She couldn't let Neil Gianotti get caught in the crossfire when she went after his father. Kid had it hard enough already. Unfortunately KC was about to make his life a helluva lot worse.
"I thought we're just taking down Gianotti and his suppliers. What's the sudden panic about the mystery buyer?" Carson asked.
"Thanks to KC planting a bug in Gianotti's car," Glenn said, "we finally got wind of what's on the shopping list. Enough automatic weapons, C4, and other goodies to lay siege to Brooklyn. We've got to nail the buyer before he goes shopping somewhere else."
KC thought for a moment, the plan she'd begun formulating while talking with Neil at the cemetery taking shape. "Make sure the Marshals are ready for Jay tomorrow morning, I'll send him in my car."
"You're not going with him?"
"He only has to get to Altoona, for chrissakes. I think my pop," she smiled at Glenn as her plan crystallized, "and I are gonna have a huge fight when he finds out about Jay and me. Has Jay gotten me pregnant?"
She paced the room, considering and rejecting scenarios.
"Yeah, that'll work. I'm preggo, Pops throws me out, Jay takes a powder, and I've nowhere to go except Jay's best friend. I'll convince Neil to stand up his old man in order to help me. Once he's safe on ice, we'll be clear to go tactical on the bust without worrying about civvies in the way."
The two men contributed a few suggestions to the scenario and went with her lead. KC's phone buzzed. She left them planning contingencies and details while she returned to her role of disgruntled teen in love.
The game was heading into sudden death overtime. With KC now responsible for the lives of two civilian kids.
CHAPTER 5
One man's life reduced to its essential components: thirty-eight ounces of grit and dust.
Rose Prospero cradled the steel box in her lap, wincing at the rattle its contents made. The C-130 bounced against the tarmac of Andrews Air Force Field as it came in for a landing. Rose removed her headphones. She separated herself from the webbing that had held her safely in the confines of the jump seat during the long flight from Hell's Bend, Texas.
The box held the remains of former Navy SEAL Chief Petty Officer Victor Krakov. One of her people, the third Rose had lost in the two years she'd been running the Special Threat Response Team. Her ears buzzed with the vibrations that came from flying two thousand miles in the rear of a cargo plane, but Rose still could make out the distinctive honk of an Audi TTS when the crew opened the hatch.
Damn Price, she'd told him she would catch a cab. It was Christmas Eve; didn't the man have better things to do than play chauffeur?
Billy Price had been adamant that Rose not travel to Hell's Bend to investigate Victor's death herself. She was the Boss, it wasn't her place, he'd argued, insisting that he go instead, but as with most of her arguments with her Number Two, Rose had prevailed.
She needed to know if Victor's death was truly a mere bar fight gone bad or if there was a more sinister plot lurking behind it, something that might threaten others on her Team. Despite her best efforts, she'd returned with more questions than answers. Along with the cremated remains of one good man.
Rose caught her balance as the ladder leading down to the tarmac shuddered in the December wind. Following their orders that they were merely ferrying cargo, the crew of the C-130 studiously ignored her. The furtive glances they gave her and Billy had "spook" written all over them.
Officer and gentleman that he was, Billy sloshed through the snow to open Rose's door for her and handed her into the sports car. The Audi was all-wheel drive, ready to go anywhere and face anything nature threw at it. It was a two-seater with little cargo space, but Billy, an ex-Delta Force man, didn't believe in being weighed down with excess baggage. Like all of Rose's recruits into the Special Threats Response Team, he was unattached.
Sometimes it seemed to Rose that the sports car was the main love of his life. The thought, as always, made her feel melancholy. Of all the men she knew, Billy Price deserved more.
"You look like hell," Billy said as he slid behind the wheel and put the car into first gear. Rose ignored him, leaned back and closed her eyes. "So what gives? Accident or trouble brewing?"
They both knew that too many undercover agents from too many US agencies were ending up dead. Before Victor, a FBI agent who infiltrated The Crusade was murdered six months ago.
"Trouble, but I'm not sure from where. Victor was ambushed, the bar fight staged. My gut tells me The Crusade was involved. Everyone all right back at the ranch?"
"Kids all safe and sound. Three new red flags and one orange, but they can wait until tomorrow."
Rose sighed. She felt older than her thirty-eight years as they sped past suburban homes with their holiday lights and families nestled within.
Her "kids" were the men and women of the Special Threats Response Team, none of whom would be spending Christmas cozy at home. They were all tucked into their assignments, scattered throughout the globe, or working at STR headquarters in a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of Fairfax. The bad guys didn't take Christmas off, so neither did they.
"What about Chase Westin's op? Are his and Lucky's covers holding?"
Rose would deny that she had any favorites among the men and women who came from every branch of the military and law enforcement to make up her team. But if forced to pick one man who'd sacrificed more and without complaint it would be Chase Westin.
"Lucky has a bad feeling, but when doesn't he," Billy answered. "Chase has the deal set for tomorrow."
"At least someone gets to spend Christmas at home."
Billy pulled his eyes from the road to glance at the box in her hands. "What about Krakov? Any family?"
Rose shook her head. She'd be spared making that official visit on the holiday. "His will asked that the members of his SEAL team dispose of his remains. They're out on a job. When they get back to Coronado, I'll give them the news."
"I can do it if you like."
"No, thanks."
She was silent for a moment as Billy maneuvered the car through the slick, snow-covered streets. A white Christmas, oh joy. Peace on earth, goodwill to men.
Too bad a very large portion of the world wasn't experiencing any peace. Most of whom wished ill will to the US, intent on obtaining retribution for their own woes and misery. It was up to Rose and her team to stop them.
That was the job, and the job always came first. Victor Krakov knew that. Still. What a waste, he'd only been twenty-seven. He'd died a hero, but only a handful of people would ever know that. No medals or parades for Rose's people. Only the very real possibility of coming home in a tin box.
"Bottle of Glen Morangie in the glove compartment," Billy said.
After two years of working together, Rose had ceased to be amazed by the way he constantly anticipated needs she didn't even know she had.
"Last one at the PX at Quantico. Had to sweet talk the clerk to get it, she said it was reserved for some Admiral. Told her it was for my dear old auntie home for the holidays."
Rose balanced the box in her lap as she reached forward and removed the sixteen-year-old single malt from the glove compartment. "Who's old? You're four years older than I am, Billy."
He cringed. Like many men who spent their youth being tried and tested by covert operations, Billy Price despised the inevitability of growing old. To him age equaled being a has-been, out of touch with the "real world" where only his wits and skills stood between him and death. Worse than redundant: useless.
"To friends absent tonight, but ever present in our hearts," Rose paraphrased a saying her Razgravian grandmother had taught her. She drank from the small bottle and offered it to Billy. He took a swallow.
"Cheers."
Rose returned the bottle of liquid comfort to the glove compartment where she hoped it would wait a long, long time before a similar occasion arose.
"Step on it," she instructed Billy. "We've got work to do. Somehow Deacon's people tripped to Victor. Which means—"
"That it might not be a very merry Christmas for Chase and Lucky."
CHAPTER 6
KC tramped through the snowy yard that separated her house from the Gianotti mansion. Any other town and Bruno's place would have been surrounded by a ten foot wall topped with razor wire and patrolled by armed guards with dogs, but Bruno Gianotti preferred to think of himself as a man of the people. He treated the entire town of Coalton as his own personal fiefdom, assumed that every man in it belonged to him and would defend and protect his (and therefore Coalton's) best interests. To the death, if need be.
When KC and Glenn had first arrived in Coalton, the house they lived in was the only house available to rent. They'd quickly discovered why: Gianotti had bugs throughout, vetting any newcomers. From the dust and decay and collection of newspapers and magazines dating back to the last century, KC figured there weren't many newcomers to Coalton. Another reason why her wild-girl personae was a perfect cover.
She zipped and unzipped her jacket, her fingers needing something to do. Told herself it wasn't nerves but rather a way to ensure she could reach her weapon quickly. Yeah, right. And she didn't feel the sudden urge to barf either as she raised her hand and thumbed the mansion's doorbell.
A lion's den would be much easier to deal with. Lions were predictable creatures, they only attacked if they were hungry or saw you as a threat. Men like Gianotti held to no such logic. They killed because they could, because they enjoyed it.
And because they could get away with it. She remembered Jay's description of the execution he had witnessed. The sound of the doorbell rolled around the interior of the cavernous house, echoing like a death knell.
KC left her jacket unzippered, kept her hands free at her sides. Last time, she told herself. This was the last time she had to come here. She and Jay were going to crash at his place tonight, stage one last scene in her house in the morning for the benefit of Bruno's bugs, and then she'd send him away with the Marshals. Probably wouldn't see him again until the trial.
Just one more night, a little more than twelve hours. She could hold it together that long. She had to.
The door popped open just as she was taking a deep breath, making her choke and sputter as her throat tightened. Instead of the maid she'd been expecting, it was Gianotti himself who stood in the doorway, casting his shadow over her like the plague.
"Merry Christmas, KC," he said, not moving, leering down at her as she shivered in the night. His voice sounded anything but merry. The fine hairs on the back of KC's neck began to twitch. Her entire body quivered with an electric surge of adrenalin as she met Gianotti's knife-edged gaze. This man meant to kill her.
Nonsense. He had no idea who she was or why she was really here. "Is Jay ready? I told him I'd drive him home."
"He and Neil are in the media room, playing a video game. Why don't you come inside?" He pivoted, gestured magnanimously. Light from the chandelier glittered from polished gold and silver accoutrements, even from the marble floor of the foyer. As if all the riches of the world resided in this house.
"No thanks, I can wait out here," she said.
His jaw clenched, lips pulling back to reveal straight, white teeth—the best porcelain veneers money could buy. No one said no to Mr. Gianotti. Not in Coalton. Not and lived to tell the tale.
"I don't want to get mud on your nice floors," she added in a rush.
"Nonsense. Come in out of the cold, young lady. I've been meaning to have a chat with you."
Before she knew it, her reluctant legs dragged her over the threshold and the door slammed shut behind her with a hollow thud. Gianotti led the way without looking back, knowing she would follow.
Glenn and Carson were only a hundred yards away, could hear everything, but the thought didn't comfort her as Gianotti opened the door to his private study and waited for her to pass him before shutting it again. She stood a few feet inside the room, uncertain what to do. The rug beneath her feet cost more than she made in a year and was so thick that it threatened to swallow her Doc Marten's whole. Oil paintings crowded the walls, too many, too close together for anyone to truly appreciate the artistry—which was exactly the point, wasn't it?
Gianotti didn't want people to admire his taste in art, he wanted them to admire his power in collecting it all in one place. He strode past her, going to the bar behind his burlwood antique desk. "Have a seat, KC."
Cover, she had to maintain her cover. She plopped down in a delicate looking Chippendale chair, rocking it with her weight, and slung her legs over one arm. KC the bad girl wasn't scared or intimidated by power and wealth.
"Do you want a drink?" he asked, glancing back to frown at the puddle forming below her boots.
"You know I'm not old enough to drink," she said with a giggle despite the fact that the real KC was in desperate need of a shot of alcohol. No way she'd take any food or drink this man offered. Her pulse stampeded, making it hard to swallow as he simply stared at her.
"We both know that's not true."
She dropped her feet to the ground, sat up straight, one hand edging close to her Glock. Her cheeks burned with cold as if the winter wind had somehow snuck in to ambush her through the closed French doors on the far wall. Those doors were her closest escape route. A dozen scenarios crowded through her mind, but she couldn't leave without Jay. And she couldn't shoot Gianotti, risk alerting his guards.
"What do you mean? You know I'm only eighteen." Faking a yawn, she patted her mouth, then swept her hand through her hair, bringing it closer to her knife hidden in its sheath at the back of her neck.