Читать книгу Baby Battalion - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 8

Nolan circled the warehouse. The man on the far north side sat on the ground with his back leaning against the building. His gun was holstered, and his eyes were closed. Nolan deepened his nap with a blow that rendered him unconscious and then fastened the guard’s wrists with a plastic tie.

The guy with the cigar was an equally easy takedown using a stun gun and a threat. “Make one sound and I’ll shoot off your kneecap.”

Nolan picked up the guard’s gun—a sleek black repeating rifle in the newest generation of M40s. The fine weapon illustrated how being well-armed didn’t matter as much as being well-disciplined. Any of the men in CSaI were capable of protecting a perimeter with nothing but a slingshot and a pocket knife.

As he moved to the corner of the warehouse, he heard a whisper from Cavanaugh, “We’re in position.”

“Do it.”

When fired, a flash-bang emitted smoke, made a loud explosion and a blinding burst of light. The grenade-size device was more effective when used in an enclosed space, but the noise and flare would provide enough of a distraction for them to move on the guards at the front of the building.

Nolan averted his gaze so he wouldn’t be blinded. As soon as he heard the bang, he ran at the guards. Before they could drop their cell phones and aim their weapons, the two men in dark windbreakers were down.

Nolan issued orders. “Cavanaugh, stay here, watch these guys. Coltrane, inside.”

At the door to the warehouse, Nolan didn’t hesitate. He kicked open the door, lobbed a smoke bomb inside and dove out of the way.

A volley of bullets from an automatic weapon sprayed through the doorway.

He heard the woman scream.

There was a lot of coughing. Another spurt of gunfire. More coughing.

Nolan and Coltrane used their infrared goggles to keep their vision clear. Coltrane held his rifle. Nolan had his stun gun and the guard’s M40. They charged through the door into the warehouse.

It wasn’t necessary to map out their strategy beforehand. They were both experienced military men who knew how to secure a building. Nolan went toward the right. Coltrane went left.

The warehouse was poorly lit with only a few bare bulbs. Through the smoke, Nolan saw an array of wooden crates, none of them stacked higher than his waist. Robby Jessop batted at the smoke and fired blindly. The woman had curled up on the concrete floor beside a desk.

“Who the hell are you?” Jessop yelled. “What do you want?”

Hiding behind crates, Nolan got within ten feet of Jessop before he made his move. It would have been tidier to zap him with the stun gun, but he wanted Jessop to be coherent and able to talk. That was the whole point.

When Jessop turned away from him, Nolan moved fast. He delivered a rabbit punch to the kidneys, tore the weapon from Jessop’s hands and knocked him face down onto the concrete. When he had Jessop’s wrists secured, he pulled him up and marched him through the warehouse.

“Don’t hurt me,” Jessop wailed. “I can pay. Just don’t hurt me.”

He was a coward. Good. He’d be too scared to hold out.

It had already been agreed that Coltrane would take the lead in the interrogation. His specialty was infiltration into enemy situations. Not only did he know what questions to ask, but he was smooth enough to convince Jessop to trust him.

Nolan wasn’t so glib, and his physical appearance was anything but charming. He didn’t frighten little children, not anymore. But the facial reconstruction after his injuries had been extensive. He looked like a man who had been to hell and carried the scars.

While Cavanaugh kept watch over the six guards, Nolan brought Jessop around to the other side of his Caddy and shoved him down on his butt. “Don’t move.”

“I’m telling you,” Jessop whined, “let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Nolan traded places with Coltrane, taking custody of the woman in the tight red dress. He pushed his goggles up on his forehead and looked down at her. “You got a name?”

“Becky Joy.” She glared up at him. Her eyes were red from the smoke bomb. “I have nothing to do with this guy. He was just a date.”

“Take the woman,” Jessop offered. “She’s yours.”

Angrily, she reacted. “You don’t own me. You don’t get to say who I belong to.”

“Settle down.” Nolan clamped his fingers around her wiry upper arm. “You won’t be hurt.”

Coltrane circled Jessop, who was sitting cross-legged in the dirt with his wrists fastened behind his back. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His shoulders shuddered as he gasped for breath. Jessop wasn’t fat or skinny; he was as soft as a lump of pink clay. His formerly pristine white shirt was smudged and spattered with tiny drops of blood from a cut at the corner of his mouth.

In a calm voice, Coltrane lulled the defense contractor into a state of cooperation as he talked about the business of supplying weaponry for America and its allies in Iraq and Afghanistan. Without accusing, he hinted that maybe Jessop sold some of his guns to insurgents or warlords. And maybe, just maybe, there was a connection with the opium trade. “But mostly,” Coltrane said, “you’re providing supplies for our troops. You’re a patriot.”

“That’s right.” Jessop licked at the blood in the corner of his mouth. “You’re military, aren’t you?”

“What was your first clue?”

“The way you boys stormed into the warehouse. You’ve been trained. I can tell.”

Disgusted, Nolan looked away. This marshmallow knew nothing about the military, except that he could make money selling guns. Coltrane’s gentle approach was trying his patience.

“There was a guy in Iraq you might have known,” Coltrane said. “Wes Bradley.”

“Sure. He was one of my contacts.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Maybe six months ago,” Jessop said. “Why? Are you looking for him? Is he the guy you’re after?”

“Could be,” Coltrane said.

Wes Bradley had been one of their primary suspects for the attacks on Governor Lockhart until they discovered that he’d been dead for over two years. Someone else was using his identity.

After Bart’s abduction, they tested blood that supposedly belonged to Bradley and found a DNA match in the military database for Victor Bellows, Bart’s son. But there was a problem with this identification. Victor had been stationed in Iraq and had been MIA for four years.

“I’ll talk,” Jessop said. “What do you want to know about Bradley?”

“Describe him.”

“Over six feet, thinning brown hair. Not a bad looking guy but he has those crazy eyes. Know what I mean? Those pale blue eyes that seem to stare right through you.”

Coltrane produced a high school photo of Victor Bellows. “Is this Wes Bradley?”

Jessop nodded. “He’s older now, but that’s him.”

It was confirmation. Victor Bellows—Bart’s only son—was involved in his father’s abduction. Either Victor was the kidnapper or he knew who was holding his father.

“I’ve got another question,” Coltrane said. “Do you know Bart Bellows?”

“I’ve heard the name.” Jessop’s manner shifted. He was edgy, not eager to talk about Bart. “He’s a billionaire, right?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Coltrane said. “We’re not here to enforce the law. But if you don’t cooperate, we’ll tell the CIA and Homeland Security about the weapons you’re holding in this warehouse.”

“If I talk, what do I get?”

Coltrane glanced over his shoulder at Nolan. “What can we offer?”

Nolan took out his cell phone. He had Omar Harris on speed dial. “As soon as I make this call, the CIA closes in. They’ll confiscate your weapons, but that shouldn’t be a problem for a patriot like you. These guns won’t end up in the hands of insurgents or thugs. All I can give you is fifteen minutes head start before I make the call.”

Jessop’s eyes darted. “That’s not much.”

“Take it or leave it.”

His mouth quivered. “There’s something big going down. It has to do with a case Bellows investigated in Afghanistan. It’s going to happen soon.”

“When?” Coltrane demanded.

“The next couple of weeks. Washington, D.C., is the location.”

Nolan felt a dark chill. Tess and his son lived in Arlington, too close to the threat. He held up his phone. “I need more. That’s too vague.”

“What do you mean?” Jessop wriggled, trying to free himself from the restraints.

“Something?” Nolan scoffed. “Something is happening in Washington? That’s about as useful as telling me that Santa Claus is coming to town. If that’s all you’ve got, I’m calling the law.”

“Don’t, please don’t,” Jessop begged. “I have a name. Just listen to me. The name is Greenaway.”

A blade of ice sliced into Nolan’s chest. Greenaway was the man who destroyed his life. Five years ago, Greenaway had threatened Tess and his unborn child. If he resurfaced, she was in imminent danger.

He had to find out more, had to stop Greenaway.

From the corner of his eye, Nolan saw the woman in the red dress moving. Too slowly, he turned toward her.

A gunshot exploded.

Blood spread across Jessop’s chest. He fell to his side in the dirt.

The woman dropped her gun. Where the hell had she been hiding that weapon? Her dress was so damn tight that she could barely walk. She raised her hands. “You can arrest me. I don’t care what happens.”

Nolan hadn’t expected this, hadn’t been prepared. “Why?”

“Jessop killed my mother. The bastard deserves to die.”

But not yet. Not when Jessop had information Nolan needed.

The possibility that Greenaway was involved changed the focus of Nolan’s search for Bart. He needed to be in Washington, D.C., as soon as possible, and he had to make certain that Tess was safe.

THE OFFICE FOR Donovan Event Planning was a small storefront near Ballston Common Mall in Arlington. After dropping Joey off at day care, Tess arrived at a few minutes after ten in the morning. She hung her burgundy coat and the jacket of her black pantsuit in the closet and went to the sleek Plexiglas front desk where she sat and closed her eyes for a two-minute meditation.

Getting herself and her son ready in the morning took a lot of energy. Though Joey liked playing with the other kids at his day care, she always felt a twinge of guilt about leaving him. It had never been her intention to be a single mother.

She inhaled through her nostrils and exhaled through her mouth. In her mind, she pictured a blue horizon above a still body of water. Clouds blew in, and the sky and sea faded to the white of a blank slate. A fresh start.

With her eyes refreshed, she rose from the desk and looked with pride at her clean line, modern office. The pale blue walls were hung with clear-framed photos of events, awards and a couple of personal pictures. The chairs at either end of the long white leather sofa were royal purple and lime green.

She enjoyed meeting with clients in this area where she wowed them with old-fashioned scrapbooks of prior events and a brand-new digital presentation that outlined her capabilities.

Behind a half-wall partition at the back of the office was the casual break room with a fridge, a counter and a little round table. There was also a play area for Joey, file cabinets and a scheduling board. Tess went to the coffee maker and got the first pot of the day started.

She heard the front door open and peeked around the partition. Her sense of serenity took an immediate hit when she confronted a muscular man with thick, curly black hair. Pierre LeBrune was the head chef for the catering company she was using for the Lockhart Christmas Eve event. Though he didn’t have an accent and probably wasn’t really from France, he dressed in splendid European style from his silk necktie to his flashy platinum Patek Philippe wristwatch.

She didn’t dare offer him her less-than-perfect coffee. “Good morning, Chef.”

“We have a problem, Mrs. Donovan.”

It wasn’t the first. Pierre had popped up at her office a half-dozen times over the past three months to nitpick. The company he owned with two partners was one of the top-notch caterers in Washington, D.C., and it was the first time she’d worked with them.

Usually Tess used the catering service she’d founded, but the Smithsonian insisted she choose from a list of caterers they had worked with before. Though inconvenient for her, she understood that all the cooks and servers needed security clearance to work after hours in the National Museum of American History, where so many patriotic artifacts were on display.

She gestured to the sofa. “Would you like to sit?”

He sneered at the furniture as though the white leather upholstery wasn’t good enough for him. “I won’t be here long. I have a problem with the meat supplier.”

“You have a beef with the beef?”

Ignoring her attempt to lighten the mood, he glared. “I prefer using my regular butcher. This Texas beef doesn’t rise to my standards.”

“I’m sorry, Chef. Our client is the governor of Texas, and she specified the supplier.” She added a compliment. “I know Governor Lockhart is looking forward to your sage-encrusted prime rib.”

He managed to preen and scowl at the same time. “What about the poultry supplier?”

“Also specifically requested. You’ll have to find a way to use free-range Texas chickens.”

“This is unacceptable. I have a reputation.”

He most certainly did. Everyone had told Tess that Pierre was a royal pain in the butt. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to please the client. Did you know that she’s being seriously considered as a candidate for president?”

“Oh.” His thick eyebrows lifted. “I had no idea.”

“Just be glad she didn’t demand barbecue,” she said. “You’re a culinary legend, Pierre. You’ll find a way to make this work.”

“Indeed, I will.”

He pivoted and left.

Had she bitten off more than she could chew with this super fancy sit-down dinner? An evening at the Smithsonian wasn’t her style. As her office manager, Trudy Benson, often reminded her, Donovan Event Planning was best suited to arranging birthday parties with clowns and petting zoos.

Expanding her business to include more sophisticated events was a good move financially, but it wasn’t easy. In a city where everything was measured in terms of influence and leverage, she had zero clout. Yesterday, the events coordinator at the Smithsonian had no trouble turning down her request to see the blueprints. If Tess was going to change her mind, she needed somebody important on her side. Bart Bellows would have been perfect for the job. He could have used his CIA contacts.

The minute she thought of using Bart, she was ashamed of herself. He’d been missing for weeks. Her little problems were nothing compared to what he was going through. God, she hoped he was all right.

She filled her coffee mug and checked out the huge whiteboard where Trudy kept the monthly schedule updated. Five days before Christmas, the Smithsonian dinner was the only event for the week. Next week, she had two small New Year’s Eve parties. Today, Tess would meet a client at lunchtime to plan a dinner party in January.

When she heard the front door open, she poured black coffee into Trudy’s mug and stepped around the partition. “Thank goodness, you’re here. I need your help.”

The person who had entered wasn’t perky, gray-haired Trudy Benson. He was the opposite. A tall, husky man in black slacks, a gray turtleneck and a black leather jacket, he was solid, powerful and totally masculine. Though he wore dark aviator glasses, she felt him staring at her.

Soundlessly, he crossed the floor and took the coffee mug from her hand. When his fingers brushed hers, electricity sparked between them. The buzz surprised her. It had been years since she’d felt that kind of reaction to a man.

She licked her lips. “You’re not Trudy.”

“But I’d be happy to help you. In any way I can.”

His low, raspy voice vibrated in the air between them. In that instant, Tess decided that he was the sexiest man she’d ever met. He wasn’t handsome in the conventional way. His face was rugged and scarred. His brow was heavy, and his nose looked like it had been smashed with a hammer.

She stammered, “Who are you?”

“Nolan Law.”

The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She held out her hand as she introduced herself. “I’m Tess Donovan.”

His grasp was firm. His hand was rough and calloused. His touch increased the spark she’d felt into a thousand-volt shock. She was actually trembling. “C-c-can I help you?”

“I’m handling security for Governor Lockhart’s event.”

“I thought Stacy’s fiancé was in charge.”

“The situation merits my attention,” he said. “With Bart gone, I’m in charge.”

Yes, you are. She’d take orders from Mr. Law any day of the week.