S ometimes Baldwin just wanted to kiss the bureaucracy he worked for.
Not that he was a fan of all the measures put in place since 9-11, but the upside was when the FBI, or the CIA, needed to find someone, they could.
It was late. A glance at his watch showed two in the morning. He wondered if Taylor was asleep, or playing pool. This was her witching hour, the time she was most likely to start awake and begin thinking. That woman thought too much. He toyed with the idea of calling, but didn’t want to risk it.
He decided on a cup of coffee instead.
The lights were still burning through the outbuilding where he and Garrett had quietly set up shop. Garrett was on the phone in the office next door with yet another international agency, getting cooperation from all sides in the hunt for their killer.
The short hallway opened into a galley-style kitchen. Two fresh pots of coffee were already made, and he poured himself a cup, sipping it as he went back to his desk.
Baldwin vowed that he would find Aiden, sooner rather than later. The hunter had become the hunted, and Baldwin was the master. Though his eyes were crossing at the multitudes of miniature lines of data, he felt like he was getting closer. Instinct dictated that Aiden would follow a somewhat set pattern for his trip to the United States. The trick was simply figuring out the start point for his journey. Italy, Germany, and England had already been ruled out. All the South American countries were off the initial lists as well-if Aiden had been in Europe as recently as a month ago, it was possible he’d been called to another continent for a hit they weren’t aware of, but unlikely. He wouldn’t blend in as well as he did in the European nations, didn’t work in that region very often.
Aiden was a rare beast. On the OA radar for six years now, he’d started life as an intense loner who traveled the world on the heels of his diplomat father. At some point they had a massive falling-out, so Aiden rebelled and went into the service. He’d done well in the Army, qualifying as a sniper, but something went south. After only three years on his tour of duty, he was discharged for conduct unbecoming.
Aiden disappeared for a while, then emerged as a freelance assassin. Some of his more unsavory ex-Army buddies got him into the game. He became an assassin of stature, one that could be counted on for a clean hit at long range. Very valuable. But Aiden got bored. He began contracting for the more personal hits. He was used by nasty characters who wanted to send a message when they assassinated someone. And Aiden’s silver garrote was unmistakable.
Yet the professional assassination game still wasn’t enough for him. Aiden liked to go off the reservation. The OA monitored him as best they could, using eyes and ears to let them know when he skipped off plan.
Baldwin knew all this, knew how dangerous Aiden was. Knew that he must be traced, at all cost, or innocent people would die.
Baldwin had compiled a list of known aliases and sent it to the International Air Transport Association. The IATA in turn kindly filtered all of those names through their eTARS database, the names coursing through the Aviation Management Systems Departure Control System, or eDCS, popping up matches that met Baldwin’s parameters. Typical of the overcomplicated governmental structure, it was a fancy way to say they were combing the passenger manifests.
Coffee half finished, Baldwin went back to stacks of pages, scanning the names, departure flights, dates, numbers in the party. He was looking for a man traveling alone, buying one-way tickets, or tickets with extended return dates. This was Aiden’s usual standard operating procedure. Baldwin was a fan of Occam’s Razor, figured all things being equal, starting with the most obvious answer was generally the best approach.
It was 4:00 a.m. when he finally saw it. He flipped open the file of the eighth report and the name practically jumped off the page.
“Gotcha,” he whispered.
Wednesday
Fourteen
T aylor stretched. She’d fallen asleep despite her intent to stay awake for the remainder of the night. The malice from the previous evening was lost in the warm sunlight streaming through her shades, and she wondered briefly if she’d dreamed the whole thing. But no, the Glock was still in her hand.
The television came on, the morning news blaring. She tuned it out, rolled around in the sheets for a few moments, having her usual morning debate. Get up or play hooky. The former always won, unfortunately.
Groaning, she secured the weapon and pulled on a pair of yoga pants. She thought about washing her face, and made five steps toward the bathroom but drew up short when she heard the now familiar words.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”
Michelle Harris’s tear-stricken voice drifted from Taylor’s television. She sat back on the bed and listened to the rest of the tape, following with the visual on the television screen, the lines scrolling slowly.
Taylor shut her eyes and rubbed her knuckles against the closed lids. The media would make hay out of this as long as they didn’t have something more sensational to cover.
Michelle Harris’s voice, sharp and immediate, made Taylor sit up. Live, or recently taped, the words were unfamiliar. This was a new interview.
Taylor reached for the remote and turned up the volume.
Michelle Harris was wearing a white button-down shirt that washed out what little color she had left in her face. Her cheekbones created dark hollows, her lips were bloodless, her hair lashed back in a ponytail so tight it seemed to pull the hairs from their roots. She looked like absolute hell.
“Miss Harris, when was the last time you saw your sister?”
“On Friday. We grabbed a Starbucks after tennis.”
“And you never saw your sister alive again?” The anchor’s eyes were misty, she obviously felt every word’s impact.
“Yes. The next time I saw Corinne, she was, she was…dead.” Michelle’s voice was breaking, rich with emotion, but her eyes remained dry.
“And you,” the anchor began, but Michelle interrupted.
“Whoever killed her needs to know that we won’t stop until he is caught. We will hunt you down, and kill you ourselves. You can’t do something like this and not get punished. I just can’t believe that someone could do this to my sister. It’s not fair.” Overcome with emotion, she began to cry. The anchor threw it to commercial.
Taylor punched the power button with her thumb, and the television snapped off. Damn it. Just what they needed, Michelle Harris on national TV, playing the victim.
Morning soured, she went downstairs, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She was famished, so she poured a bowl of cereal. Checked the milk, yes, still fresh enough-the organic stuff Baldwin had talked her into lasted at least a week longer than regular. Dropped a tea bag and some honey in a cup, splashed in a little milk, then filled it with boiling water from the in-sink tap. Stood at the kitchen sink, gazed out into the backyard. Spooned crunchy wheat biscuits into her mouth slowly, watching the woods, thinking.
A huge rabbit was in the back, nibbling on the clover. Taylor could see another farther back into the thicket, on alert, watching over his mate as she foraged for breakfast. The knowledge that she’d soon be sharing mornings with baby bunnies made her smile. She watched the creature hop slowly forward, just a few inches at a time as it grazed. Then it stopped, ears alert, nose twitching.
With a suddenness that made Taylor’s heart race, the rabbit fled, scared by something. A dog, most likely, Taylor could hear the faint echoes of barking bleeding through the air. She looked closer at the spot in the lawn vacated by the panicked rabbit. What was that?
She set the bowl in the sink and made her way to the back door. Stepping out onto the deck, she heard the alarm buzz its warning tone. Shit. She’d forgotten to turn the damn thing off. She dashed back inside and punched in the code. It squawked and the series of lights turned green. Disarmed.
She went back to the yard, bare feet cold as she picked through the still dew-wet grass. A lump of dark was
