A Murder in Time (3 page)

Carson glared at the departing men.
Fucking spooks.
Then his gaze shifted back to Kendra. Thompson was right—and he'd eat nails before admitting it—but they were wasting time.

“Fine,” he spit out. If there was one thing he'd learned in the last eight months, it was that Kendra could take care of herself. She'd been born to win. Literally.

“Sir?”

Carson gave Sheppard a narrow-eyed look as he approached. “What is it, Agent?”

“Well, I
am
a computer geek . . . but I'd also like to be part of the final phase of the operation. I've had field experience.”

“I don't have fucking
time
for this!” Carson snapped. “Fine—we're
all
in on the final phase. Happy? Now I want those goddamn blueprints! We've got five hours to finish this mission. We need eyes and ears in the warehouse so we can hook Greene and fucking nail Balakirev. No one leaves this building. No one takes a
piss
without my permission. I want Balakirev by nightfall or
all
your asses are on the line.”

Kendra was careful not to smile, but she felt triumphant. She'd won.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

2

At somewhere north of 2.6 million residents, Brooklyn was the most densely populated borough in New York City. Even so, there were isolated pockets within the big, bustling city that made it feel eerily deserted. The warehouse in which Balakirev had made his base and that Sir Jeremy owned was in one of those pockets, too far from prime waterfront real estate to entice developers to tidy up the area and create upscale condos and lofts, cute little boutiques, and quaint restaurants.

Here, it was still gray and grimy. Beneath the swath of overcast sky, bunker-like structures and Quonsets lined the dingy streets. A scattering of semitrucks were parked next to warehouse loading docks, but it was Sunday, so the normally frenetic hustle was reduced to those tired souls anxious to clock out and get home to maybe crack open a beer and veg out in front of whatever game was playing on television. Thanks to Team One, the perimeter around the target was clear.

Kendra surveyed the scene from inside the Batmobile—the military van with souped-up technology that only the U.S. government could afford. Less than a mile away from where they sat, Kendra imagined the city pulsing with life, vibrant and wonderfully chaotic: people strolling, chatting, having a late afternoon coffee or early dinner at the small restaurants that dotted the streets.

Being normal.

Just for a second, wistfulness welled up inside Kendra. It shook her. Or more aptly, the
wanting
of it shook her. Normal was something she'd never had, never been. Didn't know how to be. And because she didn't know how to be normal, she chose to be good—very, very good.

“Nervous?”

She glanced up at Sheppard, who was squished next to her. He looked different, tricked out as they all were in a black military flak jacket, helmet, and tactical gloves, and carrying the standard-issue SIG Sauer. Prior to that moment, the deadliest object she'd ever seen in Sheppard's right hand was a computer mouse. Though after eight months of working side-by-side with him, watching as he hunted in cyberspace, Kendra knew that Sheppard with a computer mouse in his hand could be pretty damn deadly.

She smiled slightly. “No. You?”

“Shit, yeah. I haven't been out in the field in six years.”

“Why'd you come then?”

He grinned, blue eyes twinkling. “Maybe I wanted to see
you
in action. See what everyone's talking about.”

It's a joke.
She knew that. Yet her stomach clenched.

“Just keep your ass out of my way, Sheppard,” smirked Allan O'Brien, the youngest man on the task force. He gave Kendra a wink. “I don't want some newbie screwing this up. Balakirev's
mine
.”

“Your fat ass, he is,” Terry Landon shot back. “I'm team leader. Twenty that I'll be the first to put a bullet in him?”

Sheppard grimaced and shook his head. “You guys are such assholes, betting on a man's life.”

“He's not a man—he's a fucking terrorist,” Bill Noone growled.

“Make that a fifty and you're on,” grinned O'Brien.

“Just remember, we want Greene alive,” Kendra reminded them.

“
Thompson
wants him alive,” O'Brien smirked.

“Fuck Thompson,” Noone said, and several of the men snickered. “This isn't a CIA operation.”

“Fifty that I'll be the first to put
nonlethal
bullets into both bastards,” Landon revised.

“Make that fifty
and
a date with Kendra.” Noone shot her a lopsided, lascivious grin. It didn't matter that he was, at forty-nine, old enough to be her father, and married, to boot.

She shot him a cool look. “Funny. I don't remember putting myself on the auction block, Noone.”

“Ah, come on, sweetheart. Everybody needs an incentive.”

Deliberately, Kendra lifted the hand that held the SIG Sauer, weighed it with silky ease. “Just how much incentive do you need?”

Noone laughed, throwing up his hands. “My mama told me never to argue with a woman packing a pistol—or a fucking machine gun.”

“Wise woman.”

“You realize when this op goes down, we're done,” Sheppard said suddenly, looking around the circle of faces. “The task force will be disbanded.”

“No more fucking takeout on Saturday night,” O'Brien said. “No offense—but the only mug I'm gonna miss seeing is Kendra's.”

“Bet your wife will be glad when this is over then,” said Noone.

Landon stretched and grinned. “After this is over, I'm gonna celebrate on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean. Flirting with hot island babes and drinking rum out of a fucking coconut.”

“Yeah, what about
your
wife, Terry?” O'Brien laughed.

“She can stay home.”

The van's side door rolled open, and Carson heaved himself up into the tight quarters. Like the rest of the team, he wore the military uniform, though he was only supervising the operation from inside the van with the five-member tech team.

“We've got Greene talking about the ricin with Balakirev,” he informed them, keeping his voice neutral even though he wanted to rub his hands together. “Twenty-one body signatures have been identified in the warehouse. We've ascertained that Balakirev and Greene are two of the four in the room at the top of the stairs. The other two are probably Greene's bodyguards. SWAT will take the lead, but Washington wants the bastard alive.”

“Which bastard?”

“Greene, dammit. D.C. seems to think the guy with the money is the most dangerous,” he said.

“Washington wants to flip him,” Kendra commented, and then wished she'd kept her mouth shut when Carson scowled at her.

“If I want your expertise on Washington politics, I'll ask for it, Special Agent Donovan,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah . . . is there any indication if the ricin is in the warehouse?” asked O'Brien.

Carson shook his head. “No. But you'll be given self-contained breathing masks, which will protect you if it's released as a mist. We've also got HAZMAT and medical units standing by.”

“They want to sell the ricin,” Kendra said, “which means it's most likely in pellet or powder form. As long as you don't put anything strange into your mouths, you'll be fine.”

She'd meant to be reassuring, but O'Brien frowned. “And if you're wrong?”

“If I'm wrong . . . then get to the HAZMAT team as quickly as possible. Get out of your clothes, wash down . . .” Her voice trailed away. She didn't have to remind them that there was no antidote to ricin poisoning. If they were unlucky enough to get a dose of the toxin—even an amount so small that it could fit on the head of a pin—they were as good as dead. They'd have four to eight hours before they came down with flu-like symptoms—congestion, respiratory distress before collapsing in muscle pain, fever, nausea—finally ending with a one-way trip to the city morgue.

It wouldn't be pleasant, but there were worse ways to go, Kendra thought. Like the Ebola virus. Now
that
was a truly ghastly death. But she didn't think anyone wanted to hear that, so she kept quiet.

“Shit. My one chance at seeing you naked, Kendra, and I'm not even looking forward to it.” Landon shot her a wicked grin.

She ignored him. “I'm not wrong. Balakirev and Greene aren't in this for ideological reasons. They are, for wont of a better word, businessmen.”

“Well, fuck me! Here I'm thinking we're taking down a couple of terrorists.” Noone gave a derisive snort. “Is he gonna have his Palm Pilot out? Maybe Balakirev's giving Greene a fucking PowerPoint presentation in there. Shit, maybe we can all learn something before we blow the fucker's kneecaps off.”

Kendra's mouth tightened at the sarcasm, but she said evenly, “Balakirev's a cold-blooded bastard. He doesn't give a shit about the innocent victims who are harmed by what he's doing. But neither do some corporate CEOs who are aware their products are killing people and yet choose to look the other way because of the bottom line—”

“If you're gonna go all bleeding heart liberal on us, Kendra, and actually defend a
terrorist
—”

“I'm not defending him,” Kendra responded sharply, temper rising. She pulled it back with an effort. “I'm simply stating a fact. Balakirev and Greene are in this for money.
For greed.
They're not going to want to die.”

“Yeah, I read your profile,” Noone muttered. “Maybe you can do a
Wall Street Journal
article after this is over. Greed is good, right?”

Kendra narrowed her eyes. “It's good for us. If either Balakirev or Greene think they're finished, they'll want to deal. They're narcissistic personalities—Greene especially. There's no way he's going to risk his precious skin in a potentially toxic environment. This is essentially a business meeting.”

“Let's hope you're right, Agent Donovan,” said Carson. He glanced down at his watch and felt the zing of adrenaline. It was time. “I don't want any itchy trigger fingers.” He looked at each agent. “You've been briefed on how Washington wants this to go down. C'mon.”

He reached over, rolled the door open, and jumped down. His boots crunched on the gritty pavement. “I'll introduce you to the SWAT team commander. Then you're on your own. Don't screw up.”

Jonathon Vale, the head of the FBI SWAT team, looked like he'd stepped out of a cyborg movie, his tough, muscular body clad in a dark uniform and loaded down with bulky equipment. It weighed at least forty pounds, but he moved easily back and forth as he instructed the special task force on what exactly he expected of them—namely, to stay the fuck out of his team's way.

Putting on the military goggles and breathing apparatus, Kendra clamped down on her resentment when Vale put her in the flank position, all her team members, including Sheppard—
Sheppard
, who hadn't been out in the field for six fucking years—ahead of her.

Still, there was no time to argue. She fell into formation as they jogged as quietly as possible to take up positions of concealment along the walls and corners of the neighboring buildings, facing the warehouse. The warehouse had no windows, so this was only a precaution in case one of Balakirev's men decided to step outside.

The day's light was beginning to fade. A soft breeze carried the scent of diesel fuel, strong enough to infiltrate the mask Kendra was wearing. She wished for a stronger wind to cool the sweat popping up on her brow. Her face beneath the heavy helmet, goggles, and breathing mask felt greasy, perspiration sliding beneath the black uniform she wore.

When Vale raised his hand for the signal, everyone's eyes fastened on his fingers. His voice crackled in their earpieces, counting down.

Five . . . Four . . . Three . . .

Kendra's nerves tightened in anticipation.

Two . . . One!

Vale's hand fisted and in the distance they heard the screech of tires, followed within seconds by a tremendous crash; the high-pitched, almost feminine shriek of twisting metal. A thunderous explosion, courtesy of the explosives packed into the decoy car, shook the ground. Vale's voice reverberated in her ear.

“Go. Go. GO!”

Kendra sprinted toward the front of the warehouse. Already, two men were in position with a battering ram. One quick thrust and the door went flying inward, the SWAT team pouring across the threshold like a dozen black beetles. Kendra followed, taking in the interior in one sweeping glance. It was an enormous, shadowy cavern, filled with row upon row of crates and containers, stacked twelve and fifteen feet high, some almost to the catwalk.

“
It's a fucking maze,
” somebody observed in her earpiece.

The initial shock of the ambush was already over, swiftly replaced by gunfire as Balakirev's men engaged in battle. Heart pumping, her breath sounding too loud inside the breathing apparatus, Kendra jogged into one of the corridors formed by the stacks of boxes. Fleetingly, she wondered if the ricin was packed within any of these containers.

The sound of gunfire was deafening. Her earpiece cracked with a steady stream of orders, invectives, and curses.

“Fucking Russians!”

“How many? How many d'ya see?”

“—took two of the fuckers out!”

“Got one of the sons of bitches!”

Kendra rounded a corner, and a heavyset man darted into her path. Spotting her, he swung up his rifle, but Kendra was already firing the SIG Sauer. He crumpled to the ground. She keyed in her voice piece and shouted, “Got one. Four down—”