Loose Ends Read online

  He started up the Regal but didn’t turn on the headlights, keeping the car dark. Easing away from the curb, he backed up the hill and drove onto a side street before he made the U-turn to head back to downtown.

  So everything was straight between them, except for the part about the blonde, the one in Key Largo, the only woman she’d ever actually seen him with. He wasn’t particularly discreet, except with Scout. For reasons he didn’t completely understand, he’d never wanted her to know about any of his fly-by-night romances, not a single one. He guessed he didn’t want her to think he was a jerk—for all the good that had done him. And maybe he had, in some odd way, just always wanted her to think he was available, in case she ever wanted to kick their relationship up a notch.

  There had been nothing discreet about her and Con finding him shacked up in a tiki hut condo in the Florida Keys, and from the moment he’d opened the door and seen her standing there, instantly zeroing in on the little cocktail waitress cooking his breakfast in the kitchen, he’d wanted to apologize to her from the bottom of his heart. Maggie had cost him his last chance with Scout—and that was a loss that went way beyond sorry.

  Now was his chance.

  “I’m … uh, sorry about what happened, well, everything, actually, in, uh, Florida, with Maggie and all.” He was wincing by the time he got it all spit out. It was embarrassing, really, what a crappy apology that had been.

  And she must have agreed. Dead silence greeted him from the other side of the car. She’d gone so silent, he could feel the absence of sound sitting like a two-ton boulder on the seat between them.

  What had happened?

  One minute she’d been glad he was going to stay closer to home, and the next she was freezing him out.

  So, great. He’d apologized and somehow made things worse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Skeeter took the exit ramp off the interstate at 20th Street and was halfway to Blake Street when her cellphone rang. She’d just gotten off the computer bolted into Coralie’s dashboard, checking in with Travis and Red Dog. They’d photographed a medication chart in J.T.’s motel room and sent it to Dylan and to Dr. Brandt.

  Hell, she loved Red Dog, knew what the woman had been through and what she could do, but she really didn’t want a world full of juiced-up spooks and operators muddying the alphabet soup of covert ops.

  She reached for her phone, thinking it might be Dylan again, but when she looked, she didn’t recognize the number—which was damned odd.

  Her brow furrowed. She knew every phone number Red Dog and the guys had ever used to call her on her private line—and this wasn’t one of them.

  “Uptown Autos,” she said. “We only sell the best.”

  “Mrs. Hart.” A voice she didn’t recognize came over the phone, a man’s voice, and she immediately reached over and keyed in a three-stroke code to connect her Bazo to Dylan and the comm console at Steele Street. Then she put her phone on speaker.

  “Mrs. Hart isn’t here,” she said. “May I take a message and have her return your call?” Her voice was chipper and bright in her receptionist’s mode. She glanced at the Bazo and saw Dylan’s tracking and recording signal come up on her screen.

  “My name is Tyler Crutchfield. I’m an aide to Randolph Lancaster at the State Department.”

  That got her attention.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Crutchfield?” she said, dropping the enthusiasm out of her voice.

  “I’m in Denver, and I’d like to meet with you.”

  TYLER CRUTCHFIELD CONFIRMED AIDE TO LANCASTER—the message appeared on her computer screen.

  “What about?” She turned on her blinker and eased over into the right-hand lane.

  “A trade. I have some information I believe you will be personally interested in, and we’d like Conroy Farrel. We at State have been informed that your team here in Denver suffered a mission failure in Paraguay but that SDF has Scout Leesom …”

  Had Scout Leesom, Skeeter thought.

  “And our most recent intelligence reports are telling us that Farrel is going to try to get her back.”

  Get. Got. Gone, Skeeter thought.

  “What kind of information do you have?”

  “I’d rather show you the files in person; some are state matters from your husband’s time in Moscow, and I have more recent photographs of him in Washington, D.C. When you see the photos, I think you’ll appreciate my discretion.”

  She doubted it, but he’d definitely piqued her interest. The Moscow deal was older than dirt, the threat of a treason charge that had never yet materialized. But Crutchfield’s coy assertion of the personal nature of his other information and the addition of undoubtedly glossy 8×10 pics was enough to fire up any married woman’s imagination.

  DON’T GO THERE, BABE. Sure, easy for him to say.

  “This is a very private number you’ve called me on, Mr. Crutchfield. Do you want to tell me how you got it?” If he worked for Lancaster, alias White Rook, the truthful answer was obvious, but she doubted if he’d be telling her the truth. He’d save it for later, if he had any truth to sell.

  “Mr. Lancaster, through his position at State, has been a champion of national security for many years and has developed a cooperative relationship with many of our country’s specialized agencies,” Crutchfield said. “His associates in those agencies were happy to comply with our request for a way to contact you privately.”

  Bull. There was no love lost between the State Department and just about everyone else.

  “Laws may have been broken here, Mr. Crutchfield. Are you sure you want to continue this conversation?” Whatever he wanted, she was going to make him work for it. That was just good business, and it was good business to keep him talking.

  “Laws have already been broken by your husband, Mrs. Hart, some of the most sacred laws of our country,” he said solemnly, giving a damn good impression of someone who believed what he was saying. “Two diplomatic pouches entrusted to him in Moscow some years ago ended up in the possession of a former KGB officer. The man who pulled him out of those fires of treason is now willing to come forward. Randolph Lancaster is not without influence, and if Conroy Farrel can be delivered to him, he offers you his full assurance that no charges will be leveled against your husband.”

  “This is very old news, Mr. Crutchfield.”

  “Old but still relevant, Mrs. Hart. We feel the chance of him being convicted of his Moscow crimes is very high given new evidence that has come to light, and, quite frankly, some of your actions have also come under scrutiny at the State Department. I’m sure you’d both rather not be incarcerated for the rest of your lives.”

  Quite right, but what Crutchfield apparently didn’t realize was how far she’d go to keep anything even remotely like that from happening. Probably a whole lot farther than he could imagine from his cushy office at the State Department.

  Poor boy—he was in her playground now.

  “There is no new evidence,” she said. There’d been damn little old evidence.

  “Yes, there is, Mrs. Hart, and I can assure you it will stand up in a court of law.”

  WELL WITHIN LANCASTER’S CAPABILITIES TO MANUFACTURE CREDIBLE EVIDENCE, IF HE’S DECIDED TO LOWER THE HAMMER. Not exactly what she wanted to hear.

  WE CAN COUNTERACT. They always did counteract threats, but this was different, and it had been hanging over Dylan’s head for fourteen years. It was the hold White Rook had on him, and now they knew White Rook was bad to the bone—a very dangerous situation.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Conroy Farrel has long been a person of interest to the State Department, and Mr. Lancaster feels an opportunity has arisen for someone to drop a net on him and bring him in. He believes the people to do that are the operators of SDF.”

  “We sure would like another shot at Farrel,” she said.

  “And we’re sure that’s why you picked up Scout Leesom, to lure him here,” Crutchfield agreed, sounding a l
ittle smug, like he’d just launched a major salvo in her direction. “Our concern is that SDF may have a different agenda than the State Department.”

  No shit, Sherlock. And the piece about Scout was good. Only a handful of people in the world knew where that girl had been for the last eight weeks, and most of them were right here in Denver.

  “That’s where you come in, Mrs. Hart.”

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “I’d rather you listened in person,” Crutchfield said. “I’m hoping the information I have will convince you to make our interests your highest personal priority, should SDF take Farrel into custody.”

  AGREE TO MEET NOW. O’SHAUNESSY’S. Another message from Dylan appeared on her computer screen.

  “Then we need to meet now, Mr. Crutchfield. Our team is already moving in on him.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “You know where he is?”

  “We’ve been tracking him all day. If you can meet me at O’Shaunessy’s Bar, just off 16th at Blake, I’ll take a look at what you’ve got, but I doubt if it’ll be worth what you’re asking.” Asking her to put her own interests above the team’s—not very damn likely, no matter what he had.

  “Agreed. I need you to come alone. If I see another SDF operator, the deal is off. I’ll head back to D.C. tonight and have charges filed against your husband by noon tomorrow. The more personal information will be available online before I even get to the airport—so tread carefully, Mrs. Hart.”

  REDIRECTING KID FROM THE KASHMIR CLUB TO O’SHAUNESSY’S. And that pretty much sealed Mr. Crutchfield’s fate. He wouldn’t see Kid. The boy was a sniper. He had a way of disappearing just by standing still.

  “The deal I’m offering is only for you,” the doomed Crutchfield continued. “Come alone. I guarantee it will be worth your time.”

  And she could guarantee he was right about that. It was well worth her time to get her hands on Randolph Lancaster’s personal aide.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jane could barely breathe, but she kept running, spurred on by the fear clutching at her chest. Branches slapped at her face and scratched her arms. The stitch in her side threatened to stop her cold—but she didn’t dare stop. Not here in this no-man’s land.

  It was dark beyond the fence, the only light coming in flashes from the police cars in the alley behind her and from the streetlamps on the next street over. In between those two places was a rough, paved area backing up to a block of buildings. It was full of dumpsters and junked cars, different kinds of fencing, and lengths of chain marking off parking areas and loading docks, and there was trash—boxes stacked behind the stores, old tires from an automotive shop, and fast-food wrappers trapped in the weeds.

  Big mistake—that’s all she could think. She shouldn’t have run into this place just because she’d seen something horrifying. She’d seen a lot of bad stuff on the streets growing up.

  Nothing as bad as torn-off body parts, sure, but she still shouldn’t have let shock take over. It was the one clear thought she had, now when it was too late and she’d already jumped out of the damn frying pan and into the fire—I shouldn’t be back here—along with a strong dose of So help me God, Banner’s arm is lying in the alley.

  That her first instinct had been to run away from the cops instead of toward them told her exactly how far she’d come from her homeless child roots: not very. Not nearly as far as she’d thought. Not as far as she’d been convincing herself these last few years.

  Once a street rat, always a street rat. If she hadn’t been so damned scared, it would have been damned depressing.

  And look where it had gotten her.

  Breathe, she told herself, feeling the ache in her chest and her side. She slowed to a fast walk, half running when she could, her arms tight around her torso, and she kept moving.

  Something rustled in the bushes next to the path, and she whirled in an instant, jerking her Bersa Thunder out of her purse and leveling it at a brambly patch of weeds. She still had five shots left in the .380, and she was most definitely in the mood to use them.

  A feral cat skittered across the path, but Jane didn’t feel any relief. She was still in the wrong place, but running back to the restaurant and getting hauled downtown by the police didn’t seem like a wise move.

  Keep going. That was the better plan. She’d been lucky to get through the straggly, unlit stretch of cottonwoods, wild lilacs, old tires, and junked trash cans the first time.

  God. It was the perfect hiding place for a maniac. If whoever had done that to Banner was back here, running fast and hard might have been the only thing that had kept her safe from him—or from it. Anything that could rip a man’s arm right out of its socket most definitely qualified as an “it.”

  She clutched her side more tightly and forged ahead, her goal clear: the street on the other side of the buildings ahead. She’d dropped her phone when the first grenade had hit in the garage—good God, what a strange, bad night—but there was a bar or two on the other side where she could make a call, get a cab, and get the hell out of there.

  And head straight to Steele Street. J.T. needed help, and she needed help to save him.

  He’d tried to give her another way out, but there was no way out of this without him. Wherever he’d been these last six years, she wasn’t letting him disappear back there without some answers. She wanted them, and the guys at Steele Street deserved them.

  She made it the last bit of way through the scrubby grass and was partway across the paved area, coming abreast a junked pickup truck, when a cry ripped through the night air and stopped her cold.

  Fear, stark and utter and pure, nearly dropped her to her knees.

  She wasn’t alone back here.

  Oh, geezus.

  She blasted into a run—and landed smack-dab in a pile of trash.

  The cry came again, low and keening and agonized, and she was trapped, trying to dance her way out of a loose tangle of wire and cardboard.

  Ohgeezus, ohgeezus, ohgeezus—terror was lodged so tightly in her throat, she could hardly drag a breath into her lungs.

  Con slipped his phone in his pocket and gingerly lifted the edge of his T-shirt.

  Fuck.

  He had a bloody gash an inch long in the meaty part of his waist, no vitals hit, but hell. He’d known King had cut him, but in the heat of the fight, it hadn’t felt like more than a nick.

  It was more than a nick. He’d been stabbed clean through, and it was definitely starting to burn.

  Dammit.

  He lowered the edge of his T-shirt and slipped out of his jacket. With his knife, he cut a long strip out of the sleeves and back and wrapped the material around his waist, good and tight, then tied the rest of the jacket over the top of the makeshift bandage to stanch the bleeding. Jack could fix him up better at the Armstrong.

  Behind him, he could hear the police sirens still going, and they were starting to spread out. They would have gotten Jane by now, which was good, and would be looking for him, which was not good.

  They weren’t going to find him, though, not in this back-alley labyrinth of dumpsters, loading docks, and parking spots. There were a dozen businesses fronting the street, and they each had their own area in the back. There were fences delineating property lines, a few cinder-block walls had been put up, some chains closing off a few parking spaces here and there. Overstock from the tire store had been stacked up inside a chain cage next to a garage door. Piles of empty boxes littered the alley behind a grocery store. A couple of homeless guys were bivouacked about fifty yards away from a junked car and a pickup truck parked under a couple of straggly trees.

  Up ahead, he could see where the area opened out onto a street with an old but nice neighborhood of small houses on the other side. There’d be a car on one of those streets, something he could hot-wire.

  The place was damned familiar, just like a lot of things in this city were familiar, including Jane.

  He shouldn’t
have kissed her. He had no business wanting things he couldn’t have, especially when what he really wanted had been delivered on a silver platter; Randolph Lancaster. Here in Denver.

  The bastard was never going to know what hit him. Con wanted the LeedTech files, and there was damn little he wouldn’t do to Lancaster to get them. Considering what had been done to him six years ago, he figured he could come up with something that would get the bastard’s attention and get the job done. He’d love to share a few of his and Garrett’s experiences in Souk’s lab with old Randolph.

  The spymaster had to be seventy, if he was a day. He’d had a lot of years to do a lot of damage. More years than Con was likely to get, and that made him think of Jane, of the loss. He’d left her, and he needed to know why.

  The image came back to him, of how he’d first seen her on the street tonight—her hair lifting in the breeze, her long legs and big sunglasses, her urban girl attitude in every step she’d taken, and then the surprise, the way she’d stopped and stared.

  Geezus. He couldn’t have been such a fool as to walk away from her—and the heat was back, another wave of it rolling through his body and leaving a metallic taste in his mouth.

  Shit. The blue pill wasn’t working. He reached up and felt his arm. The tenderness and swelling were gone, but his skin was even hotter to the touch—very hot. He reached into his pocket, then turned to check behind him, the handful of pills only halfway out.

  Something had caught his attention, a scuffling noise. He quartered the area with his gaze, listening, and heard it again. Glancing back, he saw the homeless men exactly where they’d been, resting in their makeshift shanty of boxes and tarps, but they were looking in the same direction he’d been looking—due east.

  Two sounds came next and had him breaking into a run, the first a cry of pain, guttural and beastly, an anguished howl of distress, the second a cry of fear, utter and absolute and undeniably female.

  Undeniably Jane.

  * * *

  He wanted her.

  Scrabbling in his pocket, Monk pulled out three silver gelcaps and popped them in his mouth