Behind the Lies (A Montgomery Justice Novel) (2 page)

“Cut!” the director shouted.

Anastasia sagged against him. Zach smiled down at his costar. Her eyes couldn’t hide the relief. She hadn’t mastered the acting craft, but at least she had a soul blazing from her eyes. Unlike so many others in his plastic Hollywood world.

He softened his smile and tilted her chin up. “You all right?”

She stared at her Christian Dior dress, now soaked with fake champagne. “I just hope we don’t have to do that again.”

“Don’t bet on it, but it’ll take a while to reset the stage.”

“We go again in three hours,” the director yelled.

Zach chucked Anastasia’s chin. “You better get to hair and makeup, honey.”

She blinked her baby blues at him then licked her lips. “We could spend part of the break…together. They gave me a private trailer. It’s in my contract.”

The come-hither words might have been tempting at one time. Five years ago, he’d definitely have taken her up on the offer, but these days…she was too young. Too innocent. An oxymoron in the movie business, but everyone was too innocent for Zach. “Thanks for the offer, Ana, but I have a call to make.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not hardly,” he chuckled.

She raised a brow. “Boyfriend?”

He didn’t bother to respond. One more false rumor about his lifestyle might piss off his brothers and disappoint his mom, but it kept him alive.

Anastasia flipped her hair and pushed through the door where the director oohed and aahed over her performance.

Zach just snorted. He skirted around the corner toward the series of rooms the film crew had taken over as dressing areas. He threw the Armani suit at one of the gofers and slipped into black leathers and a jacket over a white T-shirt.

“But, sir,” a young intern squeaked. “You have hair and makeup soon.”

Zach shrugged. “I’ll be back. Have a small errand to run,” he said, and winked at the guy. The kid’s eyes grew wide. He probably thought Zach was going out for a bang in a back alley…or maybe a line.

Let them think what they wanted.

He exited the nineteenth-century Turkish palace on the opposite side from the Bosphorus Strait, though the blast of salt and sea still hovered in the air. The water would have been a
stealth exit, but he didn’t have the time. He hit the velvet lawn in a run, his feet sinking into the sod after the unusual afternoon rain. The palace glowed golden in the dusk, illuminating his path—and him. He had to get out of sight. Quick. He dodged behind a nest of foliage before tugging a small beeper out of his coat pocket.
Damn. Less than thirty minutes.
It’d be tight.

Under cover of the trees, he pulled a kit from beneath his jacket and quickly donned his disguise. With one last look in the small mirror, he frowned at Zane Morgan, with his goatee and scar on one cheek. Ten years in the movie business had taught him how to make himself into a man who would never be connected to Zach Montgomery.

The skill came in handy. The disguise kept his family safe, but these days Zach found it increasingly difficult to maintain the façade of his alter egos. Zane Morgan, CIA operative; and Zach Montgomery, B-movie hack.

The movie business did provide Zach the perfect cover. He could travel into the most sensitive countries in the world with very few questions. Once he entered as Zach, once he’d played his part, he could get down to his real job—becoming Zane Morgan, a spy who could filter into a location, gather information, and leave unnoticed. Most of the time.

Minutes later, he reached the edge of the palace estate and eyed the high stone wall. They’d clearly landscaped the place for looks and not protection. Not unless armed guards patrolled—which they normally didn’t these days, except for show. Zach eased along the rough wall’s edge, past the empty guard post, until he reached a locked gate. He snagged one of his cooler toys from his zippered pocket. With a quick snap, he picked the lock.

Man, what he wouldn’t have given to have this gadget when he was a teenager sneaking in and out of the house for a night on the town. Trying to avoid his dad had probably been the best training he’d ever had. The guilt embedded in Zach’s skin like a splinter rubbed raw, exposing a sorrow he could never shake. He couldn’t do anything about the past…or gain his father’s respect, but he still might be able to save the man who had risked his life to expose a terrorist.

Pendar had wanted a better life, particularly for his daughters, so the Afghani had come to Zach and volunteered to provide information. On his own, Pendar had infiltrated a group that dealt closely with Khalid—a leader known only by one name, but that name struck dread in so many. Pendar had recognized the mass murderer must be stopped. Despite Zach’s concern that Pendar had been in over his head, Zach had admired his contact’s courage. He’d allowed the situation to develop. Now Pendar, along with his family, was missing. They’d vanished four months ago. Too long. Zach had no one to blame but himself.

He made his way to a large hedge just beyond the palace’s perimeter. Behind it, he found the motorcycle he’d stashed there earlier. He snagged the helmet and pulled out his phone and earpiece before starting the engine.

The bike roared to life between his thighs, and Zach steered the machine onto the road. He tapped his earpiece.

“I’m en route,” he checked in over the rumble of the engine.

“You’re late.” Theresa’s silky-smooth voice caressed the phone.

How was it she could make getting chewed out sound like foreplay? On the other hand, Theresa had black belts in two
martial arts disciplines. She’d trained Zach. Taught him how to kill and how to hide his identity.

“I told you this director has his own timetable,” Zach snapped. “You should have given me more leeway.”

Theresa laughed. “I know better. Besides, our pigeon is high maintenance.”

Zach rounded the corner and leaned into the curve, twisting the gas and ripping through the narrow city streets. “How does a Turkish informant have information about Pendar? When was your contact in Afghanistan?”

“He
says
they were still alive as of a month ago. He claims he saw Pendar and his family brought into a militant training camp run by your favorite terrorist.”

“Khalid.” Zach’s grip tightened on the gas. “Khalid is why you got me on this movie so quickly. It’s an A-list job, and I can’t believe Matt just bailed. What did you have to do, Theresa?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Zach urged the bike forward. “I guess not.” Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “So, is the information credible?”

Theresa didn’t say anything for a moment. Zach knew the truth. She believed that Pendar, his wife, Setara, and their two daughters were dead. Khalid’s group had a reputation for kidnapping for hire—resulting in beheadings, not ransoms. Zach’s assignment had been to discover the group’s location so a smart bomb could take out the man responsible for over one hundred deaths—that they knew of. Pendar had been a godsend.

Until he’d disappeared.

“What does this guy really want?” Zach muttered. No one bargained these days without a major favor in mind.

“He made enemies. He needs asylum.”

“Can we do the deal?” It wasn’t always possible.

“The boss wants to take out Khalid any way we can. He’s willing to take the risk.”

The motorcycle whipped down the brick-covered streets, the uneven ground vibrating his back teeth. He flew past shop after shop, a hint of spice and smoke still in the air from the final hours of life at the street market. Finally, he shifted around a last corner to a part of Istanbul that no tourist should frequent. He turned into the sunset, and the glare blinded him momentarily. Zach blinked and pulled on his sunglasses as the landscape shifted. Fewer buildings, more trees, much more remote.

“Almost to the rendezvous point.” The area was deserted. Zach eased on the gas, his breathing steady, his hands itching to hold his weapon. “I need to find Pendar, Theresa.”

She sighed again. “It wasn’t your fault. He got careless.”

“He wouldn’t have put himself in that position if I hadn’t twisted his arm.”

A figure stepped into the darkening road.

He aimed a submachine gun directly at Zach. The bullets would rip through Kevlar like butter and explode inside him. If they landed true.

“It’s a setup.”

Theresa spit out an unladylike curse.

Zach had no choice. He gunned the gas, leaned back, and forced his bike into a skid, his thousand-dollar leather pants taking the brunt of the slide. The motorcycle slid into the guy, undercutting his legs before he could get off a shot. He fell back with a loud roar. Before the bike slid to a stop, Zach shot to his feet, his father’s reliable Kimber 1911 in his palm. He ignored the pain shooting down his right leg. Warm liquid bathed his
skin, but he raced toward his assailant. He had more than a few questions.

A van screeched to a halt. Five men jumped out.

With a harsh expletive, Zach spun around. His legs pumped hard as he dove for cover in a grove of trees at the side of the road, hidden in the shadows, the black of his clothes blending him into his surroundings.

The men scattered, their weapons at the ready, shouting in Turkish.

He didn’t make out all the phrases, except one.
Kill Zane Morgan
.

Zach shifted. A woodpecker sounded an indignant call and took to the skies.

The men whirled toward the sound. One raced at Zach.

Shit.

Five against one. Not good odds.

The barrel of the submachine gun pointed just to his right. The guy let the bullets fly. Zach took one shot. The bullet hit true. His assailant fell to the ground.

The four men left shouted out and started his way. Zach picked off two more.

The remaining assailants raced back to the van using curses that definitely weren’t part of his original lessons in Turkish. Nothing like on-the-job-training to expand the vocabulary. The men climbed into the vehicle and screamed away.

Zach fell onto his back and tapped his earpiece. “Three dead. I need cleanup.”

His contact sighed. “Can’t you go anywhere without leaving a mess?”

He didn’t joke back. “How’d they know about the meet, Theresa?”

“I don’t know. I’ll get back to you.”

Zach didn’t like the worried tone in her voice, but she’d figure it out. She had his back. She always did.

He shifted and his leg burned. Zach studied the damage. “Damn it. I’m going to be late for the next take.”

Chippendale furniture and Waterford crystal didn’t matter if you were dead. Jenna Walters knew she wouldn’t be leaving her house alive. Not if she stayed another hour.

Standing in the elegant bedroom where her dreams had been created—and shattered—she dialed a well-rehearsed number with shaking fingers, a number she’d
believed
was her salvation. After the last few months, she didn’t know if she could believe in anything or anyone anymore.

She tucked the phone under her chin and opened another drawer from the priceless mahogany antique.

“FBI,” a formless tone answered.

“Agent Fallon, please.” She cursed her quivering voice. If betrayal could drive away fear, she would’ve been the bravest woman on earth.

She studied the smashed FBI listening device in her hand. The trembling hadn’t stopped since she’d discovered it. He knew. Brad knew what she’d done. What she’d tried to do. There was no other explanation. He was playing with her, like he had for the seven years she’d known him.

She shoved aside the truth of what her husband could do to her as quickly as she pushed the drawer closed. The television rumbled on the news channel in the background. She glanced over at the distraction. The breaking announcement at the bottom of the screen made her still. The phone dropped to the floor. She stared at the words, desperately praying they would change, but of course they didn’t. She stared at the phone on the ground, her lifeline. She scooped up the receiver and stuffed two more nondescript shirts in the duffel. If she’d had any doubts before, they were gone now. No regrets. No more designer gowns. She had to disappear.

She’d give the FBI one last chance.

“Fallon.” The crisp voice on the other end of the phone didn’t calm her as it had in the past. In fact, he sounded shaken.

No more out of sorts than she. “He knows.”

“Jenna?”

“One of the bugs is in pieces. I’m telling you, he knows. I’ve got to get out of here. Now. I don’t know why he hasn’t already killed me. Probably because he couldn’t find a babysitter on such short notice.” The forced laugh didn’t hide the panic in her voice.

Who was she kidding? She shoved underwear into the bag and yanked open another drawer.

“Wait a minute, Jenna. Let’s think this through. We can salvage the operation.” He didn’t sound like himself. Something was wrong. The gut instinct that had abandoned her when Brad had swept her off her feet revved into overdrive.

For months after her dad had died, she’d survived on the streets, instinct and desperation her only allies. At fourteen she’d kept herself safe by trusting her gut.

Right now, every fiber in her being told her that the man on the other end of the phone was lying to her.