Authors: Robin Burcell
The Dark Hour (11 page)
December 7
Washington, D.C.
T
ex finally called. “I’m parked in front of the lobby doors. You want me to come up?”
“I’ll meet you down there.”
She grabbed her bag and keys, tucked her gun in her coat pocket. She did not turn off the light, in case they were watching her window from outside. Checking the hallway in both directions before stepping out, she locked the door behind her, then walked to the elevator, her hand in her pocket, finger on the trigger guard. Healthy paranoia seemed the wisest of courses right now, and before she even pressed the down button, the elevator bell signaled its arrival on her floor. She stepped to the side, her concealed gun aimed directly at the door. Tina and Storm stepped off.
Syd slipped her hand from her pistol, smiling in greeting as Tina asked, “Where you off to this time?”
“Business trip,” Sydney replied, taking the moment to pat Storm.
“Must be fun doing what you do. All that travel and stuff.”
“Trust me, Tina,” she said, moving past her onto the elevator. “A little downtime would be welcome right now.” She put her foot in front of the door to keep it from sliding shut. “Do me a favor? If you see anyone lurking around my place, call the cops? I phoned the utility company and they didn’t send anyone.”
“You think they were there to rip you off?”
An understatement to say the least. Even so, she felt it in Tina’s best interest to instill a good dose of self-awareness, in hopes the girl didn’t stumble into anything she shouldn’t. “Burglars are pretty sophisticated nowadays,” she said, nodding at the dog. “I’d pay attention to Storm’s instincts.”
Tina, looking slightly alarmed, pulled Storm next to her leg. “I will,” she said, patting the Labrador’s flank.
Sydney moved her foot, allowing the elevator door to slide closed. Tex awaited her downstairs. Apparently so did two men dressed in the utility company’s uniforms, probably sent there to kill her. She only hoped she could get into the car and out of the parking lot before they succeeded.
T
he van followed them out of the apartment complex. “Definitely not one of ours,” Tex said, eyeing it in his rearview mirror. “We’d at least come up with a real utility truck.”
“That’s comforting to know. How are you going to lose them?”
Tex hit the gas, made a quick right, doubling back around the complex. “I may not lose them. As long as I keep them at bay long enough to get you to where you’re going.”
“And where am I going?”
He glanced over at her, but said nothing as he returned his attention to the road. Not that he needed to say a word. She’d already come to the realization that there was nowhere she could go that wouldn’t bring danger to those she loved. Back home to San Francisco was out of the question. They’d have no problem following a simple trail to her mother’s home, thereby endangering everyone there, including her young sister and her stepfather. Scotty’s was out for the same reason, even though he, technically, could fend for himself. Until she found out what was going on, who was after her, and why, she wouldn’t be able to rest. She gave an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, because she knew that Tex would realize her primary goal would be to keep her family safe, which meant the farther she was from them, the better. “Which airport did you have in mind?”
“Dulles. There’s a packet for you in the glove box. Your ticket, documents, money, and a credit card. And while you’re at it,” he said, as Sydney opened the glove compartment, pulling out a thick manila envelope, “you might want to leave your gun with me. Avoid some of the headaches if you take it into the airport.”
“And if they follow me in?”
“I’m hoping to lose them before they realize that’s where we’re going. But that’s the beauty of our pain-in-the-butt post–9/11 security measures. They’re gonna have a hard time getting past the security checkpoint without a ticket.”
“Last I heard, those checkpoints weren’t exactly bulletproof.”
She opened the envelope, looked at her ticket and the passport, both in the name of Cindy Kirkpatrick, an AKA she’d used on a previous ATLAS operation, then eyed the thick stack of euros, all hundreds, as well as a credit card. “That’s a lot of money.”
“The spy business doesn’t come cheap. Especially when you don’t want to be using your own credit card. That one’s cold and prepaid. There’s about ten thousand euros on it. I’ll refill it if needed.”
“Who’s funding this venture?”
“ATLAS has a rainy day fund, you could say,” he replied, whipping the wheel over and switching lanes. “Which is why you need to keep your name out of it. Do not pull rank anywhere in that airport, because I can guarantee that your real name is flagged and the first computer check will shut us down. If it gets back, my boss will have my ass, yours will be handed to you by yours, and Griffin really will be on his own. There are a lot of agents working for ATLAS out in the field whose safety depends on this remaining under the radar, Sydney. ”
She removed her ID from her purse, along with anything else that might identify her. “Why would they connect me to this?”
“They’re goddamned secret agents, Syd. They know you know me.”
“Next time a secret agent walks into my office, I am
so
ignoring him.”
“Good luck with that.”
By the time they neared the airport, they’d lost sight of the van, and hoped they’d lost it. Tex stopped his car in front of the glass doors, as the warning announcement about unattended vehicles being towed aired over the loudspeakers. Sydney got out, opened the back door, and was pulling out her bag when she saw the van from her peripheral vision driving into the passenger drop-off zone. “They’re here.”
Tex drew his gun, held it low. “It’d really help if you could get in there without being ID’d.
Or
shot.”
“I’d definitely like to avoid the latter, thank you.” She looked around, saw three uniformed police officers standing about twenty feet away from the terminal entrance, eyeing the incoming passengers. Under normal circumstances, she’d pull out her credentials, then inform them there were two armed men in the van.
These were not normal circumstances.
Think. She needed the suspects distracted long enough for her to safely get inside, past security.
She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder. Doing her best to look less like a federal agent and more like a frightened woman, she ran over to the officers. “Thank God! Some woman just stopped me and said that van’s been following her all night,” Sydney told them, pointing at the approaching vehicle. “She saw guns.”
The officers looked in that direction, one radioing about possible armed subjects. Within seconds several more officers came running out the terminal doors as the van rolled up. The police drew their weapons, aimed at the vehicle. Pedestrians screamed, some ducking behind cars, others running into the terminal. Sydney, quickly forgotten in the general chaos, ran through the doors. She glanced back, saw the van speeding off, officers jumping into their patrol cars to follow, and she quickened her pace toward security, losing herself in the crowd.
Forty-five minutes later, she sat on the plane and had just slid her purse under the seat, then remembered to shut off her phone. She flipped it open and saw she had missed a call. She didn’t recognize the number. She did recognize the country code, the Netherlands, and she hit redial, listening to it ring.
Someone picked up on the other end, but didn’t speak.
“Hello?” she said, hearing faint static, but nothing else. Was it Griffin? Had to be. Just in case, she kept it vague. “If you’re there, I’m coming out. I have something for you. I just need to know where to go.”
No answer.
“Are you there?”
The static ended and she heard absolute silence.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the flight attendant said, stopping by Sydney’s seat as she made her preflight inspection round. “You’ll have to turn off your phone.”
Sydney hit the power button, then dropped the phone into her purse. If it wasn’t Griffin, she didn’t want to imagine who might be waiting for her when she stepped off that plane.
And if it was Griffin? She thought of the sketch, the resemblance to his wife. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to be the one to show it to him.
December 7
Washington, D.C.
R
ight after the shooting, Izzy had been half tempted to get a room at the Hilton. God knew he had access to enough credit card numbers to book a room online, but then there was that whole ID issue—they always asked for it—and he only had the one with his real name. That left this place that took cash and asked no questions, with its pink neon sign with the T and the L burned out of the word
MOTEL
. At least the rooms were clean, two beds, a table with two chairs, and there didn’t seem to be any bugs. It smelled of cigarettes, even though he’d asked for nonsmoking. The clerk sort of laughed, shoved the key toward him, and said, “Enjoy your stay.”
Right. He’d slept fitfully every night since, waking each time he heard a car drive past on the street. He kept his trips outside to a minimum, and only for food. Tonight, after a quick run to the store to get some bottled water, snacks, and then dinner at McDonald’s, he was back in the room, the TV on for company.
He sat at the faux wood table, eating his hamburger, while playing solitaire on his laptop. With everything that had happened, his brain wasn’t functioning, and he didn’t dare connect to the Internet and chance he’d make a sloppy mistake, like the one he’d made the other day when he was trying to erase his tracks from Hollis’s computer.
The TV droned in the background, and he paid little interest until he heard the TV newscaster say, “The suspect in the murder of Senator Grogan, twenty-three-year-old Hollis Kane, appears to have committed suicide this morning while in police custody at a mental health facility, where he was being evaluated. An anonymous source within the police department states that Hollis Kane was believed to have been a mental health patient, and had apparently stopped taking his medications, which may have led to the shooting and his eventual suicide. The matter is still under investigation. And in other news, the president states that the bill to beef up security in our nation’s ports is his top priority, now that . . .”
Izzy nearly choked on his hamburger. Coughing, he guzzled half the soda, trying to clear his throat, as he switched channels, trying to find further updates. There were none. He pushed his half-eaten dinner aside as the realization hit. No way Hollis committed suicide. Besides, he wasn’t on any meds that Izzy knew of. Somebody needed him out of the way. Maybe the guys in the white van, who came after Izzy . . . He tried to think who else might be in danger. What else was on Hollis’s computer, and the first thing he remembered was the desktop background, the pictures of Maddie. The thought sent a wave of panic through him and suddenly the hamburger felt like a lead weight in his gut.
Hollis was already dead. And if Izzy didn’t find Maddie, warn her, she was likely to be next.
T
he clothing store was dark, and there was only one car left in the parking lot. Izzy thought it might be Maddie’s. He didn’t dare approach until he was sure it was she, and he waited in the shadows near the car, until he saw her emerge from the side door, then cross the parking lot. He stepped into view.
She jumped on seeing him, dropping her key ring. “Oh my God, Izzy,” she said, putting her hand on her chest. “You scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was, you know, a good idea to go inside.”
“Why are you here?”
“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
She seemed to think about it for a second, then said, “There’s a Chinese food restaurant about a half mile up the road. Meet me there.”
“I sort of parked a couple blocks away . . .”
Maddie stared at him for several seconds, and he wondered if it had been a bad idea to even come here. But then she picked up her keys from the ground, saying, “It’s cold. I’ll give you a ride.”
She pressed the remote that unlocked her car, then got in. Izzy climbed into the passenger seat, shivering, and grateful when she blasted the heater, even though there was only icy air at first. He’d been waiting for at least fifteen minutes, and he hadn’t bothered bringing gloves, primarily because he hadn’t thought to grab them when he rushed from the motel.
“Which way?” she asked, after she pulled out.
He pointed. “There’s some retirement home up there. In their parking lot.”
“This is about Hollis, isn’t it?”
He didn’t reply.
“The FBI was here asking about him.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“What could I tell them? Hollis was acting weird. Face it, he went off the deep end.”
“He wasn’t crazy.”
“Oh my God, Izzy! Have you seen his Web site? He rambled on forever about Atlantis and aliens and Nazis and whatever else was on there, like the senator was behind it all or something. He killed the senator, and then he killed himself. He was nuts.”
“I don’t think he did it.”
“There were
witnesses
, Izzy, that actually saw him with the gun.”
“He wouldn’t kill himself. And he definitely wasn’t crazy.”
Maddie turned into the retirement home parking lot. “I know you two were friends, Izzy. And I’m sorry. But Hollis sort of brought this on himself. He got too wrapped up in all that stuff.”
“You have to understand what he saw. It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it? Explain it to me.”
“I think you could be in danger.”
“Not you, too.”
“I’m serious.”
“Fine. If I’m in danger, we go to the police.”
“And what?” he said, unable to keep the frustration from his voice. “Ask them to protect us? They couldn’t even protect Hollis and he was in custody!” He stared out the windshield, trying to think what might convince her. “I was on his computer the other day, like maybe minutes after the shooting, and someone else was there.”
