One Last Scent of Jasmine (Boone's File Book 3) (27 page)

“
Great.
I’m freakin’
honored,
” Schuster clipped.

Boone scrunched up her forehead in thought. She placed her finger there to help along her cognitive process. “Sean … why target Bernie on the street? Why did they not fly the damned thing through his office window? Why didn’t they take out the General?”

Ritter’s expression grew grave. “Divergent objectives.” He joined Boone in a few moments of contemplative silence. “According to what you’ve told us, I’d say someone’s paring down the executive staff in preparation for a hostile takeover,” the tall, retired USAF officer concluded.

Looking around, Schuster made a suggestion. “You know, maybe we should get off the street.”

“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea,” Boone agreed. She looked at her Field Operations Director. “And then do what?”

The tall man’s expression turned fierce. “This was the first of a multipart effort, and I’m next in line. It means I’ll be clearing the route on the way back to my place before Farrah starts home from the U.N.”

Boone felt a rush in realizing Sean was on target. She turned to Schuster. “Bernie, get Dad—I mean,
the General
—secured on one of the lower levels, and then make the arrangements to get him the hell out of the building until you hear from us.” She paused as another inspiration arrived. Her voice lowered. “And while you’re at it, get the new guy out here to help us out.”

“Lambert?” Schuster clarified.

“Exactly.” Boone looked at the curious Ritter. She tossed her hair back away from her eyes and returned his gaze. “I want to get his perspective on all of this. Especially since it’s his first day.”

Ritter seemed to concur, nodding. “Yeah … isn’t that odd, now.” His eyes went back to Schuster. “What Boone said, Bernie. Do it.”

“You got it,” Schuster replied. Digging for his cell phone, he double-timed it toward the cover of the parking garage and its subterranean route back into InterLynk.

As Boone watched, Ritter turn back her way. “So, you want to know what now.”

“Yup,” she confirmed.

The muscles along his jaw rippled. “
Now
we go hunting.”

Liberty Crossing

McLean, Virginia

Six hours behind Geneva

Terrence Bradley’s first call of the day was from a private number, one of foreign origin judging from the format. He shifted his morning cup to his left hand to answer it, bringing his handset up to his ear. “ODNI, Bradley,” he answered, hoping it would be a conversation able to accommodate a sip or two of coffee.

“Bradley, you son of a bitch. You people over stateside all trying to kill us now?” a familiar and agitated voice asked.

The DNI set his cup down. “General?” he ventured a guess in confusion.

“Good morning and damn skippy, son. You gonna answer my goddamned question?”

What the hell just happened?
“General McAllen, I don’t know what—”

“It’s your
job
to know, son, just like it is mine,” McAllen, apparently speaking on a mobile car phone, snapped. “So, let me tell you what I know—”

“Sir—”

“—
I
know last week I had my people telling me about overbearing assholes on the White House Senior Staff deciding to make me and my people an offer we can’t refuse.
Now,
I got heavy-duty, state-sponsored hardware flying at them when they’re driving down the damned street. You want to hear what
I
know, Mister Bradley?
I
know how to play hardball better than just about anybody who
you
know.”

So that’s where Boone went. Straight to an offer in the private sector.
“General, I assure you, I had nothing to do—”

“You got your InterLynk connection going, son?” McAllen’s voice interrupted.

“Um … no sir, that’s a negative.”

“You wanna bring that son of a bitch up, boy? I got to show you something.”

Bradley sighed, moving his mouse to the appropriate icon and double-clicking. “It’s up,” he said with resignation.

“I don’t see your account logged in, Mister Bradley. Go ahead. Log in.”

Terry's finger tapped out his username and password, signing him into McAllen’s portal. The DNI did not need to inform the man at the other end of the connection.

“OK, there we go,” McAllen’s voice growled. “Now … let me drag this icon in my admin panel, over here ….”

As Bradley watched, incredulous, his InterLynk connection was booted, momentarily replaced by a blank window. It lasted only until a content pane appeared. The message encouraged him to contact InterLynk at an address linked below for information on access rates and terms for government accounts.

“General—”

“Like I said, son,
hardball.
What just happened to you happened at CIA, NSA, DHS, FBI and everywhere else you people were tapping
my
system with a courtesy account. And that’s how it’s gonna stay until we find a resolution.”

Bradley knew the ODNI phone lines were going to melt today. He tried one last time. “General, we can’t have this. I give you my word no operation sanctioned by the USIC was leveled against you or your people. What else can I do?”

“You can either rethink your operational plan or get to the bottom of some pretty damned serious illegal activity on the part of whoever just tried to kill my XO, Mister Bradley. Until one of the two happens, you people stay in the dark.”

“General McAllen,
please
reconsider.”

The old man was obviously not having any of it. “A good deal needs to be reconsidered between us, Terry old boy. Better we take care of it all at once. Call me at this number once you know something.
Adios
for now, son.”

A nondescript tone sounded, indicating McAllen had cut the connection. Other calls, the Director of National Intelligence could tell from the bank of lines on his phone, were already under way or inbound.

With a reddening face, an animated Edna Reese appeared in his doorway a moment later. “Mister Bradley, is the InterLynk system—”

“Down until further notice, Ed,” he sighed, reaching for his untouched cup of coffee and finally getting his first taste.

“Is there any—”

Bradley lowered his cup, swallowed and shook his head. “No time frame, sorry. We’re working on it.”

His administrative supervisor looked perturbed but made her way back toward her desk to assist her juniors in continuing to handle the slew of calls already being generated by McAllen’s technical blockade. Bradley reached for his phone again a moment later, punching the speed dial button for his Director in Langley.
I hope someone there has the number for the Chief of Station in Geneva. I need information right now … and this whole damned government needs their InterLynk access back.

They scoped the route between InterLynk and Ritter’s condo in the Toyota FJ Cruiser she borrowed from her father. It seemed a better choice all around than to drive Ritter’s Lexus LX 570, which now had every possibility of being a targeted vehicle. Boone was behind the wheel with Lambert beside her. In the back, the Lieutenant Colonel cradled the KRISS Vector carbine retrieved from the discreet enclosure between their Field Operations administrative offices. In Boone’s professional opinion, her Director was looking forward to any chance of employing the weapon which might arise.

Boone cleared the line of travel and then worked Ritter’s neighborhood in concentric circles which slowly converged on his complex:  a high-end, gated community not far removed from the even more exclusive area her father now called home.
There are so damned many things to watch, all at once … both inside and outside the vehicle.

Lambert seemed to be more reserved than during the morning's orientation, and there were any number of reasons Boone could imagine.
Operational jitters … intense concentration. He seems to be looking for anything out of sorts just as hard as any of us.

“I’m seeing at least two unfamiliar vehicles streetside,” Ritter cautioned.

Having been alerted, Boone saw and flagged the pair of SUVs as possible threats.
Parked within walking distance of where I would have set up my people.
“Are you sure?” she asked, glancing at his expression in the rearview mirror.

“It’s an anomaly. These people are not street parkers. Take it slow up the next road, and watch the gate,” the former USAF officer advised.

Boone did so, hearing to her right a slight, involuntarily deep inhalation registering as another sign of stress to her Condition Orange mind. In her peripheral vision, she saw Lambert thrust his restless hands into the pockets of his designer overcoat.

“There,” Ritter said with a vicious edge of emphasis in his voice. “And there, there, and over there. See them?”

Men, similar in levels of build and fitness, seemed to have staked out the entrance gate to the walled condominium properties … in a pattern suggesting a triangulated ambush. As the Toyota drew closer, Boone noticed they were also clad in long, dark top-layer coats, perfect for concealing the types of weapons such shooters would prefer.

“How do you want to do this, Colonel?” she asked.

“Drive by. We park beyond, as they did. Close, assess, and level them all at once.” Ritter’s voice was pure ice.

“Sounds good. Camille, I’ll take—”

“Hold on. Look! They are breaking off,” the Frenchman said, pointing.

Sure enough.
As the FJ Cruiser passed the gate, they saw the three men in triangulation and a fourth spotter abandoning their positions, walking now in the direction of the pair of parked SUVs Ritter had spotted.

Frustrated, Boone blew a tense breath, unable to whip the four-wheeler into a U-turn in the confines of the narrow European street.
Damn, we’re going to lose them. What tipped them off?
As if to answer her question, she perceived a low buzz from Lambert’s pocket. It was the kind she often heard when …
my cell is silenced and I get a text message. You snail-eating son of a bitch.

Boone accelerated without warning, wheeling the FJ to the end of the street and whipping around the corner to park curbside, out of the line of sight to Ritter’s condo. She slammed the console-mounted shifter into Park as Lambert, confused, looked on.

“What are we—” he began.

Drawing Little Swiss from underneath her left arm, Boone ordered, “
Out,
frog legs. Out on the sidewalk, and keep your hands where I can fuckin’ see ‘em.”

Lambert raised his hands to shoulder level and kept them there, just as she did with her pistol, now pointed at his face. Ritter was right behind him following his exit. The big American readied his KRISS carbine.

Boone looked the Frenchman in the eyes. “Colonel, check his left coat pocket. I want to see his phone.”

“
Mon Dieu
. This is ridiculous!” the newest InterLynk Field Officer protested.

“Stay still, Camille,” Ritter encouraged him. “
Very
still.”

Covered by two weapons, Lambert had little choice. Ritter retrieved the man’s cell from the coat pocket, thrusting the phone toward Boone. He then backed off to a covering distance, his carbine at hip height and leveled at the Frenchman’s midsection.

Boone glanced at the phone, seeing it was unlocked and in messaging mode.
Uh huh. You bastard.
She spied the new arrival to his Inbox which had caught her attention, and she opened the text.
“
Message received. Aborting,” it read.

She then flipped to Lambert’s Sent Messages and likewise read the missive at the top of the stack. He must have readied it Just In Case:  “Abort.”

Based on Lambert’s silent reaction, her eyes must have looked like green fire. “Mister Lambert, you’re
busted,
” she virtually spat the last word.

Boone watched him shoot a panicked look at a closing Daniel Sean Ritter and then back to her. In an instant she witnessed the Frenchman's final decision. “
Gun!
” she shouted.

Ritter anticipated the move, letting the KRISS fall on its sling as his left hand locked down Lambert’s gun arm. With his opponent’s sidearm still in its holster, the Field Operations Director twisted his massive upper body into an elbow strike which took the slightly smaller man above the temple on the left side of the skull. The force made Boone wince. She watched Camille Lambert’s eyes go glassy and then roll up into his head as the man collapsed down into a heap at the Lieutenant Colonel’s feet.

Trembling with rage, Ritter shot her a look making her glad the big man was on her side. “So … now what?” he asked.

Boone considered the question, and the possibilities, and made her
own
decision. She clenched her jaw. “
Now
we find out the rest. Let’s load his ass up.”

She opened the hatch at the rear of the SUV. Ritter, the former Pararescue Jumper, had no problem shouldering Lambert’s limp, disarmed form for transport. The unconscious Frenchman was dumped in the cargo area, Ritter looking quite satisfied at his unresponsiveness before closing the hatch.

“Where?” he asked.

It’s past the close of business. No alpacas
. Boone smiled a cold, businesslike smile. “Back to the office. It looks like Mister Lambert’s first day is going to be a long one.”

“And possibly also his last,” Ritter growled. He seemed to accept her plan.

Boone held the passenger door so he could climb into the back and keep an eye on their prisoner.
Yes, Camille,
she promised,
I’m going to do my best to assure your first day is long indeed.

Yameen al-Khobar reacted instantly upon seeing the incoming text message, keying the throat microphone to the discreet tactical radio of the kind they all wore. “Abort, abort, abort,” he rasped. “Stand down and withdraw immediately. The operation is cancelled.”

Raising his binoculars again, he watched his men break position and begin a nonchalant retreat to the pair of vehicles parked outside of the target zone. A lone civilian SUV on the street passed between them. It continued up the avenue beyond the gated complex where his second target, Ritter’s black Lexus, should have appeared by now.