Hidden Trump (Bite Back 2) (18 page)

Ingram was watching me like the fox he resembled.

There was no Captain Baker in Ops 4-10 when I was there.

“Don’t know him,” I said.

“Much what he said ’bout you. I asked about the special forces stuff and he laughed. Boy, oh boy, he laughed. Said that if every person who claimed to be in special forces actually had been, the whole US government would have gone bust trying to pay them.”

I just sat and waited him out. It was like having my head pushed through mud, but there was a point to this. Agent Ingram was a man with a point.

“Thing is,” he said, “this Baker fellow, he claims that phone number’s in army pay administration. Now they aren’t woo-woo, so their numbers are up there for me to check, and here’s the funny part. It’s got the right area code, but it ain’t no admin number, and no one called Captain Baker works for army pay. I even asked your friend Krantz.”

The number was a blind. It went into some system that rerouted it to the colonel’s cell. Or it had before.

“So, where does that leave us?” I asked.

“Still not believing you,” muttered Griffith.

Ingram smiled, and I shivered again. This time the chill was more than the temperature or the aftereffects of adrenaline. I desperately needed to talk to the colonel and House Altau, as soon as possible. I couldn’t call anyone on my cell with the FBI listening to my calls. I needed to get out of here. Altau at least I could reach. As long as these guys didn’t take me in for obstructing an investigation or for my own safety. I couldn’t think they’d be able to use any other excuse.

“Tell you what,” said Ingram, reaching behind his seat. “I got me a couple of little tests here.”

He put a package wrapped in chamois on the table. It was heavy. It clunked. I knew it was a gun.

“Spoke to a friend of mine. He says you should be able to field strip this, sweet as a nut.”

I sat up and flicked the chamois back. A smirk tugged at one corner of my mouth. “Almost any grunt would be able to do that,” I said. It was an HK Mark 23, the same model as the one in my jogging bag. It was a special forces gun rather than general army issue, but the principles would be the same. “I’ll make it more interesting.”

I didn’t know that this would prove anything, but if Ingram felt it did, I was happy to go along. No skin off my nose. I took the chamois, spun it into a strip and tied it around my head as a blindfold. By touch, I safed the gun, checked the chamber and ejected the magazine.

I stuck my hand out. “Ballpoint,” I said. I felt one drop into my hand. I pushed the stiff release pin with it, put the ballpoint down, and felt the familiar components of the gun separating in my hands like a well-worn puzzle.
How many times had I done this?

I placed the parts in the right order on the table, clapped my hands and re-assembled the gun in five seconds.

“Well, that’s mighty impressive, Ms. Farrell, but now, that might just be because you have one.” Of course, he would have that on file about me. “Keep the blindfold on, if you would, and try this.” There was a much heavier clunk as he pulled something out of the back and laid it on the table in front of me.

I felt the weight and size of the weapon. A rifle. My hands roved over it.

“Special operations combat assault rifle, known as the SCAR. Made by FN for SOCOM,” I said as I started disassembly. It was stiff, probably brand new. “This is the heavy, for the 7.62mm NATO cartridge. Long barrel.” I placed the last of the pieces on the table. “Taken on officially after I left. I only got to play with it a couple of times.”

I put it back together in a dozen seconds and tossed the chamois on top.

Ingram was still smiling, a professional smile that meant nothing. A little worm of doubt punctured my self-satisfied feeling.

Why had he done this? What was going on behind those eyes? Sure, someone with my history would be able to do what I’d done. But so might a spy or a hitman.

Or a terrorist. My heart skipped a beat. Had I just earned myself a stay in a lockup under the Patriot Act? Or worse. My fingerprints were all over those weapons now, and only the two of them witnessing how that happened. Had I been set up for something, or was this a threat to hold over me?

I couldn’t figure out what was going through his head, but he’d probably gotten every single thought I’d just had like it had been written on my face.

But he was playing a long game.

“Well that’s about it, I guess,” he said, finishing his coffee. “For now.”

I chewed my cheek to keep my face blank and made to go, but he put his hand up. “Just one last thing, Ms. Farrell,” he said. “For tonight, anyhow. That’s a mighty fancy car you got there for the amount of money you’re clearing.”

“It was goods in lieu for a job I did.” House Altau had given me the car in exchange for work I had done for them, so I wasn’t lying.

Ingram grunted. “Hope you remember it on your tax returns,” he said.

“Gods, Ingram. Set Homeland Security on me, but leave the damn IRS out of it, will you?” I opened the panel door.

He laughed, the good ole uncle at the barbeque again.

“We’ll need you to come in again, Ms. Farrell,” said Griffith. He was bagging the SCAR. Wearing gloves.

“It would be unfortunate if we had to…retrieve you,” said Ingram.

Yeah. Very unfortunate for me. ‘Wanted in connection with’ type of unfortunate. I got out and walked away, furious with everything, myself included.

I drove around the south side of the park, desperate for any sign of Larry. It was futile; if he’d gotten away, he’d still be running. There was a good chance. It’d all happened too quickly, but I had the feeling that every one of Matlal’s people was after me, not Larry. That was better than a chance, and Larry was smart enough to take it.

I wanted to head to Monroe right now and wait for Larry. But he could take hours to get there, and there was nothing I could do to help him in the meantime.

Think.

Training kicked in. I had other responsibilities as well.

Refocus on the next objective. Altau telecommunications had been compromised. I had to get that message to them.

But I couldn’t drive there in this car. And I couldn’t use it to check out Monroe either.

It was no freaking coincidence the FBI van had shown up right next to me. They must have planted a bug on me that I hadn’t been able to spot.

I went through how big it might be and where they could have hidden it in the hour I was at the CBI building. It needed power, it needed a transmitter, it probably had GPS or movement detection, it needed to be able to send and receive. There’s a limit to how small you can make stuff like that, and where you can plant it, even for the FBI spooks. Trouble was, I didn’t know what that limit was. I’d need to ask an expert.

It was dark and I couldn’t do it now. I couldn’t risk driving the car out to Haven, I couldn’t call, and I shouldn’t delay telling Altau their phones were being monitored.

I’d have to get unconventional.

Chapter 19

I drove across to Aurora, and parked the car near the main mall.

I changed out of my jogging gear in the back seat and walked down to Colfax Avenue. No one followed me. I made double sure of that. My paranoia was on overdrive.

Late as it was, I got lucky; Rom was still working in his garage.

Rom had helped me maintain my old car for next to nothing, officially renting me out the space and tools, and ignoring all the advice and assistance he gave. And we’d met at raves and parties. We weren’t exactly friends, but he’d lent me his motorcycle when my car was up on jacks and I’d needed to go somewhere. That was what I needed from him now.

Rom was cooler about it than I was. I didn’t like banking favors, but he laughed it off and handed me the keys and his heavy biking jacket and gloves. Five minutes later, I was on the road, enjoying the rumble of the Harley and weaving sinuously through the nighttime traffic on the I-70. I started to feel better and gave the bike its head out on the Parkway. The wind whipped my hair out in a banner behind me. Tears leaked out the corners of my eyes, freezing on my cheeks, and I had a stupid grin on my face listening to the thunder of the engine. I was thankful for the loan of the jacket and gloves.

And it was at about that point my brain got over the FBI and started processing what had happened in the park.

Seven people? More like a dozen. Tracking Larry? Completely uninterested in him once I broke cover. Elite Matlal people taking over. Tactical comms. A trank dart. This wasn’t Hoben anymore, this was Matlal. Larry knew. He had known that as soon as he saw the size of the hunt—he’d run off yelling
she’s getting away
, not
they’re getting away
.

Shit, Matlal was after me and he wanted me alive. Skylur’s chilling warning from last night came back to me: if Basilikos heard about my Blood, they’d do
anything
to get hold of me.

I had to pull over and kneel next to the bike, shaking with reaction.

Who told them? Ahead of me waited Haven. Everyone else who knew anything about what had been said at David’s house was there. Who was I going to trust?

I flashed back to Ops 4-10 training for covert solo ops.

Red Team. Tied up as an involuntary guest of Blue Team. Caught stupid, sold a pup. Awake for forty hours straight and doused in icy water every ten minutes as punishment. Instructor Ben-Haim screaming in my face, inches away—“Trust no one! Do. You. Understand. Now?”

And whispering in the silence afterwards, his voice sad. “Only people you trust can ever really betray you, Amber.”

What would you tell me to do now, Ben-Haim?
Run.

I could run. With my training I could disappear forever. I’m no instinctive mechanic like Rom, but I could work with engines. I could do fitness training. I could dye my hair, buy a fake ID, trail up and down the coasts. I could almost smell the sea. Always working cash in hand, always moving. Always alone.

And I would have to leave behind Alex, Jen, David, Pia, Tullah and whatever was left from the wreck of my family. No. I wasn’t going to do that.

You were wrong, Ben-Haim. I’m a team player. I was always better in 4-10 working in a team. I tried being alone for two years and it sucks. I need a team now.

I had to trust myself, my new instincts and my old ones, and fight my way through this.

If I thought it was cold kneeling next to the Harley, another minute of riding dispelled that. My face and legs were frozen when I got to Haven.

The place was dark, and no one appeared at the gate when I leaned the bike on the kickstand. I could feel them watching. I didn’t doubt that a gun or three were pointed my way. Unannounced arrival at night—I huffed. I wasn’t making any friends with the security team here.

“House Farrell,” I said to the empty night, my mouth feeling slow with the cold. “Urgent communication for the Diakon.”

“Run out of carrier pigeons?” said a voice from the gatehouse. A man emerged with the hand scanner. He relaxed a little as it verified me.

“Fresh out. Sorry to arrive like this, at this time of night.”

“De nada. Not as if we close down. Nice bike, House.” He listened to his earpiece for a second. “She’s on her way. Main gates are staying closed—standing orders at the moment.”

I shrugged and spent some time rubbing my legs and restoring circulation. How was this going to go?

“Round-eye, what a surprise.” Bian came out through the personnel gate. “Shall we walk a little way?” She snagged my arm and we wandered back up the road. I wondered which Bian I would get tonight. The Diakon, or what I was starting to think of as the Leopard, the Bian who threatened to bite me and drag me off to her lair for wild, snarling sex.

“No moonlight tonight. Shame,” she said.

I couldn’t help but grin in the darkness. “As if that mattered to you, Pussycat. Aren’t you concerned about what might be out and about tonight?”

She snorted. “We are the things that go bump in the night, Round-eye. Now, much as I want to believe it, I don’t think you rode all the way out here on that pretty motorbike to take me for a walk.”

“No.” I sighed. Diakon Bian. “I’ve had a load of fun since I left Jaworski here. And I held something back from you that maybe I shouldn’t have.” Her hand tightened on my arm but she didn’t say anything. “I had to speak to the FBI…”

Bian listened without interrupting as I went through the afternoon: the interest of the federal bureaus, the tapping of phones, the tracking of my car, why I was meeting Larry at the pavilion and the attack.

I slowed, conscious of the grip on my arm, the silence broken only by our footfalls. We were out of sight and hearing of the gatehouse. Why had Bian guided me out here?

She turned us around and we started back.

Trust and Jump.
My old watchwords.

I told her my fears about the implications of the attack.

“Calm down, Amber,” she said, keeping hold of my arm. “Think it through. There were very few of us that came to the house and know anything about what went on. David, Mykayla and Pia have been isolated from everyone else, and they don’t have any means of talking to anyone outside. Besides them, there was Skylur, Diana and my security team involved. How could Matlal have found out?”

“Someone at Haven might be aware that David’s passed through crusis. When he was brought in, someone might have noticed his marque’s changed, too. Isolating people will cause rumors. People talk, people put two and two together.”

We stopped. We’d returned to the gatehouse, and Bian used the intercom system to talk Athanate to someone in the house before rejoining me. She pulled me inside, into the house grounds, and set us off on a circular route around the house.

“Skylur may want to talk to you,” she said, when we were out of hearing of the gatehouse. “Right, here’s how I see it. It’s possible someone put together what happened with David, but it’s unlikely. I think you’re jumping to conclusions there.”

Somehow, that didn’t make me feel a whole lot better.