In the Dark (2 page)

"I'd rather go alone, sir," Master Chief said softly. SEALs always worked in pairs or small groups, never alone. Luther regarded him questioningly.

"We could all face charges if Jaguar is convicted," Sebastian explained. "No one needs to cross the line right now."

That was true, and since Sebastian had achieved the highest rank for an enlisted man, it would take an act of Congress to part him from his pension benefits. "You're right," said Luther, turning his attention to Teddy. "Teddy, you and Vinny keep things up and running at Spec Ops while Westy and I are wheels up."

"Yes, sir," they mumbled, clearly disappointed to be denied time out of the office.

A bolt of lightning lit the men's resolute faces. Thunder rumbled overhead, and a fleck of rain struck Luther's cheek. "We'll all check in at the end of each day. Jaguar's first hearing is on Friday. Make sure you show up at zero eight hundred at the Trial Services Building in dress whites. Any questions?"

The men looked at each other. "No, sir."

"Let's call it a night." With a plan in place, Luther couldn't wait to get the ball rolling. He stood up, towering over his companions.

As the only officer present, he felt a certain sense of obligation to his teammates, as well as to Jaguar, who was immediately senior to him as platoon leader. "Jaguar's not going to take the rap for this, guys," he reassured them, sweeping them with a steady look. "I'll pick you up at zero four hundred hours, Chief," he added to Westy before turning away.

"Good night, sir," the men called.

Luther jogged down the steps that took him to the parking lot. The rain started falling in earnest as he jumped into his Ford F150. With windshield wipers slapping a fervent tempo, he drove to his ranch-style rental in a suburban neighborhood. No upscale mansion for Luther, not anymore. He'd given up his privileged lifestyle when he quit the NFL.

Pulling into the driveway of his home, he noted the darkened windows with a grimace. No one was waiting for him, but—hey—that was fine. Since he'd asked Veronica to leave, he could actually hold his head up again. Better to live alone than be made a fool of. He wouldn't make that mistake twice.

He dashed for the door, averting his gaze from the nearly empty living area as he snapped on the lights. His ex-fiancée had taken all the furniture when she left, except a hunter-green sofa that weighed too much to move.

Kicking off his sneakers, he stripped off his damp T-shirt. It was a crying shame that Jaguar was in custody, but in a way Luther was grateful. He could channel his energies into proving Lovitt's perfidy and Jaguar's innocence. It sure beat prowling around his empty house wondering what part of his marriage plan had gone awry.

Ronnie had been pretty, educated, raised in a two-parent home. How could he have known that their physical attraction would fizzle, that she'd make him look like an idiot by seeing other men? His determination to live a wholesome, simple life was undermined by Ronnie's complexity.

If he ever got engaged again, he'd make damn sure his bride was smart but uncomplicated; a sensible woman with practical plans and domestic dreams.

He just hated it when a well-laid plan went awry.

FBI Headquarters,
Washington, D.C.
17 September ~ 10:42 EST

Special Agent Rafael Valentino looked nothing like the hard-nosed FBI agent Luther had pictured in his mind. He wore a silver-gray Armani suit over a black turtleneck. His ebony hair, shot with threads of silver, was combed back from a strong Italian forehead, making him look more like the famous NBA coach, Pat Riley, than a veteran of the NYPD, which he was, according to the plaque on the wall behind his polished desk.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," Valentino offered, his quiet baritone betraying no hint of his Italian heritage nor the inner-city dialect he'd surely spoken while growing up in New York City.

Luther and Westy eased into elegant leather armchairs as Valentino sorted gravely through the piles on his desk. The man had to be pushing forty, but aside from the silver in his hair, he looked fit and formidable. "I have a statement that your master chief gave to the military police at Quantico, back when Miss Geary's vehicle was found there," he said quietly. He opened a file and skimmed through it. "Apparently Miss Geary was on her way to Quantico with information that implicated your commander in stealing weapons?"

"That's correct," said Luther.

Valentino leaned against the high back of his throne-like chair. Through dark, inscrutable eyes, he regarded first Luther and then Westy. Luther had the distinct impression that the man was measuring their character. "I'm going to tell you something that stays within these walls," he divulged.

Luther held his breath.

"We are aware that your commander has been stealing weapons."

Relief welled up in Luther only to come crashing down at Valentino's next words.

"For the time being, we need to leave him alone. We want the man he works for, an entity who calls himself the Individual."

Say
what?
Luther swung an astonished look at Westy, whose blue eyes were blazing.

"The Individual funnels weapons to various political groups worldwide," Valentino added. Unlike most Italians, he spoke without using his hands. "Stolen weapons are cropping up in Nigeria, Haiti, and Yemen, in the hands of unpredictable factions. I'm sure you can appreciate how dangerous that is."

"Absolutely," Luther said. To think that Lovitt was involved in an operation like that! Wouldn't it be great if they could prove it? "I suppose you have proof of Lovitt's involvement?" he asked, wondering what it would take to get his hands on it.

Valentino just looked at him. "We have an intercepted e-mail that we've traced to Lovitt's IP address. It makes reference to certain cargo being ready for shipment. But for the time being the evidence remains with me."

"Who's the Individual?" Westy demanded. Typically forthright, he hated batting words around.

"I'm sorry," Valentino answered, his expression neutral. "We've reached a critical point in our investigation. I can't afford a leak." He reached for a second pile of documents and pulled it before him. "I will tell you that the Individual knows Miss Geary, which may be the reason she is still alive."

But... Luther looked at Westy. They'd assumed it was Lovitt who'd made the woman disappear.

"One of the Individual's buyers is a Cuban, a potential revolutionary named Pinzon. According to our intelligence, Pinzon is guarding an American woman in his compound, which is in Santiago."

Luther's eyebrows rose. "Santiago ... Cuba?"

"That's right."

"How did Geary get from Quantico to Cuba?" he asked, utterly confounded.

"She never made it to Quantico. It took us a while to realize that," the agent admitted, "especially when the guards at Quantico remembered waving in a red-haired woman in a green Mustang. Once we considered that woman wasn't Miss Geary, we had more options to consider."

He cracked another file and read out loud, "'At two twenty-three p.m., August 29, state police received calls from motorists reporting a high-speed chase along Interstate 95, south of D.C. Subsequent calls notified police of an accident involving a minivan and a Mustang, with at least one injury.'" He looked up. "Our guess is that Miss Geary was grabbed at that point and put into the second vehicle. Her car, which showed up at Quantico, had a patched rear tire and showed signs of a recent collision.

"Our leads dried up until Occoquan police came forward with video footage of a man bearing a woman of Geary's description aboard a stolen yacht. The man was Misalov Obradovitch." He withdrew two photographs from the file and slid them across the desk for Luther's and Westy's inspection.

Westy scowled down at the man's photo. "He looks familiar."

"He should," said Valentino. "Obradovitch is a Serbian assassin. He and his wife have been among our Most Wanted for years. Wearing a wig, the woman bears enough resemblance to Miss Geary to have used her ID at Quantico. We believe she left the car there to mislead us."

Luther memorized the features of the stone-faced criminals.
Hannah Geary must have been scared out of her mind,
he considered, sparing her a thought.

"Getting back to the yacht, I was able to track its progress using commercial satellite imagery and marine radio communications. All indications point to Santiago as its final destination."

"Why not send your own people in if you know where she is?" Luther asked. There had to be a reason Valentino had asked for them specifically.

"Because I've been here before," he admitted, placing an elegant-looking hand over the file he'd just closed. "The Individual isn't new to us; we've been aware of his activities for years, and the last time I got this close, he disappeared. If he senses that I'm closing in, he'll clean up house before I can find the proof I need to shut him down. I require you to camouflage my investigation," the agent summarized.

Luther considered him for a long, thoughtful moment. "Agreed," he said, at last, "but we need something in return. If this woman, Geary, is alive and well, we'd like to borrow her." He summarized Jaguar's legal situation while explaining that Geary could potentially relieve him of his charges.

Thoughts ebbed and flowed in Valentino's dark-as-night eyes. "You're asking me to put her welfare into your hands," he pointed out. "The Individual might well target her again."

"Understood," said Luther. "I think we're capable of watching her, sir." He flicked a look at Westy, who nodded.

Valentino scrutinized them through his eyelashes. "Very well," he finally agreed. "If you can extract Geary from her current situation, then she may remain with you until my investigation is complete. But I insist that you check in with me often and keep me apprised of her situation."

"We will," Luther agreed. "Where do we start?"

Valentino conjured a map that he handed over to the SEALs to peruse. Luther recognized the shoreline of the eastern portion of Cuba and the familiar outline of Guantanamo Bay, where he'd spent extensive time participating in live-fire exercises. Near the city of Santiago at the mouth of the bay was a structure that resembled a fort. Valentino had circled it in red.

"Let's go over this together," he invited smoothly.

Santiago de Cuba
19 September ~ 02:54 DST

Hannah lurched from the clutches of a too familiar dream. She sat up on her cot, bathed in a clammy sweat, her heart still racing. If she closed her eyes, she would fall right back into the nightmare.

In some ways the crash that had killed her parents three years ago seemed like yesterday. At the same time, those had been the three longest years of her life. With shaky fingers, she brushed the hair from her sticky face and looked around.

The thumbnail moon at her window revealed that it was late. Over the muted roar of waves outside, Hannah heard a noise that pushed the unpleasant dream into the recesses of her mind and brought her more widely awake.

There were footsteps in the hallway. She drew a breath and held it, listening as the steps grew louder. Much to her surprise, the interloper stopped outside her door.

Someone meant to pay her a visit.

She lay back quietly, pretending to be asleep.

Anticipation knocked against her eardrums as the bolt grated to one side. Her door yawned open, and there stood a slight man in uniform, silhouetted by the light in the hall.

Hannah recognized him as the leader of the soldiers that drilled in the courtyard. She'd overheard him addressed as General Pinzon. He wore a pistol in the holster at his waist and shoes so highly polished that they glinted in the darkness, but he stood half a head shorter than she did.

He didn't stand a chance.

Easing the door shut behind him, the general approached her cot. The purpose for his visit became clear as he fumbled with the zipper of his pants.

Slime bag.

His knee hit the edge of her bed. He leaned over, groping.

Wait.

Now!
She seized him in a headlock, gouging his eyes to blind him. As he reared back, she thrust her feet into his abdomen, giving him no time to snatch up his weapon. He hit the opposite wall with a thud, sinking toward the floor.

Hannah flew at him. Before switching to the DIA, she'd been trained at CIA camp how to disable the enemy with the least amount of force. But in the dark, and with adrenaline coursing her bloodstream, the blow that was supposed to hit the side of his neck landed dead center.

Crack.
The cartilage in his throat snapped. His mouth gaped open. He grabbed his neck, trying in vain to gasp for air. Hannah snatched up his gun before he thought to shoot her with it

She backed away, watching in horror as he opened and closed his mouth, looking like a fish out of water. The gun in her hand felt cold and heavy. At last, his movements grew more feeble and he stilled. The only sound in the room was her shallow breathing.

Ikilled him,
she thought.
Iactually just killed a man without even meaning to!

The instinct for self-preservation roused her from paralysis. She lurched for the door. No time to consider her actions now. Easing into the empty hallway, she closed the door behind her, and slid the bolt home, sealing the general inside.

And then she ran.

Down a hall that split immediately in two different directions. After darting into several confusing alcoves, Hannah located the stairs. To her dismay, there were guards below her. If she shot them, it would cause a ruckus. She spared a moment to check her ammunition. The clip was empty, anyway. The gun was useless.

She hurled it down the stairwell, prompting an immediate stir. With a shout, the guards stormed the second level, but Hannah had tucked herself into an alcove and they ran by. She dashed down the steps behind them, her bare feet making no sound at all.

The buzz of insects masked her dash to the outdoor kitchens, noisy with the clanging of pots and running water. She scraped her elbow on the sandstone wall as she edged along the kitchen's periphery.