Eye of the Storm (17 page)

"So we've got three dead," Martin said, trying to pull them back to the issues at hand.

"Four. If you count Maurice. And if it hadn't been for your brother, he'd have probably gotten Tate and me, too." Simone pulled away from Reece and squared her shoulders. "So what did you find out about Ramirez's organization?"

"Plenty," Tate said, dropping the photograph on the table. "As we suspected, the organization is going strong. Still opposing the government and, best I can tell, still financing operations through drug trafficking. The Company has had them on a watch list since Sangre de Cristo, but they've never been able to make inroads into the inside or build a case against them." He opened a file folder. "There is some disagreement about who is running the organization these days. But the key candidates seem to be Ramirez's right-hand man Ramón Diego, his daughter Isabella and his son Carlos."

"So the children survived." Simone wasn't sure why she was pleased, but she was.

"Two did," Tate said, consulting his notes. "According to intel, Amon, the youngest, was killed at Sangre de Cristo. Isabella was also there but she survived. Carlos was actually in America at school when it happened."

"How old are they now?" Martin asked, tapping something into the laptop.

"Isabella is twenty and Carlos is twenty-five."

"Seems kind of young to be heading an organization like Ramirez's." Reece frowned. "How old is Diego?"

"Somewhere in his fifties." Tate looked up from the file to answer the question. "But you have to remember that this sort of thing is often treated almost as a monarchy. When one family member dies another ascends to the throne, so to speak."

"More like Mafia, if you ask me," Martin muttered.

"You're not too far wrong." Simone smiled at him. "There is a certain similarity. Especially on the drug- running side of the equation. But there is much more at stake here. These people are fighting for more than financial success. They're fighting for ideals. And whether we agree with them or not, the scope is bigger than what we think of as organized crime."

"Still sounds pretty Godfatherish to me." Martin shrugged.

"So do we know where these key players are? Is the operation still based out of Sangre de Cristo?"

"This is where the intel gets really murky," Tate said. "Understandably after the massacre, the junta went underground. Deep underground. Partially to regroup and nurse their wounds and partially to avoid detection. My contacts believe that they're still centered in Nicaragua, a compound near the Honduras border the locals call
El Ojo de la Tormenta
."

"The Eye of the Storm. Interesting connotation." Reece sat down on the tweed monstrosity that passed for a couch. "So are the key players living there?"

"No. And that's what makes it so hard to determine exactly who is in charge. Isabella is living in Managua. According to the intel I got, she's the mistress of the current president there, Manuel Ortega. Ramón Diego is working there as well. It's unclear whether his association is with Ortega or Isabella."

"She could be a plant. Her father's organization would never support a man like Ortega." Simone frowned.

"Either way, she's an asset for Ortega. The daughter of his government's enemy on his arm has got to carry a lot weight." Reece leaned back against the sofa, arms crossed, as he analyzed the situation.

"What about the son? He's the eldest. It would seem logical that he'd succeed his father."

"That's where it really gets interesting." Tate grinned. Simone concealed her own smile. Despite the gravity of the situation, he was enjoying himself. Of all the D-9 members, Tate was the least likely to have found peace in civilian life. The man was a born soldier, no matter whom he chose to fight for. "Carlos seems to have disappeared. The latest scuttle has him in the U.S. But no confirmation as to where."

"So he could have been the man you saw in the woods," Simone said.

"What's the time frame?" Reece asked. "Does it coincide with Maurice's death?"

"Nothing definitive. But word on the street is that he was destroyed by his father's death, and that the only thing that keeps him breathing is the thought of revenge."

"So he's got a motive to come after us. But there's no way in hell Maurice would have willingly met with him. And it's even less likely that he'd have given him information."

"There are all kinds of ways to get information. Maurice was the only one who knew how to connect the dots that separated us. But there were others with pieces of the puzzle. Maybe Carlos got the information that way and put it together."

"Maybe, but we don't have anything solid. Just a lot of conjecture based on circumstantial evidence. Carlos may be in the country. He may have been in D.C. He may even have been in the woods today. All of it interesting, but none of it absolute." Simone ran a hand through her hair, feeling again like a sitting duck. A position she did not relish at all.

"So we need more information." Reece as usual injected a note of rationality. "And the best place I can think of to get it is from Maurice."

"But he's dead," Martin said, stating the obvious.

"Yes, but there's still his office. There could be clues there. Hell, I make my living finding the truth after the fact. I assume the two of you can figure out a way to get us in?"

"It's doable." Tate nodded, his gaze locking with Simone's. "What do you think? We still have friends out there. I think we could call in a few favors."

"It might work. But we're running out of time. Driving cross-country is only likely to make us more of a target."

"I can get us transport. No problem." Tate's enthusiasm was catching. "I'll make the arrangements. We'll plan for the morning. I'll be back in a couple of hours. In the meantime, Martin, see if you can dig up anything else on Carlos and Isabella Ramirez. Despite Simone's doubts, I think they're behind this. And the sooner we understand what we're up against, the better."

"HAS IT OCCURRED to you that Tate seems to be a little more connected than he should be for an operative who is supposed to have been out of the business for ten years?" Reece asked, coming to sit beside Simone on the picnic table in front of the cottage.

The wind had come up, giving the air a chilly edge, but Simone relished the feeling. She'd needed to clear her head, the mountain air as always working its magic. A little stand of pine trees off to one side of the cabins rustled in the breeze. "You're never really out of the business, Reece. I'm proof of that."

"But could you call on resources to get us a plane, or the latest intel on the Ramirez organization?" His frown underscored his distrust of Tate.

"Yeah, I think I could. There's sort of an unwritten code. Operatives help their own. Just because we've been out of the game doesn't mean that we haven't got people we can call on. People we've worked with in the past."

"But ten years is a long time."

Simone shrugged. "Folks in espionage have long memories. And even though we were black ops, we still had contacts we worked with on a regular basis. Anyway, I assure you if I put my mind to it, I could secure pretty much anything I want."

"But how can you be sure that the people you're contacting aren't going to put you in greater jeopardy?"

"They just aren't. Look, it's like a big family. We don't always agree on things. And sometimes the right and left hand are not working in tandem, but push comes to shove, we're going to back each other up."

"So you trust him?"

"Tate?" She tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. "Of course. I told you, he's had my back more times than I can possibly count. In fact, if it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't have made it out of Sangre de Cristo. Yeah, I trust him. With my life."

"I see." He stared out at the line of mountains ringing the valley, his expression carefully neutral.

"Look, I know this is hard for you." She turned to face him. "It's all coming at you so fast. But D-9 was good people. The division did something for us that nothing else could have. It gave us a reason to get up in the morning. Something we could count on. And over time we grew to trust each other. Depend on each other.

"It was a unique world we lived in, I'll grant you that. And some of the things we did maybe weren't acceptable in polite society. But we made the world a better place. That much I'm sure of." She knew she sounded defensive. And hated herself for it.

"I'm not questioning D-9, Simone. I'm just trying to assess our current situation, and it seems to me that Tate is being remarkably forthcoming with information."

"So is Martin." She smiled at him, recognizing that there was a hint of jealousy present. Maybe not a me-Tarzan-you-Jane kind of thing. But a little bit of the green-eyed monster nevertheless. If it hadn't been Reece, she'd have been flattered. But she suspected the jealousy was as much over the fact that Tate had been able to provide things Reece couldn't as it was about the fact that Tate and Simone had once been close.

Really close.

Liaisons within the division were not uncommon. Like most occupations where access to others was limited, there was an inbred motivation to hook up with one another, Ed and Natalie a case in point.

But though Simone and Tate had been an item for a while, there'd never been any potential for something long lasting. The chemistry wasn't right. But she wasn't about to share the fact with her ex.

"I didn't mean to start an argument. I just thought it was worth bringing up."

"I understand." They sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence, and Simone mourned again the fact that they'd lost the ability to communicate without talking. Once upon a time she'd wanted nothing more than to sit with him like this, surrounded by beauty, full of love.

God, she was getting maudlin.

"Hey, you guys, come in here," Martin called. "I think you'd better see this."

Simone pushed off the table, feeling as if there was still something left unsaid, something more they needed to settle between them. But now wasn't the time. "We're coming."

She followed Reece into the cottage, and settled down onto the sofa in front of the TV.

"They're talking about us."

The newscaster's head was replaced by footage of an ambulance and stretcher.

"That's our house," Reece said, as usual forgetting that technically it was no longer his.

The picture cut to an on-the-scene reporter. "The investigation of the disappearance of Simone Sheridan took a turn for the dark side this morning with the discovery of postal worker Laura Dominguez unconscious in the woods near Sheridan's home. Dominguez, shot twice in the chest, was taken to Corpus Christi Medical Center, but doctors are saying there is little hope for recovery. Currently comatose, Dominguez was reported missing four days ago. Police are not saying whether the two incidents are related, but questions continue to center on Sheridan's ex-husband, Assistant District Attorney Reece Sheridan..."

The voice continued, but Simone couldn't focus, an image of Laura laughing at the mailbox filling her mind. "Oh, my God, her kids..." The words came out of their own volition, somewhere between a whisper and a sigh.

Reece was beside her in an instant, his arms warm around her. "It's not your fault."

She broke free, tears welling. "The hell it's not. If it weren't for me, for my past, none of this would be happening. Martin would be at home on spring break, and you wouldn't be under investigation, and Laura...Laura wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed at death's door."

"No matter what you did in the past, Simone, it doesn't warrant someone hunting you down. You're as much a victim here as anyone."

"Except that I shouldn't have let any of it happen."

"There was no way you could have known someone would pop up like this. And even if you did know, you couldn't have predicted when. Laura was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's horrible, I agree." He was holding her with both hands now, looking down into her eyes, his expression protective. "But it's not your fault."

"She was my friend." It was a ridiculous statement considering the friendship consisted of shared conversations at the mailbox, but Simone had treasured every moment.

"I know that, sweetheart. And I know you're hurting. But we've got to stay focused. It's the only way we're going to put an end to it."

"We'll get this guy, Simone." Martin stood beside Reece, his eyes filled with concern. God, what had she ever done to deserve this kind of loyalty?

Pushing aside her pain, she squared her shoulders, scrubbing at her eyes. She needed to find answers and find them fast. Only then could she clear her husband's name and maybe, just maybe, bring Laura a little peace.

"I'm all right." She met Reece's gaze, her own steady. "It was just such a shock."

"I know. I hate being manipulated. But it's obvious that this guy, whoever he is, is intent on keeping us in the game. If I couldn't go home before, I sure as hell can't now. I could have produced you and Martin as living proof of no harm done, but unfortunately, I can't do the same with Laura."

Simone shoved her emotions deep. Grief was only a detriment to what had to be done. Long years of training stood her in good stead, and she pulled away from Reece and Martin, her mind turning to the business at hand. "We've got to change how we look. There'll be pictures of us everywhere."

"God, I can't believe we're doing this." Martin's tone, as usual, was a mixture of trepidation and excitement. "It's just like a movie."

"This isn't a lark, Martin," Reece said. "This guy means business. He's killed at least two people that we know of. And potentially three more if our suspicions are right about Bea, Mather and Maurice. We've got to think through every move or we're going to be next."

"Exactly why we need to get to D.C. as quickly as possible." Tate stood in the doorway, his expression impassive. But it was clear he'd been there long enough to assess the situation. "The arrangements are all made. We leave at dawn. And since I'm the only one whose face isn't plastered all over the media, I'll go and see if I can round up disguises."

*****

SIMONE SAT on the picnic table, running a hand through her newly shorn red hair. The shorter length brought out the natural curl, and the hair dye had done the rest. She'd been transformed. A pair of color contact lenses and a change of posture, and the new look would be complete.

She wasn't the only one with a new image. Martin now sported a spiky multicolored haircut that was more fitting a punker than a college senior. A pierced ear and a couple of henna tattoos completed his ensemble. Tate had left no detail to chance.

But it was Reece who was most changed. His dark hair was cropped close to his head, making his features seem harsher. Chiseled from stone. It was as if he'd stepped out of the body of the lawyer into the body of an outlaw, the battered Stetson only adding to the perception.

His weathered jeans hugged every curve, the muscles in his arms accentuated by the tight black T-shirt. She'd never seen him as anything but the buttoned-up-suit type. Had fallen in love with him because of that, in fact. How the hell had she missed this side of him?

She struggled to breathe, her mind playing out fantasies that she'd given up when she'd signed on the dotted line. Damn it all to hell. She still wanted him. It was as simple as that. And nothing, it seemed, not even the chasm between them, could stop the chemistry.

"Thinking about your friend?" Tate's voice broke into her reverie, and she felt ashamed. Laura was lying in the hospital, dying—or worse still, already dead—and she was daydreaming about jumping her ex-husband.

"All of it, really."

He dropped down onto the picnic table next to her. "You miss the old life?"

It was a complex question, and demanded a complex answer. But she wasn't sure she was up to the task. "Sometimes. The people more than the situations."

"Oh, come on, you've got to miss the adrenaline rush. You were more of a testosterone junkie than any man I ever knew."

She smiled at the image he'd conjured. "Surely I wasn't that gung ho."

"Well, maybe I'm oversimplifying. But I always figured you were more like me than most of the others."

"In what way? Besides the rush?"

"I don't know. It's hard to put something like that into words. The Spanish have a word, I think—simpatico? Like we're in sync. I'm not expressing myself very well."

"I think the phrase you're looking for is 'kindred spirit.' But I don't know that I ever thought of you like that. You were so damn intense."

"And you were butterflies and roses?"

She laughed again, feeling at ease in a way she hadn't in a very long time. "I guess I had a few issues. But that was all a long time ago. Things change. People change."

"Is that what happened with your marriage? You changed?"

She turned to look at him, thinking that maybe he was teasing her, but his eyes were serious, as if he really wanted to know. "No. I lied. That's what happened to my marriage."

"About what? Another guy?"

Leave it to Tate to take things to a baser level.

"No. About my past. I lied about everything, Tate."

"You didn't tell him any of it?"

She shook her head. "I just exaggerated the past Maurice invented for me."

"Well, some of that's understandable, I guess. They made it pretty damn clear we weren't supposed to ever admit any knowledge of D-9 or its operations." He rested his hands on his knees, mulling it over. "But you should have told him about your life before division."

Tate was one of the few people who knew about the years before D-9. Every warped little detail. Maurice knew some of it, of course. And she'd confided in Bea. But outside the three of them, no one else knew anything at all about her childhood. Not L.A. or Chicago.

Especially not Reece.

"But you said you understood."

"I said I got the bit about D-9. But the rest is who you are, Simone. You can't run away from that."

"I can try."

"Yeah, and look where it got you." He waved a hand at the night-darkened woods.

"Look, my childhood was fucked-up. There's no question about that. But that's not what got me here, Tate. D-9 got me here. D-9 and all the sons of bitches out there who'd still like to see us dead."

"Don't be so quick to dismiss your childhood, Simone. It's
that
mess that landed you in D-9. Besides, life isn't about what happens to you. It's about what you make happen."

"God, everyone's turned into a philosopher."

Tate shrugged with a grin. "Not me, sister. I'm just seeing a side of you I didn't know existed. And from my vantage point soft and pliable doesn't suit you. The way I see it, you're more of a take-charge kind of woman. So all I'm saying is you need to decide what it is you want and go get it."

"But I can't. That's the problem. Every time I reach out to grab it, something gets in the way. It's like every time I get up, someone just knocks me down again. So after a while you wonder if you'd just be better off staying low, you know?"