Operation Proof of Life (26 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Brigit watched fascinated as one square after another popped up on Del’s tiny screen. The
security specialists
were inside the courthouse. So was the tour group, including Michael. Video and audio pieces were coming through loud and clear. So far. So good.

Twenty minutes later, Michael had managed to lose the tour group and guides. A camera set high on one of the walls showed a distorted view of the dark tunnel, the farthest point disappearing into darkness.

Brigit’s breath caught in her throat when Michael appeared on screen entering the tunnel. He was moving quickly, checking back over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t followed. As his body became smaller and smaller, her heart beat faster. When he finally disappeared into the darkness at the narrowed end, she thought she would throw up.

“Here,” Del said, typing in a command and pointing at a new square on his screen. “This is coming from Director Stone’s cell phone. I rigged it to send a shot every three seconds.”

Pixilated grays and browns appeared on the screen like a photo had been snapped. The tunnel was dark and dingy with deep shadows, making it difficult to make out much of anything. Seconds later, a new image appeared, not all that different from the previous one, but still different enough Brigit could tell Michael was moving forward.

At the end of the tunnel, enough light filtered through to add more colors, but the dinginess didn’t subside. Into the jailhouse, up the steps, Michael was silent but keeping his cell phone camera moving in arcs so they could see what he was seeing. Narrow stairs with green railings, plaster debris everywhere, fallen lights. Massive locks and inch-thick metal bars. Large, gaping holes in the walls.

Brigit watched, completely enthralled with the tiny square of Michael’s world. While Del kept an eye on the various other feeds and relayed information to Conrad, Brigit tuned it all out. All she cared about was Michael.

A shadow moved in the corner and Brigit leaned closer to the screen. Were her eyes playing tricks on her or was that a man’s shadow? Maybe it was Michael’s? But that couldn’t be right. He would have to be standing on the stairs to his right to throw the shadow the camera was capturing. The next two seconds seemed to take forever.

Without warning, an explosion punched the air nearby. Brigit ducked, all her reflexes contracting as if she’d been hit. The sound reverberated through the rooftop, running over her skin and raising the hair on the back of her neck. The explosion had come from the jail.

She was up and running toward Conrad before she could form coherent thought. “What happened?”

Binoculars in one hand, a radio in the other, he ignored her. “Black King, come in.”

Titus Allen’s voice broke through a bunch of static. “Black King here. We’re okay. What the hell was that?”

“Explosion inside the jail,” Conrad answered, and a shiver ran down Brigit’s spine.

“Blue Knight? You there?”

“Blue Knight here.” It was Lawson. “All clear on our side. Over.”

Brigit jerked on Conrad’s sleeve. “What about Michael?”

“White Knight, you see anything?”

More static and then Ryan Smith’s voice. “Nothing unusual. What’s Del got?”

Del. Brigit left Conrad and sprinted back to Del and his laptop. “What can you see? Is Michael okay?”

The computer guru was leaning toward his screen. He said nothing, his face pale as he shifted the screen so Brigit could see the display.

The multiple squares were now only one filling the screen with a choppy, pixilated picture. The view seemed to be the ceiling with a light blob in the upper left corner. Brigit squinted. “What is that?”

Del cleared his throat. “I think it’s the director’s ear.”

Dropping to her knees, she stared at the screen with her heart fluttering hard in her throat. The picture stuttered as the video updated and understanding dawned on her. Michael was on his back, the cell phone camera lying beside him, next to his head.

“Oh, God.” Far below, the sounds of the frightened tourists filled the air as they filed out of the courthouse. The three-second update showed a piece of Michael’s arm, as he’d raised it to rub his forehead. Hope soared in her chest. She slid sideways and yelled at Conrad. “Michael’s hurt.”

He came running, radio still glued to his mouth as information continued to be relayed between the teams. “Stone’s down, possibly injured,” he told someone as he stared at the screen. “Get to him. Now.”

Brigit reached to touch the screen, tears welling in her eyes. “Goddamn jerk,” she whispered.

Without another word, she rose and started for the fire escape.

“Hey,” Conrad said. “Where’re you going?”

She didn’t stop, didn’t answer. Just as she put a hand on the rail, he grabbed her by the back of the coat and hauled her around. “Oh, no. You are not allowed to leave this rooftop.”

Struggling against his iron grip, she forced herself to sound calm. She was anything but. “Says who?”

“Stone.”

“He needs help. Let me go.”

Conrad wasn’t as big as Michael, but he was strong enough and fast enough to pin her arm behind her back and march her away from the edge of the roof. “Help’s on the way. I need you here.”

Since he had her left hand jacked behind her and pointing up at her shoulders, she couldn’t ignore the pain to her still sore arm. “I don’t appreciate being manhandled.”

He forced her back to Del’s side. “Don’t try to run off and it won’t happen again.”

“Um,” Del muttered, looking up at her and pointing at the screen. “Who’s that?”

All of Brigit’s senses screamed in panic. The pale face, the shaved head, the eyes like a shithouse rat. There, staring down at the phone and Michael, was the face of her childhood nightmares.

Her knees kissed the blacktop first. Her hands followed. “That’s Peter Donovan,” she murmured before her stomach heaved.

Chapter Forty

Michael came awake slowly, his ears ringing and his eyes burning. He would have sworn Brad had landed a kick to the back of his head.

Blinking to clear the grit from his eyes, he saw a man’s face looming over him. “Well, who do we have ’ere?” the man muttered. “Yer the man from the alley.”

Though he could barely make out the words over the ringing in his ears, Michael recognized the voice. The nasal tone, combined with deep-sunk eyes and days-old growth of beard, registered with a cold slap. Peter Donovan.

Rubbing his eyes and tapping his right ear—the one ringing the most—with his palm, he shifted his body to sit up. Donovan held a gun by his side and Michael saw his hand tense on the butt. Moving with slow, deliberate motions, he got to his feet. The shadows around him fuzzed out and the floor seemed to move under his feet, making him waver. The damage to his eardrum was knocking his balance off.

Nothing like being half-blind, half-deaf and dizzy as hell when facing the terrorist you planned to apprehend.

“Why’d ya blast the tunnel?” Donovan demanded. “Who’re ya working for?”

His face was even paler than it had been the previous evening in the alley. Sweat beaded his forehead. The bags below his eyes spoke of sleeplessness or perhaps poisoning?

Yer the man from the alley
. At least he hadn’t called Michael Brigit’s lover. Maybe Brigit was right and this wasn’t a trap. Or at least not one orchestrated by Donovan.

Pretending to be deaf gave him time to come up with a plausible story. Michael tapped his ear again. “What? My ears are ringing. What happened?”

Donovan’s cruel eyes measured him. He raised his voice a notch. “Explosion. The tunnel’s caved in.”

His attention dropped to the floor to Michael’s left. Michael followed it and saw his cell phone lying on the tunnel’s dirty floor. He moved to retrieve it, but froze when Donovan’s gun came up and pointed at his chest. “Yer one of Shankill’s men, aren’t ye? How’d’ye know I’d be ’ere?”

The flashback hit without warning. The black hole. The shiny cylinder. The feverish eyes of a madman staring down the gunsight. Michael had faced down a gun before. Raissi had pointed one at him and pulled the trigger.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, the old adage went. Some days Michael wasn’t sure. It didn’t make you stronger, only wiser. You realized you could die at the drop of a hat, the pull of a trigger, on any given day in any situation.

The old anger roared and rumbled like an animal inside his chest. His Glock was still in his waistband. The hard metal had dug into his back when he was on the ground. No way could he reach it before Donovan blew him away, though.

He raised his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender even as his mind counted the ways he could turn the tables. “I don’t know who Shankill is and I’m not after you. I’m an American film producer doing a documentary on Gerry Adams. The U.K. government doesn’t want to give my film crew unlimited access to the prison, so I snuck away from the tour group to do a bit of unauthorized filming.” He pointed at the phone still on the ground.

Donovan seemed to consider the story. “Why’d ye help me last night in the alley?”

His voice had dropped back to its normal pitch. Michael turned his left ear to him, very aware of how easy it would be to blow his fictional cover. How tough it was one-on-one to keep the bluff in place. Flynn did this all the time, even now in the bowels of Langley. Bluffing was more of an art than Michael had realized. “What?”

“Last night in the alley. What were ye doin’ there?”

Michael nodded and played another card. Sometimes the truth worked just as well. “Your picture’s been all over the news in America and I thought it was you at the bar. I saw that woman get your attention and how you ran after her. When the cops came, I figured you could use some help.”

Donovan’s face showed nothing but gray despair. His gun, though, showed he still didn’t see Michael as anything but a threat. He wiped at the sweat along his brow line. “Why’d ye blast the tunnel?”

Michael frowned, hoping to look confused. “I didn’t. I was filming it.”

Donovan motioned with his free hand for Michael to give him the phone.

The angry animal inside him continued to roar, wanting to lay waste to the terrorist threatening him. The terrorist who had tried to kill Brigit. Still, he moved in a careful manner to do as instructed. “I figured you’d be attending O’Bern’s memorial service at the capitol today.”

Donovan kept the gun and one eye trained on him while he fiddled with the phone to look at the video Michael had shot. After a minute, he shut the phone, disconnecting Michael’s link to the outside. “Everyone figured the same.”

Smart man. While no one but Brigit could directly tie Donovan to O’Bern’s murder, many in Northern Ireland were heralding Donovan for the murderer.

“Except this Shankill character?”

“He knows me better than most and he likes bombs.” Donovan started, seemingly struck by a new idea. “Either him or…” He trailed off and shook his head as if discarding the thought.

Somewhere outside the jail, a siren blared. Michael pretended not to hear it even as Donovan cocked his head a fraction, catching the sound of it too. He tossed the phone back to Michael and started to walk away from the tunnel’s dilapidated entrance toward the jail. “Gotta git outta here.”

“There’ll be cops covering every inch of the place and Shankill and his men may be out there waiting for you.”

Donovan hesitated, looked at the gun in his hand. “Perhaps. Would not surprise me if someone’s waiting for me.” He glanced at the gun in his hand. “Last stand has come sooner than I expected.”

What had Raissi wanted as much as martyrdom? Fame. Recognition. Michael took a step toward Donovan. All he needed was to give the terrorist hope and an incentive to live.

And Flynn wasn’t the only one versed in Lie-Your-Ass-Off training. “This isn’t your last stand. My crew’s outside. You give us an exclusive interview on the ongoing fight for Irish nationalism for our documentary and I’ll get you out.”

Donovan looked over his shoulder at Michael, considering the offer. The calculating gaze was still there but something else was too. The promise of fame beyond what he’d already tasted seduced him, just like it did so many of the power hungry. “How?”

Michael smiled, mentally taming the animal inside him as well as the one five feet away. He snapped the Motorola off his belt and keyed the transmit button. “Leave that to me.”

Chapter Forty-One

The clear bleep of the blue radio cut through the layers of noise floating up on the rooftop and stopped Brigit’s heart. Conrad snatched the walkie-talkie from its holder and met her gaze. Was it her imagination or did the muscles in his face unclench? Her heart thudded so hard it nearly knocked her back down to her knees.

“Yeah,” Conrad said into the radio.

Michael’s voice erupted from the speaker. “I have a situation. A certain member of the Real IRA has agreed to an exclusive interview for our documentary, but we need to get out of here undetected.”

What? Brigit frowned and started to speak but Conrad shook his head and put a warning finger to his lips to silence her. “Courthouse entrance should be avoided.”

“The explosion blocked the tunnel back to the courthouse. The entity who set off the explosion may be in attendance. Put eyes on your outer perimeter. We need to get out via the jail.”

We? This time the word hit her hard. Oh, God, he was bringing Donovan with him under some kind of guise about a documentary. A trembling started in her bones.

“Roger that,” Conrad said. “Let me check the options and call you back. Over.”

“Hurry.”

Conrad grinned at her as the radio went silent. “A documentary.” He shook his head in amused disbelief. “Fucking brilliant cover. He’ll get Donovan walking out on his own. Never knew Stone had it in him to be so creative. I may have to recruit him for my army.”

“Forget your goddamn army.” Brigit’s voice shot up an octave. “You didn’t even ask him if he was hurt.”

“Hurt?” Conrad chuckled and picked up the radio that connected him to the others. “Stone’s a jarhead. He doesn’t feel pain.”

An image of Michael in the hospital telling her about his father flashed across her mind. Suddenly the urge to protect him rose up like a hot spring inside her, bubbling up from her stomach, rocking through her throat.

She took a step toward Conrad and put a finger in his face. “You screw this up and he gets hurt, you’ll be the one in pain.”

His dark eyes glanced at her finger, back to her face, measuring her. He nodded, one dip of his head.

But even as he radioed instructions to Lawson, Smitty and Julia, he was still grinning, utterly unconcerned about her threat.

Annoyed, Brigit plopped down by Del. The computer tech looked at her over the rim of his glasses. “You’re good at your job, right?”

She pressed her hands along her hairline and leaned her elbows on her bent knees. “Yes. Why?”

“I’m good at my job too.”

Appraising him, she raised a brow in question. “Agreed. So what?”

Del smiled at his laptop. “Deputy Director Stone is not just good, he’s a fucking god. And so are Director Flynn, my man Vaughn, Smitty and Julia and Zara. You shouldn’t worry so much. It’s insulting. Show a little faith.”

Brigit dug deep for patience. This might be a run-of-the-mill day for members of the CIA, but it wasn’t for her. She couldn’t stop thinking about Michael and Peter being face-to-face. Couldn’t stop thinking about how deceitful and cruel her brother could be.

Or how heroic Michael could be. “I’ve never been one to have faith in others.”

“This group’s done a lot to help you out. Might be a good time to start.”

As Conrad maneuvered the white van into place according to the coordinates Lawson had given him, Julia kept watch of the area, looking for whoever might have planted the bomb that blew the tunnel. Off and on, Brigit heard the others’ voices chiming in about the situation below as fire trucks and ambulances and police cars filled the streets.

They were all there, helping her like Del said, but they were doing it for Michael. He had earned their respect, not through fear and dominance, but through trust and honor. Having a small amount of faith in him and his group seemed the least she could do.

Still, the trembling inside her wouldn’t stop. She needed to do something. “How can I help?” she asked Del.

He clicked keys on his keyboard and a blueprint of the jail appeared. “Who do you think planted that bomb?”

Brigit ran through various options. “Donovan’s group has a dozen enemies, any of who might have figured out he’d be in the jail and planted it.”

“But why this way? Why cut off the tunnel?”

“To flush him out into the jail yard?”

Del shrugged. “Your sister led us here. Is it possible she set off the explosion?” He pointed at the buildings in the distance. “Could she be on one of these rooftops with a rifle, waiting for him to appear?”

Tory, a sniper? Not hardly. “She might have built a bomb to blow the tunnel, but—”

A block snapped into place, forming a row, and flashing out of existence. Sniper.

She jumped to her feet.

Conrad paced the helo pad, radio in hand, as he gave Michael details of the evacuation plan. Brigit heard Michael’s voice, solid and determined as usual, replying. She grabbed Conrad’s arm to get his attention. “Moira Raphael. Was she captured back in America after I left?”

Conrad frowned at her. “I don’t know.”

Brigit grabbed the binoculars from his left hand and started scanning windows and rooftops. “Tell Michael to stay inside. We need to look for her.”

Without hesitation, Conrad told Michael to sit tight a little bit longer and then switched radios to alert the rest of the group about Brigit’s suspicions. He barked an order to Del to find out about Moira’s status as well.

Del had heard her question over the sirens and was already on the job. “Got it,” he said, glancing up. “She’s still wanted by the FBI.”

Brigit’s hands shook, making her view through the binoculars blurry. What was crystal clear was the trap had been set, not for her, but for Peter.

Impatience was getting the best of him. Michael paced the first floor of the jail. He could see out the windows on the far end, but stayed back from them in case there was someone outside waiting for Donovan to make an appearance. No sense in being confused for a terrorist and getting nailed.

Outside, sirens continued to blare, but most seemed distant as if they were across the street at the Courthouse. Suited Michael fine. If the focus was on the tour group and the Courthouse, it made his job of getting Donovan out of the jail and off the grounds much easier.

Donovan stood staring down the hall toward the windows and possible freedom. Probably thinking the same thing Michael was…better to stay out of the line of sight.

Michael tapped his thumb against the two-way, waiting for Flynn to give him the go ahead. Vaughn had an opening in the fences for them, and Smitty had the van waiting on the street near the escape route. All they needed was the all-clear message.

A rat as big as his forearm skittered down the hall, seemingly in full panic mode, heading right for Michael’s leg. He started to draw his gun and then stopped himself. Film producers didn’t carry weapons and a gunshot would echo through the jail and bring attention down on them like the wrath of God. He stomped his foot at the rat and the ugly brown thing jumped and headed in a different direction.

Behind him, Michael heard the crunch of plaster under a boot. He turned, reflexes drawing the gun and aiming at the target.

Moira Raphael stood in the hall, a gun in each hand. One pointed at Donovan. The other pointed at Michael. Tory Kent stood beside her.

“Peter,” Moira said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw Donovan pivot slowly to look at Moira. His gaze grazed the guns and landed on Tory. “Not you.”

Tory said nothing. Moira parted her red lips in a smug smile. “The Judas gene runs in your family.”

Donovan’s gun hung by his side. Michael wondered why he didn’t raise it and at least defend himself. “What do you want?” he said to Moira.

Seemed obvious to Michael what she wanted. The two guns in her hands were a dead giveaway. Dead being the optimal word.

Tory’s voice quivered when she spoke. “Ya went too far when ya tried to kill Brigit, Peter.”

“You went too far when you left me behind,” Moira added.

Donovan was so still, Michael wasn’t sure he was breathing until he spoke, this time to Tory. “Siding with her? She done shot Brigit, or have ye forgotten?”

Moira answered him. “Under your orders.”

“I never…” Donovan’s voice trailed off and he narrowed his eyes at Moira. “Ah, I see what’ch’ave done. Turned ’er against me.”

Moira’s right hand swiveled to point a gun at Tory. “Easy enough to do.”

Tory’s wild gaze bounced back and forth between Moira’s gun and Donovan’s face.

“Leave ’er be,” Donovan said.

In the next instant, Moira’s smug smile returned, and she drew the gun in her right hand back around to point at her temple. “Easy enough to do.”

In the blink of an eye, she pulled the trigger.

First of the gun in her left hand pointed at Donovan. Followed by the gun in her right hand.

Her head tipped to her left and she dropped. At the same instant, Donovan took his bullet right between his eyebrows, the force rocking him back on his heels before he fell as well.

Tory cried out and slammed her back against the wall. Michael trained his gun on her. “Hands up.”

She did as commanded, sobbing and staring at Donovan. The man’s eyes were fixed on the jail’s crumbling ceiling as blood gurgled from the wound in his forehead. Michael swiftly kicked his gun away from his hand and then proceeded to do the same with Moira’s guns.

He patted Tory down to be sure she was weapon-free. “We need to get out of here.” He took a breath, relief flooding through him that both he and Tory were alive. “At least Brigit will be happy to see you.”

A mix of emotions crossed her face, confusion the most evident. “Do not lie to me.”

Satisfied she wasn’t packing a gun or a bomb, he stepped back and retrieved the Motorola where he’d dropped it. The thing was beeping and Flynn’s voice was calling him. “Your sister still loves you, Tory, even after the hell you’ve put her through.”

Tory slid down the wall, burying her head in her hands.

Amazing what families did to each other and for each other. The logic defied him, even though the emotions did not.

Keeping his gun on her, Michael pushed the talk button on the radio.

On the nearby rooftop, a hole opened in Brigit’s heart. Two men, two gunshots. What were the odds Michael wasn’t hurt this time?

Since the echo of the first gunshot stopped her heart from beating, Conrad had been trying to raise Michael on the radio. Julia had left her post to put an arm around Brigit, but Conrad had ordered her back to keep a look out over the area.

In her mind, Brigit saw Michael’s face, handsome and stoic even in death. She should have known better than to get involved with him, to fall in love with him. She was a walking curse, always damning those she loved.

So when Michael’s voice answered Conrad via the radio, she thought she was hallucinating. “Donovan’s dead. So is Raphael,” he said. “Extraction is still necessary as planned though. Tell Doc I’m bringing her sister out with me.”

Brigit heard the words, but was now sure Michael’s voice wasn’t a hallucination. It was a dream. A crazy dream that made her shake so hard her teeth chattered.

Conrad looked at her and then pushed the talk button again. “Are you hurt?”

A snicker came across the airwaves. “Hell no.”

Her teeth parted to let a hysterical laugh pass through them. Michael wasn’t dead. He wasn’t hurt. He had her sister.

Suddenly, faith in Michael Stone was the best lucky charm she could imagine.