Читать книгу Secret Agent, Secret Father - Donna Young - Страница 8

“He’s coming, Mr. Kragen.”

Oliver Kragen sat on a park bench as dawn broke over the Chesapeake Bay. His enforcer, Frank Sweeney, stood no more then ten feet away, his bulky frame eclipsing the sun behind him. Dressed in an Armani suit, the man appeared more like a pro football player ready to renegotiate his contract than the mercenary he was.

And that’s exactly why Oliver had hired him.

“I’ll give you odds the bastard screwed up.”

Oliver didn’t acknowledge Sweeney’s comment. Instead, he waited until the click of shoe soles sounded behind him. Rather than turn in greeting, Oliver tossed the remainder of his Danish to a nearby pigeon. After all, Boyd Webber wasn’t a peer, he was an employee.

“She’s dead.”

Oliver glanced at Sweeney, a silent order to leave. Once the big man stepped away, Kragen spoke up, but his focus remained on the pigeons at their feet. “How?” The question was low, pleasant.

Boyd wasn’t fooled. But he didn’t care, either. The exmarine had more than two dozen kills under his belt and had survived more horrors than the bloodiest special effects ever created. Nothing on this earth made him afraid of dying. Least of all a weasel like Kragen. “The Garrett woman had a gun. They both did. It forced my hand.”

“They forced your hand because they were armed? They’re government operatives. What did you expect, Webber?” Kragen’s voice hardened. “If I remember right, I told you it was imperative that the Garrett woman was to be brought to me. Alive.”

“It was a mistake. They killed one of my men, wounded another. The third man targeted Lomax, but somehow the woman took a stray bullet in the chest.”

“And this third man?”

“I killed him.”

“To save me the trouble? Or him the pain?”

“I was…angry.” More than angry. Infuriated. Enough to lose his cool and shoot until the woman was dead. Enough to murder another man—one of his own—who had witnessed his transgression. “My man should have been more careful,” he lied.

In Webber’s opinion, Helene Garrett deserved no better than to die in a gutter. She had betrayed Senator D’Agostini. Slept with him, used him, stolen from him. End of her, end of story. Or it should have been. But the files were still missing.

“Did you clean up your mess?” Kragen’s eyes shifted to his coffee cup. He took a sip, burned his tongue and swore.

“I thought it better to leave things.” Resentment slithered down Webber’s back, coiled deep within his belly. He studied Kragen’s profile with derision. Kragen was the poster-boy politician. The meticulous, trimmed blond hair that enhanced the high slant of the cheekbones, the aristocratic forehead. A nose so straight that Webber would bet his last dime that Kragen had it cosmetically carved. All packaged in a five-figure topcoat and custom suit. All done to hide the trailer-park genes that ran through Poster Boy’s veins.

“You killed your man without consulting me first.” Oliver glanced up then. Twin metallic-gray eyes pinned, then dismissed the mercenary in one flicker.

“I consulted with the senator beforehand,” Webber responded.

Oliver noted the verbal jab, but chose to ignore it for the moment. “Did you search the bar? Her apartment?”

“She’d moved out of her apartment days ago and left nothing behind. And we had no time to search the bar. Lomax was the priority.”

“The woman had the files and the code,” Oliver insisted. “I want the bar searched. And I want Lomax found.”

“Shouldn’t take long. We winged Lomax before he slipped away. We found his car wrapped around a light pole.”

“Did you follow the blood?”

“Witnesses told the police he took off down the street but the rain washed away any bloody trail.”

“And the police? What do they say?” Oliver prompted, his annoyance buried under a tone of civility. More than the Neanderthal deserved, in Oliver’s opinion.

To say that Webber was ugly would have been polite. He had the face of a boxer, flat and scarred from too many alley fights, and a bulbous nose from too much booze. Like Sweeney, he wore a tailored suit, had no neck and too much muscle. Unlike Sweeney, he sported a butch cut so close it left the color of his hair in question.

“The police are questioning the bar manager. An ex-con by the name of Pusher Davis.”

“If the man is an ex-con, they’ll suspect him first,” Oliver observed. “Tail him, just to be sure. I don’t want any loose ends.”

“There won’t be. The police won’t get anywhere. Helene Garrett will become just another statistic in a long line of unsolved homicides,” Boyd explained.

For the moment, Oliver ignored the arrogance underlying Webber’s words. “They have Lomax’s blood on the scene.”

Webber snorted. “Won’t do them any good if they have no records to match it with. Right now, the cops don’t have any information on either of them. Or the senator’s connection to her.”

Webber was right. Oliver had gone to great lengths to keep the senator’s relationship with Helene Garrett private. A precaution he practiced with all the senator’s mistresses. “That won’t get us the Primoris files or the code. We need to find Lomax.”

“My men are checking nearby hospitals and clinics.”

“You actually expect him to show up on some grid? He’s injured, not stupid, Webber,” he snapped, annoyed over the fact that this wouldn’t have happened if Helene hadn’t slipped under their radar.

Oliver had investigated Helene months before the senator had started the affair. With his contacts, it took Oliver no more than a few calls to get everything from her finances to her elementary school records. False records, as it turned out.

“From the look of his car seat, he’s lost a lot of blood. If he passed out, he’d have no choice. Someone might have taken him to the hospital.”

“Find him.”

“It would help if you could give me more than just his name.”

“I gave you his name and the time and place of the meeting.” Oliver paused, his eyes critical. “It should have been enough.”

“I told you, they forced my hand. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Just find Lomax and keep him alive. I don’t care what it takes,” Oliver ordered, already making plans to advise the senator to call an emergency meeting. The others would have to be informed. “That bitch stole the Primoris file. I want it back. Do you understand?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Boyd responded automatically. “And the police?”

“I’ll make a few calls. Jacob Lomax won’t be on their data banks unless I arrange to put him there.”

“Are you thinking of making the murder public?” Webber questioned.

“No.” Any unwanted attention at this stage could sabotage their plans. “At least not for now.” Not until the others met and reevaluated the situation. They were too close to their goal.

“How about her partner?” Webber asked. “Grace Renne?”

Oliver considered the possibility. “She might know something. Or at the very least, have seen something.” Oliver remembered faces, names. It was vital in his world. He’d met Miss Renne once at some sort of political function—one of many. At the time, the association between Helene and Doctor Charles Renne’s daughter seemed coincidental—and, in his mind, added to Helene’s credibility. But now…

“They had lunch yesterday afternoon,” Webber prompted.

“Then you should have already had someone talking to her this morning.” Oliver stood, his gaze back on the horizon. He didn’t like disloyalty within his ranks. And those who were foolish enough to betray him suffered. “I’m here in Washington, D.C., with the senator until after the fundraising ball tomorrow night. You know how to get hold of me. And I mean me, Webber. The senator is too busy with the upcoming election to be bothered with this. Do you understand?”

Not waiting for an answer, Oliver turned to Sweeney. “Frank.” He waited the moment it took for the enforcer to join them. “You’re with Webber. Make sure he does his job this time.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“Yes, sir.” Sweeney stepped behind the mercenary, boxing the man in between Kragen and himself.

“One more thing.” Oliver grabbed Webber’s wrist. When Webber automatically jerked back, Sweeney clamped down on his shoulder, holding him in place with a viselike grip.

“I want to make sure they don’t force your hand this time.” Slowly, Oliver poured the cup of coffee into Webber’s palm. Within moments, the hot liquid raised blisters. “Be diplomatic, Webber,” he cautioned with noncommittal coolness.

Webber nodded, his jaw tightened against the pain until the skin turned white under his ruddy complexion. “And if the Renne woman doesn’t want to cooperate?”

Oliver dropped the mercenary’s wrist and tossed the cup to the ground. “Then be discreet.”