He nodded. “Necessary.”
She plucked a page from the printer and handed it to him. He pretended to peruse the statement, focusing only on the room number.
“Oh, no,” he said. “I just realized I left something upstairs. I’ll be right back. Hold this for me.”
He thanked her and headed for the elevators, riding an empty car to the fifth floor. There he inserted the key card and opened the door. Inside was a spacious suite with an unmade king-sized bed. Picture windows consumed the south wall and offered an impressive view of Central Park’s colorful treetops, hinting at their autumn glory to come, along with the buildings of the Upper West Side.
His gaze raked the decor until he found the laptop on the desk. He stepped over and yanked the power cord from the wall socket.
“And who are you?” a female voice said.
He turned.
A woman stood inside the bathroom doorway. She was short, petite, with straight brown hair, wearing jeans and a sweater.
Her right hand held a revolver.
“Scott sent me to get the computer.”
“That all you got? Or the best you could do on short notice?”
He shrugged, gesturing with the laptop in his grasp. “Best I could do.”
“Where’s Scott?”
“Now, is that all you have?”
“I don’t know, Knox. I seem to be the one with the gun, so answer the question.”
Just what he needed-another problem. Hadn’t he had enough of those for one day. But his suspicions were now confirmed.
This was a trap.
Still, he’d been forced to take the chance.
She advanced farther into the room, keeping her gun trained on him. She reached into her back pocket and found a cellphone. One push of a button and she said, “Our pirate has arrived.”
This just kept getting better.
She stood too far away, maybe ten feet, for him to do anything that would not get him shot. He noticed that her weapon was sound-suppressed. Obviously, the NIA wanted minimum attention drawn to this effort, which might work to his advantage. He had to do something, and fast, since he did not know how far away that assistance was located.
She tossed the phone aside.
“The laptop,” she said. “Toss it on the bed.”
He nodded his assent and started to lob it onto the mattress. At the last second he propelled the device straight at her, spinning it across the room.
She dodged and he lunged, kicking the gun from her grasp. She spun, raised her arms, and attacked. He slammed his right fist into her face, driving her onto the bed. Dazed from the blow, she reached for her bloody nose.
He found the gun on the carpet.
Finger on the trigger, he grabbed a pillow from the bed, pressed the gun into one side, the other onto her head, and fired once.
She stopped moving.
The pillow had muffled the sound-suppressed report to almost nothing.
Dammit. Killing was not something he enjoyed doing. But he hadn’t set this foolish trap.
He tossed the pillow aside.
Think.
He’d touched only the laptop, its power cord, and the door handle.
He retrieved the computer from the floor. It had landed on one of the upholstered chairs and seemed okay. He would keep the gun. He found a washcloth in the bathroom and opened the exit door with it, then wiped the knob on both sides. He stuffed the cloth in his pocket and headed for the elevators.
He turned the corner just as a sound announced the arrival of a car.
Two men stepped off, both young and clean-cut. Surely the radioed assistance. He casually brushed past, never giving them a second glance. It would take them less than a minute to discover the body and begin their pursuit. He wasn’t necessarily worried about these two, but the ones they could radio would be a problem.
He pressed the button with his sleeved elbow and waited.
“Hey,” a voice said.
He turned.
Both men were rushing back his way.
Crap.
His right hand rested in his pocket, fingers on the gun.
He withdrew the weapon.
TWENTY-TWO
WYATT HOPPED DOWN FROM THE LAST RUNG OF THE FIRE ESCAPE to the pavement and grabbed his bearings, deciding to walk the few blocks east toward Central Park and find a cab. The quiet side street was tree- lined, light on traffic, but heavy with parked cars. Several displayed violation tickets on their windshields. Night had arrived with a chill that matched his mood. He did not like being used or manipulated.
But Andrea Carbonell had done both.
That woman was a problem.
She was a career intelligence operative who’d risen from low-level analyst to agency head, managing to keep NIA useful even in difficult times. His previous dealings with her had been varied-occasional jobs for which she paid well-and there’d never been any problems out of the ordinary.
So why was this time so different?
None of this really concerned him. Yet he was curious. More of that operative inside him seeping back to the surface.
He approached an intersection and was about to cross when he noticed a black sedan parked fifty feet away. The face that stared at him from an open rear window was familiar.
“Forty-two minutes,” Carbonell called out to him. “I gave you forty-five. You hurt them?”
“They’re going to need a doctor.”
She smiled. “Get in. I’ll give you a lift.”
“You fired me, then you allowed those idiots to take me. I’m going home.”
“I was hasty on both counts.”
That curiosity inside him swelled. He knew he shouldn’t but he decided to accept her offer. He stepped across the street, and the sedan left the curb as soon as he settled into the rear seat.
“We found Scott Parrott,” she said. “Dead in Central Park. The pirates are predictable, I’ll say that for them.”
He’d worked with Parrott for the past month. He was NIA’s conduit to the Commonwealth, the source of all of his intel. Of course, he hadn’t told NSA or CIA any of that. None of their damn business.
“I knew Clifford Knox would do something,” she said. “He’d have to.”
“Why?”
“It’s all part of the pirate thing. We insulted them by interfering so they have to retaliate. It’s their culture.”
“So you sacrificed Parrott?”
