Spy Games (18 page)

Van looked up at the car barreling toward him. I could practically see him weighing his options. There weren’t many, and all of them involved letting Goon go.

Capitalizing on the distraction, Goon broke free of Van’s grip, sucker punched him in the gut and ran for the fence.

For the fence? I was confused. Why wasn’t Goon waiting for the car to pick him up?

Van doubled over. For a horrified instant, I thought he was going to collapse and become a speed bump for that maniac sedan.

I stepped out into the alley, terrified and unsure what to do. There was no way I could reach Van in time. And I couldn’t get to my phone.

The American-made sedan picked up speed, closing the gap between it and Van.

Goon scaled the fence and took off.

Clutching his stomach, Van straightened and dove for the fence. He caught the chain link, and swung himself over with mere inches to spare before becoming road kill. He landed safely on the other side and gestured at me to get back, screaming and waving his arms.

I hunkered into the door well, scrambling blind to find the latch. I fumbled, finally found and grabbed the handle, but couldn’t manage to hold down the thumb button and maneuver the door open. Damn, why didn’t they put those push bars on the outside? Fighting against the rising sense of panic taking control of me, I tried to remember my training. This was it, do or die. I remembered War warning us to keep our heartbeat under control. Rapid heartbeat equals rampant problems.

I took a deep breath and flattened myself against the door, looking for another escape route as the car raced toward me. Could I scale the fence without using my hands? Did I have time to dive into the ditch?

The car was close enough now that I could see the driver. I froze. My heart fell into my stomach.
Ket!

Oh, God, oh, God. No! I was a dead woman.

Ket saw my look of horror and smiled. I turned and began kicking the door, screaming in a banshee pitch to be let in.

Behind me, I heard the sedan screech to a stop. A car door opened. I kept kicking and screaming as if sheer effort was going to save me.

“Help me! Help! Fire! Rape!” Tears flowed down my cheeks.

Ket threw his weight against me so hard he knocked my breath from me. The door handle gouged into my hips. My head bounced off the door. I reeled, stunned, and fought the stars clouding my vision.

Ket jammed me against the building door. I hadn’t seen him in months, hadn’t felt him in longer. The body holding me hostage against the door was definitely beefier and more bulked up than I remembered. Solid, raging bull muscle. He’d been training, probably spending every spare minute in the prison gym. And no doubt double dosing on steroids. He pressed his package into my backside. He was hard. Violence and control turned him on.

I shuddered and fought an almost overwhelming sense of nausea. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Ket grabbed me by the arm to keep me from slumping. He shook me and held me with a bruising grip, branding his handprint into my flesh. “Surprised to see me, baby?”

I didn’t answer. He’d hurt me either way, answer or no.

He wrenched my bound arm tighter behind my back so far I thought he’d dislocate my shoulder. “I asked you a question.”

I winced, trying to breathe through the searing pain. “I had no doubt…you’d…come.”

“That’s my girl.” He eased up his grip and ground his groin against my butt. “Didn’t you get my present? Why aren’t you wearing it?” He spoke directly into my ear, his breath hot and disturbing against my neck.

“You mean the cheap jewelry? Way to impress a girl.”

He shook me again. “Cheap gets as cheap deserves.” He grabbed me by my French braid and jerked my head back so that I was looking up at him into his eyes glittering with jealousy and rage. “Did you screw him? Did you?”

I glared at him. “Screw who?”

He banged my head against the door and yanked it back again.

I was so dizzy, I could barely think.

“You know who, bitch. Lover boy. The one in the alley.”

“That security guard assaulted me.” My voice broke.

Ket stiffened and looked confused. “Security guard?”

Clearly not the guy he was thinking of. “Yeah, the one in blue.”

“What the hell?” His already dark look clouded to thunderstorm level.

“In the ladies’ bathroom.”

It didn’t take any effort to cry. Damn it all, I was going to get that Goon. Ket would kill him. All I had to do was sic Ket on him. Or he would kill Ket. Either way I won.

“He stunned me as I was coming out of the bathroom, then he shoved me in and tied me up and felt me up and now I have one breast hanging out of my bra.” I broke down completely.

Ket had gone quiet and completely still. Maybe he still had an ounce of humanity and compassion in him.

I trembled, waiting for the thunderclap to hit. He reached up my shirt, felt the exposed breast, squeezed the nipple, hard, and tucked the breast back into my bra.

I gagged.

He yanked my braid so hard I thought my head was going to snap off and my tears trickled back toward my eyes. “What did you do to lead him on?”

“I showed up for camp! Honest. Honest, I didn’t lead him on.” I’d been reduced to begging. I hated myself for it. But I was stalling. Hoping the cops Van had called showed up soon. “He’s a sick pervert.”

“He’s a dead man. I’ll deal with him later.” Ket shoved me toward the car as I struggled to get free.

The chain-link fence jingled. I glanced at it without thinking. Van was scaling the fence.

Ket heard and looked. “In the car, slut.” Ket opened the back car door and shoved me in.

Van hit the ground and ran toward us, gun drawn, yelling for Ket to halt.

Ket ignored him and scurried into the front seat, sliding behind the wheel without securing me in. He reached for the automatic locks as Van wrenched the front passenger door open.

Ket slammed the car into gear and floored it. Van grabbed the door frame and struggled to pull himself inside while Ket tried to sideswipe him on the fence. Van’s gun flew out of his hand while he struggled to hang on.

I kicked the back of Ket’s seat, screaming for him to stop the car.

Somehow Van managed to get inside the car. He lunged at Ket, who swung back. The car veered dangerously toward the building as the two men fought for control of the vehicle.

The car lurched back and forth. Van threw a punch. Ket threw a punch. I bounced around the backseat like a kernel of Orville Redenbacher, unable to catch myself with my hands. “Stop it! Stop it, now, you two. You’re going to kill us!”

At the far end of the warehouse, a small cement loading dock jutted into the alley. It popped up out of nowhere, surprising Ket. He misjudged the clearance in the alley and hit the brakes too late. The front left side of the sedan crashed into the dock, crumpling the driver’s door, throwing me against the headrest. I was lucky not to be thrown through the windshield. The air bags deployed.

In the front, the two men sputtered and tried to swim their way free of the air bags. Ket tried his door. It was jammed. He smashed the window and crawled out before Van could get a firm grip on him.

In the next instant, I heard footsteps overhead on the car roof. From my window, I watched Ket take off and scale the fence. Van rushed out of the car and watched as Ket escaped on the far side. He made a move to follow Ket, then shook his head like it was a lost cause. He pulled a two-way radio from his pocket and began giving instructions.

“Bring the chopper around. Suspect number two. On foot. Fled to the south. White male. Early thirties. Six feet four…”

I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes, trying to get my arms around the idea—Van was a cop. Not a math man, a mild-mannered professor. A cop. Cripes, to use one of Dutch’s swear words.

Finally, Van put the radio away, climbed into the car, and fell next to me into the backseat.

“I really need to get in better shape.” His nose was bleeding and he had a gash over one eye.

“You’re going to have a shiner in the morning,” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. Are you okay? You have a big goose egg on your forehead.”

“A goose egg is better than a concussion. Ket’s losing his touch.” I turned my back toward Van, motioning for him to untie me.

When he finished, I turned back to look at him.

Just as I reached to tenderly touch his wounds—what a sucker women are for wounded men—I heard the distinctive rush of a chopper. All my sympathy for him evaporated. I dropped my hand. “You bastard!”

The force of my words startled him. He reared back, hands in front of him for protection. “Hey, I just saved your life. I’m the good guy here. What does a guy have to do to please you?”

“You’re a cop!” I rubbed my wrists and pointed a finger at him. “FBI if I’m not mistaken.” I stared at him through thin, angry eyes. I opened the car door. “You’re after the dongle just like everyone else.”

“Reilly, wait!”

I put a foot out onto the pavement. “You used me. You’re no different than Ket.”

“Wait a minute!” He grabbed my arm where Ket had.

I winced and he backed off.

“I’m sorry.” He wiped his bleeding nose on the back of his sleeve.

I wiped my runny nose on my sleeve. Stupid crying.

Van looked exhausted and so pitiful I almost wanted to comfort him. Almost.

“You’re an agent. On the Canarino case.”

“For God’s sake, Reilly.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Lower your voice.” He leaned into me. “I couldn’t. I’m undercover.”

“You were undercover, all right.” Anger was the only thing keeping me going.

Van wiped his nose again. He was having trouble talking clearly through the blood. “This has been a hell of a day. Two bad guys get away. I blow my cover.
And
I lose the girl.” He looked at me for confirmation of the last point.

I’m stubborn. I refused to commit.

“You’re the only camper who knows. You won’t give me away, will you?” His voice sounded like he was talking through sludge. I imagined he was swallowing blood.

“You need help.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“I meant medical attention.” I heard sirens. Several cops and a paramedic unit pulled up at the far end of the alley.

I sighed. “Fine. I won’t out you. What are we going to tell those guys?” I nodded toward the cops.

“They’re in on it. We’re working with local law enforcement on this case.” He gently took my arm. “Cheer up. Running down and assaulting an FBI agent is a federal offense. When we catch Ket, he’s going to jail for a long time.”

My phone rang just as the paramedics finished looking me over. I had some bruises and abrasions, and goose egg aside, a mild concussion. The paramedics wanted to send me to the hospital for observation. I talked them out of it. A concussion was nothing I couldn’t handle. This was a tiny baby concussion compared to some I’d had. I’d been hit in the head by softballs and bats enough times to know how to care for myself. They gave me a Tylenol and told me to take over-the-counter painkiller as necessary for the headache that was sure to follow and released me.

I flipped open my phone. “Hi, Mom.”

“What’s going on there? Who’s dead now? I’m watching the news—there are police choppers circling the FSC warehouse.”

Shoot! “No one’s dead, Mom. How do the news crews have video? I don’t see any news crews.”

“There is no video. They’re just reporting it. Some guy in a neighboring warehouse called it in,” Mom said without missing a beat. “Two incidents in two days. Come home, Reilly. Come home now! That place is too dangerous—”

“I’m fine, Mom. And I can’t.” I paused, wondering how much to tell her. “It was Ket.”

“Ket! Ohmygod.”

“He tried to kidnap me—”

“How in the world did he get inside that building? I thought they put extra security on?”

“They did, Mom.” I hesitated. “I stepped outside and he pulled up in a car and grabbed me.”

“Outside…outside! What were you doing outside?”

“Having a smoke.”

“Reilly! Be serious.”

“Getting a breath of fresh air, Mom. That’s it.” I related the story to her, leaving out any mention of Goon and praying that the news never covered that part. It took me nearly fifteen minutes to calm her down. “I can’t come home, Mom. I’ll only be putting you, Dad, and Grandpa in danger. Arm the security system and tell Grandpa to keep his gun handy.”

A policeman was waiting for me.

“I have to go, Mom. The police want to talk to me.”

The police took me to a conference room off War’s office. Several Seattle PD detectives were there, along with Van, who had an emergency ice pack on his black eye, which was rapidly swelling shut. I had one pressed to my goose egg, paramedic’s orders. We were two ice pack packing peas in a pod. Mine was giving me brain freeze, which wasn’t helping my already cloudy thinking, but I had to keep it on for twenty minutes or risk being sent to the hospital. Plus I was vain. A goose egg didn’t enhance my natural beauty any. Several people that Van introduced as his fellow FBI agents completed the fine-looking, but battered, ensemble. A uniform guarded the door.

We gathered around an oblong table.

I sat in a gray swiveling office chair opposite Van. “Did you check that uniform’s ID, Cyclops? Did you make good and sure this time that he isn’t our master-of-disguise Goon in yet another incarnation?”

I didn’t sound friendly. But I had a good excuse. Mild concussions make a girl testy. That’s a medical fact, and one I’d used to my advantage on the numerous times I’d been hit in the head during a fastpitch game. Being banged around by two big guys and nearly kidnapped by my ex didn’t exactly elevate my mood any, either. Stir in being peeved at Van for being a cop and you have a major tempest in camo. Right now anger was the only thing preventing me from having a meltdown.

“You want to check him out? Feel free,” Van said, picking up on the accusatory tone in my voice. “You’re the one who’s seen him up close and personal.”

“Hey, black eyes aren’t a medical excuse for sarcasm, buddy.” As much as I wanted to glare at Van, I paled and started visibly shaking from a combination of shock, horror, ice pack, and an overactive air-conditioning vent overhead. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my jacket.

One of the agents swiveled out of his chair and returned with a space blanket from an emergency kit. As the agent tucked it around my shoulders, Van swore under his breath. He looked tired, and beat, and utterly frustrated.

“Sorry.” Van dabbed at his eye with the ice pack. “That was uncalled for.”

I shrugged and decided to cut him a miniscule amount of slack. We were both grumpy and on edge. And who wouldn’t be in our situation? His job performance and reputation were on the line, as was my life. I snuggled into my astronaut-like silver blanket, crinkling all the way, and softened my tone. “It’s all right. He was wearing an invisibility cloak in the form of a guard’s uniform. No one really looks at security guards. They’re always the first ones biffed.”

Van gave me a weak smile out of half his mouth. The other side of his face was obviously in pain.

“What happened to the real security guard?” I asked, feeling a sudden cold shudder despite my warm blanket, as though someone had walked over the security guy’s grave, which was probably either a back alley Dumpster or a shallow ditch near the Duwamish.

“We’re looking into that now,” one of the agents said in that official tone of voice that means we ain’t giving nothing away and leaves the listener fearing the worst.

“Maybe there was no security guard to be biffed,” I mused aloud, hoping for the best. “Maybe Goon was the real guard. Maybe he used a fake ID and somehow managed to get hired by the security company. He’s wily enough. And you could get him for ID theft.

“Or maybe Goon bribed the real guy with a hefty wad of cash and security guy is on his way to Hawaii right now. I hope you’re checking into that.” Which was the scenario I was hoping for.

Van seemed to be in charge of the operation. He flashed me a sympathetic look. “That’s not the information we have.”

As I opened my mouth to ask another question about the guard, Van’s radio crackled to life. He answered, looking relieved by the interruption. The rest of us listened in to his end of the conversation without any of the usual subterfuge eavesdroppers use. Unfortunately, Van’s end consisted mostly of swearing and frowns. He signed off and set the radio down. “They got away.” He looked at one of his fellow agents. “Rock, coordinate with Seattle PD. See what we can do to track them down.”

Rock nodded and left the room.

“Both Ket and Goon?” I asked, anxiety creeping into my voice as the door closed shut behind Rock. I hadn’t realized I’d been so optimistic the Feds would catch at least one of them.

Van nodded. “Both.”

“Both,” I muttered to myself. “Both. Both. Both. Both.”

Van shot me a concerned look. “You’re saying the same thing over and over.”

Perseveration is a sign of concussion. I’m sure Van knew that. “Just digesting the news. I’m fine.”

Van didn’t look one hundred percent convinced, but he turned to the guy on his right anyway. “We’ve got news copters buzzing the site and reporters dogging us.”

“Channel Five’s been reporting police chopper action almost since the action began,” I said. When Van gave me a questioning look, I said, “Mom called. Our little party’s been on the news for the last half hour. Someone called a tip in.”

Van sighed, looking like he hated news-tippers. “Probably somebody listening in on police band radio.” He looked at the guy on his right again. “Ben, you have any ideas for damage control? For those of you who don’t know,” he looked at me, “Ben’s our PR guy.”

“‘No comment’ always works,” Ben said.

Van’s dislike of Ben’s answer was obvious from his expression. “We have to give them something. Something with a ring of truth to it. Something to throw them off the scent of our mission. Something to investigate.” He set his ice pack down on the table in front of him. Ice on. Ice off. He knew the drill.

I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes? Close enough. My head was numb. I set my ice pack on the table, too.

“The trial’s coming up fast. We have just days left to get that dongle and nail Canarino or our case goes in the crapper. We don’t need the media blowing our operation.” He paused in thought. “We tell them about Ket.” Van glanced at me for affirmation.

I had my impassive face on. I wasn’t committing one way or the other until I knew where this was going.

“We don’t mention the dongle. We tell the media that we believe the suspect I’ll refer to as Goon is working for Ket. That he infiltrated FSC headquarters as part of a plot to help Ket kidnap Reilly. The plot went awry when Reilly fought back and I walked in on him.

“We’ll tie Jay’s murder in, saying we believe Ket murdered Jay because he was jealous that Reilly dated Jay for a brief time while Ket was in jail. If we’re lucky, we’ll get Ket to turn himself in.”

I shook my head. “Ket will never turn himself in.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know Ket.”

“He didn’t hire Goon to kidnap you,” Van pointed out. “We don’t think he murdered Jay. Everything points to Jay’s murder being tied to the dongle. If Ket thinks we’ll make him a deal—”

“If you make him a deal, I will personally bean you with this ice pack,” I said, grabbing my ice pack and holding it like a weapon. “And I throw hard and with extreme accuracy. Then I’ll track Goon down and hire him to off you.” I paused. “I mean it.”

“Put the ice pack down,” Van said dryly. “It’s not nice to threaten an officer of the law—”

“Tell it to the judge.” I cut Van off. “I’ve had enough of the criminal justice system letting Ket loose to torment me.” I set the ice pack down and crossed my arms in front of me.

Van sighed and put his ice pack back on his eye, shooting me a challenging look and nodding toward my ice. Yeah, it was safer for him against my head than beaning his. I uncrossed my arms and picked up my pack to apply to my goose egg, staring Van down with a look as cold as my instant ice.

I rested my elbow on the table and pressed the ice pack against my head, wincing. “Ket’s back on the steroids. I could tell. He’s buffer than he’s ever been. He’s not rational. And he won’t be. He’s angry and he feels invincible. He’s walked right past you guys since the beginning. He won’t turn himself in.” I paused and pinned Van with an angry look. The Tylenol was helping, but my head was still spinning and it was hard to think straight. “And I don’t like your scenario. It makes me sound like a tramp in the midst of a torrid love triangle.”

“It makes Ket look like a dangerous nutcase.” Van stared back at me, daring me to challenge him.

All the others in the room were watching us, trying to hide their grins.

I let out a loud sigh. “Let’s go with the assumption Ket doesn’t turn himself in. What then?”

“We’re tracking him down. Both him and Goon.”

I had a lot less faith in Van now that he was a cop.

Though I didn’t officially consent to the story, I didn’t lodge a major protest, either. Van sent Ben out to talk to the press. Then he and his agents left me alone in the room while they made their battle plans.

Van pointed a finger at me as he left. “And don’t fall asleep on me while I’m out.” Then he instructed the uniform to check on me every few minutes and keep me awake.

How touching. On the other hand, a comatose me wouldn’t look good on his job performance report.

“We need your help, Reilly,” Van said when he returned. He took a seat opposite me at the table, all business.

“You don’t have to use the FBI voice. It’s just us.”

He gave me his in pain half smile. His eye had swollen completely shut, but he was still giving the instant ice a go.

“You’re the designated bearer of bad news,” I said. His posture gave him away. “They could have sent someone prettier. Right now you are the sore eye, not the sight for it.”

“Nice to see you have your sense of humor back.”

“Yeah.” I was still peeved.

“We have a plan to catch Goon and Ket and retrieve the dongle. And we need your help.”

I didn’t like the expectant way he was looking at me. Like I was bait he was ready to cast out and angle with. “Too desperate. Too calculating,” I said, critiquing his approach. “Try that again and put some sympathetic Agent Jack Malone into it. Soft, firm voice. Sympathetic eyes, in your case, eye.”

“Reilly…” He did his best Jack Malone imitation.

I couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll make this easy on you, Jack. If your plans involve me in the Cone of Silence, you got it. Mum’s the word. Anything else, forget it. Can I go now?” I pushed my chair back, ready to stand.

Van stood and blocked the door. “Not so fast. You haven’t even heard the plan yet.”

“I don’t have to. I take it that it involves more than silence.” I sighed, but remained seated. “Does it involve danger?”

“Danger, duplicity, acting skills. Everything you’ve learned in camp. What do you say?” He put that rah-rah tone in his voice that people use when they’re trying to rev you up about something as appealing as cold, canned spinach.

“You’re a lousy salesman. I don’t want danger and I’ve had more than enough of duplicity.” Okay, that was a direct barb.

“Reilly, please?”

“Can you guarantee a happy ending?”

“Nothing in this life is guaranteed. I am authorized to offer you a limited warranty.”

I stared him down. “Why do I have the feeling ‘limited’ refers to notifying my next of kin when the whole plan backfires?”

His answering grin wasn’t as pretty as it used to be. The black eye and the wince of pain thrown in ruined the whole effect.

“No thanks.”

“The odds are in our favor.” He was still doing the grin/grimace of pain thing. Which played on my heartstrings, probably just as he’d planned. Even banged up, he was damned cute. And he had probably saved my life. “If we succeed, your problems with Ket are a thing of the past.”

“The odds better be better than fifty-one to forty-nine. They’d better be a lot closer to ninety-nine to one.”

“They are.”

“Uh-huh. You’re a big, black-eyed bluffer.” I put my ice pack and my hands on the table. It was a whole lot better than having my hands trembling in my lap.

“So you’re in?”

“Not so fast. I never sign a contract without reading the fine print. First, I want to know everything about Canarino and the dongle. Then, I’ll want to hear the plan. Then we’ll talk.”

Van nodded. “Fair enough.”

“I’m Reilly the spy, and I’m listening.” I leaned back in the chair and wrapped myself back into the space blanket like I was waiting for a bedtime story.

“Thank you,” Van said, looking amused despite the tense situation. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Canarino,” I said. “I was reading fast at Mom’s.”

Van nodded again. “Like you said before, Canarino’s a high profile investigator who’s an expert in audio analysis. In the mid-nineties, he worked with a software guru named Wagner to develop a device that converted audio and spoken words into computer files. That doesn’t sound like much today. You can buy cheap consumer products that do that. But back then, it was a big deal.

“It was pretty low-tech, a shielded box that attached directly to phone lines and drew the power it needed directly from those lines so that it wouldn’t need a battery that would have to be replaced. The device could also capture the touch tones of the numbers the target dialed and read incoming numbers.

“Canarino claimed he was developing it for use for law enforcement. In reality, with the assistance of a phone company employee he bought off, he was using it for illegal wiretapping that he did on behalf of his clients.

“Canarino bought off several cops to break into DMV records and criminal history records that aren’t available outside of law enforcement. His clients had the edge, which made him very popular. And very rich. Canarino got results.”

I shuddered. “Dirty cops.”

“Don’t worry. We have them. They’ve been charged with racketeering, along with Canarino. We have them dead to rights on those charges.”

I nodded. “You didn’t miss any?”

“No.”

“How old is Canarino?” I asked.

“Sixty-nine.”

“What’s the sentence for the racketeering charges?”

“Twenty years.”

“You’ve got him for life then,” I said. “Why do you need the audio files?”

“Canarino and his clients violated the privacy rights of dozens, maybe hundreds, of people. Those people have the right to justice, don’t you think?”

“And you have many more fish to bring in and fry,” I said. “This could be a career-making case. Am I right?”