Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (25 page)

“You datin’
anyone?” asked Atlas as he leaned out the window.

Several
gunshots rang out, Niner not bothering to swerve, the ballistic windshield able
to withstand most small arms fire. “No, why, your sister single?”

“Neeever
gonna happen, little man.”

“Hey, easy
there, big fella. I’ve showered with you so I know stereotypes are bullshit.”

Atlas’
eyes shot wide open. “What are you trying to say?”

“Taking out
the tires,” said Dawson, ending the verbal castration. He took a bead on the right
rear tire and opened fire as the sedan skidded around another corner, three
quick shots, two finding their mark, the tire shredding within seconds, sparks
flying from the steel rim as the car rapidly slowed then came to a halt, all
four doors bursting open as those inside jumped out in a hail of gunfire.

Niner
skidded to a halt, positioning the vehicle directly behind the hostiles as he
drew his own weapon, he and Dawson opening fire on the gunmen as Atlas and
Spock in the rear threw open their doors, stepping out and joining in.

It
lasted only seconds, all four gunmen down, all four Delta operators unscathed.

“Don’t
shoot!” shouted someone from inside the car.

“Come
out with your hands up!” ordered Dawson as he opened his door and stepped out,
using its reinforced skin as a shield.

“Okay,
I-I’m coming out.”

A pair
of hands appeared, then a foot followed by another, Peter Quaid finally
appearing, shaking like a leaf. “M-my name is Peter Quaid. I was kidnapped with
Christopher Jones, you know, the man running for President?”

Dawson
motioned for Atlas and Spock to advance, the two men immediately rushing
forward, weapons aimed at Quaid. They quickly cleared the vehicle, then patted
down the still quaking civilian.

“He’s
clean,” said Atlas, stepping back, the first sirens of local police sounding in
the distance.

“Where’s
Mr. Jones?” asked Dawson, stepping forward.

“I-I
don’t know. I haven’t seen him since they took us from the hotel.”

“Did you
both get in the same vehicle?”

The man
hesitated for a moment. “Umm, yes.”

“And
after the switch?”

“I-I’m
not sure, we had hoods on. I think so, maybe. I-I just don’t know!”

“BD, if
we’re going to keep a lid on this, we better book.”

Dawson
nodded. Atlas was right. “Okay, take him with us. Let’s get back to that office
tower, see what we find.”

Atlas
and Spock each grabbed an arm and half carried, half walked the man to the SUV,
helping him into the back before climbing in themselves. Niner quickly pulled a
U-turn, guiding them around the light evening traffic that had been caught up
in the mess, casually turning down a side street as onlookers gawked.

Onlookers
who had cellphones out, recording everything they saw.

“Shit!”
muttered Niner.

“I guess
there’s no keeping a lid on this now,” said Atlas.

This
just turned into a Charlie-Foxtrot.

Unknown Location, New Orleans, Louisiana

Lights flickered on, the entire room bathed in a sudden harsh, white
light, startling Christopher Jones from his reverie of self-pity. He turned to
see a janitor backing into the room, pulling his cart, earbuds entertaining him
during his lonely shift.

Jones
looked around. It appeared to be some sort of hi-tech conference room, a long,
oval table in the center with a bank of monitors filling one entire wall, empty
chairs ringing the table.

Empty
chairs.

He
breathed a sigh of relief, pushing himself up from his seat then straightening
his tie and jacket, running his fingers through his hair before he squared his
shoulders and walked out a door at the opposite end, the janitor not noticing
him.

He saw a
sign for the elevators and walked toward them as calmly as he could, realizing
he was doubtless on security cameras. Pressing the button, the elevator
immediately chimed, probably left there by the janitor. He stepped on, hitting
the button for the main lobby.

As the
doors closed, he ran through his story in his mind, still not sure if he wanted
to go through with it.

They’re
going to kill Kaitlin if you don’t.

Bile filled
his mouth and he took a quick breath, realizing he had no choice. He had to
follow their instructions.

Then
when he became President, he’d devote every resource he had to finding and
destroying this organization.

Starting
with Peter Quaid.

The
doors opened and he stepped out into the lobby of what appeared to be a Class-A
building. To say any of this was what he expected would be a mistake. Before
the janitor’s arrival, he had visions of a James Bond super-villain lair, or an
abandoned warehouse in a seedy part of town.

Not what
appeared to be a modern office building.

A
security guard behind the desk nodded to him. “Good night, sir.”

“Ah,
g-good night,” he stammered, not sure of what to do. Should he order a taxi?
Call the police? Call the Secret Service?

Not
the police, they’ll ask too many questions.

He could
call the Secret Service, though he wouldn’t even know how to begin without
raising suspicions.

Call
the room at the hotel?

That
seemed to be the wiser idea. By now for sure the Secret Service would be there.

And his
wife.

Constance!

He had
totally forgotten about her in all this. What had happened to her? Was she
okay? He had seen the bodies dragged into the room before he was taken—staff
and agents. Did they kill her as well?

He had
to know.

“Can I
borrow your phone?”

The
guard nodded, lifting the phone up and placing it on the counter. “Dial nine
for an outside line.”

“Thanks.”

He
lifted the receiver and hit 9 when tires squealed outside and headlights beamed
into the lobby. He looked toward the door, the guard rising as four doors of an
SUV were thrown open and men piled out.

Men with
guns.

He
slowly backed away from the door as the men advanced on the main entrance.

“I’ve
got a situation here!” shouted the now panicking guard, his weapon drawn, a
radio in the other hand pressed to his mouth. “Four armed gunmen!”

The
lobby was still well lit which meant those outside had a clear view of the two
of them. One of them raised his hands and reached into his pocket, producing a
wallet. He held a badge up against the glass and shouted, his voice muffled.

“Federal
authorities! Lower your weapon!”

And
Jones recognized the voice immediately.

Agent
White!

“Th-they’re
with me!” he cried excitedly, motioning for the guard to lower his gun. Jones
raised his hands and rushed toward the doors as White and the others entered,
their weapons aimed at the floor, though still at the ready as they cleared the
lobby. The Asian one disarmed the guard, leading him back to his chair, the
poor man still shaking.

“Are you
okay, sir?” asked Agent White.

“Y-yes.
How d-did you find me?”

“Satellite
footage. We traced the vehicles. Are they still here?”

“I don’t
think so.” He looked over his shoulder, toward the elevators. “I think they all
left about ten minutes ago.”

“Okay,
let’s get you to a secure location,” said White, taking him by the upper arm
and leading him toward the doors, the others covering their exit. As they left
the climate controlled building into the sticky evening air, sirens rapidly
approached, flashing emergency lights flickering as a stream of police cars
raced down the road, turning into the parking lot and screeching to a halt, the
officers jumping out, weapons drawn.

“We’re
definitely not keeping this one quiet,” said the large black man to his right.

They’re
going to kill everyone I know!

Constitution Tower, New Orleans, Louisiana

Detective Isabelle Laprise parked, stifling a yawn. She had caught
the call near the end of her shift and had volunteered to take it.

Why
go home to an empty apartment?

Four dead,
gangland style shootout. It had at least sounded interesting, especially when
she heard all four were Caucasian wearing suits. It didn’t fit the normal
profile.

“Are you
going to be able to stay awake for this?” asked Detective Ray Salinger as they
exited the vehicle. “You
do
know the night shift could have taken this?”

Isabelle
shot Salinger a look. She had known him for a about a year but it had only been
a few months since they found themselves working together. After the plague
incident a couple of years ago where New Orleans was ground zero, she had
bounced between partners far too often, none really meshing, most complaining
to the LT that they wanted out of the partnership, she too hardheaded.

It
didn’t bother her that much, though it did a little. The problem was it wasn’t
really her, it was this façade she had created when on the job. Outside of work
she was as nice as could be—or at least that’s how she felt. Perhaps that
wasn’t the way others perceived her, then again, if she thought about it, she
didn’t have much of a life outside of work.

Another
reason her partners seemed to keep deserting her.

She
volunteered too often.

Those
with families almost always wanted out, but Salinger was single, new to the
city, and didn’t seem to mind the long hours.

Except
for tonight.

“Hot
date?”

He
blushed. He was a young pup in her eyes, at least ten years her junior, yet that
hadn’t stopped her before.

Dylan!

Dylan
Kane had been a CIA operative sent in to help track down the source of the
virus that had threatened to wipe out half the planet. Their time together had
been brief but passionate, it still firing her fantasies to this day. And there
wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t enter her apartment hoping she’d find
him there.

I
can’t believe I still miss him.

There
had been a couple of men since then, though none could compare to the fantasy
she had built up around Kane, she really not knowing anything about him other
than he was a talented agent and a talented lover. She was chronically single,
she not wanting to date within the department, and most men too intimidated by
her job.

Besides,
she never had time to meet anybody
because
of the job.

The job.

She
loved it, yet it also kept her from being loved.

It was
frustrating.

Yet it
didn’t seem to stop everyone from finding someone special.

“My
sister set us up. Blind date,” explained Salinger as they walked toward the
office tower entrance, a black SUV parked directly in front of the doors, four
men standing around it in fairly casual attire, one taking it to the extreme
with a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts. All had shoulder holsters filled with
weapons.

Must
be the Secret Service agents.

“I’ve
been on one blind date. Never again,” she replied as the officer in charge of
the scene approached. “Good enough looking but my gawd was he self-absorbed.”
She stopped, looking at her younger partner. “Want a little bit of free
advice.”

“Sure.”

“Let the
poor girl get a word in edgewise.” She turned to the Sergeant. “Hey Bill,
what’ve we got?”

“We’re
treating this as a secondary crime scene. You’ve seen the primary, I assume?”

She
nodded. “Just came from there. Four guys dead, shot by these guys”—she nodded
toward the SUV—“I presume?”

Sergeant
Bill Labelle nodded. “Yeah, they’ve admitted to it. Apparently the perps had
kidnapped two people from the Marriott. They were traced here. When the agents
arrived, a vehicle was leaving that matched one of their suspect vehicles. They
gave pursuit, the suspects opened fire on them so they took out their tires.
Suspects then exited their vehicle and opened fire, the agents eliminated the
targets, rescued one of the hostages, then returned here when they received
intel from the hostage that the second one might be here. He walked out of the
lobby just as they arrived.”