Читать книгу Blind Instinct - Фиона Бранд - Страница 9

Six

Bayard had been almost asleep when the phone rang once, then stopped. Lifting the receiver on his bedside table, he listened. When he heard the dial tone, he flicked on the bedside lamp and checked his answering service. No message had been left.

Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed Bridges, who was a telecommunications expert.

Bridges picked up immediately. Marc could hear the television in the background. “Don’t you have a life?”

Bridges grunted. “I’ve got the same one you’ve got. What’s happening?”

“My phone’s been compromised.”

“I’ll be there in twenty.”

* * *

Juan Chavez peeled off his headset, picked up the cell phone on the desk beside him and hit speed dial.

A small sound had him swinging around in his seat. He terminated the call, a shudder going through him at the swiftness and silence of Lopez’s arrival. He hadn’t heard a vehicle pulling into the garage, which meant Alex had either parked out on the road, or he had been here already. Given that they had hit Corcoran that afternoon, he was going with the second option. Normally, Alex gave the order and stepped away from the process, letting him take care of the details.

But these killings were different, not related to drugs or any other aspect of business. To Juan, killing federal agents made no sense. They couldn’t kill the entire justice system, and they couldn’t stop it. All Alex would do was make life more difficult for them and, perhaps, finally accomplish his own death.

The thought of Alex’s death was something Juan refused to let himself consider for more than a fleeting second. If he did, he was afraid it would show on his face and, despite the fact that Alex was his cousin, he wasn’t stupid enough to rely on family ties to save his skin. Alex was distinctly different from the entire Chavez clan. If he didn’t see Alex’s father, Marco Chavez, in his cousin’s features, he would doubt his paternity. But Chavez he was. And despite the fact that Juan and his brother, Benito, were family, Alex would kill either of them as quickly and coldly as he had shot and killed his own father.

He turned back to the laptop. “He made one call to Sara Fischer, and she tried to call him just a few minutes ago.”

His fingers moved over the keyboard as he pulled up a window and hit the play button on the conversations that had been intercepted and recorded. Bayard wouldn’t know that Sara Fischer hadn’t received his call, and vice versa.

Alex listened without expression, his gaze showing no trace of the excitement that had infected Juan when he had realized exactly who it was Bayard had called.

Juan had done all the research. Sara Fischer was thirty-four, a librarian based in Shreveport. She was also Steve Fischer’s cousin. Fischer had been a major thorn in Lopez’s side and, along with Bayard, had made a huge dent in his organization.

Lopez’s expression didn’t alter. “Put a tap on Sara Fischer’s phone.”

“You want me to put a tail on her?”

“I’ll see to it. Replay the call.”

The sense of chill deepened as Juan hit the replay button and listened to Bayard’s deep, even voice. Alex’s expression remained impassive, but Juan could detect the predatory glitter in his eyes, the sharp attention to every nuance—an almost animalistic seeking for some sign of weakness in his enemy.

He experienced a familiar sinking sensation. He had shot Powdrell. The hit on Corcoran had been high risk and opportunistic, and Lopez himself had carried it out. “You want me to set Bayard up?”

Lopez’s gaze bored into his and for a brief moment Juan’s breath seized in his throat at the possibility that he actually did want to take this as far as killing Bayard.

“Not yet,” he said softly.

A split second later, Lopez was gone, melting into the shadows of the hallway like a wraith. The smooth, gliding way he moved, the air of cold purpose, sent a trickle of unease through Juan.

Bayard was powerful, focused and prewarned. If Lopez really did want to kill him, he should have done it first and gone after his soldiers later.

To Juan, none of this made sense. Marco had been a ruthless and brutal leader. Alex was no less, but his desires bordered on the psychotic. To kill Helene Reichmann, the head of the cabal and a dangerous opponent who sought to kill Lopez himself, was understandable; it was a survival issue. Picking off federal agents and going after Bayard was not. Governments changed, and so did their personnel, but the agencies themselves didn’t disappear. Creating a media storm that would live long in the memory of the agency itself was tantamount to suicide. They would be hunted relentlessly.

In his opinion Bayard would move on, eventually. All they had to do was stay quiet, operate in a low-key way that wouldn’t attract any undue attention. They could survive Bayard. If they went after him directly, they were all dead.

Lopez stepped out onto the street, extracted a key from his pocket and unlocked his car. The locks made a discreet thunking sound, but no lights flashed. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he watched as a four-wheel-drive truck pulled into a space outside Bayard’s apartment building. If he hadn’t already recognized the license plate, the flash of blond hair would have identified the visitor: Bridges.

Picking up his phone, he called Juan. “Get out, now. Bayard’s found the wire.”

Juan’s reply was brief. They had always known tapping Bayard’s phone was a risk, and a one-time deal. They wouldn’t get another opportunity. Pulling out from the curb, Lopez headed for his hotel. Thirty minutes later, he was packed, checked out and on his way to Dulles. While he waited for his flight, he studied the story on the second page of the newspaper.

Bayard’s message to Sara Fischer had been brief, just a request to call him and his number, Sara’s call had been far more interesting. She had found items belonging to Todd Fischer, including a book. Bayard hadn’t got the message, this time. When he finally did, it would be too late.

Lopez intended to get to Shreveport before him.