Killer Focus (21 page)

T
he following morning, Taylor studied the mottled leather binding of Reichmann's ledger, which Wells had delivered to Fischer less than an hour ago. The book was secured, and so was Dennison. In return for protection he had agreed to become a witness for the prosecution. Wells was transporting him to a safe house where, owing to the charges pending against him and the threat from both Lopez and the cabal, he would be held under armed guard for an indefinite period.

She had examined the book, reluctantly and with a sense of intrusion, because the content of the fragile faded pages was disturbing and highly personal. The reason le Clerc wanted it so badly was now evident. Reichmann's ledger wasn't just a careful accounting of theft, but of mass murder. For le Clerc, and the remnants of those dispossessed families, its value—aside from exposing the members of the cabal—was incalculable. The book was hard evidence admissible in a court of law, and the beginning of the quest to gain closure, dignity and retrieve what was left of the money. Perhaps most importantly, it listed the specific camp each family had been sent to, providing physical locations for grieving relatives to visit.

To compound Reichmann's madness, after he had escaped Germany, he had continued on with the original purpose of the ledger, using it as his solution to control the members of the cabal by cataloging them in the same book that had been used to condemn thousands to death, a book that unalterably branded them all as criminals.

Fischer had looked at the ledger, as had Wells, Shaw and Tate. Their reactions had been uniform. Turning the pages had been like walking through a silent graveyard, and out of respect for the victims, they had each kept the journey short.

Placing the book back in its waterproof satchel, Taylor walked through to the bathroom and washed her hands. The impulse was knee-jerk. The book was an inanimate object, but both the Reichmanns and Lopez had handled it, and its purpose had been evil. Maybe soap and water didn't make much difference, but washing made her feel better.

When her hands were dry she walked back out into the sitting room. The motel unit was a near carbon copy of the one she'd stayed in just days ago—same name, almost the exact same decor. The only difference was the suburb they were located in and the fact that, this time, Steve Fischer was sharing the unit with her. She had the bedroom; he was on the couch. Shaw and Tate were sharing an adjacent unit.

She saw with relief that Fischer had packed the book into the armored briefcase it had been delivered in. Maybe she was being overly sensitive, but she couldn't wait until the book was removed. Every time she thought about it, the cold inhumanity of a man who had profited from mass murder sent cold shudders down her spine.

There was a brief tap on the door. Fischer got up from the couch where he had been making calls and working on a wireless laptop. After checking, he let Shaw and Tate in and holstered his gun. The fact that Fischer had remained armed underlined his tension.

Tate placed a grocery sack of delicatessen sandwiches and salads on the dining table. Taylor got out plates and poured glasses of water from the filter jug in the fridge. Fischer hung up on his latest call and took a place at the table.

The talk centered around le Clerc and his network, and the brushes they'd all had with the Chavez cartel in South America when they'd been with the SEALs. Fischer had been Wells, Shaw and Tate's commanding officer. When Fischer had left, they had followed him.

Fischer's phone buzzed while they were eating. A third wealthy businessman with a lasered off tattoo on his back, Alex Parker, had been shot to death in his car in the Appalachians. Evidently he had been driving to an isolated mountain cabin and had never made it. Apart from Helene Reichmann, there was only one upper-echelon member left. Fischer had been working to track his identity, which had been altered after the book had gone missing, but they were running out of time.

After the lunch dishes were done, Taylor tidied up the unit while Fischer showered. The enforced inactivity was grating. She had already read the newspaper that had been delivered that morning, and she could only watch so much TV.

On impulse, she picked up the shirt he'd left draped on the end of the bed and lifted it to her nose. The shirt smelled of Fischer, clean and male, and it sent unexpected emotion through her. Over the past two days, the enforced proximity had blunted the shock of what he'd done and she had gotten used to being with him. They weren't lovers and she didn't know if they would ever be again, but somehow that didn't affect the way she felt.

A card slipped out of the pocket and dropped to the floor. Bending, she picked it up.

Xavier's number.

She stared at the card then returned it to Fischer's shirt pocket. He didn't need the card. She had seen him enter the number into his phone.

When the sound of the shower running stopped, she left the bedroom and walked through to the sitting room. The bedroom was hers, but Fischer's bags were in there, and he used it to get changed. The cell phone, which he'd left on the dining table, buzzed. She carried the phone down the hall and handed it to him as he emerged from the bathroom, wearing dark pants but no shirt.

Seconds later, Fischer flipped the phone closed. “I have to go. Jack Jones and your mother are en route to Jersey.”

Shock rolled through her. The one thing she had counted on was that Jack and Dana were safe.

She followed him into the bedroom. “Why Jersey?” The question was rhetorical: she already knew.

“Your father is after Rico Casale, the hit man who took the shot at you in D.C. Casale is based in L.A. but he disappeared a couple of weeks back. Jack found a guy who was willing to sell Casale out, a drug dealer working out of Jersey. Name of Aldo Fabroni.”

He pulled on a dark T-shirt, placed a gear bag on the bed, unzipped it and stowed his gun and the shoulder holster.

“You're
using
them.”

Fischer's expression was remote. “Jack had a choice. He could have handed the lead to me.”

Her jaw clenched. Of course he wouldn't do that. He was used to working alone and the information was too important. He wouldn't trust anyone else to deal with the underworld in which he had once operated.

She reached for her suitcase, which was still mostly packed, dropped it on the part of the bed Fischer wasn't using and began shoving clothes and toiletries into it. “I'm going with you.”

His hand clamped her wrist. “You're staying here. This has got as complicated as it's going to get.”

She jerked free. “They're my
parents.
”

“Shaw and Tate will look after you until I get back.”

She sucked in a deep breath. Her chest felt tight and her eyes were burning. As much as she hated it, Fischer was right. He was doing his job. She had first-hand knowledge of just how effective he was, and she was hampering him. But that didn't make her feel any less panic or fear. She couldn't lose Dana, and she couldn't lose Jack, and she wasn't used to being powerless.

Fischer's hands closed on her upper arms. “Don't worry about Jack and Dana. They won't get within a mile of Casale. They're safe, honey, believe it.”

She stared into his dark eyes.
Honey.
Strange how it was the little things that undid her.

His fingers tightened. “I have to go.”

 

Taylor spent the rest of the day watching television, rereading the newspaper and periodically running through sets of exercises. It began to rain, making the motel unit seem even more claustrophobic. By six that evening, despite the physical exertion, her nerves were shot.

She watched the news, checking for any hint that something had gone wrong. When it switched to sports, she turned the set off.

The phone buzzed, making her jump. When she picked up the receiver, it was Tate. He was ordering dinner. Did she want Italian or Chinese? She was no masochist; she chose Italian. With the wind howling, rain spattering the window and the possibility that the same guy who had shot her could put a bullet through someone she loved, it wasn't the best night to be reminded of her own shooting.

The fifteen minutes Tate had mentioned stretched out to thirty. When the knock on the door finally came, Taylor checked through the window before opening the door. In the murky light of the porch, for a moment she
saw
Tate wearing a ball cap and holding a sack of takeout.

When she opened the door, Colenso smiled and aimed a large handgun at her chest.

I
ce formed in her stomach. In addition to the fact that Tate and Colenso were a similar coloring and build, Colenso was wearing his jacket. “So it was you.”

He smiled. “Who did you think it was? Tripp?”

She didn't blink at the gibe. Colenso had always had an ego problem. His desire to score points off her wasn't surprising. However, the fact that he was the mole definitely was. In her wildest dreams, she wouldn't have imagined Colenso had either the intellect or the subtlety for the job.

Buying time in the hope that Shaw would magically appear, and feeling sick because she didn't think that Tate would, she looked past the black muzzle of the gun over his shoulder. He was alone, at least for now. That didn't give her much of an edge, but she would take any chance she could get. She stared into his eyes, which in the murky light were more gray than blue. “The bungled attempts
were
mounting.”

He gestured with the gun. She moved back as he stepped into the room and kicked the door closed. The bland calmness of his expression registered. Colenso was a trained agent; he was competent and he had a gun. Without intervention by Shaw or Tate, it wasn't likely she was going to survive this. “You killed Letty.”

“And called in the hit on you, milked your work computer and tapped your phone, although the calls were boring. You need to get yourself a social life. Although…” He stared over her shoulder at the bedroom where Fischer's shirt was still visible on the end of the bed. “Looks like you finally have.”

“Did you send the calling card?”

“Nobody else, darlin'.”

Rina had been right. Lopez wouldn't go near a piece of theater like that, but Colenso was all over it.

Motioning her back farther, he set the takeout down on the coffee table. The smell wafted through the room, turning her stomach.
“What did you do with Shaw and Tate?”

She didn't know them that well, but their safety mattered. They were Fischer's men; they should have gone with him. Instead, they had stayed behind to look after her.

“Relax. I didn't shoot them. Too much noise, too much blood, and it would have wrecked the jacket.” He produced a syringe and a vial, which contained a clear liquid. “It's an anesthetic. They're both taking naps.”

Endless shadows, the sting of a needle. The smothering paralysis—

Stay calm. Stay focused.

This was what he wanted, to panic and demoralize her—to control her with fear.

Colenso went up another notch in her estimation. In his new position, he would have had access to her psych reports. He would know exactly how traumatized she had been.

“What do you want?”

He smiled. “You know where Dennison and the book are.”

She wrenched her attention away from the syringe. Colenso didn't yet know that Dennison was in custody. It was information that Fischer had kept under wraps to buy time. Once the cabal members and Lopez knew the book was in the hands of the United States government, the situation would become even more volatile and they could lose the opportunity to capture Lopez and Reichmann. “I don't know where Dennison and the book are.” That, at least, was the truth.

Colenso pocketed the vial and the syringe and lifted the gun. His index finger moved from the extended safety position to rest lightly on the trigger. “Try again.”

Taylor's heart slammed in her chest. Colenso was experienced with weapons. Unless he intended to pull the trigger, his finger should remain in the safety position. “Fischer knows where Dennison is, but he didn't tell me. Why would he? He's CIA, I'm a civilian. But I do know how you can get the book.”

“How?”

“I have Xavier le Clerc's number.”

His brows jerked together. She had finally managed to shock him.

“Le Clerc's in the States?”

“I had a meeting with him yesterday. He's in contact with Dennison. By now he should have the book.”

“Liar.”

She shrugged. “Believe what you want, but if you shoot me, you won't ever get the book back.”

Colenso's finger moved off the trigger. “Let me see the number.”

“You'll have to let me go in the bedroom and get it. It's in the pocket of Fischer's shirt.”

He followed her to the bedroom door, keeping his gun trained on her while she found the card. Keeping her movements slow and nonthreatening, she handed him the card and walked past him and back out into the lounge.

Colenso indicated that she sit on the couch. “Empty the contents of your bag on the floor.”

Taylor picked up her handbag, which was beside the couch, and upended it. Her purse and the handgun Fischer gave her tumbled out along with a notepad, cell phone, pens, car keys, a comb and the miscellany of makeup that usually lived in a side pocket.

Colenso kicked her gun across the room and took out his cell phone. She kept note of exactly where the gun had ended up, and the fact that he hadn't noticed the absence of the magazine, which was concealed in another zipped side pocket. “You can't make the call. I need to do it. Otherwise le Clerc will ditch the number and your only link to Dennison and the book will be gone.”

He placed the card on the coffee table. His finger was back on the trigger. “Phone le Clerc.”

She picked up the motel phone, which was on a side table next to the couch.

“Use your cell phone.”

She retained her grip on the receiver. Making the call via cell phone made sense. Colenso would retain his mobility, rather than being anchored to a motel room that could shortly become a war zone. “Le Clerc won't answer the call unless it comes from a number and a person he's expecting. The call itself will go to an answering service. He'll return it if he thinks it's safe. I'll give him my cell phone to call back on, but I need to call from this location. Then you're going to have to wait on le Clerc, and I don't know for how long.”

Colenso was silent while he mulled over the logic of using the landline for the initial call. She needed to use the motel phone because it would leave a record of the call for Fischer to find. And, hopefully, once he realized it was le Clerc's number, a trail to follow.

Colenso checked his watch. Despite the chilly temperature, she could see beads of perspiration on his upper lip, signaling that he wasn't as calm as he appeared. He would be worried about Shaw and Tate waking up and raising the alarm, and that Fischer could walk in the door at any time.

She had also upped the stakes, which would have thrown off his carefully calculated plan. Colenso was a smart operator, but he didn't like surprises. Introducing the wild card of le Clerc, an old adversary who had been a thorn in the cabal's side for decades, had forced a more important objective on Colenso than simply killing her and taking out Fischer and his men.

Le Clerc wouldn't be happy at the breach of trust, but she had no alternative, and there was always the possibility that le Clerc could make productive use of Colenso's link to the cabal. The likelihood that Colenso would get close to a player like le Clerc was zero.

“Make the call.”

She picked up the receiver and dialed. A split second later the call was picked up, not by a male voice as she had expected, but by a bland female voice that requested she leave a message.

Colenso frowned as she stated her name and cell phone number. He'd let her make the call, but he still didn't have any proof that she had reached le Clerc.

Letting out a breath, she hung up.

“Pick up your cell phone.”

She found her cell phone in the muddle of items on the floor and placed it on the coffee table.

He put the phone in his pocket and pulled out the vial, which was partly filled with colorless fluid. “By the way, I think you know what this is.”

Her stomach contracted.

The click of a briefcase. The cold sting of the needle—

“Ketamine.”

“That's right. Technically it's an anesthetic. An interesting drug, but not really a killer.” He produced a second vial. “After they drank the K in their coffee, they weren't really in a position to argue when I injected them with insulin.”

Taylor's blood ran cold. The thought of being injected with ketamine filled her with horror, but insulin was worse. In the correct dosages it was a lifesaver for diabetics, but in large doses it dropped the blood sugar, causing diabetic coma, lack of oxygen, brain damage, organ failure and cardiac arrest. “You murdered them.”

He checked his watch. “With the dose I administered, anytime soon.”

A cold ripple of recognition went through her. Colenso was a killer. She couldn't afford the mistake of underestimating him again. With each kill he was growing in confidence. He had fooled her and everyone else in the Bureau, including Bayard.

Colenso produced a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket with all the flare of a magician producing a rabbit. “Hold your wrists out, and don't try anything.”

His finger was back on the trigger. At this range he wouldn't miss.

He snapped the cuffs in place and stepped back. He checked his watch and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he retrieved her gun, found the magazine in the side pocket of her bag and slipped both into his pocket. “Time to leave.” He grinned. “Fischer should have found Casale by now.”

 

Rico Casale had been dead for several hours.

Fischer studied the body sprawled on the floor of the second-story apartment in one of Jersey's more run-down areas. There were no signs of a beating or a trauma of any kind, but there was no mistaking the rigor, or the smell, of death.

He could hear Fabroni throwing up out on the sidewalk.

Fischer pulled on latex gloves and crouched down, careful not to touch the body while he systematically searched Casale. He was no forensics expert. At a guess Casale had been dead for several hours, long enough for rigor to set in, then relax slightly. And for the insects to find him.

A beetle scuttled away as he pulled aside Casale's shirt collar and studied a faint bluish mark on his skin. “There's a puncture wound on the right side of his neck.”

It looked like Casale had been caught cold, probably from behind. Judging from the lack of any other marks or wounds, whatever poison had been injected had acted fast, immobilizing him. The way he had died didn't matter so much as
who
had killed him, but the fact that the killing had been achieved by a drug overdose, or poison, was interesting. In Casale's world, and this neighborhood, the gun ruled.

Straightening, Fischer took out his phone, turned it on and checked his calls. He frowned when he saw the number. Bridges, the agent who had come in to replace Wells, knew they were going after Casale. He wouldn't phone unless something had gone wrong.

Bridges picked up on the second ring. “Shaw and Tate are being taken by ambulance to Georgetown hospital. Looks like they've been injected with something.”

“Prognosis?”

“Tate's not breathing—they're working on him. Shaw's in better shape, but not much.”

His jaw clenched. “Taylor?”

“She's gone. I checked the motel phone. There was one call listed. She phoned le Clerc.”

 

Fischer's phone rang as he boarded the chopper. It was le Clerc.

“I've just had an interesting call from Ms. Jones.”

“Where is she?”

“The information carries a price.”

Fischer's jaw tightened. “You want the ledger.”

“I need the original. A copy won't carry any weight in an international court of law.”

“It can be arranged. Where's Taylor?”

“At midnight she'll be in Portland, Maine.” He supplied the address of a popular motel just off U.S. Highway One.

“Who has her?”

“He's American, male. The accent is West Coast. L.A., perhaps. He wants the ledger and he thinks I'm going to deliver it in exchange for Ms. Jones's life.”

Not Tripp.
Colenso.

The conditions were predictable, the timetable compressed. Xavier was to go alone and bring the original copy of the book. When he reached the motel he would receive instructions about the precise location of the handover. He would be watched. If anyone else was involved, the deal was off and Taylor was dead.

It was a given that the deal was a setup. The only certainty was that Taylor would be alive at the time of the handover, because Colenso couldn't risk losing his leverage before that point.

Fischer checked his watch. Four hours. “I'm going to need help.” Colenso was smart—he would have backup—but Fischer was willing to bet that le Clerc and his team were smarter. The Frenchman's network was serpentine, elusive and motivated. They would blend in in a way the new agents replacing Shaw and Tate couldn't. If nothing else, le Clerc would guarantee the safety of the book.