Rafael was all for training on the job. Just apparently not
his
job. He closed the soundproof partition.
It was a too soon for Honey to be happy about sharing the close confines of a car with Navarro. And although they took their corners, he was still too close. Last night’s intimacy, the muscle memory of the weight and feel of him, was overlaid on everything they did and said; the proverbial elephant in the room. She wished she could wipe away the memories as easily as cleaning a disk drive.
She had more serious concerns than being aware of a man she had no business being aware of. She knew better. “In the last fourteen months, Catherine has had only two visitors. Her attorneys traveled from San Francisco to Colorado three times. Her trial attorney, sixty-seven-year-old Stephanie Garland, saw her twice. The first time, seven months after her incarceration, then in October of last year. Then second chair, Alisa Mann, fifty-four, visited her for ten minutes last month.”
“Okay. And this has what to do with our bombings if Nielson already confirmed Seymour is still in supermax?”
Honey continued full steam ahead as if he’d said nothing. “On the way to the airport for her return trip home in October, Stephanie Garland seems to have taken a little detour. If she’d gone straight to the airport, she wouldn’t have been anywhere near the train tracks. She crashed her rental car into an oncoming train. The driver claimed not to have seen her car until he felt the impact. Autopsy revealed that she had a myocardial infarction moments before her car was hit, which was the cause of death, and the reason she went nose to nose with the train.”
“You think Savage had someone kill her attorney?” His tone held a hint of disbelief, which was better than out-and-out denial.
Obscured by the falling snow, the driver almost missed the exit sign for the airport. As much as she preferred the black-and-white certainty of cyber tracks, sometimes one had to listen to one’s gut. “Damn right I do.”
He hesitated. “I’m not joining the dots here. To what purpose? Revenge for not getting her off the hook?”
She smoothed her LockOut gloves, finger by finger, as she sought to keep her cool. His opinion shouldn’t matter but it did. “I think Catherine switched places with Garland.”
“Jesus—that’s a stretch.” He frowned. “Control has confirmed she hasn’t left the prison since she arrived. Not to mention, Garland was what? Almost seventy? And Savage in her mid-thirties?”
“I know it sounds farfetched and improbable, but if anyone could pull something like that off, it would be Catherine.”
He hadn’t called her insane. Yet. Honey shared the rest of her hunch. “I know—I’m working on it. Trust me, Navarro. Catherine is out. I think she’s our bomber and our cyber-terrorist. My fingerprints are all over this. I don’t mean figuratively. I mean literally. It looks as though every virus, every worm, every bombing, every bit of frigging code, originated from one if
my
computers.”
“Jesus-“
“I believe when this is over, she’ll laugh her ass off as
I’m
hauled to that supermax as the traitor. I just have to prove it.”
“I repeat. Farfuckingfetched. Do you have even a shred of-”
Winston held up one finger. She took her comm out of her coat pocket as the taxi slowed down to turn in to the private terminal. The lit screen illuminated her patrician features and soft mouth. Especially her mouth. Navarro made himself look away.
How could anyone impersonate her signature on a computer? Was that even possible? It didn’t sound as if it was, and yet – He trusted Winston. If she claimed someone was setting her up, he figured he could take that to the bank. Someone was sure as shit carrying a giant grudge to set her up for this kind of fall.
He’d be pissed as hell this was happening to any fellow operative – but to Honey. . .
Damn it to hell, it was going to be next to impossible to stuff that genie back in the bottle. For him, at least. It looked as if she’d put last night completely behind her.
“Oh look,” she said sarcastically, turning the comm so he could read the text. “
You
just sent me a text message.”
Rendezvous
1100 @ private terminal, hangar 36 Heathrow. Tell no one. N.
Rafael frowned as he glanced at the contact info.
His
.
Exchanging her comm for her SIG, she gave him a grim look. “What the hell are they playing at?”
“They don’t know we’re together or that we’re already here?”
“Sloppy.” If true. He wondered.
“Aren’t they?” Her smile was all teeth, her eyes predatory as she slid aside the partition and instructed the kid driving, “Stop over by that mechanical unit.”
It was a six-by-six-foot cement box a good two hundred yards from the blurry lights of the hangar. Through the open hanger door, Rafe had a clear view of the white body of the company Challenger through the lacy white snowflakes drifting through the darkness like a bridal veil. It was the only cover for hundreds of yards in every direction.
The driver rested his elbow on the seatback to offer hopefully, “I’ll take you right to the doo—”
“This is good. Get outta here, and that’s an order.” Popping the handle, Rafael shot Winston a quick glance. “Ready?”
“As ever.”
Weapons drawn, hyperaware, they exited the vehicle. Sound muted by the snow, there was no wind, but the frigid air plumed their breath around their faces. He gave her a quick, assessing glance. “You wearing LockOut?”
LockOut was a protective garment worn like a second skin under clothing, fitted like a wet suit. It kept the body at a constant temperature of 67 degrees, acted as a water and fireproof shield, was self-healing, and impervious to nicks and cuts. Best of all, it was almost bulletproof.
Almost
. “Of course.” She tugged the head covering up over her hair and up over her nose so just her eyes showed. “You’d better be as well, especially after last night. Are you?” she pressed.
“Yeah.” He covered his head and lower face as well. For warmth and also to eliminate the telltale plume of their frozen breath.”
“Text the pilot?” Honey asked softly as they crouched behind the small outbuilding, dropping their carry-ons beside them as the taxi’s rear lights flashed red then disappeared within seconds, obscured by the snowstorm.
“No. We don’t know if Blinston’s been compromised.” Rafael knew the pilot well. They’d been on several ops together over the years. No longer in the field, Mike knew the business inside out. Under normal circumstances, he’d be alert as he waited for their arrival.
The filed flight plan was not to the Czech Republic. Other than the principals, only Control knew their destination was Prague. Now he had doubts, mentally scrutinizing every member of his team, for the breech. Where was the hole?
Someone
knew the company plane was in use tonight. Not only knew but was aware of the time of departure.
Only a fellow T-FLAC operative would have that information. His gut clenched.
The snow was four or five inches deep, which would make running hazardous, and their footprints would show up clearly if it wasn’t snowing hard enough to cover them. Right now, it was, but if they waited any longer, it might not be the case. There wasn’t a breath of wind to disturb the fresh snow pack. Icy air knifed his lungs as he took several deep breaths, preparing to run flat-out to the hangar.
Keeping a low profile, Rafael peered around the corner. “Two options. Either they’ve done what they came for-” He scanned the surrounding darkness, letting his eyes adjust. “They expect you to take the fall, and they’ve split. Or…” Her eyes met his. “They’re waiting for you.”
She parried instead of faltered. “Or they’re waiting for
you
. What would be better to implicate me in whatever the hell they’re doing than to kill you and pin it on me? She tried last night.”
She had not only tried, she’d had a clear opportunity to kill him when he’d passed out, and she hadn’t followed through. Why? Nothing made sense. “Can you run in those?” He indicated her high-heeled boots.
“All day,” she assured him. “I’ll take left and rear. Do you have a plan?”
“Play it by ear.”
“God,” she said with a shake of her head. “That’s a plan? You really are a maverick, aren’t you?”
He never questioned his gut. “Freezing my balls off here, Winston.”
“Not if you’re wearing LockOut,” she told him briskly, then she blew out a frosty breath. “Let’s do it.”
He put a hand on her arm, bringing her back to a crouch as she started to rise. Pulling down his face cover, he said harshly, “You’d better kiss me. Just in case…”
“You’re out of your freaking min—” Yanking down her face cover, he swooped in, taking her mouth in a hard, hungry kiss that heated him nicely in no seconds flat. She tasted delicious, decadent, and as hungry as he was. After too short a time, he lifted his head. Her lips clung, or maybe it was his lips, before they broke apart. Their breath mingled in the frigid air as he brushed her cheek with his gloved fingers and pulled up their face coverings at the same time. “Hold that thought.”
He broke cover, not looking back as he raced across the snowy tarmac, the insanity of the kiss forgotten. Flakes turned into thick, white sheets, which was helpful as long as he avoided the open hangar door where light spilled into the white. He couldn’t see or hear Winston. Hell, he couldn’t hear anything in the eerie quiet of the falling snow.
He could sneak in, try to surprise whoever waited inside, or walk in and hope Winston found a back door, which would give him the element of surprise.
SIXTEEN
H
idden in the shadows beside the open hangar door, Rafael visually scanned the interior several times, alert for the slightest sound or movement. Chocks removed from the wheels, tow tractor hooked up. The Challenger was ready for flight. Nothing out of the ordinary.
There was no sign of Blinston, but this close to wheels up, the pilot should be in the cockpit doing a final flight check. The lights inside the plane were on, but the engine wasn’t running.
If this was a setup to implicate Winston in his murder, he asked himself how
he
would do it. He’d want to get close to the target, indicating that the victim knew and trusted the killer. As he knew and trusted Winston. Whoever the designated hitter was, he’d have to come right up to him and shoot him point-blank. A hit to the back of the head could be from a stranger. A hit from behind cover or from a distance—ditto. Neither approach would explicitly finger Winston, so he could rule those options out.
Unless the point of the exercise was to kill him and not give a shit who took the fall, in which case a bullet could be heading his way from any direction. Always a possibility.
For that matter, for all he knew, the plan was to take both of them both out.
Rafael grinned. He loved surprises.
His heartbeat accelerated, with every sense on high alert. It was one of his favorite modes, this sense of time slowing, his hearing and vision extraordinarily sharp, his respiration shallow. He wasn’t a complete adrenaline junky, but he had to admit it had its attractions.
Shoulders hunched, he flipped up his collar against the cold, stuffed his hands and weapon deep into his coat pockets, and stepped into the spill of light. As he strolled into the hangar, he whistled loudly and shouted, “Hey, Mike? Ready to rock and roll?”
Beneath the electrical pulse and sizzle of the huge overhead lights, Rafael’s excellent hearing picked up the soft scrape of stealthy feet. One pair. Male.
Nice and intimate. His fingers tightened a fraction more on the trigger of the H&K. He turned toward the approaching footsteps, still wholly aware of the enormous space around him. His peripheral vision took it all in. The plane in the middle of the hanger, near the door, tool caddies and equipment neatly stacked along the walls. Even with the glaringly bright overhead lighting, there were pockets of shadows where a man could conceal himself.
“Hey, buddy, where—
Poole
?” Sam Poole stepped out from behind the tractor. Well shit! His fingers squeezed the trigger a fraction more, and he tilted the barrel another fraction of an inch upward so it pointed at the other man’s groin from the recesses of his pocket.
Poole had left the hotel with the others several hours earlier. This was a development Rafael hadn’t seen coming. The H&K squarely centered on Poole’s chest now. The younger man was casually dressed. No coat. Jeans, dark sweater, boots. A thin band of black showed at his neckline. LockOut. A bullet to the chest at this range was going to hurt, not kill. Shit. That leveled the playing field some. He could remedy that. Rafael angled his weapon higher. Right between the eyes where there was nothing to protect Poole from his own stupidity.
“What are you doing here?” he asked easily. Another infinitesimal squeeze to the trigger. Poole’s own weapon, concealed so he could get up close and personal.
No one was doing any shooting until Poole had done his job. In his peripheral vision, Rafael saw movement a hundred feet overhead on the catwalk, running around three sides of the hangar. Winston or someone else?