Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (30 page)

That
didn’t fit, though he had read enough news stories and briefings to know that
organized crime, especially mafias like the Russians, treated their muscle as
commodities. Sacrificing four foot soldiers would mean nothing to them,
especially if it were to make him trust them.

But
the phone?

That
made no sense. Why would this man White reveal Saunders involvement? Surely
that wouldn’t be of any benefit. Then again, it certainly would make him trust
these men even more. Wouldn’t it?

He
wasn’t so sure.

He liked
to think he was a good judge of character. Quaid he had never trusted but
needed his money. He had never thought he was a criminal working for the
Russians, yet he was definitely someone he never trusted. Saunders was
cutthroat when he had to be, and had crushed more than a few people in his path
over the years. He was someone he would never consider a friend, would probably
not associate with if he weren’t the best at what he did.

And had
come highly recommended to him by others.

I
wonder if they were in on it.

It was
frustrating. This entire experience had him questioning the loyalty of everyone
around him, and everyone that had been involved in helping choose his team.

The only
person he could trust was his wife.

He sat
up, his eyes coming to rest on this Agent White, still not sure if he could be
trusted. His gut told him yes, but his paranoid self was screaming no.

“I can
tell by your reaction that I’m right,” said the detective, pressing her
advantage.

Jones
felt his chest tighten.

No
one can know!

“Can you
clear the room please?”

The
detective looked at him for a moment then nodded. “Everyone out!”

The room
quickly emptied and he saw Agent White turn to leave.

“Not
him.”

White
turned toward him, his face expressionless.

“What
did you have to tell me?” asked the detective.

Jones
looked at her, still not sure if he could trust her, but they were beyond that.
He had to say something, enough to at least stop the incessant questioning.

And then
it dawned on him.

If she
were one of
them
, then she wouldn’t be pressing him for the truth. There
was no way they would want him to actually answer her questions. It was one
thing to try and test him, but not in public in a room full of people. That
made no sense.

He had
to trust her. He had to trust White.

Otherwise
he was totally alone, left to fight a cabal of people he knew nothing about,
with extraordinary money and resources at their disposal.

The
detective stepped closer. “You know that Mr. Quaid is involved, don’t you.”

He
sighed, nodding at her. “You can’t tell anyone that. They’ll kill me, they’ll
kill everyone.”

“Who?”

“I can’t
say.”

“If you
don’t tell me, how can I protect you?”

Jones
shook his head. “There’s no protecting me from them. Nobody can protect me,
especially not you.”

Agent
White stepped forward.

“She
can’t, but I can.”

Anne Arundel Medical Center, Annapolis, Maryland

Sherrie White could hear the muffled tones outside her door, the
doctor explaining her status to Milton and his wife. She was lucky. Damned
lucky. Her business had taught her to be paranoid—or abundantly cautious—so she
had been wearing a vest.

When
Dylan Kane warns you it could be dangerous, you listen.

That man
knew dangerous, his daily routine more dangerous than her most hazardous
mission to date.

Though
she did now have the distinction of being shot.

Twice.

At point
blank range.

Remind
me to send the inventor of the bulletproof vest a bottle of scotch.

She had
two broken ribs, three cracked ribs, significant bruising and a reinflated left
lung.

She felt
like shit.

And she
wished Chris was here.

At this
moment, as far as she knew, he had no idea what had happened. Things had
happened so quickly, she had just been wheeled into the recovery room less than
ten minutes ago.

She
looked through the window. She could see Milton’s head, he obviously in his
wheelchair, his wife at his side.

Where
are the professors?

Her
heart picked up a little speed, the monitor beeping to her left betraying her.
She tried to sit up and gasped, the pain intense despite the painkillers she
was on.

She
collapsed back into her pillow.

I’m
out.

“She’ll
need a couple of days rest here where we can monitor her, then she can head
home. She’ll need a couple of months before she’s back to normal, though.”

“Okay,
thanks, Doctor.”

Milton
wheeled into the room, his wife behind him.

“Where
are the professors?” asked Sherrie, not bothering with any small talk.

“They
were arrested at the scene. Laura saved your life. Apparently your heart
stopped.”

Sherrie
paused for a moment as she processed those words.

You
were dead.

Yet
another thing to add to her bona fides.

It
scared her a bit. Not so much that she had died, the possibility of death never
really bothering her that much. It was the thought of leaving Chris all alone
that would haunt her. The poor guy was so shy he would hole up in his apartment
and never put himself out there again. She would want him to move on, to find a
new love to share his life with, but she knew he wouldn’t.

And
thoughts like that could make her a less effective agent.

So she
kept them to herself.

She
looked at Milton, recovering her train of thought. “Arrested? For what?”

“For
shooting those two guys who tried to kill you, I guess. I’m not really sure, we
haven’t been able to find out much. Jim told us to go with you and make sure
you were okay, so we did. But…”

“But
what?”

“Well, I
got a phone call.”

Sherrie’s
eyes narrowed.

“From
who?”

“I think
from the woman who shot you.”

Sherrie
pushed herself up on her elbows, ignoring the pain, her heart monitor beeping
faster.

“What
did she say?”

“Well, she
basically said she wanted the painting or she’d kill Mai and Tommy. She thought
I was Jim. At least at first.”

“What do
you mean, ‘at first’?”

“Well, I
told her I wasn’t Jim and she just instantly knew who I was. And Sandra too.”
He reached out and squeezed his wife’s hand, the look of fear on her face
obvious.

Sherrie
began to feel a sense of foreboding grip her, almost afraid to ask her next
question. “What did you tell her?”

“I told
her Jim and Laura had been arrested.”

“You
told her?”

Milton
nodded, his eyes widening slightly. “I didn’t really have much choice, I
thought she might hurt Mai and Tommy. Besides, Jim and Laura are safe at the
police station.” He paused. “Aren’t they?”

Sherrie
shook her head. “No, Mr. Milton, I think they’re in more danger now than they
ever were.”

Annapolis Police Department, Taylor Avenue, Annapolis, Maryland

Nadja Katz strode up to the Desk Sergeant, flashing her Homeland
Security ID, two of her men behind her, everyone in dark suits and sunglasses,
earpieces in place.

They
were the stereotype.

Because
it worked.

“Special
Agent Willow. We’re here for the prisoners.” She produced a sheaf of perfectly
faked transfer orders. “Acton, James and Palmer, Laura.”

“Christ,
you people are fast. We haven’t even booked them yet.”

“When
you kill a CIA agent, the wheels turn a little bit quicker.”

“A CIA
agent is dead?” asked the sergeant, alarms immediately tripping in Katz’ head.

I
shot her twice, point blank range. She has to be dead.

Unless
she was wearing a vest.

Clever
girl.

“That’s
the information I have, though things are still sketchy. She didn’t die?”

The old
sergeant shook his head. “No, she took quite the beating but I just heard that
she’s going to pull through.”

“That’s
a relief. I guess the charge in her case will be
attempted
murder.”

“Well,
you’ve still got two dead regardless. I’m sure those charges will stick if it
wasn’t self-defense. That guy Acton was shot too.”

So I
did
hit him.

“You
mean he’s not here?”

The
sergeant shook his head as he rose from his stool. “Naw, just a graze. They
treated him at the scene and then they were brought here for questioning. He’s
in Interrogation Room Two, she’s in Three. Who do you want to see first?”

“Acton.”

He
nodded toward a door to the right. “Check your weapon and I’ll buzz you
through. Down the hall, third door on the left.”

Katz
ejected the mag and cocked the action, showing the empty chamber, then handed
her weapon to one of the officers manning the door. She turned to her men. “You
two stay here, I won’t be long.”

If she
couldn’t have a weapon with her, she wanted her men out here to still have
theirs.

Because
she was quite certain within minutes there would be blood.

And it
wouldn’t be hers.

The Kahala Hotel & Resort, Honolulu, Oahu, Hawaii

Dylan Kane felt himself drifting off in a post-coital bliss, Leiko having
worn him out completely, her appetite almost insatiable. She was fantastic. And
memories of her would have to satisfy his carnal lusts for the next few weeks,
there probably little to no possibility of a hookup where he was going.

Pakistan.

He hated
few countries in the world, but Pakistan was one of them. Primitive, backward,
stuck centuries in the past, with a population that seemed to hate anyone
different, trusted no one, and was incredibly quick to take offence.

It was a
Taliban paradise.

Word was
a top al-Qaeda leader was in Peshawar to meet with local Taliban to discuss a
response to the ISIS threat. Even al-Qaeda was scared of them, their brand of
Islam even more perverted.

The
Wahabists would be proud.

It was
his job to determine if the man was indeed there, try to determine what
agreements, if any, were reached, then direct a drone strike if the powers that
be ordered it.

Just
another day on the job.

He
wasn’t a big fan of drone strikes. They were too impersonal. It wasn’t
necessarily that he liked putting a bullet between someone’s eyes, it was just
that with a gun, he knew exactly who he was killing and that they deserved to
be killed. With a drone strike it was everyone in the vicinity, and you weren’t
always sure if your target was dead, the explosion quite often large enough to
make the body unrecognizable.