06 Double Danger (18 page)

“You did what you were charged with doing.”

“We don’t leave our men behind, J.J.” Something in his voice reminded her of the boy he’d once been. Innocent. Untouched by the horrors reality held for those who dared to fight for a better world. And this time she didn’t resist the urge, she took his hand in hers.

“You had no choice, Simon.”

“Maybe not at that point. But yeah, I had a choice. I could have chosen my men. I could have aborted the mission the minute I realized that we were outgunned. But I didn’t. I just couldn’t take my eye off the prize.”

“The prize was two women’s lives. By your own words, two
innocent
women. What you did—what all of you did—was heroic. And had you done anything different, you wouldn’t have been able to live with yourself.”

“I can’t live with myself now. Because of me, my best friend is dead. Your husband is dead. I did that, J.J. I made that choice.”

“Well, you didn’t make it in a vacuum,” she said, anger flashing as she thought of Ryan. It always came back to him. “And you sure as hell didn’t force him to go into that building. Even if you’d forbidden it, Ryan would probably have still gone in. He thrived on the danger. It’s what he lived for.”

“Yeah, but that’s the point, isn’t it? I was supposed to be the one who held him back. Who kept him from doing stupid things. But instead, I was the one who sent him in there. If I hadn’t done that, he’d still be alive.”

“You can’t know that. Even if you’d decided to retreat, you still might have lost your men. The odds were against you the minute you landed. But if you’d pulled back then you’d have accomplished nothing. All those people would have died for nothing.”

“But I killed Ryan.” He bit the words out, and Jillian wondered if he’d ever actually said them to anyone besides himself.

“No. You didn’t. Ryan died in combat. He died doing what he loved. It was a risk he willingly undertook every damn day of his life. And sooner or later, it was going to be his time. If not Somalia, then somewhere else. He was never the kind of man who would have been content to just die in his bed. It wasn’t your fault.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, looking so deeply she thought for certain that he would be able to see all of her secrets. But then with a sigh, he looked away, pulling his hand free, his face still tight with anguish.

“You have to find a way to forgive yourself, Simon.” She watched as he gripped the pillow, the muscles in his shoulders tightening as he fought his demons. “You were just doing your job. Had the roles been reversed, Ryan would have done exactly the same.” Only he probably wouldn’t have been as conflicted.

There was significance in the thought, but she wasn’t ready to try to figure out what it might mean. Instead she pushed off the side of the bed. “I don’t blame you.” She was repeating herself, but if nothing else, she needed for him to believe that. “I never did. Not for a single second.”

“Then why…” he trailed off, his confusion tugging at her heart.

She sucked in a breath, wishing she were a stronger woman. Wishing that she’d made different choices all those years ago. But she hadn’t. And she wasn’t ready to admit that. To tell him everything. Truth was, she might never be. She hated herself for being so afraid. But it was
better to close the door and walk away now. While she was still standing.

She squared her shoulders, hard-won self-preservation kicking in. “I can’t do this, Simon. It’s all too much. You. Me. Ryan. It’s too complicated. And it hurts. I just can’t.”

She waited for him to say something. To try to stop her maybe, but he just looked so damn sad. And she knew then with absolute certainty that she was making the right decision. So she turned and walked out of the room.

S
imon walked into the makeshift war room still reeling from the night before and the words that had followed. They’d found each other again. Despite everything. And it had been even better than before, if that was possible. It had been everything he’d remembered and more.

And because of that—because of
her
—he’d found the courage to face his greatest fear. To admit the guilt he carried for his part in Ryan’s death. It had almost killed him. But he’d said the words. Out loud. To J.J. And then he waited for her condemnation, but there had been none. In fact, she’d begged him to let it go. To forgive himself. She’d held his hand and reminded him all over again why he’d fallen for her all those years ago.

He’d actually felt a small glimmer of hope.

Then she’d walked out the goddamned door. And he felt as if he’d been sucker-punched.

Everyone was already gathered. Avery and Nash stood
by the fireplace talking. Hannah and Harrison were huddled over their computers. Half-eaten bagels and cups of coffee littered the tabletop, and Drake, Tyler, and J.J. were seated on the far side, their conversation animated.

Considering everything that had happened, Simon felt even more like an outsider than usual. Maybe it was just his lot in life to be once removed from the people he cared about. His latest attempt to reach out to someone had failed so completely that she couldn’t even find the words to tell him why.

Walking the rest of the way into the room, he grabbed a bagel and a chair by Hannah.

“Glad you could join us, Kincaid.” Nash grinned. “We were wondering if you’d make the meeting.”

“Very funny,” he said, feigning a laugh as he reached for the cream cheese. “You try getting shot at close quarters and see how spry you are the next morning.” He’d meant the comment to be offhand, but for some reason it had the opposite effect, everyone sobering as Avery moved to the head of the table and Nash took a seat.

“So how are you feeling?” Avery asked, his dark eyes probing.

“I’ve been better, but then again I’ve been a lot worse.” He wasn’t actually sure about the latter, but it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. And Avery wasn’t referring to his heart anyway. He was talking about Simon’s leg. Which wasn’t exactly working at full capacity. But he wasn’t going to share that fact either. “Basically, I’m ready for whatever these bastards want to throw at us next.”

He shot a look in J.J.’s direction, but she ducked her head, avoiding his gaze. One step forward, ten steps back. But damn it, he wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

“You and me both, brother,” Nash was saying, fortunately oblivious to the turn of Simon’s thoughts as he grabbed a pot on the buffet and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“So now that we’re all together,” Avery said, “why don’t we get started? Tyler, now that you’ve had time to look at the SUV, did you find a common signature for the smaller bombs?”

“Nothing that would lead me to a specific individual, unfortunately. And I did run the information through all of our databases. But there are enough commonalities for me to be certain that the same person was behind the smaller blasts. I was also able to lift traces of the explosive used, and the compound in all three was identical in structure—which points to it all coming from one source.”

“Like the apartment on Fulton.”

“Affirmative.” Tyler nodded. “I’ve got my guys digging for trace over there right now. Although confirming place of origin isn’t going to help when it comes to figuring out who actually did it.”

“Well, Lester seems an odds-on choice.” Simon took a sip of coffee and then leaned back regarding the assembled company.

“I’d have to agree, but there’s no evidence to link him to any of the bombings.”

“Which isn’t true when it comes to the shootings.” Sporting pale blonde streaks and a fairly modest pair of tortoiseshell frames, Hannah lifted her head from her computer with a smile. “We got the ballistics report on Lester’s gun. It’s a match to all three murders. Wilderman, Sanchez, and Sara. So I’d say that it’s safe to conclude that he’s our shooter.”

“So if Lester killed Sanchez,” J.J. said, still avoiding Simon’s gaze, “it’s possible that the Duane Reade bag was a set-up. If he was working with Dearborn, why would he have done anything that would have given away the bomber’s location—unless the plan all along was for us to find it and believe that the killer had somehow missed it when he took out Sanchez?”

“And if Lester, in effect, handed us the address to the apartment on Fulton,” Hannah continued, “then we can be fairly certain that the explosion there was meant for us as well.”

“But why would he risk the bomber’s operation by sending us in just before what was meant to be a detonation at the seaport?” Nash asked.

“Maybe the bomber was already supposed to have been in place,” Drake suggested. “That way the two explosions would have been almost simultaneous. One taking us out and another taking out the seaport and everyone in the vicinity.”

“I don’t know,” Simon said, wheels turning. “If that was the case, and the timing was off, then why not take the opportunity to get the hell out of there? Even abort the mission if necessary?”

“Zealots, if that is in fact what we’re dealing with,” Avery answered, “aren’t known for making logical decisions. The man committed suicide by bomb, after all. Not someone I’d expect to act rationally.”

“Well, as usual, it seems that someone definitely has a hard-on for A-Tac,” Drake quipped. “Or at least for Jillian, Harrison, Simon, and me. The bomb in the SUV was definitely meant for us. There’s no other explanation.”

“Now that I think about it,” Hannah said, “it rules
Lester out as our bomber. I mean, we know he didn’t have time to put it in place. Drake and the SUV weren’t at the gallery.”

“And he never left my sight when I was with him at his apartment,” Drake added.

“So we know there’s another player.” Simon frowned. “And he’s got to be tied to Lester somehow. What else have we got on Lester?”

“He comes from Arizona originally,” Hannah said. “Went to college in New Mexico and majored in art. He moved to the city shortly after graduation and seems to have made a name for himself and his gallery among art patrons in the city. His finances don’t show anything hinkey. He does travel a lot. But that’s to be expected in his line of work.”

“He’s not on any watch lists,” Avery continued, “and so far we haven’t been able to tie him into any kind of international movement. For the most part, he’s been pretty apolitical. He hasn’t voted in the last three elections, but he’s also never shown any kind of anti-American sentiment.”

“So he’s really good at covering his tracks,” J.J. offered.

“Maybe not as good as he thinks,” Harrison said, a smug smile indicating that he’d found something. “I think maybe I’ve found a couple of things on his computer. First off, I isolated the program he was using to operate the key logger on Wilderman’s computer. It’s pretty basic. And from what I can see, he only used it a couple of times. Once as a test run of sorts and then again to make the reservation for the helicopter tour.”

“Yeah, but we were already fairly certain it was Lester
who was using the key logger; that’s what led us to suspect him in the first place.” Simon pushed to his feet, frustration making him restless.

“You said a couple of things,” Drake prompted Harrison as Simon paced the back of the room.

“Right. I did find something else. According to an encrypted file I was able to recover, Lester has a storage unit in New Jersey. Which considering his line of work isn’t all that interesting per se. So I did a little digging. And it turns out that although Lester paid the bills, the unit isn’t listed in his name.” Harrison paused, sitting back, his gaze encompassing them all. “Technically, it belongs to someone named Isaacs. Joseph Isaacs.”

“Joseph,” Simon said, shaking his head, and then the light bulb went off. “
Yusuf.
You think Joseph Isaacs is the Yusuf from the notebook.”

“I think it’s possible,” Harrison admitted. “Of course it’s also credible to assume that Lester is Isaacs.”

“Actually it’s not.” Hannah hit a key on her computer, and the monitor on the wall above the credenza flashed a photograph of a group of men milling around at some kind of meeting.

“This is a picture taken at an art exhibition in Soho last year attended by dealers only. You’ll note Lester is on the far right.” Using the laser pointer, she highlighted Lester sitting at a table. “And next to him, at least according to the notations under the photo, is Joseph Isaacs.” She zoomed in on the picture, highlighting the man’s face. “I’m running facial recognition software to see if he’s known by any other aliases.”

“Did you find anything else?” Avery asked.

“Not much. The information is pretty sketchy.
Assuming I have the right man, he’s a British national, an art dealer, although unfortunately not a very well-known one. I’m waiting for passport pictures from MI-6 to verify. According to immigration records, the British Isaacs has been in and out of the States over the past five years with some regularity.”

“Everything on the up and up?” Tyler asked.

“There is nothing in the ICE records to make me think there’s been a problem, but there are some entries without documented exit. Which raises a flag, although there are certainly legitimate explanations for that sort of thing.”

“Where is he now?”

“That’s the sketchy part. I can’t find a record of his coming into the country any time recently. But I’ve got him leaving Britain about three weeks ago. And you know as well as I do that there are all kinds of ways to get in and out of the country under the radar, if one has the right resources.”

“Like being a key part of a terrorist organization.”

“Simon,” Avery said, “any chance he could be the seaport bomber?”

Simon studied the photograph again, then shook his head. “No. The other guy was smaller and his hair was lighter and he had a scar.” He traced a line across his cheek in demonstration.

“Well, whoever Isaacs is, he’s not on our radar,” Hannah said. “I ran his name through our computers, and nothing popped, so I’m running it using the Arabic now.”

“That would be what?” Nash asked. “Yusuf Ishaq?”

“Among the possible variations,” Hannah agreed.

“What about his relationship with Lester?” Drake asked. “Do you have anything more than the photograph?”