Читать книгу Breach Of Trust - Jodie Bailey - Страница 12

THREE

How dare he speak to her as if he had some kind of authority? It was her life in danger, her past popping up all over the place. Meghan stopped at the window by the front door, holding Tate’s pistol tightly. She struggled to grab on to sanity, because it was rapidly slipping, muddying reality with dreams and nightmares.

She couldn’t lose her grip now. She had to face reality. Tate couldn’t tell her anything because she was nobody. It was true. When she’d walked away, she had relinquished the right to know. Having him stand before her and stonewall her hurt more than she cared to admit.

Meghan lifted the edge of the blinds and peeked through, needing another minute, but Tate wasn’t standing where she’d left him. She clenched her jaw, the tension in her head throbbing. It shouldn’t have been this way. Finding out he was alive should have been joyful, the promise of a new chance, not conflicting and angry and confusing.

Meghan dropped the blinds with a clatter and squared her shoulders. Confusing was the key word. Nothing about this day made sense, and the one person who could answer her questions stood somewhere in the shadows, where he’d apparently been living for years.

Putting on her game face, Meghan stepped onto the porch, determined to get the information she wanted.

Tate stood at the edge of the wood line, barely visible in the moonlight. His voice drifted to Meghan, words indistinguishable, although it sounded as if he was arguing with someone on the other end of a phone call. After a moment, he pulled the phone from his ear. The screen illuminated the hard set of his jaw as he stared at the device; then he shoved it in his pocket as she drew closer.

He took the offered gun, studied it, then held it out to her. “Trade me for yours.”

Without a word, Meghan unclipped her holster from her belt. He was right. If he appeared with the weapon she’d supposedly stolen from him, Isaac would know in an instant something was off.

She held the gun low and behind her, out of his reach. “Information first.” From the little bit she’d been able to figure out from watching his posture, it was clear the phone call had been to someone above his pay grade, likely determining what he could safely say to the outsider.

Tate didn’t hesitate. He’d surely been anticipating her move. “A couple of years ago, we set on a terror cell using a legitimate government contractor as a front. Their hacker would gain access to the network, tweak the payout amount and collect several times what was due. We put the brakes on the physical side of the cell and took the contractor into custody, thinking we’d managed to cut off the entire operation, but a few months later, the hacker surfaced again. We’ve been calling him Phoenix.”

“Because he keeps coming back.” She should know.

“Worse every time. He aided another cell, one murdering young soldiers without close relatives to ask any questions, then stealing their identities in order to set terrorists into their places. They planned random attacks within the ranks, making it seem as though soldiers were behind them. The kind of fear and distrust those plants would breed could rip our entire military apart.”

Meghan gasped as the depth of her former blackmailer’s treachery came into focus. Phoenix had targeted soldiers like her, young men and women with nowhere else to turn. She’d been in college when he’d had her hop to his bidding, had blackmailed her into stealing personal data from high-dollar donors. Anger at the terrorists caught a backdraft and engulfed any hostility she’d felt toward Tate. “Tell me you stopped whoever was behind it.”

“We did.” There was pride in Tate’s voice, but it didn’t last. “Problem is, Phoenix was still out there. He has a distinct signature, and he’s fond of taunting us. That last little operation was led by the son of the contractor we took out of commission in the first op. The kid was out for vengeance, and he targeted our team, drew us in and led us right by the nose. When we caught him, he tried to convince us he was the hacker, but it became evident pretty quickly he didn’t have the skills. Phoenix watched us the entire time we were working the mission. He was always a step ahead, as though he had an ear to our plans, and, in the end, the cell nearly took out a soldier and one of our men in Kentucky. He went underground for a few months, then popped up in a hack at your school about a year ago.”

“Wait.” Surely she’d heard him wrong. She’d had no idea the system was hacked until two days ago. How long had her past been biting her heels? “A year ago? You’re sure?” How hadn’t she spotted him? She was the best. If he was poking around in the system she’d built and strengthened herself, then he was better. Pride, fear and anger spun in a combustible mix.

“He’d been snooping in your system for months before we found him. We’d been scouring networks, and one of our trackers pinged him about six months ago. We traced him to some planted files on your network and had another operative dig into it. He didn’t find anything suspicious on your end. The guys we sent in to do a cursory search never knew you, and you don’t show up on any of the school’s public sites.”

“I stay out of the limelight.” It was necessary with the work she’d once done. Plenty of terrorists would love nothing more than to take out a member of their unit. For four years, she’d done her job as tech director and teacher, trying to keep her past where it belonged.

“Naturally. Problem is, it seems as if our hacker found you and has been gathering intel on you, waiting for his moment. You’re the only one who can tell me why.”

Meghan stepped closer and pressed her palms against the worn metal of the truck hood. How long had he been watching, waiting to strike? “Why not let us know we were hacked?”

“We didn’t want you to do something to tip him off.” Tate didn’t appear to notice her discomfort. “Intel from some other sources point to an impending attack on the power grid, and one of the few hackers in play who can handle such a play right now is Phoenix. We have to take him out now, while we have an in, or we could be facing a serious disaster.”

The weight of the situation tore Meghan’s focus from herself. This was what she’d fought against when she was beside Tate in the military. “How’s the operation?”

“At the moment, slow. We were able to figure out who’s doing his grunt work. It’s a small street gang, the kind that will do anything to prove themselves. Isaac Koffman has insecurity issues, and he’ll do whatever it takes to bolster his street cred. He wants to move his crew into the big time, be a national syndicate, but he hasn’t got the brains to pull off the types of crimes he’d need to do in order to make a name. He’s got delusions of grandeur and no way to propel himself into the big time. Isaac’s prime material for manipulation, willing to drag his crew into things others wouldn’t touch for fear of getting caught. Made it easy for our hacker to use him and easy for me to get inside.”

Always go for the weakest link. When they couldn’t hit the big guys directly, they’d go for the contractors. Security was lax there. She’d run the same scheme with Tate before, and it tended to work.

But guys like Isaac were also the ones with the itchiest trigger fingers, desperate to assert and to keep their authority. Tate was fortunate Isaac hadn’t punished him for Meghan’s escape today, especially with the kind of hacker Phoenix had proved to be. But she’d been around enough punks like him to understand the wannabe mobster’s thought process. “Isaac thinks as long as you’re around, you’ll catch the flack for my getaway. Phoenix is why he didn’t cut you loose or kill you himself.”

“Exactly. If things go our way, the big guy may be angry enough to deal with me personally.”

“Which could get you killed.” For real this time. Meghan backed away from the truck and paced toward the house. The thought dug at her still-bruised heart, and she didn’t need him to read it on her face. She wasn’t ready to lose him twice, especially when she still didn’t know where he’d gone the first time. If she had to grieve for him all over again, the pain might be the one foe that could destroy her.

“Here’s hoping it doesn’t go that far.” Tate glanced at his watch, a chunky black monster, the same kind he’d worn for as long as she’d known him. “I have to go. It’s a pretty good drive to Saginaw from here. I’m hoping Phoenix has already heard Isaac’s report and decided he needs a face-to-face with me.”

It was a long shot with the kind of shadowy hacker they were targeting, but it was probably their best shot. Still, Meghan didn’t like him walking straight into danger without someone guarding his back. “I’m going with you.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.” He held up a hand to stem her building argument. “Think. They catch sight of you anywhere near me and we’re done. You’re captured and I’m dead. Like it or not—and I know you’re not a fan of the idea—I have to go this one alone.”

She opened her mouth and closed it again. No, she wasn’t a fan. Not one bit. But he was right. And the truth made it an even harder pill to swallow. “Fine. But if I don’t hear from you in the next twelve hours, I’m coming after you. And if it goes south...”

“Fair enough.” He looked up from his watch, searching her face in a way that skipped electricity across her skin. “You’re a valuable asset.”

The jolt fizzled. There it was again. She was nothing but a means to an end.

Tate stilled, the sudden lack of movement ushering silence between them. “But I also need...” His voice deepened. “Despite what you think, I trust you.” A flash Meghan couldn’t read slipped across his features, then vanished. He turned toward the house. “You’re sure you’re safe here?”

Whatever the flash was, it must have been a trick of the moonlight, because he was all business. It didn’t stop Meghan from wanting to rewind the moment and make him say whatever she imagined he’d thought. “Safer here than anywhere else.” Then again, safety was probably a thin thread. If Phoenix was the hacker who had blackmailed her years ago, then she was in bigger trouble than she’d thought. Still, she couldn’t ask for help. Not yet. When it came to Tate and her former team, full disclosure meant risking everything. She’d been blackmailed in college, had been young and scared, but none of that would matter. She’d hacked personal data for an unknown entity who could turn out to be a terrorist, and the truth was enough to send her to jail for a long time if her team found the truth.

No, she couldn’t tell Tate about anything yet. Not until she was certain she really could trust the man who’d let her believe he was dead, who could be up to anything now. No, she needed answers first.

“Stay low. I’ll be in touch.” He stepped closer, then stopped and almost smiled. “It’s good to see you, McGuire. Really good.” He held her gaze for a moment, then turned and walked away.

* * *

Dawn was creeping over the edges of the horizon when Tate rattled the truck to a stop in front of the small house on a back street near Saginaw. With peeling white paint, faded wood and a sagging front porch, the place was a testament to Isaac’s failures. The man’s life goal was to be the leader of a crime ring capable of driving fear into the heart of the nation. The saving grace was Isaac lacked the mental acuity to build such an empire.

Tate had lost count of the times he’d had to hold back his fist to keep from knocking Isaac’s arrogance down a few pegs. He’d love to take the guy down for something as petty as the meth lab in the shed, but it wouldn’t do the mission any good, and it would scatter Isaac’s pack of yes-men to new haunts.

Killing the engine, Tate surveyed the house. Light shone from the window in the front living room, but the rest stood a dark vigil over the street.

The hairs on the back of his neck raised. Something was going on. On Fridays at sundown, Isaac ran a party that raged until Monday morning. Those parties required some of Tate’s best acting skills. He’d avoided more pills, pipes and bottles than he cared to consider. And he’d dodged just as many scantily clad hangers-on who believed him to be the strong, silent type who needed taming. His heart broke for a couple of the girls he’d managed to talk to without having to fight them off. But rescuing them would mean jeopardizing the mission, losing his target and probably sacrificing his life. It was hard to sleep, knowing he could help, but the mission wouldn’t allow him to yield his cover. It was doubly hard to sleep knowing some of the men and women who walked through Isaac’s front doors craved this lifestyle and viewed help as a weakness.

Yeah. Weekends were the worst on this op. Tate was fortunate the whole lot of them in the house were usually too wasted to realize he wasn’t.

But now, as the world tinged a deep pink, no drunken revelry filtered out to the street. The place was quieter than he’d ever seen it. In the four months Tate had been hovering around this crew, they’d never missed a weekend, never taken the party anywhere else. Isaac was too jealous of his territory to risk someone out-partying him.

To the left of the house, on the short parallel tracks of concrete that passed for a driveway, Isaac’s little souped-up Honda sat close by the side door. Five more tricked-out coupes lined the lawn, chrome dull in the faded morning light. The gang was all here, but the house was silent.

Tate brushed the grip of Meghan’s gun, his teeth working his lower lip. He was about to walk into the unknown with a weapon he’d never fired. He slipped the revolver from the small holster and flicked it open, checking the cylinder. Five .357 rounds, so at least they had some heft. His Glock held fifteen rounds in the magazine. Meghan’s revolver gave him a third of what he’d normally carry. If things turned ugly, he’d have to be extra careful of his aim. And pray. A lot.

The curtain in the front window shifted. Was someone watching for him? Maybe Phoenix had told Isaac to clear the house and do the dirty work.

Tate tapped his index finger on the trigger guard. This could be an ambush, and the walk to the door would make him an easy target. And the whole world had better believe he wasn’t going down at the whim of a pack of street thugs.

Maybe he was overreacting. There was no way for Isaac to know Tate had purposely let Meghan go. No witnesses had seen what transpired between them. It was possible the party had moved elsewhere or ended much, much earlier than usual.

But this would be the first time, and Tate didn’t put faith in coincidences. The belief everything happened for a reason had kept him alive on more than one occasion. Reading the situation was his specialty, and this situation read like a horror novel. It didn’t seem like this could end without bloodshed.

Tate held the pistol tighter. Inflicting pain, taking lives...these were the parts of the job Tate never got used to, the parts he tried to avoid whenever possible. If this was what it appeared to be, all of the above would probably happen within the next three minutes.

He steeled himself for confrontation, then pulled his phone out and typed a quick text to Ethan. Target house quiet. Stand by. He had ten minutes before Ethan called law enforcement and scrapped the op to pull Tate out. Of course, not texting in ten minutes would mean Tate was probably dead.

He slipped from the truck, shoving his phone in his pocket and tucking the gun behind his leg, acting as though he hadn’t observed anything out of the ordinary. Without streetlights and with night still hanging on, he would be a vague target. He walked along the edge of the yard rather than on the cracked sidewalk anyone waiting would expect him to use.

At the porch steps, he took a bracing breath, all the while feeling as though invisible spies hovered in every dark shadow, and approached the door from the side. If one of the neighbors peeked out, they’d peg him as the investigator he was, but he wasn’t about to take the chance someone would shoot him through the door. He frowned at the wood siding. It didn’t offer any more protection than the door did.

A small sliver of light filtered onto the porch. The door was cracked open, no obvious signs of tampering. There was definitely something out of whack.

He didn’t hesitate. Lifting Meghan’s gun so it would be at the ready, he said a quick prayer, wishing he had a partner to back him up. Meghan had always been good in moments like this, each following the other in an unspoken tactical dialogue of eye contact and hand signals. If she wasn’t in danger, he might have asked Ethan to contract her onto the team as a civilian.

But he had this. He was good at what he did, and his skills were the reason Ethan kept calling him in. Tate Walker could do the job.

Tate eased the door open with his foot, skimming the room until the smell smacked him across the face, stinging his eyes. Metallic. Raw.

Blood. And lots of it, if the strength of the stench was any indication.

He followed the gun into the room, waiting for movement, but there was none.

Six bodies lay facedown in a neat row in the center of the small living area, wrists bound, blood seeping into ever-widening puddles on the scratched hardwood.

Someone had executed Isaac and his entire crew. The larger man lay on the end, probably the last to die.

Because Tate had let Meghan escape.

He swallowed. More blood. More death. Deaths he’d have to find a way to wash his hands of when this was all over.

He could have brought Meghan in from the school, appeased whoever had ordered her kidnaping, but then it might have been her sprawled on the floor with her life drained away.

He tightened up on the gun and focused on the moment. He had to bring whoever had done this to justice. Unless Isaac had double-crossed someone else, the brutality of the scene sent a message. Phoenix wasn’t afraid to punish anyone who crossed him, and he believed Isaac’s men had failed in their assignment.

Tate’s mind sped into high gear. He scanned the scene, focusing on the details instead of the big picture, pulling his mind into the work and not into the fact six men were dead. They’d been criminals, yes, but no one deserved this.

He fought not to gag, biting his lip so hard his eyes watered. He examined the bodies and noted the deep gashes at their throats, quick and clean. Isaac had apparently received special treatment, or he’d fought. The blood still flowed from his wounds. He’d only been dead a few minutes.

The killer was still in the house.

Tate swallowed hard against the pounding in his ears, willing his adrenaline to ebb so he could focus his senses. He needed more than sight.

A soft sound filtered in from the small bedroom to the left. Tate hefted the gun and headed toward the door, keeping his focus on the door as he skirted the tangled maze of legs. The air felt off, disturbed, the metallic odor of fresh blood nearly overwhelming, but Tate could tell from years of experience. Someone waited behind the door.

He took one step closer, then drove himself shoulder-first into the door, meeting resistance.

Something heavy slammed to the floor, echoed by a string of curses that burned Tate’s ears. There was a skittering sound of metal across hardwood.

Too light to be a gun—it had to be a knife.

Knives were his worst enemy.

Tate righted himself and aimed in the direction of the sound, but a body flung itself into his stomach, driving him against the wall, his shoulder slamming into the ancient Sheetrock so hard he went through it, his back catching hard on a wall stud, knocking the air from his lungs. He heaved in air and fought against both his attacker and the memory of the last time he’d lost a battle with his gun at the ready. The loss had earned him a knife to the chest.

Tate threw his arm out, catching a chin, then lifted his knee and drove it into the man’s stomach, shoving him backward several steps.

In the dim light leaking in from the living room, Tate got his first good look at his assailant. He was small, wiry, wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans, his face covered by the kind of ski mask common in these parts, used to combat the frigid winter chill.

But it was the eyes. Murderous, dead and locked on Tate. He glanced toward the knife on the floor, but Tate kicked it sideways under the unmade bed and leveled his weapon, too winded to speak.

There was a brief stare-down before the killer sprang again, landing both of them in the living room. Tate’s shoulder rammed tight beneath the couch as his head slammed against the floor, threatening darkness.

The killer scrambled up first and bolted for the rear of the house.

Tate shook off the pain and followed, but the squeal of tires from the driveway told him he was too late.