing. The killer had vanished.

Strangely enough, there had also been no claim of responsibility. The attack had been meticulously planned, involving reconnaissance and some expertise with both chemicals and electronics, and had been executed perfectly, implying it wasn’t some individual nutcase who just decided to kill after he woke up one morning, and yet no group was crowing about the death. Strange all the way around.

The authorities had been running on fumes, with an increasingly angry press hammering them at every update, when they got a break: A Somali immigrant had contacted Las Vegas police. She suspected her son was responsible.

He’d been gone two days, and she’d feared the worst, finally summoning the courage to contact the authorities, telling them she’d seen him looking at jihadist videos online. She’d let them into her shabby trailer, and they’d turned the place upside down, finding enough evidence to establish that he was the killer, but nothing as to where he’d gone or who had helped him. Well, nothing that they knew about, anyway.

It turned out that one of the many strange numbers they’d found in their search through his digital life matched an offshore account included in the planned leak that we’d brought back—tied to a US bank account his mother didn’t know existed.

The US bank account had been cleaned out, and the link to the offshore account appeared to be dead—to him at least—but it was tied to another bank account in, of all places, Madrid, Spain. And that bank account was still active.

The US authorities had no idea about the offshore account—how could they, given how we’d gleaned the information—and it was determined that, while we’d pass along any information that would help find the killer in the United States, the Taskforce would investigate the Madrid lead. Which meant my team. I’d found the lead and would have screamed holy hell if it had been given to someone else.

We’d saddled up the Rock Star bird and flown straight to Madrid, and by the time we’d landed, Creed had hacked into the bank account in question and had a historical footprint of every interaction. The most prevalent had been at an ATM in Plaza Santa Ana, leaving my team to simply keep eyes on it, waiting on the target to trigger.

When he—or she, I suppose—did so, it would alert the hacking cell in real time, and we’d simply follow whoever was using the ATM. So far, it had been pretty boring. But I did get to have a single mojito with Jennifer. Small miracles.

Jennifer said, “You think they’ll give us Omega to do anything, or is this just going to be a setup for Spanish authorities?”

We’d been given Alpha authority to investigate the bank account—meaning we could sneak around trying to build a case against whatever we found—but the Council had balked at giving us Omega, the authority to execute a capture.

I said, “Probably not, unless we can follow this guy to a safe house full of ISIS terrorists trying to purchase a biological weapon.”

She smiled and said, “Shift’s almost over. Want me to call Knuckles and Retro?”

“Yeah, but send them to the other café across the square. I’m not ready to leave yet.”

The ATM withdrawals had all happened in the daytime, and we’d already decided that we weren’t going to keep eyes on it 24/7. It was closing in on five o’clock, and the last three-hour shift belonged to Knuckles.

She made the call, then took a sip of her mojito, looking at me askance, like she was about to ask something uncomfortable. Which raised the hair on my neck.

She said, “You think Knuckles will get Carly a shot at selection? You think Kurt will allow that?”

The question was a minefield. I didn’t know if she was asking for my opinion after our earlier arguments about females in combat arms and our little triathlon, or if she was demanding I help.

Cautiously, I said, “I’d wait and see if Carly even wants to do it first. It may be a moot point.”

And just like that, I stepped on the mine.

Jennifer cocked her head and said, “That’s a cop-out. She wants to do it. You know that. Will you support her or be like everybody else and stand in her way?”

Oh boy.

“Of course I won’t stand in her way, any more than Knuckles stood in yours.”

I saw yet another skeevy-looking guy walk up to the ATM. He was definitely local, with a swarthy complexion and a threadbare knapsack over one shoulder. He looked like a Spanish pickpocket, not a terrorist.

Jennifer said, “That’s not what I meant. I know you wouldn’t spew that he-man women-hater crap that all the other guys do, but will you support her? Knuckles holds some sway with Kurt, but nobody has your power. You say the word, and she’s in.”

What she said was true; Kurt knew I would never throw my weight behind someone who wasn’t capable, but that was also the primary reason I hesitated: I didn’t know Carly’s capabilities. She was a CIA case officer with a penchant for getting into a gunfight—something she’d proved in the past with Knuckles—but from what he’d told me, she was impetuous. Maybe even a little bit of a loose cannon. That could have been just bar talk, with him bragging about her courage, or it could be real, which was a trait that wouldn’t work well in the Taskforce. She’d have to give me something more before I made that leap. I wouldn’t vouch for a male just because he was a friend of Knuckles’s, and the fact that Carly was female alone wasn’t enough for me to support her, but that was exactly why Jennifer was asking.

It was a no-win situation.

I considered my answer, Jennifer boring into me with her eyes, and then my earpiece blessedly crackled from a call half a world away. “Pike, Koko, this is Creed. Account has been triggered. I say again, account has been triggered.”

I saw Jennifer’s eyebrows shoot up, and I pointed at the phone, telling her without speaking to get Knuckles, Retro, and Veep ready. I clicked my earpiece and said, “Templated location? At the ATM in Plaza Santa Ana?”

“Yes. Withdrew the max amount. Account still active.”

I glanced at the ATM and saw the swarthy guy still there, messing around with the keypad.

Creed said, “He’s checking the balance.”

Then, “He’s off.”

Jennifer put her phone down, threw some money on the table, and stood. She grinned at me, the adrenaline of the mission pouring through the both of us.

She said, “Saved by the bell, Nephilim.”

I said, “Boy, was I ever.”

I keyed my encrypted earbud and said, “Break, break, Knuckles, you up on comms?”

“Roger that. Got Veep and Retro. What’s up?”

“It’s showtime.”