A bath, some food, and she’d go back to bed for a while.
Food first or she might not make it through the bath. She scrounged around the kitchen, considered having food delivered, then changed her mind when she found Thai leftovers and a glazed doughnut for dessert.
The bath was almost as refreshing as brushing her teeth. She spent every day in T-shirts and sweatpants, what she called frumpy comfort. But to sleep she slid on a silk camisole and lace panties, her little self-indulgence. Never having to think about her appearance was just one perk of living in seclusion. A sad chuckle escaped at the sarcastic logic.
Gabrielle whipped back the covers on her bed, snuggled down beneath them, and drifted right off to deep sleep.
An annoying noise infiltrated her swirling dreams.
She tried to ignore the sound. Her body pleaded for her to ignore it, but the stupid sound wouldn’t leave her alone.
She’d have to disconnect her clock.
Ding, ding. Silence.
Ding, ding. Silence.
Gabrielle’s eyes flew open. Not the clock.
The security alarm.
CARLOS GRABBED HIS bag out of the overhead bin and filed into line exiting the airplane and headed for customs at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.
He checked his cell phone for the local time-4:00 p.m.-then keyed a text message to headquarters, informing the director he’d arrived and would head to Nashville as soon as he made a stop at home.
Calling the expansive four-bedroom cabin in the north-Georgia mountains home was a stretch since he didn’t own or rent it, but that was all he had. Telling lies about his past, such as that he’d grown up in Bolivia instead of Venezuela, hadn’t protected his identity. He’d even kept an apartment in Nashville at one time, until the Anguis soldier recognized him three years ago. After that, he stored his few belongings in the cabin, which served as a safe house. The only possession he truly cared about-the photo of him and his little brother when they were kids-was in the cabin’s safe. A rival of the Anguis’s had shot his brother to retaliate for a slight by Durand the day before the kid would have graduated, with honors, from college.
The cabin served as one of their many secure residences where any agent could spend downtime or take a prisoner temporarily.
All Carlos needed for a home.
All he’d ever risk having.
He scrubbed a hand over his cheek, scratching at the whiskers, too tired to bother shaving when he’d showered eleven hours ago. And if he didn’t get a haircut soon he’d have to start pulling his hair back into a ponytail. The yawn caught him off guard.
He’d stolen a catnap on the flight back from Charles de Gaulle Airport in France, but it hadn’t been worth a damn. His mind had refused to let him forget the lifeless feel of Mandy’s body when he’d carried her onto the helo…or the gruesome image that blossomed when he’d cut her out of the snowmobile suit. The sharp scent of blood had clashed with biting-cold air. He’d sucked in a breath at her washed-out skin and blue lips, the makeshift bandage soaked with what had appeared to be every drop of blood from her body.
A sick ball of failure had crashed through his gut.
But miraculously she’d still had a pulse. The medics started an immediate infusion and kept her alive until they reached a secure facility outside Paris where he’d left her.
Mandy’s prognosis sucked, but she hadn’t died in his arms.
She had a chance.
Gotthard would send word on Mandy as soon as he landed in Nashville. Korbin and Rae should be hitting D.C. and New York about now, everyone returning on separate flights for security.
Carlos stepped up to the customs desk and gave all the standard answers to wary-eyed officials. Did they practice looking suspicious in mirrors?
Welcome to the United States. Don’t even think about chewing gum the wrong way.
He maneuvered around pockets of weary passengers flowing toward the exit like a lazy stream and had reached the upstairs main terminal when his cell phone started buzzing.
When he flipped it open, one message popped up.
Call office immediately. Translation: Urgent.
Carlos keyed the speed dial.
“You through customs?” Joe said without any salutation.
“Yep.” Carlos pushed through the glass exit doors of the terminal. Smokers flooded the humid Atlanta air with nicotine as they sucked on either their first or last cigarette.
“We found the source.”
Mirage.
Last Carlos had heard before flying home was that BAD had traced the IP address to a computer in Russia, where Joe had extensive contacts. That could mean anything or anyone. A UK team from BAD had also been closing in on a London location right before his airplane lifted off. Which one found Mirage?
Carlos snapped to attention. He checked his watch, calculating the possibility of catching an international flight at this time of day.
“Great. Fly to Gatwick?” Carlos strode quickly to the other side of the airport thoroughfare where traffic flowed between the parking garage and the terminal. He could be headed anywhere in the world since the post had been bounced to a hacked computer system in Romania, then Russia. But the minute BAD had pinned down the Russian IP and gained authorization to trace the path from there, a team of agents on the ground and in BAD’s headquarters had waited on Mirage to make a mistake.
“No,” Joe told him. “That’s why I sent an urgent message. The bulk of our immediate resources were shipped to the UK as a starting point since language data programs we ran the posts through indicated our source could be from there, but that might have only been to throw us a curve.” Joe was saying the informant was either not in the UK or not from the UK.
“Where?” Carlos shook off any last exhaustion with that word, ready to track the bastard down.
“Georgia. Peachtree City.”
“Are you serious?” Carlos spun around and rushed up the ramp to the parking deck.
“Yes. That’s why I called you. I’ve only got one local asset and he’s on the way to the location.” Joe paused and sounded as though he sighed. “I sent instructor Lee.”
Carlos jammed his parking ticket into the payment kiosk and stuck his credit card in next, willing it to process quicker. “Instructor? When did that happen?” Instructor was code for “field agent” since this was not a secure line. Lee couldn’t be ready for prime time yet.
“Today. No choice. Nobody else close enough besides you.”
“Where is he?” Carlos snatched the paid ticket the minute the machine spit it out and picked up his pace, eyes searching for his steel-blue 750i BMW.
“Ten minutes away from the meet spot.”
“Send him a message to wait, no matter what-”
“I gave him guidelines. You’ll get a text with the meet location next. He has the rest.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Carlos shut the phone and found his car. Just in time to toss his bag into the trunk, climb behind the wheel, and release a scalding curse.
Welcome home. Deposit any hope of the day ending on a good note and charge toward a situation with as much planning as a train wreck.
The only redeeming factor?
Carlos got first shot at interrogating the snitch on Durand Anguis. To find out what angle Mirage was working. Informants always wanted something, always had an ulterior motive.
And he hadn’t met one yet that wasn’t a criminal.
He could list four countries off the top of his head that would jump at the chance to get this one. They could have him as soon as Carlos got what he wanted.
GABRIELLE JUMPED UP, tossed on a gray long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, then shoved her feet into sneakers with Velcro clasps. The perfect shoes for quick exits. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, which informed her she’d slept a half hour.
How long had the security alarm been sounding?
She hit the wall button to shut off the repeating double ring, then ran to the closet and snatched up a backpack that held clothes, money, passport, and a few more necessities. Always.
On the way to the living room, she took her hair out of the clamp at the back of her head, then twisted her hair up and stuck a cap over it. Swallowing was difficult. Fear climbed the constricted muscles of her throat and threatened to strangle her by the time she reached her desk. She lunged for her laptop, working the keys in between slinging a scarf around her neck and shrugging on her knee-length khaki trench coat. Two clicks of the mouse and her monitor split into six screens, showing the areas scanned by digital video cameras positioned around the house.
Five frames revealed nothing unusual.
Number six covered the yard leading up to the front door…where a giant man in an ill-fitting brown suit walked up the first step to her porch.
Slow, heavy steps thumped on the wooden boards.
Gabrielle snapped her laptop shut and shoved it into a case with a shoulder strap that held all the accessories. Where to go? She’d always planned on having enough notice to reach her four-wheel-drive Jeep and take a path through the woods, one advantage of living in a community with eighty miles of golf-cart paths. Her gaze slashed to the picture window at the rear of the house, filled with a serene image of Lake Peachtree and a boat dock with a runabout tied up. With a full gas tank.
She’d make a perfect target alone on the lake.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He couldn’t be a salesman. The sign next to the mailbox at the head of the driveway stated clearly NO TRESPASSING, VIOLATORS WILL BE ARRESTED.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Gabrielle grabbed her car keys on the off chance she could reach her Jeep. Which would already have happened if she hadn’t been so exhausted so the alarm would have roused her faster.
From the other side of the door, a deep voice said, “Law enforcement. Open up.”
That froze her. FBI? If they’d tracked her electronically, he could very well be CIA since she’d routed everything through several bounced locations to an IP in London.
“The house is surrounded.”
Her heart jumped a foot.
Bloody hell. Options ran through her mind at blinding speed since she only had two.
Running, option one, was pointless.
Gabrielle accepted option two, turned around, and went to the foyer, hoping to bluff her way out. She plastered a smile on her face and opened the door.
“Can I help you? I was on my way out-” She paused to stare up six and a half feet off the floor at a face that would launch a million nightmares. Pocked skin, hulking posture, and a thick neck. Salt-and-pepper hair.
“You don’t look like Harry Beaker,” he said.
“I’m not. Harry isn’t here, but I’ll be happy to take a message for him.” More smiling. Could she be so lucky he was only looking for Harry? She clutched the door with one hand and the door frame with the other to hide her trembling.
“And you are?”
“Gabrielle Parker. I’m just a renter. I’ll make sure Harry gets your message, but I need to go or I’ll be late.” She’d call Harry the minute she got free if this guy really was looking for him. Harry was pushing ninety, an ex-marine and feisty. She doubted even the CIA could intimidate him.
“I’m not looking for Harry. I’m looking for you,” he said.
Her skin prickled at the threat in his voice. “Who are you?” That hadn’t come out like the demand she’d hoped for, but had been the best she could do with a dry throat and staring at someone who might be from Durand Anguis.
He reached inside his jacket.
Her heart thumped a panicked beat.
“Special Agent Curt Morton with the DEA,” he said, flipping his badge out for a couple seconds before closing the case and shoving it back inside his jacket. He offered her a smile she wished he hadn’t. Those big teeth and crooked nose were almost as scary as his flat gray eyes. “Sorry if I gave you a start, but I wanted to be sure before I said too much.”
“Sure of what?” she asked, breathless as someone who had just finished a five-mile race. Or close to hyperventilating.
“That you’re the one who’s been sending electronic messages to intelligence agencies about Durand Anguis.”
Busted. And exposed. Durand would find her for sure now.
CARLOS MOTIONED FOR Lee to follow him when he closed the door on a dark blue Suburban and stepped away. The vehicle was parked just off a private driveway in Peachtree City and hidden from the road by a copse of trees. With an unconscious driver.
His feet and hands were bound with flex cuffs, which would hold him until Carlos had time for a full interrogation. The driver had a DEA badge on him, but the credentials were phony.
Carlos couldn’t pull the thug’s real name to mind, but he’d seen that face and cauliflower ear before. The driver had been part of an electronics bust last year. Hired muscle who offered bargains.
Discount muscle was like eating cheap sushi.
A risk to your health.
Sticks snapped. Carlos cut his eyes at Lee, who grimaced at the noise. Rookies were a risk, too, but Joe wouldn’t send someone wet behind his ears. And Lee had ancient eyes in a young man’s face. Hard eyes, but he must have come off the streets and lacked experience in wooded terrain.
Waving a hand, Carlos dismissed the misstep and moved ahead, sorting through his options.
Someone had clearly beaten them to the informant. Who? And was the driver’s partner here to grab the informant…or meet with him? At least two had to be involved. The guy in the car was likely a lookout, a poor one, so the partner could be at the house by now.
Carlos moved quickly through the woods, parallel to the driveway. Light faded faster with each step, tossing shadows through the sparse woods.
Who had beaten him here?
He paused at a curve in the driveway where an open area-the front yard-appeared in the next twenty feet.
He turned to Lee. The young guy’s sharp hazel eyes burned with determination. Not quite eye level with Carlos or as heavy-built, Lee stood just over six feet tall, trim, muscular body dressed for the task in camo pants and long-sleeved, dark green shirt.