Exposed (23 page)

He’d laundered more than a hundred million dollars for Fuentes, buying up real estate and using the sale of the properties to make a profit that all looked legitimate from the outside.

He’d also helped set up various charities and shell companies that paid Fuentes’s “employees” black salaries—salaries paid strictly in cash that were nearly impossible to trace—and committed thousands of cases of “smurfing”, whereby Clancy had broken up large sums of cash into smaller deposits to avoid detection.

In short, he’d helped Fuentes hide a shitload of dirty money and helped him make more money from it, then helped a large group of people involved in Fuentes’s network do the same. Clancy had been compensated well for his work and the increased risks, making a handsome commission with each transaction, and receiving lavish bonuses in cash.

But even he couldn’t launder the funds well enough to escape detection and the long arm of the law had finally caught up with him. The only reason he’d received this deal from the U.S. Attorney’s Office was because of his cooperation with the Fuentes case.

So far, whatever the investigators had turned up on Clancy’s finances hadn’t been enough to warrant pulling the plug on the deal Marisol and Frank were here to deliver. Not when compared to the opportunity to put Fuentes away for life or get the death penalty.

The government was willing to overlook a little tax evasion in that case. She just wanted the papers signed and the ink dry before something happened to change that.

Frank reached into his briefcase and pulled out three copies of the document they’d brought. “This is the agreement we sent to you and your lawyer previously,” he said, sliding the copies across the table toward Clancy and his lawyer. “We’ve made the changes requested, and nothing else has been altered.”

Clancy removed a fancy, tortoise shell pen from his shirt pocket and uncapped it. An old-fashioned fountain pen, Marisol noticed. The man had expensive taste, even in his choice of writing utensils.

He scanned the document while his lawyer quickly reviewed one of the copies. A few minutes later the lawyer nodded his consent, and Clancy signed all three copies. Frank and Marisol signed them all as well, and Lammers witnessed them.

Frank collected them and placed them back in his briefcase. “All right, now that that’s taken care of, we need to go over the particulars of your part in the trial.”

Clancy nodded, seemed far more at ease now that the main order of business was taken care of. Probably because he knew the investigators would turn up something in his financial dealings over the past two years that would have made the deal he’d just signed impossible.

“We’ll be calling you to the stand early on, to establish a framework for the kind of money Fuentes was pulling in at the time you knew him, and to discuss what you knew of his business ventures and revenue streams. We’re also going to be questioning you about people involved in his network. Specifically, his lieutenants. And to a lesser extent, their enforcers.”

Clancy’s face paled at the announcement. “I already told the Feds I don’t know any of them personally.”

“But you know about them. Their names, details about their finances and business dealings,” Frank said calmly.

He shook his head. “Not enough to help your case against them if you’re planning to put them on trial.”

Marisol noticed Clancy’s forehead and upper lip grow shiny with perspiration, and it wasn’t because of the heat or humidity. He was sitting in the shade, had looked cool as an ice cube until the mention of the lieutenants and enforcers. “Let us be the judge of that,” she told him.

Clancy’s gaze cut to her, and his pale green eyes turned cold. “I’m not interested in getting killed just to save myself another year or two in the clink.”

She raised a brow. “Yet you’re willing to testify against Fuentes.”

He snorted. “He won’t come after me, but those guys would if they thought I was involved with trying to hunt them down. No thanks.”

Marisol folded her arms. “If you withhold anything under oath, you’ll be in contempt of court. That will also land you in jail.”

“If you can prove I’m withholding something, maybe.” He shook his head, his lips twisting into a thin line as he glanced first at his lawyer, then back at her. “I agreed to testify against Fuentes,” he said, thumping his index finger against the tabletop, “and that’s what I promised to provide with my signature on those documents. No more, no less. You put me on that stand and start questioning me about guys like that, whom I’ve never met, and you might as well paint a bull’s eye on the middle of my chest when I walk out of that courthouse.”

“And I’m not ever going into WITSEC,” he added in a scornful tone. “Not after that shit show with the witnesses for the Qureshi trial up in D.C. a couple months ago.”

Marisol held his gaze, refused to be the first to look away.

“We’re not looking to endanger your life, Nick,” Frank said.

Clancy finally broke eye contact with her, turning that angry gaze on her boss instead. She didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. But sometimes that’s just the way things went in her job. Clancy and several other witnesses like him were a means to an end. As long as they helped her team get a guilty verdict in the Fuentes case, that was the most important thing.

It pissed her off that scum like this would walk while others went to jail, but she knew it had to be done. Justice wasn’t nearly as black and white as she’d first thought upon entering law school.

“Can we get back to the preparations for the trial?” Clancy’s lawyer asked. “I’ve got another meeting at noon.”

Frank’s mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile and he darted a look at Marisol. Clancy’s lawyer apparently didn’t like him any more than they did. “Yes,” he answered. “Let’s do that.”

It took nearly another hour to review everything and wrap up the meeting. Two of the three marshals assigned to her detail were waiting in the foyer when they reached it. After checking with their teammate outside in one of the two SUVs they’d driven down in, the team leader exited the house.

Frank followed him, then Marisol and Lammers, the second marshal bringing up the rear. They were on alert not just because of her, but because there was concern that Clancy might be a potential target as well. The sooner Marisol got back to Miami, the better. Ethan had promised to come see her again tonight and she was looking forward to that.

“Clancy’s just as charming as always, I see,” Lammers commented dryly on the way to the waiting vehicles.

“Yeah, he’s a real peach, I can’t wait to sit down with him again,” Marisol replied, her high heels clicking on the expensive mosaic tile set into the driveway. Had to have cost a fortune. Who the hell paid for craftsmanship like this and then just drove over it with their vehicle? She shook her head.

The lead marshal opened the rear passenger door for her while Frank slid into the front passenger seat. She passed the front bumper, smiled at the marshal and ducked her head to slide into the backseat. Suddenly the marshal grunted and slumped to the ground, his back resting against the side of the vehicle.

She jerked her head around to stare at him, her startled gaze landing on the bright red stain blooming at the base of his throat.

“Oh my God,” she blurted and dropped her briefcase. She reached for him, going to her knees on the mosaic tile. Someone had shot him but she hadn’t heard anything and his bullet-proof vest began well below where the bullet had struck. Lammers rushed toward her.

“Anderson’s down,” the second marshal snapped into his comm. He planted himself in front of them with his weapon drawn as Lammers crouched next to her, scanning for the shooter.

Not knowing what else to do, Marisol pressed her hands over the wound in the other man’s throat. It was pure reflex, driven by the instinct to help. He was still breathing but not well. Wet gasps gurgled from his throat, his hands fumbling to push hers out of the way.

She didn’t let go. “Just stay still. We’re getting help.” She could hear Frank already on his phone to 911, requesting an ambulance.

“Get in the vehicle,” Lammers ordered her, stripping out of his shirt. He wadded it up and pressed against the wound, then checked the wounded man’s pulse. “Get in,
now
.” With one hand on the wound he pivoted on his haunches, weapon in hand, scanning the foliage where the shot had to have originated from.

Marisol pushed up and started to lean into the backseat of the SUV.

“He’s conscious, still breathing,” Frank told the dispatcher, and popped open his door.

The second marshal cried out and fell just as a round slammed into the side of the SUV, inches from Marisol’s head. She jumped and cried out, instinctively ducking.

Lammers and the downed marshal both returned fire in the direction the shots had come from.

“Move,” Lammers barked at her. He whirled around and shoved her toward the hood of the vehicle. Frank jumped out of the front passenger seat and rounded the hood before ducking down, using the front end as cover.

Her heart was in her throat. Before she could take another step the remaining marshal burst out of the other SUV, weapon up, and fired into the bushes. She scrambled to gain her footing as Lammers propelled her toward Frank, kicked off her shoes and lurched to keep up with him. The agent fired twice more, the shots sharp and loud, making her flinch.

At the front right fender he jerked and fell to his knees, a bullet hole in the center of his lower back.

A scream broke from her throat.

She dove around the front of the hood. Flat on her belly, she crawled back to grab fistfuls of Lammers’s shirt and lugged him behind cover.

The front door of the house opened and Clancy stood there, body shielded by the door, his eyes widening when he took in the carnage. “What the hell’s going on out—” His words cut off when a round smacked into his throat, dropping him where he stood.

Marisol screamed, immediately bit down on her lips to stifle it. The shooter was picking them off, one at a time despite Lammers and the second marshal having fired back, and hitting them where the vests couldn’t protect them. The third marshal was moving behind the front end of his SUV now, returning fire.

Another bullet punched through the front end of the SUV, so close she flinched and ducked. Heart pounding, she slapped a hand over the wound in Lammers’s back. He was facedown, struggling to get up.

Blood poured from the wound and when she looked down at his face, her stomach lurched to see him struggling futilely to turn over. His spine. The shot had paralyzed him.

“Frank!” she yelled. He was behind her somewhere and she needed help.

“The shooter’s to our right, Soli, we’ve gotta run! Run
now
!”

“Lammers is wounded bad,” she cried, twisting her head around to look at Frank. His face was ashen and glistening with sweat, his eyes wide with fear. “We have to help him.” The FBI agent slumped to the ground, groaned.

Her hands shook as she applied pressure to the wound. The blood was warm and sticky, the metallic scent of it mixing with her terror, turning her stomach.

Frank had called 911, but how long would it take for the cops and ambulance to get here? She grabbed for Lammers’s pistol, raised it and curled her finger around the trigger.

There was no target. She couldn’t see anyone in the bushes, but she knew he could see her.

The remaining marshal fired twice in rapid succession then cried out and fell, a hand to the base of his throat. Fear turned to full-blown panic, burning in Marisol’s chest. Her entire security team was down, either dead or dying, and the shooter was still out there.

“Go!” Frank roared at her. He darted out from behind the SUV, running blindly for the thick hedges on the far side of the driveway.

Marisol stared after him helplessly. Her entire body shook. Lammers groaned again and tried to get up, his hand reaching for his pistol.

I can’t just leave Lammers.

She darted another glance at the hedges. Frank was gone but it wasn’t safe for her to move now. Even if she could get into the SUV she’d be a sitting duck and she wasn’t sure if it was bullet resistant or not so she wasn’t taking the chance. Dammit, she was too far away from the hedges, she’d be exposed if she—

Running footsteps behind her.

Heart in her throat, she whipped her head around in time to see a masked figure dressed all in back explode out of the lush foliage where Frank had just disappeared to the left of the driveway.

A scream trapped in her lungs as he came at her. She released Lammers, rolled to her knees and surged to her feet, her only thought escape.

Another round impacted the hood of the vehicle, plowed into the tile near her right foot. Shards of broken tile flew out. A hot kiss of pain flared up the back of her calf but she kept going, terror driving her as she ran for the house, her only remaining refuge.

Strong hands caught her shoulders before she’d even made it two steps.

She drew in a breath to scream, twisted in his iron hold as he grabbed her. His grip was too strong, she couldn’t escape. Holding her over his shoulder he took three running strides then dove over the row of hedges.

Sticks and foliage scraped across her face and arms as they sailed through the air and landed in the dirt. The air exploded from her lungs. Before she could even understand what was happening the man rolled them behind cover, turned her over and brought a hand down over her nose and mouth.

“
Be still
,” he hissed.

Marisol thrashed her head back and forth, fighting for air, for freedom, but it was no use. A hot prick stabbed her in the side of the shoulder. A heartbeat later her muscles turned weak.

A needle. He’d just drugged her with something.

No!
She tried to knock the syringe aside but couldn’t lift her arm. It was like she was paralyzed, her body refusing to obey her.

The man got up, rolled her to her back. He set an arm around her ribs to raise her upward and she caught a glimpse of his face when he pulled the black ski mask off.