Читать книгу Tactical Force - Elle James - Страница 11

Anne Bellamy finished editing the document her boss had given her just before he’d left for the gym at exactly four thirty that afternoon. She’d stayed two hours past the end of the usual day in the office of the national security advisor located in the West Wing of the White House to clean up, fact-check and finish the job. The last one out of the office, she gathered her purse and checked her cell phone.

A text message had come through during the time she’d logged off her computer and collected her purse.

Unknown caller.

Curious as to who had her phone number and was texting her so late in the evening, Anne brought up her text messages and frowned down at the cryptic message.

TRINITY LIVES.

Her heart skipped several beats before settling into the swift pace of one who was running for her life. Anne hadn’t heard anything about Trinity since the man who’d recruited her to spy on government officials had been murdered.

Her gut clenched and she felt like she might throw up as she returned the text.

Sorry, you must have the wrong number.

She waited, her breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering against her eardrums.

John Halverson died because he’d got too close.

Anne gasped and glanced around her office, wondering if anyone was watching or could see the texts she was receiving. Wondering if she was doing the right thing, or revealing herself to the wrong persons, she responded to the text again.

Halverson is dead.

Again, Anne waited, afraid of the response, but afraid not to reply.

Halverson was on the right track.

Anne’s heart squeezed hard in her chest. John Halverson had been a good man, with a heart as big as they came. He cared about his country and what was happening to tear it apart.

When he’d come to her, he’d caught her at a vulnerable point in her career. A point at which she’d considered leaving the political nightmare to take a position as a secretary or receptionist for a doctor’s office. Anything to get out of the demoralizing, disheartening work she did with men and women who didn’t always have the best interests of the nation at heart, whose careers and post-government jobs in media and lobbying meant more to them than the country’s future.

Anne had kept her head down and her thoughts to herself since Halverson’s death, afraid that whoever had murdered the man would come after her. If they knew her association with Halverson, and her involvement in uncovering the graft and corruption inside the office of the National Security Council, she’d be the next target.

She knew Trinity had a firm foothold in the government, and they weren’t afraid to pounce on those who dared to cross them or squeal on their activities. The problem was that they were so well entrenched you couldn’t tell a friend from a terrorist.

She stared at her phone screen. Was someone trying to warn her? Or flush her out into the open?

Either way, someone knew her secret. She could be the next casualty, courtesy of Trinity.

Anne quickly keyed in her message, not feeling terribly confident she was putting an end to the communication.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone.

A moment later came a response.

Can’t. They’re planning an attack. A lot of people could be hurt. I need your help to stop it.

Anne pressed a hand to her breast to still her pounding heart.

No. No. No.

She wasn’t the kind of person who could easily lie or pretend. Anne had always been an open book. Anyone could read any emotion on her face. She’d argued this with Halverson, but he’d insisted she could help him. She was in a strategic position, one that touched on a number of key players in politics.

If Trinity had sleeper cells in those positions, she could spot them before anyone else. Theoretically.

Anne hated that Halverson had paid the ultimate price. At the same time, she no longer had to report things she saw or heard, which meant she didn’t have to worry that she was being watched or targeted.

Until now. Until the text warning her about Trinity.

Shooting a glance around the office and the four corners of the room, she wondered if anyone had a webcam recording her every move. She’d gotten good at discovering small audio and video recording devices stashed in telephone receiver units, lights, ceiling tiles, potted plants and office furniture.

She made a habit of scouring the room at least once a day. She’d found a small audio device once, early on, when Halverson had still been alive. They’d met at a bookstore in Arlington, where Halverson had identified the device and told her about others she should be on the lookout for.

Since Halverson’s death, she’d continued looking over her shoulder. As time passed, she’d become lax. No one appeared to be following her or watching her.

How wrong had she been? And why had this person come to her now?

Instead of answering the previous text, she shoved her phone into her purse and left her office. Her heart hammered against her ribs and her breathing came in shallow pants. She was overreacting. That was all there was to it.

But who had given out her phone number? And how did they know she’d once been involved with Halverson? She’d kept that part of her life as clandestine as possible. Trying to ensure her trysts with Halverson were in as out-of-the-way a venue as she could, she’d usually met him in a public library, where running into people she worked with was highly unlikely. It wasn’t a bar, and it wasn’t a coffee shop. She’d thought it was the best cover of all. How many terrorists did she know who made good use of a public library?

She’d never been to Halverson’s mansion, and she’d always worn a disguise when she’d met with him at the library, never driving her own car, but taking public transportation.

Once out in the open, she inhaled fresh night air. Anne had been so busy working she hadn’t realized it had rained earlier. The ground was still wet, and light reflected off the standing puddles. Her phone vibrated inside her purse, causing her heart to skip a beat. She ignored it and strode toward the Metro station, wishing she’d left while there was still some daylight chasing away the shadows. Though night had settled in, people still moved around the city. Men and women dressed in business suits, dress shoes and trench coats hurried home from office buildings, after a long day at work. Still, the number of people headed toward the train station was significantly less than during the regular rush hours.

Anne wished she’d worn her tennis shoes to work rather than the tight, medium-heeled pumps that had been pinching her feet since five o’clock that morning.

Again, the phone vibrated in her purse. She could feel the movement where her purse rested against her side. Ignoring the insistent pulsation, she moved quickly, determined to make the next Metro train headed toward Arlington, where she lived in a modest apartment.

Footsteps sounded behind her.

Anne shot a glance over her shoulder. A man wearing a black jacket and jeans strode behind her, less than half a block away. He also wore a dark baseball cap, shading his face and eyes from the streetlights he passed beneath.

Alarm bells rang in Anne’s head. She increased her pace.

The man behind her sped up, as well.

Still a couple of blocks away from the train station, Anne realized the streets had become deserted. The people she’d passed earlier must have hopped into taxis or found their cars in the paid parking lots.

Alone and on the street with a man following too closely behind her, Anne couldn’t move fast enough. Then she remembered there was a restaurant at the corner of the next street, which now became her new, short-range goal. Clutching her purse to her side, she sprinted for the door, her feet moving as fast as they could in heels. She didn’t slow to see if the man following her was running, too. She only knew she had to get to that restaurant.

When she reached the restaurant door, she almost sobbed. It was closed—the lights were turned out and no one moved inside.

A quick glance behind her assured her the man had kept up. Whether he’d had to run or not wasn’t important. He was still there. Striding toward her, his feet eating the distance between them.

Anne’s gaze darted around her, searching for a pub, a convenience store or pharmacy. Anything that stayed open late and had people inside. The block consisted of still more office buildings, closed for the night. She had no choice but to continue on toward the train station and pray she reached it before him.

Starting out with a purposeful stride, she walked fast toward the Metro stop, watching the reflections in the glass windows of the office buildings beside her for the image of the man tailing her. When he appeared in the reflection, Anne shot forward, running all out.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her pulse pounded so hard against her eardrums she could barely hear. Rounding a corner, she spied a pub, its sign lit up over the door. With the Metro station still too far to make, she set her sights on the pub and raced toward the door.

Just as she was reaching out, a hand descended on her shoulder and jerked her back. Oh, sweet heaven, he’d caught her. She braced herself for the fight of her life.

At that moment, the pub door opened, and a group of men exited, laughing and talking to each other.

The hand on Anne’s shoulder fell away.

With renewed hope, Anne dove through the men and into the pub. Once inside, she went straight to the bar.

“What can I get you?”

“Someone tried to grab me outside the bar,” she gushed, her breathing catching in her throat.

The bartender leaned toward her. “You okay?” He glanced past her to a large man standing near the exit.

The man, probably a bouncer, came forward.

“This lady said a man tried to grab her,” the bartender told him.

“What was he wearing?” the bouncer asked.

She shook her head. “Dark clothes and a baseball cap, I think. I don’t know. I was running too fast to notice.”

The bouncer nodded and left the pub. He was back a minute later, shaking his head. “No one out there fitting your description. In fact, there was no one out there at all. I walked a block in both directions.”

Anne let go of the breath she’d been holding. Even if the man wasn’t within a block either direction, he might be lying in wait for her to continue her progress to the Metro stop. Anne couldn’t bring herself to step outside the pub.

“We’re closing early tonight for kitchen renovations, lady. You got about thirty minutes until we lock up. Is there anyone I could call for you?” the bartender asked, his expression worried.

Anne shook her head. She didn’t have any close friends. She had acquaintances from work. That was it. They had their own lives and she had her solitary existence. Then she remembered John Halverson giving her his phone number and telling her if ever she needed anything, she should call that number.

But he was dead.

Would anyone answer at the number? Did he still have a staff of people working for the same things he had?

Anne pulled her phone out of her purse and stared down at the icon for her text messages. She didn’t want to look at them. Everything had been fine until she’d started receiving the texts.

She pulled up her contacts list and dialed the number Halverson had given her, not knowing if anyone would actually answer.

The line rang several times.

Anne was about to give up when the ringing stopped and a woman answered, “Hello?”

Not knowing what to say, Anne blurted, “I know John Halverson is dead, but I need help. He gave me this number and said to call if I ever needed anything. Please tell me you can help.” She stopped and waited for a response, her heart thudding, her gut clenched.

“This is John’s wife. Are you in a safe place?”

Anne nodded and then said, “For the moment, but this place closes in thirty minutes. I was being followed and I’m afraid to leave.”

“Stay there. I’ll have someone come to collect you.”

“But you don’t even know me.”

“You’re a human being in need of assistance. I don’t care who you are. I’ll have someone see you to your home or the police station. Wherever you need to go.”

“Thank you,” Anne said, sagging with relief. “I’m sorry for what happened to your husband. He was a good man.”

“Me, too. If he gave you his number, he would have wanted me to help you. Rest assured, I’m sending someone. Give me the address.”

Anne had to ask the bartender for the address. Once she’d relayed it to Mrs. Halverson, the widow insisted she stay on the phone until the person she sent arrived.

“That won’t be necessary. As long as I can remain in the pub, I’ll be all right,” Anne said.

“Then I’ll get right on it,” Mrs. Halverson said. “I’ll text with an expected time of arrival as soon as I have one.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Halverson.”

“Don’t call me Mrs. Halverson. I go by Charlie,” the woman said.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Anne said, correcting herself, and rang off.

A moment later, a text came across.

Jack will be there in twenty minutes.

That was a text Anne could live with, though she wondered who Jack was, what he looked like and what he’d be driving.

JACK SNOW HAD left his apartment in Arlington an hour earlier, too wound up to sit in front of a television and watch mindless shows or even more mindless news reports.

Much too jittery to find a bar and drink away the anxious feeling he got all too often since returning from deployment and exiting his Marine Force Recon unit, he climbed onto his Harley and went for a ride around the cities. He ended up in the Capitol Hill area near the war memorials. After the sun set, the crowds thinned and the lights illuminating the Lincoln Memorial made the white marble stand out against the backdrop of the black, starless night.

He’d ridden to the Korean War Memorial, parked his bike and stood near the nineteen steel statues of soldiers in full combat gear and waterproof ponchos. They appeared as ghosts, emerging from the shadows. Haunting.

They reminded him of so many operations he and his team had conducted at night, moving silently across rough terrain, like the ghosts of the men the statues had been modeled after.

His heart pinched tightly in his chest. It was as if he were looking at the friends he’d lost in battle, the men he’d carried out only to send home in body bags.

No matter how long he’d been separated from active duty, the images of his friends never faded. Often they appeared in his dreams, waking him from a dead sleep in cold sweat as he relived the operations that had claimed their lives.

He’d get out of his bed, dress and go for a ride on his motorcycle in the stillness of night, letting the wind in his face blow the cobwebs from his memories.

Tonight was different. He’d dreaded even going to bed. Tonight was the anniversary of the death of his high school sweetheart. Yet another reason to lose sleep.

He’d met Kylie in the eighth grade. They’d been together throughout high school and had big plans to go to the same college after graduation.

Though Jack had made it to graduation, Kylie had not. The weekend before the big event, they’d gone to the local mall. Kylie wanted a special dress to wear beneath her cap and gown. Jack had gone with her to help her choose.

That day, a man who’d been dumped by his fiancée days before their wedding had entered the mall, bearing an AR-15 semiautomatic rifle with a thirty-round magazine locked and loaded. Tucked into his jacket pocket was a .45 caliber pistol with a ten-round magazine. He’d come to take out his anger on his ex-fiancée working in a department store. But he didn’t end there. Once he started firing, he didn’t stop until he ran out of bullets in the rifle’s magazine.

Jack and Kylie had just left an upscale dress shop when the bullets started flying. Before they could duck back into the shop or even drop to the ground, the gunman turned the barrel of his AR-15 on them, firing indiscriminatingly.

Jack grabbed Kylie and shoved her to the ground, covering her body with his.

When the first volley of bullets slowed to silence, he looked up.

The rifleman fumbled with another magazine for the AR-15, dropped it and bent to retrieve it.

Jack didn’t stop to think about what he was doing. He lunged to his feet and charged the man before he could reload, hitting him with his best linebacker tackle, knocking him to the ground. The rifle flew from the gunman’s hands, skittering to a stop several yards away.

The man tried to reach for the handgun in his jacket pocket but couldn’t get to it with Jack lying on top of him, pinning him to the hard tile floor.

The mall security cop had dashed to the scene but hadn’t wanted Jack to move for fear the shooter would manage to get to his feet and regain control of his weapon.

The police had arrived shortly after, taking over from Jack.

That was when he’d turned to find Kylie still lying where he’d left her, facedown and unmoving.

She’d taken a bullet straight to her heart and died instantly.

Jack had been devastated.

Her death was the main reason he’d chosen to join the Marines rather than go on to college like many of his classmates. He needed the physical challenge to burn away his anger and the feeling he should have gotten her to safety sooner. He should have done more to save her.

Those deployment nightmares, combined with the traumatic one from his school days, had kept him moving, afraid to stand still for a moment. If he did, the memories overwhelmed him.

He stared at the shadowy figures of the steel soldiers. They were so lifelike Jack felt as if he could fall in step with them and complete the mission.

His heartbeat quickened. As he took a step forward, a vibration against his side brought him back to reality, making him stop.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. The name on the screen read Declan O’Neill.

Jack didn’t hesitate. He pressed the talk button and pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”

“Dude, where are you?” Declan asked, his tone crisp.

“Downtown DC near the war memorials. What’s up?”

“Got a mission for you.”

“Give it to me.” He needed action. Anything to take his mind off the anniversary of Kylie’s death and the loss of his friends in battle. Declan’s call was a lifeline thrown to him in troubled waters. A reminder that he was still among the living, and he had a team of friends to work with.

Declan gave him the address of a pub not far from where he was. “There’s a female there who’s afraid to leave. Someone tried to grab her on her way to the Metro station.”

“What does she look like?” Jack asked.

“Long, straight black hair, blue eyes. Wearing a business suit. Tell her Mrs. Halverson sent you.”

“Got it. I can be there in less than ten minutes.”

“Make it five. The pub is closing. Let us know when you get her to safety.” Declan ended the call.

Slipping his helmet over his head, Jack left the steel soldiers to their mission, mounted his motorcycle and commenced with his own mission. He’d hoped for something more than escorting a damsel in distress home for the evening, but at least it gave him a purpose and something else to think about besides Kylie and dead comrades.

Ignoring the speed limit signs and only slowing for the occasional light, Jack made it to the pub in four minutes. A few men straggled through the door, laughing and shaking hands.

Jack scanned the surrounding area for anyone lurking in the shadows, waiting for a lone woman to step out of the pub and into his path. When he didn’t see anyone or any movement in the shadows, he parked his bike on the curb and entered the pub, passing by a large man standing near the door.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” someone called out from the bar.

“I’m not here for a drink. I’m here to pick up a lady.”

The bartender snorted. “Sorry, we’re closed for that, too. Always. Unless the lady wishes to be picked up.” The man chuckled at his own humor.

A black-haired woman in a dark blazer and skirt slid off a bar stool and faced Jack. Her blue eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin line. She stood stiff, and silently maintained her distance, looking as if she’d bolt if he made a move toward her.

This had to be the woman he’d been tasked to collect. “Mrs. Halverson sent me,” Jack said.

The woman drew in a deep breath and the stiffness seemed to melt from her frame. “Oh, thank God.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Hey, lady,” the bartender called out. “You gonna be okay?”

She turned toward the man. “I think so.” She smiled. “Thanks.”

Before they left the building, the woman stopped and frowned. “I guess I should know your full name.”

With a half smile, Jack held out his hand. “Jack Snow.”

She took his hand in her smaller, softer one and said quietly, “Anne Bellamy.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

She handed him her cell phone with an image of a map with the directions painted in a bright blue line. “Not here. Not now. I just want to go home. That map will get you there.”

He shrugged. “Have it your way. My ride is outside.”

When she started to go through the door, he placed his hand on her arm. “Me first.”

Anne nodded and let him go through the door ahead of her.

He stopped on the other side and glanced in both directions, taking his time to be thorough in his perusal of the buildings, alleys and every shadow. When he was fairly certain they were alone, he held out his hand.

Anne placed hers in his and let him guide her to the curb, where his motorcycle was parked.

The big guy who’d been lurking near the entrance followed them outside.

Jack shot a narrowed glance his way as he fitted Anne’s cell phone into a holder on his handle bar. “Is this the guy who tried to grab you?”

“No. That’s the bar’s bouncer. He’s just making sure we aren’t attacked,” Anne said. She faced the motorcycle, a frown drawing her eyebrows together. “This is your ride?” The frown deepened. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

“Well, tonight must be your lucky night. Unless you want to wait another thirty minutes to an hour for one of my buddies to come get you, you’ll have to take your chances.” He swung his leg over the bike and patted the cushioned seat behind him. “Don’t wait too long. You’ll only be giving your attacker the opportunity to make another attempt to grab you.”