Internal Affairs (12 page)

“See? I have faith,” she said to the lingering memory of Romo’s accusations.

Numbly, she watched the scenery pass her windows, as the suburbs went to forest and the road began to climb. It wasn’t until the vehicle turned onto an access road and stopped beside a low-slung sedan that her nerves started to flare. She reached to fumble for her purse, only then realizing that one of the guards had taken her bag when he’d helped her into the SUV. He must have the purse—and the .22—in the front.

Panic threatened. However, when a tall, elegant, professionally dressed woman emerged from the sedan, Sara relaxed and blew out a breath, telling herself not to freak out. They were just picking up another agent, this one a woman. Her sex shouldn’t have mattered, but Sara thought she’d rather not be surrounded entirely by men for a while. They were getting on her nerves.

The woman opened the far door of the SUV and climbed into the compartment where Sara sat. The driver stood behind her, glowering, all but daring Sara to try to make a break for it. But he probably looked at all his protectees that way, she reassured herself as the woman slid in beside her and nodded for the driver to lock them in.

“Are you another of my guards?” Sara asked as the SUV got under way again, heading deeper into the woods.

The woman nodded, her lips tipping up slightly. “You could say that.”

“I’m Sara.”

The other woman hesitated, then held out a hand.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Whitney. You can call me Jane Doe.”

Sara’s relief morphed to panic in an instant as she recognized the name of Fax’s former boss, the one who’d put him undercover in the ARX Supermax Prison and later proved to be working on collusion with al-Jihad himself. Terror spiked adrenaline into Sara’s bloodstream and she reacted instantly, hurling herself at the window beside her. It gave slightly but didn’t crack. She was trapped!

She didn’t scream because nobody there would care that she was afraid. Instead, gritting her teeth, she lunged up on the seat and kicked at the window, cursing and spitting.

“Relax,” Jane said, and Sara felt a prick on her right butt cheek. An injection!

Now she did scream, and she lashed out a kick at the double agent. But the kick didn’t land. Instead, her legs went to water and she slumped down as the drug Jane had injected her with took hold and the world went gray.

“Help me,” Sara slurred as she collapsed and unconsciousness closed in, leaving her last few words to echo only in her skull.
Romo, damn it. Where are you when I need you?

But the answer was obvious, wasn’t it? He was gone, because she’d told him to go. There were no second chances in her world.

When the dark SUV pulled up to the curb midcity, Romo recognized the building in the heart of Bear Claw, though he’d only been there once before. The average passerby never would’ve guessed the space had been taken over by a covert ops group so secret it didn’t even really have a name. The building was squat and rectangular, stuck amid several similar buildings, with nothing much to recommend it aside from its relative anonymity.

But M. K. O’Reilly and the other members of the Cell preferred it that way. Anonymous was effective, in their line of work.

Flanked on either side by his driver and another agent, both fully armed and silent, Romo headed for the boss’s office, aware that his escorts would shoot him without a qualm if it looked for a second as if he posed a threat. Mission or no mission, nobody trusted an undercover agent fresh in from the field.

Well, that was fine with him; he didn’t intend to pose a threat to anyone except al-Jihad and his people. He
wanted to get this over with, so he could…Hell, he thought, frustration and anger combining inside him, forming a hard knot in his gut, he didn’t know what he was going to do next, but he knew he damn well didn’t want to do it in Bear Claw. He was done with the city, done with trying to make things work for him there.

He’d left Vegas for Colorado to forget Alicia and the mistakes he’d made with her. He had a feeling he was going to have to go farther than a state or two away before he started to forget Sara.

Damn it, he wasn’t blameless in their issues, it was true. But he couldn’t do all the work, either. She was going to have to meet him partway. Or rather, she would have to meet him if she had any desire to make it work. She’d said she loved him, back then. But he was starting to think she’d loved him only when it hadn’t been complicated for her, when it hadn’t challenged some of the rules she’d set for herself long ago.

“In here.” One of Romo’s heretofore silent escorts waved him through an office door, interrupting his inner frustration with Sara’s intransigence, and his own inability to just walk the hell away from her.

The name on the door was M. K. O’Reilly, with no rank or position listed. But then again, nobody who got this far inside the building needed O’Reilly’s status spelled out. He was, quite simply, the boss. The fixer.

O’Reilly was a no-nonsense career agent in his mid-fifties with thirty years on the job and an unimpeachable record. He’d taken over the nameless covert ops group formerly headed by Jane Doe, and had immediately set about bringing them partway into the light.

Where before the group had been off the books, funded through a shell within a shell, out of discretionary funds leeched off several other groups within the CIA and FBI, now it was an official covert ops group called the Cell. The Cell was still organized as it had been under Jane Doe’s leadership, with the main operatives working independently of one another, often tasked with specific projects without knowledge of the larger whole, much as al-Jihad’s dispersed network was arranged. However, under O’Reilly’s leadership, the operatives each interfaced with two senior agents in addition to the boss, so as to avoid—in theory, anyway—the isolation that had led to Fax being put deep undercover, unknowingly working on behalf of the terrorists when Jane Doe had turned traitor.

The reorganization, however, didn’t mean the Cell was warm and fuzzy, by any means. The building—dubbed the Cell Block, both as a nod to the group’s new name and because of its austere nondécor—was a spartan setup intended more for function than comfort. O’Reilly’s office was a plain room decorated with basic furniture, a high-powered laptop, and drifts of papers, photos and printouts. Much like the office, O’Reilly himself was spare and functional looking, and a little disheveled in a dark suit and striped tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed, but stood on end as though he’d run his hands through it in frustration one too many times. His careworn face was set in dour folds that lightened fractionally when Romo strode through the door.

“Damn good to see you alive, Detective.”

“Technically, I’m not,” Romo said dryly, but shook
hands with his erstwhile boss. “Sorry I got delayed.” He’d sketched out the situation when he’d phoned in, hitting the high points while glossing over a few details—such as how he’d finally regained his memory, and what he’d done in the aftermath of the pentothal dosing. At the time, making love to Sara had seemed like an excellent idea. Now, fully sober, he had to admit it hadn’t been one of his better moves.

Undoubtedly taking Romo’s grimace as pertaining to his bout with amnesia, O’Reilly said, “Understood, but you’re here now. Let’s see what you’ve brought us.” He waved Romo to the desk, with its powerful laptop. “Did you get a look at the file’s contents when you were decrypting the flash?”

“Just a glance,” Romo answered as he snagged O’Reilly’s chair, slipped off one of his battered boots and retrieved the flash from the deceptively simple hiding spot he’d hollowed out, hidden beneath the sweat-stained lining and Odor-Eaters he’d installed to dissuade casual searchers from groping around in the boots. Fitting the flash into the USB port on the side of O’Reilly’s computer, he said, “It looked like a detailed schematic of the ARX Supermax Prison, which stands to reason given that al-Jihad, Mawadi and Feyd all broke out. They would’ve had to explore a bunch of options before deciding on using Jane Doe to put Fax in place with instructions to help them escape. Except for one thing.” Romo flicked a glance at O’Reilly.

The senior agent muttered a curse, seeing the problem. “Mawadi hid the flash drive before he was arrested for the Santa Bombings.”

“Which would suggest they expected—or had planned—to be incarcerated in the ARX Supermax,” Romo said as he pulled up the files and started the decryption chain he’d worked out right before al-Jihad’s thugs had attacked him in the forest cabin, trying—and failing—to tie up the loose ends.
Well,
he thought,
if I have anything to say about it, this loose end is going to be the key to unraveling this whole mess.
Which was an optimistic thought, granted, but he figured he could use some damned optimism right about then.

For a moment, the thought of personally helping to bring down al-Jihad sent a thrill of anticipated victory through Romo’s bloodstream, muting his frustration with how other things were going in his life. Or the life he meant to reclaim as soon as all this was over. Still, though, there was a small kernel of sadness at the back of his brain, one that said he might not come out the winner in all things. In the end, he might not win Sara, despite having done the best he’d known how, under the circumstances.

Yes, he hadn’t been fully honest with her, but his secrets had been on the level of national security. Surely she could see the difference there? He shook his head, telling himself she was being unreasonable, telling himself to ignore the buzzing suspicion that she hadn’t been wrong about all of it, that he was still missing something.

“If they were researching the prison even before the bombing, then this entire thing has been part of one overarching plan.” O’Reilly leaned over Romo’s shoulder. “Yeah, that looks like the ARX, all right. But if
that’s the case, then his message to you doesn’t make any sense. He’s already out, and he’s got his own copy of the plans. Why would he care about having you return this one?”

“There’s another file.” Romo pulled it up, showed his boss a second set of schematics. “It’s a tunnel system of some sort—maybe mine shafts? I don’t know where they start or end, though.”

There was dead silence from O’Reilly.

Romo looked over his shoulder, and decided he didn’t like the look on the senior agent’s face one bit. “What is it? You recognize the second map?”

“I sure do,” O’Reilly growled. “Except there’s a tunnel that shouldn’t be there.” He pointed to a long, straight line that started at the very edge of the clustered shafts, and headed due west.

A cold chill shimmered down Romo’s spine. “Don’t tell me. This mess is east of the prison.”

“Okay. I won’t tell you.”

Romo ignored that and paused, frowning. “But why the hell would they want to get themselves tossed in the jail, go to the trouble of escaping, but then, what? Try to break back in?”

“They must’ve needed to set up something on the inside,” O’Reilly muttered. “Something al-Jihad himself had to oversee.”

Romo sent him a sardonic look. “This can’t be the first time the possibility has come up.”

The senior agent’s expression went shuttered. “There are a million theories, any hundred of which could fit the evidence, depending on the details.”

In other words, O’Reilly wasn’t sure how far he trusted Romo, who was a newcomer to the Cell, lacked federal training and had been undercover for most of the time he’d been affiliated with the group. Rather than taking offense, Romo nodded. “Understood.”

O’Reilly’s expression flattened and the men stared at each other for a long moment before the senior agent sighed heavily. “Oh, what the hell. We’re at a standstill here. Maybe you’ll see something we’ve missed.” He nudged Romo aside and called up a trio of files onto the computer screen. “These are encoded—maybe encrypted?—transmissions we’ve intercepted over the past week. The chatter says something big is coming down the pipeline, and thanks to the intel you just brought, we can guess where it’s going to happen, but we need more than that before we can move. We’re pretty sure al-Jihad is planning a massive jailbreak, partly as an outright terror attack on the region, partly as a means to release a number of key operatives from other major terror groups. Some of the rumors suggest that he’s looking to centralize all the major anti-American groups, with the aim of striking a fatal blow against the country as a whole. If he gets the political prisoners free, earning their loyalty—or at least putting them in his debt—well, what happens next will make the Santa Bombings look like a warm-up act.” The senior agent sighed heavily, the prospect cutting deep grooves in the tired lines of his face. “We need a timeline, and details. Al-Jihad is smart. Too smart. There’s no way he doesn’t have backup plans within backup plans. Take a look at the transmissions, will you? Maybe you’ll see something we missed.”

Romo swallowed heavily, appalled by the picture O’Reilly had painted. “I’ll see what I can do.” He glanced up at the senior agent. “You want me out of your office?”

“No. Stay. That computer is a closed system, not networked to anything. It’s as safe as you’re going to get.”

“Gotcha.” But the mention of safety brought up the specter that hovered far too near Romo’s conscious mind at all times these days—the safety of the people in Bear Claw who had become so important to him. “How are Fairfax and McDermott doing?” he asked, guilt stabbing as he realized he hadn’t yet asked, when he’d been at least practically responsible for their injuries. Amnesia or not, he should’ve been smarter about setting up the meeting, more careful about the peripherals.

“McDermott is on the mend. Fax was discharged yesterday, though he’ll be on restricted duty until those ribs heal.” A faint smile touched O’Reilly’s lips. “I gather his fiancée is sticking him with the remainder of the wedding planning while she finishes her training.”

Romo snorted appreciatively at the image that brought, of petite, dynamo Chelsea turning into a superagent, while Fax—who already was a superagent—ordered flowers and sorted RSVPs. In the craziness of the situation, Romo was only just beginning to realize how much more than just himself he’d regained when he’d gotten his memory back.

“Any word from Sara’s detail?” he asked next, knowing they both knew she was really the one he wanted to know about.

He couldn’t get past the look she’d had on her face as he’d told her the truth about his memory. He’d made a judgment call in not telling her right away that he’d regained all of his memory, and even after the fallout, he still thought he’d done the right thing. True, if he’d copped to the other memories right away, he could’ve returned to the Cell a few hours earlier. But he’d wanted—needed—that time for himself, damn it. He’d needed it for them, as a chance to tell her all the things he’d wanted to tell her months earlier, but had instinctively known she wasn’t ready to hear. He hoped to hell when all this was over she could forgive him for it, that she could find a way to understand and be flexible.

Unfortunately, that thought bumped up against the fear that she wouldn’t be able to find that flexibility, or that he’d damaged their relationship so deeply she wouldn’t want to try.

“The agents with her checked in on schedule,” O’Reilly said, voice faintly dismissive, as though protective custody of a single medical examiner was the least of his worries. Which it probably was. For Romo, though, it was a primary concern.

Making love to her the night before had been incredible. It had been healing. Cleansing. A homecoming. But at the same time, his timing had been off. If he’d been fully in control of himself, he probably would have waited. Then again, he acknowledged inwardly, maybe not, because there was no guarantee that there would be a tomorrow for either of them. Not unless he and the others made some major breakthroughs, fast.

“I’ll get to work on this,” he said, nodding to the information on the computer screen.

“I’ll lock you in,” O’Reilly said on his way out, and suited action to words.

Months ago Romo would’ve taken offense at the show of caution, becoming angry that he’d walked away from his life, sacrificing himself in the name of justice without gaining the trust that sacrifice should imply. Months ago, he’d been an idiot, he admitted inwardly as his fingers flew over the keyboard in familiar patterns, beginning the decryption process. Or if not a complete idiot, at least far too caught up in his own wants and needs, his own bruised ego and what he perceived himself as being owed. Being dead had taught him a few things, not the least of which was that there were times and places where the individual didn’t—couldn’t—matter.

When he’d been a kid, watching his family nearly fall apart under the strain of the false accusations against his father, he’d been dimly aware of the larger scope of things, and how the ripple effect of the embezzlement had hurt families beyond his own. But his parents, their lawyers and the cops who’d eventually cracked the case and arrested his father’s partner instead…they had all focused on the small stuff, the little details. They’d had to—that had been the nature of the case.