Cold Light of Day (32 page)

“Even though the evidence points to him, Branson feels wrong.”

“Yeah. That’s what my instincts are telling me too.”

The other phones hadn’t moved from their offices. Matt didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all. Dammit. “Stay on him. Let’s see this through.”

Matt hung up, then held his breath as a driver opened the limousine door. The burly figure of Andrei Dorokhov pulled himself out of the back seat. The ambassador looked around in the pre-dawn quiet.

“Remember.” Regan smacked him in the chest. “First and foremost he’s the representative of Russia on US soil. Do not create a diplomatic incident that loses all of us our jobs and starts World War III. Under-fucking-stood?”

Matt nodded, but every step the sonofabitch took toward Scarlett was one step too close.

*     *     *

Scarlett physically shook
as she stood at the bottom of the Capitol Building steps and watched Andrei Dorokhov walk toward her. His face was haggard, eyes bloodshot, hair dirty-blond and greasy. Thick stubble covered his cheeks and jaw. He was gruffly handsome and exuded a sense of forcefulness that sent a shiver through her entire body. He had her friend in the trunk of a car—maybe even that car. The idea made her want to throw up. What had he done to her?

He nodded toward a bench. “Come. Sit.” He indicated she go first. The only person close-by was the homeless guy who was covered by a thin blanket at the far end of the steps. He had long, filthy dreadlocks, which stuck out the top of the blanket, and he hadn’t moved an inch. Maybe he was dead. More likely, he was one of Dorokhov’s bodyguards, planted early to protect the man.

Ha
! Like
she
was a threat. She sat, keeping most of the bench between them. She cleared her throat. “I wanted to apologize for what I tried to do the other night.”

“
Tried
to do?” His voice rumbled, and she smelled alcohol on his breath. He’d definitely been drinking.

Damn—what could she say to that? She could hardly say,
oh, no it was the FBI who actually bugged you, not me
. Despite everything, she was a patriot. She had no more desire to betray her country than her father had. “What I
did
. Unsuccessfully.” Very unsuccessfully.

He snorted out a laugh. “You Americans.” He shook his head. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t press charges? Espionage is not something we treat lightly.” His gaze was shrewd, assessing as it traveled over her.

She pinched her lips together, then blurted, “I want my friend released. Unharmed.”

His eyes narrowed. He looked like a snake about to strike, and Scarlett was careful not to make any sudden moves.

She rushed on. “Before Mr. Maidstone died he told me there were photographs.”

Dorokhov’s chin came up, eyes full of crimson fury.

She’d been bluffing, but obviously she’d hit the jackpot. Her heart banged in her chest. Her fingers clenched each other for comfort.

“I want those photographs.” He stood, and she tried not to cower before him.

Scarlett was terrified, but she couldn’t afford to let it show. “I want my friend back. Release her, and I’ll tell you where the photographs are.”

His hand shot out, and he grabbed her round the throat. “Tell me now.”

She was aware of several things happening at once. Pain streaked from her ears to her lungs, down her throat, as his iron grip tightened. The sound of running feet behind her, the vision of two men getting out of the Russian’s limousine and running toward them, hands reaching into their jackets.

Then Dorokhov seemed to come back into himself, and he loosened his grip, turning it into a caress, though her neck was sore as hell. “Get me the photos, and I’ll find you the girl.” He stepped back with his hands raised as if in surrender, and everyone stopped moving. And then, as the first glimmer of dawn shimmered on the eastern edge of the horizon, Dorokhov’s head exploded.

*     *     *

A fierce sense
of satisfaction rushed through Raminski as the bullet hit its target dead center. He would have gone for the girl too, except there wasn’t time. He had to get out fast. He ran down the stairs and through the Mezzanine gallery. Out the same way he’d come in.

The sight of the guard’s body beside the security desk had him skidding to a halt across the floor.
What
…?

The first bullet hit him in the upper leg and shattered bone like a rocket. He went down hard, the rifle sliding across the floor.

Blood pumped frantically from the wound. He dragged himself toward the rifle knowing he wasn’t going to get there before the next bullet hit. It was the other leg this time, the pain just as excruciating. He rolled onto his back, panting, so he could see the face of his murderer.

The American. The FBI agent.

His hands tried to stop the bleeding. “Why?” he asked. “Haven’t I done everything you asked?”

*     *     *

“You did, Sergio.
I’m sorry.” He pulled the trigger again—headshot this time.

The FBI agent put the handgun that had killed the guard beside the dead Russian and placed the guard’s gun back in the dead man’s palm. He wore latex gloves beneath a thin, woolen pair. He moved carefully, making sure he didn’t track blood with him. The feds would arrive shortly and see that the night guard had discovered the sniper who’d killed Ambassador Dorokhov trying to escape and died in a shootout.

Terribly sad. Very brave. The guy deserved a medal.

Raminski would take the fall as a disgruntled employee—maybe rumors would circulate that the Russians themselves had offed Dorokhov but wanted to make it look like the Americans did it, only to be foiled by Barney Fife.

The threat of war would be averted, and he’d use the ensuing storm to disappear from view. One last loose end to tie up, and he’d already baited that trap.

It might not be the perfect crime, but it was pretty damn good. He slid out into the shadows and the coming dawn.

*     *     *

As soon as
Dorokhov grabbed Scarlett, Matt started running. He didn’t care about the mission or the spy or anything, just getting Scarlett away from that fat, ugly sonofabitch so he couldn’t hurt her—and possibly beating the crap out of the asshole for laying hands on her—diplomatic immunity be damned.

He was done following orders.

He leaped over hedges and hurdled small walls, realizing he should never have listened to Regan or Frazer. This was a stupid plan, and they were no closer to figuring out who the traitor was than they had been yesterday morning. Scarlett’s original idea had been more sensible—and that had fucking sucked too.

His feet pounded the ground, and he was aware of Jon Regan in close pursuit. Then he saw Dorokhov’s bodyguards get out of the car, and the homeless guy roll out of the bench where he slept and jump to his feet, weapon in hand, and Matt pushed harder. No way was he about to let the Russians grab Scarlett. No goddamned way.

His arms pumped, lungs burned, but he was still fifty feet away when a rifle shot rang out. He ran harder. Blood sprayed in a wide arc and Dorokhov toppled over.

“Get down!” he shouted, the words echoing off the hallowed stone above him. The homeless guy grabbed Scarlett and pushed her to the ground, behind a low stone wall. Matt finally recognized his boss. He dove for cover next to them, breathing hard. Jon Regan plowed in beside them. They all lay there panting, catching their breath. Dorokhov’s body twitched on the sidewalk, gruesome. Frazer was on his cell, calling in emergency response teams from the local cops—hopefully getting backup that would find the shooter and not arrest them on the spot.

Frazer ran in a crouch toward the Russians—FBI creds on display, pointing toward the north side of the Mall where the shot had come from, and indicating they keep low.

The Russian bodyguards looked toward their fallen comrade who was obviously beyond anyone’s help and climbed back in the vehicle, which was probably the safest place they could be right now.

“You okay?” Matt asked Scarlett. He turned her toward him. She nodded but seemed unable to speak. There was blood on her cheek. He wiped it away with his thumb, but her eyes were wide and pupils dilated. In the totally freaked-out-zone. The fingermarks on her neck made him glad the asshole was dead, but not like that, not in front of Scarlett. The realization she could have been killed as easily as Dorokhov made him sick to his stomach.

He grabbed Jon Regan by the collar. “Who ordered that initial surveillance?”

Regan bared his teeth. “I can’t be here, Lazlo. If I’m called to testify on the stand then my TacOps career is finished.”

Matt didn’t let go. This was bigger than any of their careers. “Tell me who ordered it. Was it Branson?”

Regan shook his head. “It’s fucking
classified
.” Then his gaze shifted to the prostrate form on the concrete. “Shiiit.” He seemed to realize how big this thing had blown. “The request came from the WFO.” Washington Field Office. “Guy Clarkson applied for the wire tap for eyes on Dorokhov.”

“Wouldn’t that sort of thing usually come from the counterespionage section?”

“Sure, but not always. Plus, Clarkson and Branson were always tight. Branson used to run requests through Clarkson all the time. Things he didn’t want an official paper trail to.”

Could Branson be using Clarkson as cover, or was it the other way around?

“There’s no way it’s him…” Suddenly Regan didn’t sound so sure. Sirens started screaming all over the city. “I was never here.” He took off back to the surveillance van and Matt let him go. They had nothing to lose by making this investigation official now. The spy already knew they were looking for him. He’d be set to run if he wasn’t long gone already.

Frazer came back.

“We need someone to head over to the WFO to talk to Clarkson,” said Matt. “Regan just told me that’s who ordered the surveillance on Dorokhov. He also said Clarkson often does ‘favors’ for Branson. They’re both still firmly in the frame.”

Frazer nodded. “I’ll have to stay here.” He looked pissed.

Matt hauled Scarlett into his arms and just held her for a few more moments protected by solid concrete as she shook from the aftereffects of the assassination.

“Could they have been shooting at me?” she asked.

“They might have been.”

“A vest wouldn’t have been much good against that…” She nodded toward Dorokhov’s corpse and started to cry. Brain matter oozed onto the sidewalk.

He hugged her closer as a chill ran through him. “Time to move.”

Frazer was on his cell again. “Shot came from the National Art Gallery. Police have been dispatched. We need to get Scarlett back to the surveillance van and to safety.”

Matt nodded. There was a lot of exposed ground between here and there, but chances were the shooter was long gone, assuming this wasn’t a suicide mission. He kept his body between Scarlett and the direction from where the shot had come. Frazer on her other side.

“You could have filled me in on your plan,” said Matt angrily to his boss.

“I didn’t have time.”

“Nice dreads,” he muttered.

His boss’s mouth curved. “The best I could come up with when every costume shop in North America was closed.” He scratched his head. “I think it has fleas.”

They reached the white van. Regan and his team were huddled inside looking at monitors for a potential sniper. Matt caught a blanket that Regan tossed him, then wrapped it around Scarlett as he sat her on the step of the van.

“It’s not over, is it?” Her eyes were red-rimmed from fatigue, but her brain was turning again. “You lied to me about Angel.”

He stared at her. Held that bottomless brown gaze. Nodded. Her gaze drifted away from his, and he felt a little twist in his gut. “I needed you to stop trying to go to the guy. To let the professionals handle it.”

“You treated me like a suspect.”

“I treated you like a civilian.”

“You treated me like a criminal,” she spat the words in his face.

“Not true.” His voice got loud and suddenly he was yelling. “I don’t make love to suspects, and I don’t fall in love with criminals.” Shit. He looked around and realized everyone had stopped what they were doing and were watching the show. He dragged his hand through his hair, surprised he wasn’t bald from the stress of having this woman in his life. Thirty-six hours they’d known each other, and he was willing to sacrifice everything for her.

She didn’t respond to his untimely declaration. Maybe she didn’t believe him, or maybe she just didn’t care. She was definitely in shock and considering what had just happened, he wasn’t surprised. He was being an ass.

“How are we going to find Angel? What if she’s dead?”

Guilt was a terrible thing. He put his hands on either side of her head and stared into her eyes, willing her to believe in him. “We’ll find her. I promise.”

Regan stuck his head out the door. “We’re looking for her. We have people working on the metadata of both the image that was sent to Agent Lazlo of his mother, and the one of Angel LeMay that was sent to you. Both came from the same phone.”

Police cruisers and cars were starting to fill up the Mall. It was still shadowy and dark. Just the glimmer of Christmas morning creeping into the sky. Frazer pulled off his wig and flung it on the ground before going to talk to the first responders.

A car pulled up on Maryland. A silver Mercedes. Angel LeMay’s mother got out, eyes frantically searching the crowd until they found Scarlett.

The woman started running toward them. Matt braced himself for anger, but the woman just opened her arms, and Scarlett went into them willingly. More willingly than she’d accepted his recent comfort.

Because you lied to her, idiot, and then yelled your declaration of love like an insult.

Mrs. LeMay stroked Scarlett’s hair, but looked at him. “Have you found her yet?” Her voice cracked.

“No, ma’am. Not yet.”

She blinked away tears. “I can’t find my husband. He went out an hour ago, said he was going to look for Angel as no one else seemed to be doing anything.” She swallowed noisily. “I have two FBI agents sitting uselessly in my house when they could be out scouring the streets.” She seemed to bite back her anger. “I’m taking Scarlett home with me.”