Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) (11 page)

I had to hope protecting Bella Holden was precautionary. I really hoped I was wrong and she wasn’t in any danger.

One checklist item checked.

Now if I could just figure out who was trying to eliminate the people from Department 5491. Specifically, who was trying to eliminate me...life would be peachy.

Right. Peachy.

TWELVE

Four weeks later

October 17

11:00 am

The gray, cloudy sky matched the tenor of Jordan’s mood. A hint of wood smoke wafted in the air and a breeze blew frigidly across the exposed skin of his face. His new cashmere duster, specially tailored to accommodate his shoulders and arms, muted the brisk wind.

As Jordan passed by the monument to the soldiers who’d served in World War II, a cascade of multiple water sprays splashed into a circular pool, drowning out the murmurs of the tourists paying their respects.

The rectangular reflecting pool surrounded by the small wood fence was to his right. The Lincoln Monument rose in the distance.

Continuing on the paved path bordering the west basin, he strode toward the all but forgotten symbol of the First World War. A discarded remnant of a time very few people alive could still remember.

The small domed structure, styled like an ancient Greek temple, perched in untrimmed foliage and grass that should have been cut weeks ago.

Unkempt and untended.

Jesus. That was how he felt...like this monument, still standing as a reminder, except no one was looking.

Just as he was the only one still searching for Staci.

Whatever agency was surveilling her house, their surveillance had tapered off to a single guy twenty-four/seven. For a long time, that surveillance detail gave him hope that he wasn't the only one searching for her. Now it looked like he was the only one who still believed she was alive.

In the meantime, he'd been shocked by the phone call from the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence requesting a private meet in an obscure location. The guy wouldn't even discuss over the phone what the subject of the meeting was about. Jordan turned over possible reasons for this meeting.

Nothing good came to mind.

He’d been working on a few projects for the Franklin Group, but if the projects had anything to do with Congress, the senator probably knew as much about the details as he did. What the hell could the man want?

Traditionally if Jordan met with a member of Congress, the meet took place in their office. What was so damn secret it couldn’t be discussed over a phone line? The senator had been adamant that the meeting must be done in person. Away from the office.

Jordan stepped into the old marble monument, and noted the inscription, “The war to end all wars."

“Mr. Ramirez.” The senator was already seated, tucked away in the shadows, so no one would see him.

“Senator,” he replied warily.

Jordan sat down several stained pillars over from the senator and waited. He’d learned plenty in the FBI about interrogations and he wasn’t about to be the first to break the silence. He wanted to be able to analyze the lying sack of shit’s face, but noticed other things instead.

The old goat looked damn good for a man in his late sixties.

His hair, brushed off his forehead and away from his face, gleamed from the skill of an excellent stylist and colorist. The gray was there but artfully layered with a deep, rich brunette to convey the appearance of a younger man.

His skin was buffed and moisturized to preserve his pale, patrician features. His clear hazel eyes were sharp from cataract and laser surgery.

No doubt. He was a handsome sack of shit.

His lanky build and white bread appearance was an exact opposite of Jordan’s own burly shoulders, compact muscles, curly black hair and flat features of an Anglo/Hispanic mix.

But other details crowded in, amusing Jordan.

The navy pinstripes on their one hundred percent Egyptian cotton shirts were precisely the same width. The cuffs on their worsted wool suit pants were tacked and creased to the same length.

Jordan would bet three of his personally-measured, hand-sewn silk suits that if they compared stitching, they’d both have the distinctive monogram of one of the most exclusive tailors in Washington.

Working for a think tank paid a hell of a lot better than the FBI.

The senator’s lips tightened, as if he’d noticed the same details. Boy, Jordan bet that really frosted the senator’s ass.

As the silence lengthened, Jordan decided to eat his lunch and opened the bag. It would be a good cover in case anyone who was anyone happened to walk by and see them in the same out of the way monument, he thought mockingly.

The senator was known for walking through the Mall occasionally and playing king--at least that’s how Jordan always saw it--treating everyone as a potential constituent, never forgetting maybe someday they might be.

Jordan opened the brown bag he’d brought with him and started to unwrap his turkey sandwich. He’d bet his butter-soft Italian leather loafers, the senator had never brown bagged lunch.

The rustling of the paper was loud in the pregnant silence. Jordan opened the little wax paper bag and tried with a pang not to think of Staci. She’d read somewhere that wax paper was more eco-friendly and suddenly a few days later a box had appeared in his cupboards.

The senator broke first.

“Your name appeared in a report I received this morning.”

Jordan took a bite of the turkey on whole wheat. Another of Staci’s contributions. Before they’d hooked up, he’d pretty much eaten white.

He chewed his sandwich and then swallowed carefully past the lump in his throat. “Seeing as writing reports is what I do nowadays, I'm not surprised.”

“What can you tell me about the situation?”

“What ‘situation’ are you referring to?”

He’d been working on several reports that might have bearing on this senator’s committees but based on their location and the clandestine manner of this meeting, Jordan had no idea what the man wanted.

“There was a shooting....”

Jordan’s blood froze and he held extremely still.

The thud of his heartbeat reverberated in his ears. Birds chattered in the trees behind them. Exhaust from the cars zipping along Independence Avenue drifted over the concealing hedge into the suddenly close air.

Muffled shouts from an impromptu collegiate soccer match in Potomac Park were less than murmurs in the protected space of the old monument.

All faded as he remembered the shooting from last week.

In an off the books favor for an old friend, he’d hooked up with Lucas Goodman and Jamie Hunt. He'd also hoped to find out more information about Staci. When Lucas Goodman's search subject, Johnny Wishbone and his girlfriend were kidnapped, he’d helped rescue them. It turned out that Wishbone had seen Staci. And finally, Jordan had gotten a step closer to finding Staci.

Who
was
alive. Dammit.

Johnny Wishbone had seen Staci just a few weeks ago. There were some slight discrepancies in Johnny's account, he thought Staci was black, but he'd also identified a picture of Staci.

After the information Jordan had learned from the kidnappers, finding her was imperative. Staci had been injected with a mysterious drug and she needed the antidote.

But right now he had to get through this bizarre meeting with the senator.

“There are shootings all the time in our nation’s capital, you’ll have to be more specific.”

The senator glanced at his Perpetual Oyster Rolex in platinum, frowned and shifted closer. “I’m talking about the incident at the Presidential Suites hotel.”

The ‘incident’ was the death of the kidnapper. He'd been shot during the rescue of Johnny and his girlfriend. Although Jordan hadn’t killed him. An unknown assailant had fired the fatal rounds. The entire ‘incident’ was highly classified, so even Jordan didn’t know the reasons why Johnny and his girlfriend were kidnapped. His only concern was that Staci had contact with Johnny earlier in the month.

The shooting had only happened last week. The media had not gotten wind of the kidnap or the rescue, so how could the senator possibly know about it?

Jordan ripped another bite of his sandwich off and chewed vigorously while analyzing this development, projecting indifference when what he wanted to do was shove the sandwich down the senator’s throat.

"I'd like your report," the senator said testily.

Why would the senator be asking Jordan for information? Classified and highly sensitive information regarding a report, that if it existed, should have taken months to assemble, then sanitize, before being released to the Senate committee.

Because there was no report. At least, not yet.

“I know you were there,” the senator hissed, obviously impatient with Jordan’s delaying tactic.

“You should also know that even if I were there, I would be unable to answer your questions.” His anger built as deep buried rage bubbled up. Jordan rarely lost his temper but when he did, it wasn’t pretty. “You think you can circumvent the system? Go through me to gain classified information?”

“So you were there,” the senator said triumphantly.

Jordan crumpled his lunch bag with one fist and stood. “What’s your angle?”

Because, God knew, a man like the senator always had one. Some position he was working for his own advantage or defense.

Jordan took two menacing steps forward.

The senator tipped back his head but didn’t stand. As if assuming a more defensive posture would somehow validate the threat.

Jordan took another step to loom over the senator. “To protect yourself? Did you have something to do with the incident?”

How could the senator know about the shooting? Unless he was involved with the unauthorized injection of the mysterious drug into unsuspecting espionage agents. The funding for the mysterious drug experiment had to come from somewhere. The thought that this asshole could have appropriated and approved funding for an experiment that fucked with the lives of people already serving their country made him sick.

The old man held his ground, not standing or giving credence to Jordan’s anger. The senator glanced down at his watch impatiently. “That’s neither here nor there, and I’ve got to get back to the Hill for testimony on the amount of heroin coming out of Afghanistan. What do you know about the shooting?”

In his peripheral vision, Jordan could see the senator’s bodyguard hurrying toward them. Apparently the bodyguard was a little more concerned with Jordan’s body language. “Why the hell would you think I would help you?”

“I need answers, dammit.” The senator’s face turned bright red, but as a contrast his lips were white with fury, and his eyes narrowed with frustration. “And I think you have them.”

The bodyguard skidded to a stop a few feet away, his hand on the weapon concealed by his suit jacket. “Everything okay here, Sir?”

Jordan slammed the remnants of his lunch into the metal garbage can and then stalked away. “Get your answers someplace else, Senator.”

THIRTEEN

Why was the senator asking him for information?

The meeting had left Jordan extremely unsettled. He could count on two hands the number of times they’d met in person.

He tried to analyze in a dispassionate and detached manner, but everything came up jumbled and he couldn’t make sense of it.

The senator was privy to most of the same information the Franklin Group reviewed when compiling their reports and recommendations. Probably frosted the old goat’s ass to constantly see Jordan’s name on the reports and recommendations used to make decisions influencing policy.

Only a handful of people even knew Jordan had helped out with the extremely off the books rescue of John Wishbone.

The only ones who knew were Jamie Hunt and Lucas Goodman, Zeke Hawthorne, Jamie’s boss, Carson, no last name known at least by Jordan, and David Armbruster, the Assistant Deputy Director of the NSA. Oh yeah, and Susan Chen, who was in a federal prison for her role in kidnapping espionage agents and injecting them with drugs.

An even smaller number of people actually knew what had transpired in that hotel room before someone shot Susan Chen’s co-conspirator.

Susan Chen was in a highly guarded prison.

Jamie and Lucas were taking a well-deserved vacation. Besides, Jamie was more close-mouthed than Jordan. No way in hell had she talked to the senator.

There was pretty much only one person left.

Jordan dialed his cell and asked Zeke Hawthorne to meet him for a drink. Preferably now.

“What the hell,” Zeke responded with a touch of bitterness. Jordan could almost see his shrug. “It’s not like I have anything better to do. Give me half an hour.”

Jordan rode the Metro to his regular haunt. The bar was mostly empty. For which Jordan was thankful.

Fuck. He needed a beer
. “Two Guinnesses.”

“Sure thing, Jay.” The bartender, a petite blue-eyed blond named Delia, called everyone by their first initial. She began the delicate process of building the draft.

Zeke Hawthorne sauntered into the bar a little later, dressed in board shorts, a psychedelic t-shirt with Zoo York wrapped from front to back, and at least a two-day stubble on his jaw.

On a good day Zeke didn’t dress up, but today he was pretty high on the grunge scale.

Jordan grabbed their beers, and jerked his head toward a table in the back, close to the jukebox, and far enough away from the other patrons they could talk without being overheard.

After they sat at the booth, Zeke slapped his palm against Jordan’s. “Dude. How’s it going?”

Zeke punched his fingers into a fist looking to knock against Jordan’s clenched fingers.

Zeke looked like a surfer with his blond corkscrew curls going every which way. The guy was a total geek head, sounded like an extreme sports nut, and could probably do extreme quadratic equations in his sleep.

“Uh. It’s not.” Jordan had hit a dead end after tracking Staci’s movements to California. She’d used her own name to get Johnny Wishbone out of the hospital and convince him to protect Bella Holden, then she’d dropped off the grid again.