Gut Instinct (2 page)

Six weeks later

I dropped from the chin-up bar after ten reps, limiting each set so as not to push my injury. My shoulder and clavicle had healed up nicely, and I’d finally been given the go-ahead to start working out on my own. Which made me happy because I was sick of going to physical therapy, where I rolled a medicine ball up and down a wall or played with large rubber bands. The only thing I regretted was the move back to my boat. I told myself that Jennifer’s apartment was much more comfortable, but I knew it was more than that. Not that I would admit it to her or to myself.

I had taken her to dinner after her little altercation with Chase, and we’d had a pretty good night. It was the first occasion in a long while where we both weren’t worried about trying to kill someone or getting our own asses killed. She’d joked about the people in the restaurant living their lives blindly and having no idea of what she had been doing just five days before. For the first time Jennifer was experiencing what I’d felt coming home from training or deployment almost my entire military career. It was a weird connection, something I’d had only with male teammates, but there nonetheless.

After dinner, and after a few drinks, she’d demanded that I move in with her because of my injuries. I fought back, but she did have a point. It would be damn hard to get up and down the small galley of my boat with my arm in a sling and using a cane. Not to mention working the bathroom. After she’d made it plain that there were two bedrooms and both would be used, I’d relented, fairly sure it wasn’t the rum talking. I’d eventually moved in, but after a week, I was also fairly sure she’d regretted ever offering. Suffice to say we didn’t see eye to eye on the definition of “messy.”

Now I could definitely be defined as “back on my feet,” the worst injury being the bullet wound in my thigh. It was still stiff, but I no longer needed a cane. I might not be fully mission capable for Taskforce work, but I could certainly get up and down my boat. The thought brought a little melancholy.

I started my wussy little box squats, wincing at the pain, when I heard a distinctive ringtone that brought a small jolt of adrenaline. It was my Taskforce cell, playing the
Mission: Impossible
theme song—because I’m a smart-ass—and when it came to life it usually meant some high adventure was coming my way.

Our way.

I followed the sound, racing into my bedroom, not remembering where I’d put the damn thing. I heard Jennifer come home as I was jerking drawers open and kicking shoes. She appeared in my doorway as I found it, just before it went to voice mail. I answered and was a little surprised at the conversation.

I hung up and said, “That was Kurt. He’s got a mission on a tight timeline.”

She frowned and said, “You’re nowhere near capable of doing operational stuff. He knows that. Did he say there was nobody else in the Taskforce who could do it?”

“Well, actually, he did. He didn’t ask for me. He wants you. He’s flying down here from DC right now.”

•   •   •

We met him on the outdoor deck of Red’s Ice House on Shem Creek, a stone’s throw from our “Grolier Recovery Services” office in Mount Pleasant, the town across the river from Charleston. He was already at a table near the water, a Corona in front of him, looking a little out of place in his khakis and oxford shirt. The only other patrons were at the bar wearing flip-flops and T-shirts, but Kurt’s day-old beard and tousled hair belied his businessman attire, giving off a vibe that he’d rather be wearing a T-shirt as well.

The men at the bar ignored me when we walked in, focusing on Jennifer, something that always sent a spike of aggravation through me. I’m sure they wished she’d just come off a boat sporting a bikini, but she was wearing a sensible sundress, her dirty-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. True to form, she didn’t even notice.

We took a seat across from him, resting our arms on the plain wood table. He said, “If someone wanted to track you, all they’d have to do to find a pattern is stake out every pub within a mile of your office.”

I smiled and said, “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. You can’t watch the dolphins swim in a parking garage.”

Kurt chuckled. As the commander of a counterterrorist unit so off the books it didn’t even have a name, he managed a plethora of companies like ours, all designed to camouflage the ongoing shadow war, allowing us to penetrate and execute operations where the traditional defense and intelligence communities couldn’t. Or wouldn’t because of restrictions inherent in United States Code. The question in my mind was why our company was needed for this mission.

He said, “Remember that JI guy you followed to Cairo?”

Jemaah Islamiyah, or JI, as we called it, was an Indonesian terrorist group affiliated with al-Qaeda. We’d tracked a guy tied to them from Indonesia to Egypt, where he’d been blown apart by another terrorist group.

“Noordin Sungkar? Yeah. But he’s dead.”

“That’s true, but the computer penetration you did to locate him also led to other interesting intelligence. His shipping company made multiple deliveries to Manila, and we’ve found the man who received them. He’s a manual laborer at Aquino International Airport, but more importantly, he’s a facilitator for MILF. He’s a small-time player, but we’ve got chatter about something going on. He’s the only thread we have and we want to walk up the chain.”

MILF stood for the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, an Islamic group from the southern Philippines that was contesting the government for autonomy. Unlike the name implied, they weren’t a bunch of hot cougars looking for mates. They were killers. In truth, they were more nationalistic than outright terrorist, but, like all such organizations, they would do what was necessary to survive, including helping JI on terrorist attacks against American interests if it meant a quid pro quo.

“So what’s that got to do with us? Why Grolier Services? Is there something archeological that you need Jennifer to penetrate?”

“Not exactly. It’s not your company per se. It’s Jennifer herself. The wife of the MILF—quit grinning, Pike—is a courier. She’s a conduit to the heavy hitters, we’re sure. We want to walk up the chain, find out what they’re up to.”

Jennifer said, “I don’t get why that means me. What do I have to offer?”

“The wife goes to a workout facility every day. She spends about thirty minutes in the female locker room, and we have no idea what she’s doing. Whoever she’s meeting there is the next link in the chain.”

“Wait, wait,” I said. “You want Jennifer because she has tits? Not because of her skills?”

Both Jennifer and Kurt glared at me. Kurt said, “Jesus, Pike, come on. Johnny’s team is the one who asked for her. Apparently they were impressed with her work in Indonesia. As for her other ‘assets’ you so indelicately stated, yeah, that’s what makes her special. She can get into the locker room.”

I snorted and leaned back. “So you don’t need our company. Don’t need what we can provide. You just need a female.”

Jennifer said, “Pike, what’s gotten into you? Kurt’s
here
because of our company. Jesus, don’t turn this into some feminist rant. If anyone should do that, it’s me, and I don’t see it. It’s like you’re mad because they didn’t ask for
you
.”

That stung. “Bullshit. I know Johnny’s team. They won’t listen to you.”

Kurt said, “Calm down, damn it. It’s a simple mission. Get in the gym locker room and report. Four days at most. She’ll be home before you know it.”

“Huh? You mean I’m not going?”

“I don’t see why. She can handle herself. She’s already proved that, and you’re nowhere near mission capable. You’d be better served continuing your physical therapy.”

I was about to really lose it when Jennifer said, “He’s going. We’re a team.”

Kurt said, “Jennifer, this is just as much about your position in the Taskforce as it is about the mission. I
want
you to succeed.” He looked at me. “And so does Pike. You can’t have him holding your hand all the time if you want to earn the trust of the operators.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I desperately wanted to go for the very reasons Kurt said I shouldn’t. And he might be right.

Jennifer settled it.

“I don’t give a shit about your macho operator issues. He’s going because I trust him. No offense, but I can’t say the same for Johnny’s team. He doesn’t go, I don’t go.”

I didn’t say a word, but it wasn’t necessary. A smug grin split my face and Kurt rolled his eyes.

“The dynamic duo. Great. Just remember, this is Johnny’s mission, not yours.”

We met Johnny in the Long Bar at the Raffles hotel located in Makati city, a financial hub in Manila. His team was here on some sort of bigwig telecommunications contract, so he got the five-star treatment to support his cover story. Grolier Services didn’t rate. As a small, independent business, we were relegated to a Best Western about a mile away. After seeing the place, I was considering how to increase our revenues. Or at least make it appear that way on paper.

The bar was a replica of the original Long Bar at the Raffles hotel in Singapore where the Singapore Sling was invented, and where I’d spent some serious time while working with their Special Forces. Another life a long time ago. Comparing the one here to the real one was a little like comparing the
Pirates of the Caribbean
ride at Disney World to a real Caribbean island. It looked the same, but in a fake sort of way.

Johnny showed up wearing a business suit, which made me laugh. I’m sure he’d have given up the hotel and slept in a hammock in the jungle if he could have gotten rid of the tie. He did wear it well, though.

The first words out of his mouth set the tone. At least to me. “Hey, I heard you were coming over as well, but I want to make sure we’re on the same page. We don’t need you. We need Jennifer.”

Man, am I getting sick of hearing that.
I knew he was just setting the playing field, making sure that I understood who was in charge. I was good with that. I’d have done the same.

I said, “I got that, but we had to come as a team for the cover. It made no sense for Jennifer to come on her own.”

He gave me a look, and I knew the story sounded as lame as it was.

“Fine, but I’m briefing Jennifer, not you.”

I gritted my teeth and nodded, letting him get on with it.

He said, “How much did you get before you left?”

Jennifer said, “Just the connection between the wife and the MILF guy, and that she frequents a gym.”

“That’s about the sum of it. The ‘MILF guy’ is Bayani Matapang. He’s very, very poor. He lives in a shantytown over in Maharlika village, right next to the Blue Mosque, in a Moro community. He received four shipments from Sungkar before that guy was killed in Cairo, and all of the shipments failed to go through customs. He managed to clear them through his job at the airport, which is where he fits into this piece. He’s just a way station. What we need to know is where the packages went and what’s in them.”

“And you think the wife will lead you to that?”

“Yes,” he said. “We’ve watched Bayani for a couple of weeks, and all he does is go to work, the mosque, and home. We’ve wired the mosque and gotten nowhere. Same with work. Which leaves the wife.”

He passed across a digital photo. “She goes to a place called Fitness Forever over in Taguig city, near the old Fort Bonifacio. The place is a state-of-the-art facility used by the upper crust. There’s no way she can afford it. Someone’s footing the bill, and that someone is a connection up the stream.”

“How will I get in?”

He passed across a small cylindrical key fob made of metal, not unlike those used in American gas stations to speed-pay for fuel. “We got you a membership. Don’t worry, it’s tied to Grolier Services, not us.”

“What’s my timeline?”

“No rush. We’ll stake out the house and call when she’s on the way. She usually comes in the afternoon, but not on any set schedule. She also doesn’t always work out. Sometimes she heads straight into the locker room and spends about thirty minutes in there, then leaves again. She does nothing suspicious in the gym itself, but we have no idea what she’s doing in the locker room. Spend the first day getting a feel for the place. Find some vantage points in the locker room for static surveillance.”

“And the mission?”

“Simple. Get us a photo of whoever she’s meeting, then get us the new target’s address.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“Wait until she secures her locker, then break in. Get a scan of whatever you can find.”

“Okay . . . Sounds easy enough.”

Johnny said, “It
is
easy. Easier than that break-in we had you do in Indonesia, I promise.”

•   •   •

After ten minutes with no target, Jennifer slowed the pace of the treadmill in case she was going to be on it for an hour. Johnny had texted that the wife was on the way, but clearly she was taking her time.

Jennifer had conducted a recce of the gym the day before and found it rivaled anything she’d seen in the United States. A stand-alone two-story structure, it held just about every type of exercise equipment in existence, from CrossFit tires, rope, and kettle balls to computer-activated weight machines. Unfortunately, all of that equipment was outside the view of the front door, which had a stand-up juice bar and small pro shop. The only thing available was a long string of treadmills that faced a bank of mirrors, allowing her to turn her back to the entrance and still see everyone who entered. Provided she could remain focused on the mirror. Long-distance running was not Jennifer’s forte, and she wished the rope and acrobatics section was in view of the front doors.
Or the climbing wall was on the inside.

An attractive Filipino woman of about thirty-five took the treadmill to her right and began sprinting, then walking, working intervals to Jennifer’s slow jog. She wore a thick necklace with a heavy gold cross, and Jennifer was amazed she could concentrate on her run with the thing bouncing and flying all over the place.

Jennifer caught a flash from the front door opening and saw the wife enter. She continued her jog, waiting for the woman to commit either to the gym or to the locker room. The wife looked right at her, staring for a second, sending a spike of adrenaline through Jennifer. The woman to her right stopped the treadmill and exited, walking toward the locker room. The wife fell in behind her.

Jennifer waited a full three minutes, then followed suit, grabbing a towel and entering the large female changing area. She saw nobody in the anteroom, passed by the sink and makeup area, and went into the locker section. She listened and heard a giggle at the far end. She continued on, acting like she was headed to the toilets. She passed a row of lockers and saw the wife sitting on a bench next to the woman with the cross. They were whispering to each other, both now wearing towels. When they heard her coming, the woman snatched her hands to her sides, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

Jennifer continued on, locking herself into a stall and listening. She heard more whispers, then the rustle of the women standing. She saw a shadow pass by her stall, moving farther into the locker room toward the sauna. She waited a beat, then exited, moving swiftly to their last known location.

Since they were in towels, it stood to reason they’d changed right in this row of lockers. The lockers themselves had keys that stayed in the doors until used, each with a little accordion wristband. If the door was locked, the key could be removed. When the door was unlocked, the key stayed in the door until the next user came along.

Jennifer studied the bank and saw that five of the lockers were without keys. She went to her own locker two rows over, broke out her lockpick kit, and returned. Hanging on the inside of locker three’s door she found the cross. She dug through the woman’s belongings until she located a wallet. She laid out anything that looked like official identification, including credit cards, and photographed them with her smartphone. She didn’t waste time with the woman’s purse, not wanting to be discovered. She packed everything up as she’d found it and relocked the door.

She still had one task left: the photo of the woman. She went back to her locker, intent on rigging a small button-cam in her blouse, then waiting at the juice bar until the woman left. She picked up her clothes, then thought about the sauna. What if she could glean more information besides the nickel task of taking a picture?

You’re not in danger of compromise. After the picture, you’re out of here.

She put the clothes back, stripped, and put on her towel. She walked to the sauna and opened the door, the steam and heat hitting her immediately. She heard rustling; then her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw the two women sitting very close together.

She smiled and sat down, her intuition pinging. She said, “Hi. Is it okay if I come in?”

The woman who had been wearing the cross spoke in accented English. “Yes. Of course.”

Jennifer sat, and the wife inched away from the woman, leaning in the opposite direction. And Jennifer knew this wasn’t about terrorism.

They sat for another five minutes; then Jennifer said, “Sorry, but this is a little bit hot for me. I guess it’s something you need to get used to.”

She stood, and the woman with the cross smiled. Jennifer left and rapidly changed, then spent the remainder of the time waiting at the juice bar. Finally, she saw the wife leave, followed by the woman, now wearing the cross again. She turned on the digital recorder in her purse and tracked them both as they left the facility.