Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (23 page)

“Family?”

“Wife
was with him and safe. He has three kids, one grandchild. Secret Service is
moving to secure them as we speak.”

Leroux
nodded toward the screen. “What have you got so far?”

“We’ve
just tapped into the hotel security cameras. Watch this.”

The door
opened and they all turned as their boss, Leif Morrison, the National
Clandestine Service Chief, entered the room.

“What’s
this I hear? Christopher Jones has been kidnapped?”

Leroux’s
eyes popped. “How did you find out?” Morrison gave him a look, sending Leroux’s
proud nads into hiding. “Sorry, sir, I mean, how, umm, did you find out? I was
just told we had no leaks.”

“It’s my
job to know,” replied Morrison who then gave Leroux a wink. “I’m notified when
emergency requests for Op Centers are made.”

Therrien
cleared his throat. “Sorry, boss, I, um, forgot to mention that I briefed the
Director after I called you.”

Leroux
waved his hand. “That’s fine, I was just worried there was a breach we didn’t
know about.” He pointed at the screen. “What are we looking at?”

“Hotel
footage that we’ve pieced together. Here you can see two black SUVs—we’re
running the plates now—entering the underground parking garage. Six men exit,
go up the elevator, exit on the tenth floor, quickly dispatch the security detail
and civilians in the hall.” He paused the video. “You can see here one of them
is wounded in the shoulder. The unconscious bodies are dragged into the room, but
watch this.” The video zoomed in as best it could on one of the doors, the
angle sharp. It opened without anyone knocking or using a pass. “See that? It
was opened from the inside.” They all watched as the bodies were dragged
inside, then moments later the door opened again and Jones along with another
man were led out and to the elevators, where they rode in silence, a gun
clearly in Jones’ back, but not the other man’s. “You can see it looks like the
other man we’ve identified as Peter Quaid, a major contributor to Mr. Jones’
campaign, seems to be going with them voluntarily.” The two SUVs were loaded,
the last footage of them clearing the parking garage and disappearing into the
city streets.

“Any
traffic camera footage yet?”

“We’ve
just tapped the local feeds. We’re running through it now.”

“Satellite?”
asked Morrison.

“There
was a bird over the area during the event, we’re pulling the footage now.”

“When
did this all go down?” asked Leroux.

Therrien
looked at the clock on the wall. “The kidnapping took place exactly sixty-two
minutes ago.”

“I’ve
got something,” said Sonya Tong, waving her hand then pointing at one of the
screens. It flipped over to a satellite feed. “I’ve got the two SUVs going under
the overpass, but neither coming out.”

Leroux
and Morrison stepped closer to the screen. “Run it again, from about thirty
seconds before they enter until about a minute after.” The two SUVs disappeared
under the highway, along with two other vehicles right behind them. Leroux
mentally counted, the other two vehicles reappearing as expected, the SUVs
nowhere to be seen. Another vehicle disappeared then moments later reappeared,
followed by two large sedans. He snapped his fingers at the screen. “That’s
them. Grab their plates and run them. See if you can follow them.”

“Yes,
sir.”

“And
notify the team in New Orleans. They’ll want to check out that underpass.”

Wainwright Residence, Collette Court, Odenton, Maryland

Nadja Katz opened the rear door of the house, a standard upper
middle-income home in a newer, upscale neighborhood, her intel suggesting the
home was worth nearly a million dollars, the Wainwrights obviously doing well
in retirement. Her file said he had bought the first local McDonalds franchise
decades ago and parlayed it into a decent sized restaurant empire, owning
several dozen by the time he sold off a bunch of them for his retirement,
divvying the rest up for his children.

They had
money.

And a
piss poor security system.

It had
been easily bypassed after she had confirmed the house was empty, the
Wainwrights at his sister’s place for dinner, no doubt eagerly discussing the
painting they had found. After Congressman Mahoney had peed his pants, he had
spilled everything he had known.

Coward.

The
beating was enough to break most men, though she had encountered a few in her
career that hadn’t. That was when the families were brought into play. And for
those few who still held out, she felt nothing when the bullet tore open the
target, the called bluff never a bluff.

Not with
her.

She was
good at her job because she was ruthless when necessary, and in her line of
work, too often that was necessary. She had stopped counting how many people
she had killed, certainly many dozens, if not over a hundred. It didn’t matter,
they of no consequence to her. She found the emotions portrayed by her targets
curious at times, especially when a loved one was killed in front of them due
to their lack of cooperation.

She felt
nothing.

For
anything.

Life was
a job. You did it until you could do it no more. Why cloud things with
emotions, relationships, family? Her parents had been killed by a drunk driver
when she was five, she herself suffering head trauma that the doctors later
told her had damaged her prefrontal cortex from which she might never recover.

She felt
fine, though at times, including her parent’s funeral, she had to fake her
emotions, the tears for the delayed service forced for the benefit of those in
attendance.

None of
whom had taken her in. Ten years in a foster care system that had her ferried
between alcoholics and pedophiles were probably easier on her than the others,
her emotions dulled to the point nothing bothered her, even a fat old bastard
sodomizing her three times a week.

Yet he
had been the last. Something inside had snapped one night when she lay face
down on the bed, her foster “father” preparing for his latest “lesson”.
Something inside had finally said no, said enough is enough. She had reached
over, grabbed a pencil from her nightstand and spun around backhanded, plunging
it deep into his ribcage, just missing his heart, though puncturing a lung.

It had
been a lucky shot, the assault over.

She had
dressed and walked out as he gasped for breath on the bed, his naked, hairy
girth jiggling from the effort.

She had
never bothered checking to see if he had died that day.

Several
years on the street had toughened her up even further, then she had fallen in
with Dietrich, a man thirty years her senior, who taught her the trade. A
former Stasi spy, he took her in off the street when he caught her stealing
from his store, a small repair shop in a back alley of a dingy street in what
was once East Berlin.

He had
caught her and taught her, giving her a purpose. And for the first time in her
life she found she was actually interested in something. She found it somehow
fulfilling, learning how to repair things like watches and electronics, while
also learning how to put those skills to work picking locks, cracking safes,
and defeating alarm systems.

And when
she had become adept, he had put her to work.

And she
had excelled, the old man apparently never having really left the spy business,
his skillset for hire to anyone who could pay his fees, fees that he happily
gave her a cut of, he treating her like a daughter, he the closest thing to a
father that she could remember.

When he
died she had felt little, his still body lying in bed, he having died
peacefully in his sleep of what she assumed were natural causes, though in his
business one could never be certain. She had called it in anonymously, taking
anything of value that she could carry.

Including
his cellphone.

A
cellphone that kept ringing with jobs.

Which
she began to fulfill, working her way up in the business until one day she
received a call that changed everything. Within weeks of that first, strange
meeting, she was working exclusively for an organization she knew nothing
about, except that they were extremely well-funded and the jobs were
challenging, global and quite often violent.

Something
she had no problem with.

At all.

She
casually searched the house, not bothering with most of the drawers, what she
was looking for specific. The computer had been hacked earlier in the day, all
data already pulled, somebody reviewing it for anything of value. From what she
could tell Steve Wainwright had stumbled upon a family secret a century old,
and unfortunately for him it meant the end of a successful life.

But not
yet.

Not
tonight.

Everything
had to be done in its proper order otherwise the infection could risk
spreading. Already there was another problem in New Orleans that might require
her involvement, though for now this was her primary task. Stop the infection
in Maryland from spreading any further. In order to do that, she needed to know
everyone he had told.

And in
order to make a man like that talk, she needed leverage.

She
opened a kitchen drawer near an old style rotary phone and felt the corners of
her lips turn up slightly.

An
address book.

You
gotta love senior citizens.

She
flipped through it, jammed with handwritten names and addresses including a
hefty listing of Wainwrights across the nation.

She had
her leverage.

Now it
was time to find out how much farther the infection had spread.

Gentilly Boulevard, New Orleans, Louisiana

Niner brought the SUV to a halt, blocking the lane, the emergency
vehicle lights integrated into their government issue vehicle flickering off
the walls of the underpass, the dim lighting, coated in road grime and exhaust
pipe soot casting a dull glow over the area. Dawson exited the vehicle with the
others, approaching it cautiously, weapon raised. He fully expected both to be
abandoned, yet they couldn’t take any chances.

“Federal
authorities! Come out with your hands up, now!”

Niner
and Spock swung to the front of the two vehicles, Niner shaking his head when
he had a view through the windshield. Atlas took the passenger side of the rear
vehicle, Dawson the driver side, confirming it clear as well.

“Check
for booby traps.”

Dawson wasn’t expecting any lethal surprises, the method in which the security
detail had been taken out earlier suggesting killing law enforcement officers
wasn’t their intention. The team, experts at this, quickly cleared the exterior
of the vehicles and did a visual inspection through the windows.

Dawson ordered the others back then tried the unlocked door of the rear SUV,
deciding against getting out the rip kit as time was their enemy. He winced slightly as he opened it.

No explosions.

Niner
did the same on the lead vehicle and soon all four were searching. Dawson went
through the usual haunts up front, as Atlas took the rear. There was nothing in
the glove compartment beyond registration papers that matched what they already
knew.

Avis
rentals, Red already running down who had ponied up for the vehicles.

“I’ve
got blood!”

Dawson
stepped out of the vehicle, looking to where Spock was searching. Spock pointed
at the back seat. “Blood on the back of the rear seat. Not much so I’m guessing
they got the bleeding stopped.”

“Okay,
take samples for DNA. The keys are in this one—”

“Same
here!” called Niner.

“Let’s
lock them up and save it for the Local LEOs when we invite them in.” He pointed
to Niner. “And put a couple of tracking devices on these, just in case someone
decides to move them.”