Radiant Surrender (CSA Case Files Book 6) (15 page)

“Your tenacity amazes me,” Gavin said in slight wonderment. He spoke in a low, mesmerizing tone that she would have taken pride in had this not been such an important moment. Jessie needed to hear why he’d changed his mind. He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers against her cheek and she held her breath, afraid that he wouldn’t reveal what she wanted to know. “I’ve tried my best to protect you from what it is you think you want. You’ve set us on this course that will either destroy who we are or lead us on a path I haven’t been down before—one I’m not even sure exists. Your determination is unlike any other I have ever witnessed and I stand in awe of you at the woman you’ve become. I’ll allow you inside my barricaded life, Jessica, but God help me if you run from the beast inside the walls.”

Jessie exhaled loudly as Gavin turned and walked through the bedroom door. Blood rushed through her ears, letting only murmurs of the conversation that he was having with Townes come through. She placed a trembling hand to her lips, wanting to call Gavin back but knowing she shouldn’t. The raw vulnerability that she saw in his eyes had her heart aching and crying out for mercy. It was as if he truly thought no one would love the tainted soul that had been created by the life he’d led. This was a turning point in their lives where neither one of them could go back upstream. The waters were much deeper and faster now. One wrong move by either of them could spell disaster. She wouldn’t allow them to fail and she vowed to cherish and honor the future that was before them.

Chapter Fourteen

T
he lobby of the Hotel Ivy had been relatively quiet as well as the elevator ride to Crest’s destination. He’d taken great pains to ensure that he wasn’t followed and even added the security of Taryn tampering with the surveillance cameras wired into the building, although nothing was ever guaranteed. He didn’t bother to greet the contracted agent who was stationed just inside the door of the penthouse suite. The man knew who he was and stood aside, letting him enter. He wanted this visit over and done with so that he could finish what Ryland had started.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Ryland asked, nursing on the golden brown liquid inside the Da Vinci Grosseto cut crystal rocks glass. He absentmindedly rolled the two inch diameter spherical soapstone that kept his blended whiskey chilled to perfect temperature around the bottom of a Venetian artisan’s work of art. He was sitting in the exact same chair where they’d originally agreed to the current plan, with his legs crossed and wearing a charcoal gray Brioni Parlamento Italian handmade suit sans the jacket. His Barker Puccini Savile Row handcrafted shoes probably cost more than half an executive sentry’s monthly salary. It was as if he’d known that Crest would make an appearance this evening and had dressed accordingly. “You can imagine I’m not up on current events without any communication to the outside world.”

There wasn’t a need to communicate verbally, so Crest closed the distance and dropped the file in Ryland’s lap before walking to the side table and pouring himself a drink over an identical sphere taken from the ice bucket. The alcohol was noticeably darker, indicating that Ryland’s preferred Crown Royal XR brand had been delivered. Taking the top off of the decanter, he poured himself a healthy amount. Just the thought of what he had just hand delivered to this murderer prompted his thirst. By the time he took a seat on the couch Ryland was well engrossed in the details of the documents.

“Delivered as promised,” Crest said, breaking the silence and then savoring the full-bodied liquor. It was damned good, but hell would freeze over before he would take his time to enjoy this pleasure of life with Ryland. “I want the list of names that you were contracted to kill, as well as the name of the man who gave the orders and all workup materials you were provided on your targets. This ends tonight.”

“My first reaction to what I’m reading is that this must have chafed your morality just a bit.” Ryland’s voice was filled with humor, yet there was an edge to it that Crest couldn’t quite figure out. “Full retirement as a lieutenant colonel? Did you happen to notice the amount of back pay for Lt. Col. Bowers?”

“I noticed.” Crest took another swig, accepting the warmth the expensive beverage was giving his chilled insides. This man didn’t deserve what he was being given, but life wasn’t always fair. He wouldn’t sit here and allow Ryland to relish the gifts that were being laid at his feet. “What’s interesting though is that you get to reclaim an identity that you didn’t want in the first place—at least for a short while. I wonder how you’ll adjust to your new way of life after they shove you through the WITSEC meat grinder and reinvent you all over again.”

“Do you take me for an idiot, Crest?” Ryland leaned forward and set his crystal tumbler on the coffee table a little harder than was necessary. He turned another sheet in the folder and he didn’t bother to hide his grimace. “The government is being overly gracious in giving me what I want and there can only be one reason. Unlike you, I don’t like my hands being tied.”

He ignored that verbal jab and though the thought of what the government was asking Ryland to do for such favors was technically customary, Crest didn’t give away the fact that he wasn’t quite sure why this crawled under Ryland’s skin like it did. There was something else going on here and if it in any way affected what was about to go down later this evening, he needed to know about it.

“I wasn’t aware we were forcing you to do anything other than what you freely offered in trade, Ryland.” Crest leaned forward as well and set his glass down in front of him. It was time to cut to the chase. “You received what you wanted with a nice little red bow on your silver oak leaves. I want the list of names and the man who started all of this.”

“Yes, the trade was set up to be that simple.” Ryland held up the folder as irritation took hold. It was a rare sight to behold and if Crest had any additional time on his hands, he would have sat back and enjoyed the show. “Testifying against the provocateur who orchestrated this homicidal manipulation of power for his own politically motivated bureaucratic gain wasn’t on the table.”

Crest wasn’t an obtuse man by any means. Any intelligent human being would know that with a pardon came strings attached. He was missing something and he didn’t have the time or luxury to figure it out. He cut right to the chase.

“You’ll testify at some Congressional Intelligence Oversight hearings, from which the government will bar the public. You’ve been asked to hand over evidence, such as the kill packages you were given and most likely have kept in a safe deposit box for your own security…and then you get to walk away as Travis Bowers or enter WITSEC and become someone else entirely. Your sins will have been whisked away as if the blood of Christ himself had washed your hands clean. Is there something else you’d like to share with me?”

Ryland barked out a mocking laugh, closed the folder, and then tossed it down beside his drink. He stood and grabbed his glass before heading over to the side table for a refill. Crest went over and over the information that he was privy to in order to figure out what would elicit this type of reaction and only came to one conclusion.

“Whoever is pulling the strings on this has your ass on a spit turning over the very fire of hell, doesn’t he?” Crest sat back in his seat, thinking of how this would impact Jessie. It wouldn’t, if he had any say. “If these hearings ever make it to the Senate floor in whatever form, you would somehow lose everything that you’ve worked toward to get your life back. Someone has you over a barrel and if I had the time to sit here appreciating this turn of events, I would.”

“The list of names and the man you want to speak to are on the sheet of paper on the coffee table.” Ryland poured himself another drink but he didn’t bother to turn around as Crest collected the information. He picked up the handwritten list and scrutinized the data. Carson Weaver was the supervising agent he would be speaking to within the hour, but Crest wasn’t about to go in blindsided. He’d touch base with Taryn to garner every personal detail that could be found. “A word of advice, Crest—don’t underestimate this man. He’s got the political influence, he also has substantial backing, and he damn well has the professional ability to wipe both of us off the map like Sodom and Gomorrah. As for WITSEC? Not a chance in hell.”

Crest didn’t bother to reply to Ryland’s last statement. With the information he needed in hand, he left Ryland to ruminate in his own thoughts. The man’s actions had put him in this situation and the fallout had run into other people’s lives that weren’t appreciative of the gesture. Although his feelings for Ryland were on the edge of all out contempt, there was still a sliver of deference for how the man maneuvered through life and managed to come out smelling like a rose. He was a survivor and lived life as if he were playing a chess game. He positioned people and situations as if they were nothing more than pawns to be sacrificed. Fortunately Crest lived a somewhat similar life, although with a deep-seated moral code of conduct, and he wasn’t about to allow himself or those he cared about be forfeited on Ryland’s altar of vanity.

*   *   *   *

It was going on twenty-three hundred hours as Crest made himself comfortable on a white leather couch in front of a glowing gas fireplace. It wasn’t his taste in design. After all, this was a woman’s residence and not everyone had his sense of style or means. This place seemed far too sterile for his comfort. He casually glanced around at what he assumed was one of the better offerings from the Ascent at Sprint Hill Station, high-rise luxury apartments that were located in Tysons Corner as he nursed the somewhat unremarkable Napoleon brandy that had been on hand.

Carson Weaver obviously knew how to keep his mistress satisfied if the glimpse into her closet was anything to go by, but the liquor left much to be desired. He leaned back against the uncomfortable cushion and rested an arm on the back of the sofa. He had all the information he needed on the man who was about to walk in the door, thinking he was going to get laid on his three time weekly visit. For someone in such a high position of the most clandestine intelligence agency in America, he certainly lacked in good judgment when it came to his own personal security.

As the overly modernized grandfather clock struck the hour, the sound of the deadbolt being turned echoed throughout the room. Taryn had come through with the information he required and all that had to be done now was tidy up the dangling strings. Crest lifted the glass tumbler to his lips, taking another sip of the brown liquid that tasted more like vinegar than anything else. He grimaced and then decided he’d had enough as he studied the man who walked inside and closed the door behind him. He was wearing a relatively expensive Brooks Brothers suit, his tie loosened at the neck in addition to his shirt collar being unbuttoned. Weaver was in the process of slipping the keys into his right side pocket when he realized that his mistress wasn’t the one waiting for him.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Crest said, indicating to the area where Weaver had just reached inside his jacket. Crest lowered his gaze to the red dot that lined up perfectly on Weaver’s dress shirt just under his frozen hand. The man stood stock still, but the fury that flushed his face was rather evident in the bulging vein on his temple. “I must say, you’re rather lax on the security arrangements for someone you supposedly care about. I realize that too much scrutiny on your mistress might somehow leak out to your wife’s social circle, but it’s times like these that has you getting caught with your pants down—figuratively, that is. Please, have a seat. I’d offer you a drink, but it’s apparent that you only come here to fuck because your liquor cabinet selection is extremely poor. This cheap brandy isn’t worth the decanter it’s been poured into, Carson. Getting back to your question, I can see you know exactly who I am. As for the reason I’m here, we’ll get to that shortly.”

“You obviously have no idea who you’re dealing with or you wouldn’t be quite so satisfied with yourself.” Weaver took another look at the red dot, courtesy of a man named Daegan Murphy. Crest had loaned the long-range sniper out from another agency called Red Starr HRT and he was worth every penny he was being paid. The threat to his life was enough to get Weaver to stay where he was. “What do you want?”

“Feel free to have a seat, if you wish—although I’d do it slowly if I were you.” Crest raised his glass toward the chair off to the side while still giving Murphy a clean shot if needed. “We have matters to discuss. Of course, if you insist on being insolent, I could just kill you now and save myself the time.”

“What you have to say shouldn’t take long,” Weaver said confidently, feeling more comfortable as each second ticked by. Crest allowed him that luxury for a moment longer. “And I can promise you that at the end of this so called meeting, you’ll regret having made such a considerable misstep.”

“That’s highly doubtful and I feel I must give you the advice of being careful with what you promise. It only makes you look like an incompetent general muddling through a half-assed coup attempt rather than a highly placed ambitious bureaucratic intelligence agent.” Crest studied his adversary, gauging the man’s patience and calculating the odds of when Weaver would know the chase had come to an end. He’d give it at least two minutes. Obstinate men like Weaver didn’t like to be bested at their own game. “Suit yourself in standing while I deliver my news. You see, you really should research the people you want eliminated from the path of your strategic goals. Underestimating your opponent is the exact thing that weeds out the competition at our level in the game, Carson. As of twenty-three hundred this evening, you will provide the FBI the evidence they need to drop the case you manufactured against my associate by contriving trumped-up and wholly false charges against Jessica Miller. Her position will be secured and an apology will be issued. By the way, an investigation has been launched by the DOJ into your department’s professional misconduct to wit using
improper and illegal
acts to execute or influence matters that fall outside the realm of the CIA. Does Martin Turner ring a bell? What about Howard Elliot? I could go on, but I can see you know where I’m going with this by the look on your face.”