much planning as a train wreck.
The only redeeming factor?
Carlos got first shot at interrogating the snitch on Durand Anguis. To find out what angle Mirage was working. Informants always wanted something, always had an ulterior motive.
And he hadn’t met one yet that wasn’t a criminal.
He could list four countries off the top of his head that would jump at the chance to get this one. They could have him as soon as Carlos got what he wanted.
GABRIELLE JUMPED UP, tossed on a gray long-sleeved T-shirt and sweatpants, then shoved her feet into sneakers with Velcro clasps. The perfect shoes for quick exits. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, which informed her she’d slept a half hour.
How long had the security alarm been sounding?
She hit the wall button to shut off the repeating double ring, then ran to the closet and snatched up a backpack that held clothes, money, passport, and a few more necessities. Always.
On the way to the living room, she took her hair out of the clamp at the back of her head, then twisted her hair up and stuck a cap over it. Swallowing was difficult. Fear climbed the constricted muscles of her throat and threatened to strangle her by the time she reached her desk. She lunged for her laptop, working the keys in between slinging a scarf around her neck and shrugging on her knee-length khaki trench coat. Two clicks of the mouse and her monitor split into six screens, showing the areas scanned by digital video cameras positioned around the house.
Five frames revealed nothing unusual.
Number six covered the yard leading up to the front door…where a giant man in an ill-fitting brown suit walked up the first step to her porch.
Slow, heavy steps thumped on the wooden boards.
Gabrielle snapped her laptop shut and shoved it into a case with a shoulder strap that held all the accessories. Where to go? She’d always planned on having enough notice to reach her four-wheel-drive Jeep and take a path through the woods, one advantage of living in a community with eighty miles of golf-cart paths. Her gaze slashed to the picture window at the rear of the house, filled with a serene image of Lake Peachtree and a boat dock with a runabout tied up. With a full gas tank.
She’d make a perfect target alone on the lake.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He couldn’t be a salesman. The sign next to the mailbox at the head of the driveway stated clearly NO TRESPASSING, VIOLATORS WILL BE ARRESTED.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Gabrielle grabbed her car keys on the off chance she could reach her Jeep. Which would already have happened if she hadn’t been so exhausted so the alarm would have roused her faster.
From the other side of the door, a deep voice said, “Law enforcement. Open up.”
That froze her. FBI? If they’d tracked her electronically, he could very well be CIA since she’d routed everything through several bounced locations to an IP in London.
“The house is surrounded.”
Her heart jumped a foot.
Bloody hell. Options ran through her mind at blinding speed since she only had two.
Running, option one, was pointless.
Gabrielle accepted option two, turned around, and went to the foyer, hoping to bluff her way out. She plastered a smile on her face and opened the door.
“Can I help you? I was on my way out-” She paused to stare up six and a half feet off the floor at a face that would launch a million nightmares. Pocked skin, hulking posture, and a thick neck. Salt-and-pepper hair.
“You don’t look like Harry Beaker,” he said.
“I’m not. Harry isn’t here, but I’ll be happy to take a message for him.” More smiling. Could she be so lucky he was only looking for Harry? She clutched the door with one hand and the door frame with the other to hide her trembling.
“And you are?”
“Gabrielle Parker. I’m just a renter. I’ll make sure Harry gets your message, but I need to go or I’ll be late.” She’d call Harry the minute she got free if this guy really was looking for him. Harry was pushing ninety, an ex- marine and feisty. She doubted even the CIA could intimidate him.
“I’m not looking for Harry. I’m looking for you,” he said.
Her skin prickled at the threat in his voice. “Who are you?” That hadn’t come out like the demand she’d hoped for, but had been the best she could do with a dry throat and staring at someone who might be from Durand Anguis.
He reached inside his jacket.
Her heart thumped a panicked beat.
“Special Agent Curt Morton with the DEA,” he said, flipping his badge out for a couple seconds before closing the case and shoving it back inside his jacket. He offered her a smile she wished he hadn’t. Those big teeth and crooked nose were almost as scary as his flat gray eyes. “Sorry if I gave you a start, but I wanted to be sure before I said too much.”
“Sure of what?” she asked, breathless as someone who had just finished a five-mile race. Or close to hyperventilating.
“That you’re the one who’s been sending electronic messages to intelligence agencies about Durand Anguis.”
Busted. And exposed. Durand would find her for sure now.
CARLOS MOTIONED FOR Lee to follow him when he closed the door on a dark blue Suburban and stepped away. The vehicle was parked just off a private driveway in Peachtree City and hidden from the road by a copse of trees. With an unconscious driver.
His feet and hands were bound with flex cuffs, which would hold him until Carlos had time for a full interrogation. The driver had a DEA badge on him, but the credentials were phony.
Carlos couldn’t pull the thug’s real name to mind, but he’d seen that face and cauliflower ear before. The driver had been part of an electronics bust last year. Hired muscle who offered bargains.
Discount muscle was like eating cheap sushi.
A risk to your health.
Sticks snapped. Carlos cut his eyes at Lee, who grimaced at the noise. Rookies were a risk, too, but Joe wouldn’t send someone wet behind his ears. And Lee had ancient eyes in a young man’s face. Hard eyes, but he must have come off the streets and lacked experience in wooded terrain.
Waving a hand, Carlos dismissed the misstep and moved ahead, sorting through his options.
Someone had clearly beaten them to the informant. Who? And was the driver’s partner here to grab the informant…or meet with him? At least two had to be involved. The guy in the car was likely a lookout, a poor one, so the partner could be at the house by now.
Carlos moved quickly through the woods, parallel to the driveway. Light faded faster with each step, tossing shadows through the sparse woods.
Who had beaten him here?
He paused at a curve in the driveway where an open area-the front yard-appeared in the next twenty feet.
He turned to Lee. The young guy’s sharp hazel eyes burned with determination. Not quite eye level with Carlos or as heavy-built, Lee stood just over six feet tall, trim, muscular body dressed for the task in camo pants and long-sleeved, dark green shirt.
In spite of all that, this kid was too clean-cut for Carlos’s taste. What were Joe and his codirector, Tee, thinking these days?
Joe had given Lee strict marching orders about following anything Carlos said, without question. To that, Carlos had added one simple order-if things went bad, he wanted Lee to back off and contact Joe.
Do not, under any circumstances, play hero.
