Terrorbyte (2 page)

I removed my vest, rotated my shoulders, working out the tension from the adrenaline that had flooded my body before and during the takedown.

I nodded. A wave of relief hit me, knowing we'd reunited the sisters and they were alive. Alive is good. Sometimes it's not all bad news.

“What condition is the body in?”

“You're going to need to use prints to identify the perp,” I replied.

“That bad?” He raised an eyebrow.

I grinned. “Nah, he had no identification on him. My bullet hit him right in the middle of the forehead. Plenty of face left for family to view, if he has any here.”

“We don't negotiate.” His tone conveyed no room for what-ifs. “These idiots need to learn that and learn it well. Was the kid in immediate danger?”

We stopped in front of the ambulance, where Caine could see the girl receiving medical attention for a small neck wound. She'd need one or two stitches. I could see a Hudson mask on the gurney next to her and wished I could reach in and borrow it. Clean, cool oxygen would rid my lungs of the foul air I'd breathed.

“Yes, she was,” I replied. I angled my body away from the scene in the ambulance.

He nodded. “Then it was the right call.”

“How the hell did they end up in Washington?” I had questions.

“I'm hoping the girls can tell us.”

“How'd the first kid escape?” The first two men we came across in the rooms weren't exactly spring chickens, and probably wouldn't be running after anyone. But the knife guy – the putrid smelling man – I knew he wouldn't let his meal tickets escape without a fight.

“She was left alone for a few minutes and discovered the door unlocked,” Caine replied. “That indicates carelessness, and lack of experience in managing teenage kidnap victims, to me.”

“An unlocked door? That was one lucky break and one feisty kid.”

“Yes,” Caine replied.

“Are we handling this?” It didn't seem like a case for Delta A.

“No, I'm passing it over to another team.”

It was what I expected. We had dedicated teams that specialized in finding lost kids and dealt with trafficking. A joint task force with ICE sprang to mind. I was immensely pleased to be out of that loop. I'd come across a particularly offensive Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent during another case. I certainly didn't want to repeat the experience. It begged the question of why we were called out in the first place.

“And we received the call – why?”

“I thought it might have been something else.”

I shot him a questioning look. “Like?”

“We've got an ongoing case.” He proceeded to explain. “Delta B team is working on a case involving an Albanian crime syndicate. So far, five dead: all with ties to the Albanians. When the kid described how she and her sister were taken and gave a description of the men that held them, the perps sounded Albanian to me.”

The penny poised but didn't drop. Albanians were linked to human trafficking in both the United Kingdom and Belgium but, as far as I knew, here in the United States they were involved in drugs and general thuggery.

“Have the Albanians spread their human trafficking wings to include South Africa and here?” I asked.

“Not as far as we can tell. Everything we've seen so far suggests that this is an anomaly,” Caine replied. He seemed certain, yet there was something ticking away under the surface. I could feel it.

My left eyebrow rose. “And, is this connected to Delta B's case?”

Caine's mouth twitched. “Different Albanians, but might be good for some information.”

“I take it we're the only team working in Northern Virginia?”

We may all be Delta, but we were often separate teams. Caine was Delta's Special Agent in Charge. He moved between us, helping whichever team needed him. Sometimes we all worked together but mostly the nine of us made up three teams to give better coverage.

“Yes, B is in New Jersey. All the murder victims were found in Long Beach.” The sides of his mouth twitched so violently he almost smiled. “C is offering assistance down in Georgia where some market gardener dug up a few bodies.”

I checked my watch. I really needed to get going. “I'll write my report then head home,” I said.

“We'll all see you tonight,” Caine said. “How's Mac coping with the fuss?”

I smiled. “Badly.”

“He's probably made the connection between speeches and microphones,” Caine said with a massive upper lip spasm.

“I'm sure he has.” There was no stopping the smile on my face. Caine twitched his lips into a frightening grimace. “I don't know that we've helped him any by razzing him about the things he said while under the influence.”

“I think you'll find it wasn't ‘we',” Caine replied, pointing at me, then himself.

“No, it wasn't you,” I agreed.

It was me, Sam and Lee. Mostly me. Memories of Mac spaced out on Ketamine, courtesy of the Son of Shakespeare, were never far away. Memories of Mac and his rainbow people amused me on a daily basis; in the main, I kept them to myself.

“Wipe that grin off your face, Ellie. It's hard enough for him to move past calling Sam ‘Mr. T' as it is.”

Then I saw it. Suppressed amusement. He did find it funny.

“See you tonight,” I said.

“Let me know if you need a persuasive escort,” Caine said. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I'll have Mr. T and his pal, General Lee, pick him up.”

I imagined Mac handcuffed and escorted to dinner. It was amusing but possibly necessary.

“Will do.”

Mac lifted his head, his hazel eyes meeting mine with the determination of a man searching for an out.

“Why?”

“Because we are required to attend.” I tugged my tee shirt free from my waistband, letting it hang over my jeans. The early evening was warm, bordering on muggy. I felt hot and tired, and my mood teetered on the edge of nervously peeved and ornery bitch. I pulled the tie from my hair and shook my head, ran my fingers through the length of my hair and massaged my head with my fingertips. Even my scalp felt irritated.

Irritated was the new happy.

I could still smell the dead guy, even after showering at work and changing into clean clothes. The clothes I'd worn all day were in the garbage. I felt like I needed to shower again.

He shuffled papers across his desk, without looking up at me. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“I know.” I steeled myself for the string of excuses that seemed ready to fall.

“Do we really have to?” he implored, looking up at me through the dark hair that fell over his eyes.

“Yes, we really do,” I replied, weary beyond belief.

“You know I hate this …”

“Yes … I know you hate this.”

I remembered exactly what I was doing the day the publisher rang to tell me our book made the New York Times bestseller list. I dropped one of the crystal glasses I was washing and it smashed in the kitchen sink. I never dreamt the book would sit at number three for two months and I still hadn't found a replacement glass.

We have to do this.

FBI agents who write poetry: we were big news, especially after the Son of Shakespeare case and the whole world found out about the sucky little poems he left for me, artistically stuck to dead bodies. Personally, I think people only bought the book to check out my warped mind. I hoped they were disappointed but sales indicated they weren't. I think I'm fairly twisted. Finding parts of people in your car and bath tub and hanging from the ceiling will do that to a person.

“Who'll be there?”

The answer rambled in my head: about two hundred people we've never met; half the FBI; all our family; most of Mauryville. Mauryville is the small town I'd lived in before moving north to be with Mac.

“People.” I crossed my fingers and hoped my next comment sounded convincing. “It's a dinner function, so probably not many.” I was trying hard to make it sound like a small intimate gathering, the sort that wouldn't require a microphone.

Mac's eyes met mine. “You're a terrible liar, Ellie.”

He passed me a pile of papers. Flipping through them, I realized they all said similar things
:
‘Congratulations. See you at the dinner
.
'

“There's even one from that friend of Simon's and dad's, GW.”

“So is it that GW?”

“I think so. Look at this.” He handed me the email. I glanced over the contents and noted the Secret Service brief at the bottom.

Just when I thought I'd taken his mind off things, he snapped at me, “I cannot speak in front of people … with a microphone in my face.” Mac's eyes shifted back to the paperwork on his desk. A thin scar from a knife fight ran along the side of his face, almost obscured by his hair. A scar on the bridge of his nose, from a maniac with a baseball bat a few months ago, was still pink. A reminder that Mac wasn't afraid of wading into trouble even when there was a real possibility of physical injury and yet, here he was about to bury himself in work rather than face a microphone. The Son of Shakespeare had really screwed him up. I saw the little lost boy behind his eyes. Before I realized what had happened I found myself wanting to smack him good and hard upside the head and tell him to get over it.

“I don't want to do this either.” That was the truest thing I'd said all afternoon. You do what you have to do.

He looked up. “Then let's not; let's turn off the phone, lock the door and stay home.”

That's not going to happen. “Barring our deaths, we have to attend.”

“Don't tempt me like that.”

“Mac, we're going, everything is going to be fine.” It was a white lie for a good cause.

He shook his head. “No, it will be dreadful … I will make an ass of myself.” He sighed a long, theatrical sigh. “And it will be embarrassing as hell.”

Speculating that it might well be, I injected a smile into my voice and said, “First, let's just get there and do the mix and mingle thing, sign a few books, have dinner … I'll read a few poems, you feign illness and we'll leave.”

I kept my fingers crossed that what I was actually thinking wouldn't pop out of my mouth: Suck it up, princess!

There are worse things in life than speaking into a microphone in front of a crowd of people. I couldn't think of any, offhand, but I knew there were worse things.

Then it dawned on me, the smell of the dead guy was worse. I wanted to scream, ‘I shot someone today.' But I sucked it up and moved on. There was no sense in letting that scumbag ruin my night, not with Mac so keen on doing the same.

“Oh, I won't be faking the illness and remember, you're a sympathetic vomiter.”

It took vast amounts of willpower to hold myself in check. I knew he had a genuine phobia of microphones but, man, he was standing on my last nerve.

Mac must've realized how close I was to biting off his head. He smiled suddenly and asked, “Afterwards, can we string up your brother and that no-good-best-friend of yours for publishing this fuc'n thing?”

“Good – progress! At least you're coming with me now.” I grinned. “Stringing up my brother sounds like a plan.”

Mac's eyes were on me and I seriously considered making a call to Caine to have Mac escorted. I sensed his intention to back out at the last minute.

“What time does this fresh hell kick off?”

“A car will pick us up at seven-thirty.”

“A car,” he said, barely above a whisper. “They're sending a car?”

“Yeah.”

Mac frowned as he read something on the computer monitor. It made me uneasy seeing his brow crease like that. My reaction was a hangover from the past, which didn't help allay the feeling of foreboding. Experience told me this particular expression usually foretold an exclamation of horror, followed by a dead body.

I swallowed hard. I knew it would take some getting over. I told myself that the killer sits on death row, that Mac was simply frowning. The Son of Shakespeare was a memory and not my reality anymore. Unfortunately the memory of him lay intertwined with our poetry book; I doubted I'd ever escape that. My idiot brother, Aidan, had compiled the book during that case and it contained the first poem Mac ever wrote for me, the one the Son of Shakespeare stole and used.

No wonder I had a killer on my mind.

Our front doorbell buzzed. I started to walk in the direction of the hallway when Mac leapt over his desk to head me off. My hand shot out and fingers wrapped themselves in his shirt as he attempted to pass. He came to an abrupt stop.

“I'm not letting you out that door,” I said, twisting the fabric in my hand.

“I'm just answering it,” he said indignantly, attempting to brush my hand away.

And I came down in the last rain shower.

“You arranged this,” I accused.

“I did not,” he scoffed.

The person who'd been ringing the doorbell began knocking loudly. I reached the door one step in front of Mac.

“Let me,” I insisted, reaching out and twisting the door handle. With a sharp pull the door swung open.

Eddie almost fell into the hallway.

I was somewhat surprised to see Mac's older brother: lifelong tormentor and now something new. Savior?

“Mac, I've got a …” Eddie started then wisely stopped.

“… very small brain?” I offered.

He scowled as he processed my comment, which didn't improve his looks. It took nearly a minute before he spoke again. “No, it's mom. She wants Mac.”

I smiled. “Of course she does. Funny that she hasn't called. Usually there are upwards of six calls a day.”

Eddie floundered; his mouth flapped.

“On your way, Eddie. We have a prior engagement.”

I closed the door. Mac leaned back on the hall wall. He had the good grace to look sheepish.