Deadly Justice (22 page)

Before she could open her mouth, a loud pounding on the front door interrupted. With a muffled curse, Sam stormed over and flung it open.  Jean-Luc stood framed in the opening, and from the scowl on his face, he didn't look happy. 

“We've got a problem.” 

“Spit it out.”  Carpenter waved him into the room, running a hand through his already tousled blond hair.

“Found more cameras downstairs.”

“Dammit.  Where?”

“Three in the conference room.  Two more in reception.  One in the elevator.  I have Gunner and Nate checking the apartments now.  Figured you'd need the head's up, because you might want to check here too, since we found those on the roof.” 

They'd found cameras on the roof?  Was that what Webster meant when he said he had video? 
 

Embarrassed heat flooded her body, and she knew her face was probably beet red.  With her fair skin, she didn't do the pretty blush.  No, she got the full on blotchy uglies.  When she remembered what they'd said on that very rooftop last night, what they'd done, she covered her face with her hands for a second before hopping up from the sofa, her eyes immediately scanning the walls. 

“You take the living room and the kitchen.  I'll check the bedrooms.”  Sam turned to her.  “Stay here.”

“I'll help look.  Any idea what kind of cameras he's using?” 

Samuel quirked his brow and Jean-Luc ignored them both, instead opting to head for the kitchen, his cellphone in his hand.  She watched him swipe a couple of buttons, and knew he was running a sweep for bugs and surveillance equipment. 

“Stay here.”  Sam barked the command over his shoulder, headed for the bedroom.  The same bedroom where they'd spent the night in each other's arms.  Too bad.  It looked like the light of day was going to dissolve everything they'd shared into a smoldering pile of ashes. 

Andrea couldn't sit and do nothing.  Instead, she walked to the fireplace, and began scanning the bricks and mortar, the drywall and crevices, for signs of a pinhole big enough to hide a miniature camera.  Within a few minutes, she'd spotted the first one.

“Over here.”  Turning to Jean-Luc, she noted cameras and wires lying on the kitchen island.  He'd pulled at least two set-ups from the kitchen and dining areas.  He glanced up at her words, and she pointed toward the one she'd spotted.  It was at the perfect angle to encompass the entire living room sitting area, if it was powerful enough.  Knowing the monster behind the madness, she figured these cameras were probably the best money could buy. 

Jean-Luc walked over and examined the tiny lens, then used the pocket knife he'd been wielding on the others and dug around the base of the camera, and popped it out of the wall.

“That's three out here.  This son of a bitch is nothing if not thorough.”  He gave her a nod and added the latest camera to the growing collection. 

They continued checking the walls, finding another one close to the front door, before Sam rejoined them with two more cameras in his hands.

“I want Carlisle to sweep the entire building from top to bottom, and make damn sure there aren't any more we haven't found.  These look the same as the ones from the roof—meaning they didn't have sound capability, just video.  Which is good because otherwise we'd be screwed.  Webster would know everything we talked about in the conference room. 

Jean-Luc's cellphone pinged, and he read whatever was on the screen.  “Each apartment had three cameras apiece, not nearly as well hidden as these.  Nate and Gunner pulled 'em all.” 

“Good.  See if Carlisle can find where the feed was going, if it can be traced back to a location.  We need to find Webster fast.”

“I'm on it.  Gator said he'd have the boys keep their eyes and ears open.  If there's any movement out there, they'll find it.” 

I wonder who Gator is?  And the boys?
  She smiled, thinking they sounded like some backwoods musical group.  Her expression must have given her away, because Jean-Luc chuckled. 

“Gator Boudreau is my father and the boys are my three brothers.  They don't live in New Orleans proper, but Gator knows everybody and has more resources than the N.S.A.” 

“Ah, got it.”  She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, and kept her lips zipped while Sam finished briefing Jean-Luc on what needed to be done.  Within minutes, the man was out the front door and headed downstairs to meet up with the rest of the team. 

“Now it's your turn.”  Sam faced her, and the quiver in the pit of her stomach turned to a solid leaden ball.  Her legs felt like wobbly Jell-O and she wondered how she remained standing under his laser-focused stare. 

It was time to come clean.  Pay the piper.  She hated this part, because she knew once she spilled her guts and told him the whole truth, they'd never be able to go back to what they'd started. 

And she wanted their fledgling relationship, the initial zing of attraction that sparked between them from the instant they'd met to still be there when this finished.  She knew better—it was a pipedream—because when he found out the truth, she'd be
persona non grata
as far as Carpenter and his team was concerned. 

It was past time for Andrea to come clean about everything.  Her  stepbrother would definitely be pissed she didn't consult him first, but seeing the bitter look in Sam's eyes, asking to make her phone call again might be the straw that broke the camel's back.  Oh well, she had nothing left to lose. 

Andrea Kirkland was about to disappear—because she'd never really existed. 

“S
tart talking.” 

She wrapped her arms around her middle, fighting down the battle raging deep within.  The truth and nothing but the truth—he deserved it, but it was a long, complicated story and she wondered if he'd understand.

“My name is Angela Wakefield—at least it used to be, before it was legally changed to Andrea Kirkland.” 

She watched the briefest flash of fire in his eyes, but his mouth remained slammed shut in a stubborn line.  Okay, he wasn't going to make this easy for her.  She could handle the pressure—she been dealing with hardheaded men most of her adult life.

“Can we sit?  This is going to be a long story, and we might as well be comfortable.” 

He motioned to the sofa, and she gingerly eased herself down, keeping him in her sight line.  With a sigh, he joined her, sinking into the deep cushions, though she had the feeling he'd be up in a nanosecond if needed. 

“What I'm about to tell you can't go any farther than your crew, otherwise, I'm as good as dead.”

“Keep talking.”  The chewing-on-gravel tone was back in his voice, the rough timber jolting her insides with that little inner shiver she got every time he used it. 
Oh, damn, this was so not the time or place to get turned on.

 “I graduated high school early, barely sixteen.  Finished college in two years.  School was never a problem.  I whizzed through advanced classes and breezed through all the electives.  I'd decided to study medicine when I was approached to—”

“Ah, dammit, dammit, dammit!  Please don't tell me you're CIA.” 

Okay, maybe it’s not such a long story after all. 

“I was.  Recruited and served four years.  Then I met John.  We actually collided head first working on a case, and one thing led to another.  We fell in love.  He proposed.  We talked about getting married and starting a family—so I resigned.  Got out and walked away.” 

“Nobody walks away from The Agency—not fully.”  Sam shifted on the sofa, turned to face her directly.  She lowered her eyes, staring at her hands, still a little surprised whenever she didn't see John's engagement ring on her finger.

“I had connections high enough up I was able to walk away without repercussions.”  She could see the wheels turning in his head, knew when he hit on the exact reason.

“Zachary Bennett got you out.”

She nodded.  “He isn't only my stepbrother, he was my handler, and my best friend.  No, don't look at me like that.  His business operations are entirely legit, and only a handful of people know what goes on behind-the-scenes.  It's not like an episode of
Alias
, where there's an entire black ops-type company hidden deep within the bowels of the earth.  But he makes sure things get done.”

Sam scrubbed his hand across his face, the little worry lines across the bridge of his nose more prominent than ever, and she wanted to smooth them away. 
Except I've lost the right to touch him
. 

“Obviously, you didn't stay out or we wouldn't be sitting here.” 

“You're right, of course.  John got a call about a huge shipment getting ready to move through North Texas straight into Oklahoma City.  Did I mention that John was the Division Leader for the Oklahoma City Police Department Narcotics Squad?”

He shook his head and she noted his fist clench for a second before he relaxed it.  “No, you didn't.” 

“They'd been following a money trail, which led them to a public storage company on the south side of Oklahoma City.” 

Every drop of color drained from Carpenter's face, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach when she realized she inadvertently reopened an old wound.  He was remembering another public storage facility, the tragedy he'd told her about in Brownsville, and what happened to his team.  She reached across and grabbed his hand.  He took a deep shuddering breath before his eyelids lowered, shielding his expression. 

“Go on.”

She stared at him through half-lidded eyes, trying to read something—anything—on his face while she continued.  “John's team set up twenty-four/seven surveillance on the site, but nobody suspicious showed up.  Just the usual homebodies, bringing through their household goods.  Still, John felt the tip was reliable, and kept the surveillance going on the storage units.  The night he was killed…”

She paused, hating to relive that horrific night, but Carpenter deserved to know why she needed to take down Webster.  Why she'd begged for her old job back at The Agency. 

“John had a partner.  She'd worked alongside him for several years, and he trusted her implicitly.  That night, the stakeout team monitored the storage facility like they'd done for the prior weeks, and there was no movement.  The night was quieter than normal.  But Shelly, John's partner, claimed she got a tip that a new player was in the game and a big deal was going down across town.  With nothing more to go on than Shelly's alleged tip, he decided to leave the majority of the team watching the public storage facility, then he and Shelly went to check out the info.”

“Let me guess, Shelly's info got him killed.” 

“You could say that.  He walked into a trap set by Richard Webster, that son of a bitch.  Apparently Webster's smarmy charisma and buckets of cash turned a good cop into his personal death dealer.  Shelly led John into a back alley in the warehouse district where Richard Webster put a bullet in the back of his head.” 

She closed her eyes, remembering John's captain showing up at her door.  The instant the realization and grief bombarded her, knocking her to her knees.  Instead of the loving husband and happy family she'd envisioned, she was left with nothing more than an engagement ring and a jar of ashes on her mantle.  Her bitterness turned to rage against the man who'd stolen her future from her. 

“Damn, I'm sorry.  How'd they figure out Webster was behind John's shooting?  It's not like him to leave loose ends.”

“He didn't.  Shelly ended up hooked on the stuff she'd been tasked with getting off the streets.  Apparently Webster liked to shoot her up with a little heroin before they had sex.  The same night my fiancé lay dead in a back alley, Webster dosed Shelly with enough heroin to kill an elephant.  Lucky for me, before she died, writhing in agony, she told me she'd hidden enough evidence to bring down the man behind John's murder.” 

Carpenter stiffened on the seat beside her.  “What kind of evidence?” 

She tucked her foot underneath her and scooted around, trying to find a more comfortable position.  “Here's the thing.  Shelly had socked away the evidence on Webster all over the damn place.  It's been like a bloody scavenger hunt.  Every time we'd find one thing, only part of it was there.” 

She raised her hand and pushed her hair over her shoulder, and drew in a deep breath.  It hurt remembering everything she'd gone through after John's death and Shelly's betrayal.  She'd treated Shelly like a sister, and knowing she'd gotten the man she'd loved slaughtered had nearly undone her, both emotionally and physically.  Still, Sam needed to know the whole story.

“Toward the end, Shelly started getting a bit paranoid.  Nothing you could put your finger on and say—oh, she's using, or even that she'd turned dirty.  But apparently she was still smart enough to know that Webster would betray her in the end, and she socked away dates and times and shipping routes, even evidence of murders.  The heroin might have eaten away at her morals and ethics, but she was still a cop and knew how to collect evidence.  Except it also made her crazy enough not to stash everything in one single place.  Finding it's been freakin' impossible.” 

“How much has been located?”  Sam's voice was barely above a whisper, but it lashed at her psyche all the same. 

“Zach's got people searching for the rest of the evidence, but what we've gathered so far isn't enough to ensure a conviction.  I've got a sinking feeling in my gut it will never be enough.  As long as Webster's still walking around breathing, and John's dead and buried, I haven't gotten him justice.”

Carpenter's body was still taut as a bowstring.  She could practically see the tension keeping his spine stiff, no matter how hard he tried to hide his unease.  She'd broken his trust, if she'd ever really had it.  Wasn't that a hell of a thought?  She desperately wanted him to believe in her, because she'd trust him with her life.  In fact, just telling him the bare bones of her undercover case was enough to get him and his team yanked off the streets until Webster was finally apprehended.  The CIA wasn't altogether happy with Carpenter and his security team digging this deep into one of their cases.  And the CIA considered Richard Webster's apprehension and conviction high priority.