Smoky Mountain Setup (16 page)

It was time to come out of hiding.

“You have something in mind, don’t you?” Her eyes narrowed a twitch, a faint smile playing with her lips. “Come on, Landry. Spill.”

“I do have something in mind,” he admitted as he crossed to the fireplace and added logs and kindling to the cold hearth. Despite the rising temperatures that continued to melt the blanket of snow outside, the cabin was chilly, sending shivers down his spine.

Or maybe it was the plan he’d been formulating that was giving him the shakes. Because he’d figured out last night, lying in a strange bed in the dark, listening to the moans of the wind in the eaves and the thud of his own pulse in his ears, that there would be no easy solution to his problem.

He was a wanted man, and he had no proof of his contentions about what had happened almost a year ago when he’d tried to do the right thing and had ended up bound and beaten for his efforts.

The only way out was to get the proof.

And the only way to get proof was to bait a trap.

“Are you going to tell me or not?” Olivia’s voice was close behind him, her breath warm against his neck.

“I can’t prove I’m not a traitor. Because I can’t prove I was set up. Especially not while I’m hunkered down and hiding.”

Suddenly, she was standing in front of him, her eyes wide and scared. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

He took her hands in his. “It was my fault that McKenna Rigsby’s plan to trap Darryl Boyle went sideways.”

“Because you followed protocol and contacted Boyle in his capacity as the task-force liaison?” Olivia’s grip on his hands tightened. “How were you supposed to know he was one of the bad guys?”

“I think I did know, deep down,” he said bleakly. “But that’s not what I’m trying to get at.” He tugged her hands up, pressing her knuckles against his chest. “I’m saying that if I hadn’t screwed up and called Boyle, her plan might have worked. Boyle wouldn’t have been forewarned, and he might have walked right into Rigsby’s trap. It was a good plan. It just might be a great plan.”

“You want to set a trap.”

“Yes.”

Her voice rasped. “With you as bait.”

Chapter Sixteen

“This is a crazy idea.”

Stopping in the middle of making notes on the files he was studying, Landry slanted a look Olivia’s way. “Just an hour ago, you agreed it would work.”

She put her hands over his, tugging the pen from his fingers. “I said it
could
work. Could is not would.”

He closed his eyes. “Livvie.”

“Don’t Livvie me, Cade Landry. You’re already working out the logistics of a plan when we haven’t even considered other options.”

“What other options?” He pushed aside the notepad and turned to face her, his expression tight with exasperation. “There are no other options. I’ve known since I got away that one day, sooner or later, I was going to have to put myself out there as a lure to get the BRI and their friends in the FBI to show their hands. It’s time to stop avoiding the inevitable.”

“I think you’re being reckless.”

“And I think you don’t want to face the fact that there’s no safe way out of this mess. Not for me, anyway.” He took the pen from her grip. “I still think it might be a good idea for you to call Quinn to come get you. Take you back to The Gates until whatever happens to me happens.”

Anger burned lava-hot in the center of her chest. “Who do you think I am? Do I look like the kind of person who would hide behind the walls of The Gates to save myself while you’re out there with your neck on the line? Do you think I could do that to the man I—” She bit off the word, not quite ready to say it aloud, even though the emotion swelled in her chest, threatening to burst forth no matter how hard she tried to keep it bottled up.

He cradled her cheeks between his palms, gentle understanding in his gaze. “No. I know you couldn’t. But I’m not the man who could let you risk your life without trying to talk you out of it.”

She pressed her forehead to his. “We should call Quinn, at least. Get some backup for this operation.”

“Livvie, you’ve told me yourself that you’ve had leaks at the agency.”

“But we stopped the leaker.”

“You stopped
a
leaker. Are you sure there aren’t other traitors in your midst?”

As much as she wished she could say she was sure, she wasn’t. Not really. There hadn’t been any sign of information leaks since the police had taken Marty Tucker into custody after he’d tried to kill Anson and Ginny Daughtry when they’d figured out his secret. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t another mole in the agency biding his time before he could make a move.

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t think there is. I really don’t. But I can’t be a hundred percent sure.”

“Then we do it my way.”

“How exactly are we going to document what happens when the bad guys spring the trap? We’re not exactly rolling in cash or audiovisual equipment.” She gave him a pointed look.

“There’s a music hall not a hundred yards from here that has its own recording equipment.”

Her brow furrowed with suspicion. “And you know this how?”

“When you went to the ladies’ room last night, I chatted a bit with Rafe. You remember that balcony that goes around the whole music hall, kind of like those old-timey Western saloons?”

“Yeah?”

“I noticed there was a guy up there recording the music sets. I was curious, so I asked Rafe about it. He said he invested in some audio and video equipment a couple of years ago when he started working with talent agents to get their clients’ work in front of prospective record labels. They pay him to record the sets live, and those sets go on public video-sharing sites. They can only upload the ones where the artists still retain the rights to the music, but Rafe said it’s gotten several of the bands who debut here a closer look from the record labels looking for fresh talent.”

“And you think Rafe will just hand over his expensive equipment to you for your sting?”

“I hope so.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I still have some money left over from the funds I took out of our joint bank account the other day. I’d just rather not tap into it if I don’t have to.” He flashed a smile. “Might need it for bail money.”

“If this plan doesn’t work,” she muttered, “you’re not likely to be granted bail.”

He put down the pen, pushed his notes away and pulled her into his lap. She snuggled closer as he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. “We have to try something, Livvie. This waiting for something to happen is going to kill me.”

She kissed the top of his head, wishing she could argue. But he was right. He’d already spent nearly a year in hiding, and the longer it went on, the more dangerous it would become. He needed his life back.

She needed
him
back.

“I think you may be right about backup, though.” He leaned his head back to look at her. “We have no idea how many people might be involved in the FBI branch of the Blue Ridge Infantry. If it’s more than two, we’ll be outnumbered.”

“I don’t want to be outnumbered. We don’t have to be.”

“I know you trust the people you work with.”

“I want to trust the people I work with,” she corrected him bleakly. “But after this past year and the leaks—”

“You said you thought you’d caught the only leaker.”

“And you asked me if I was sure, and I said no.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too.” He rubbed his chin against her collarbone, his beard prickling her skin, sending lovely little shivers of sexual awareness skittering down her spine. “Everybody who was in that conference room yesterday knows where we are. You trusted them enough not to change our plans.”

She thought about the men and women who’d helped them figure out the logistics of their trip to Bryson City. She would trust her life to any of them. Perhaps more to the point, she’d trust Landry’s life to any of them. “I did. I do.”

“So they’re the ones we contact. But I don’t want to go through the phone system at The Gates or their cell phones. If there is a leaker at your agency, they might have access to anything that could be connected directly to the company. Do you have other ways to contact them?”

She had home phone numbers for most of them in the address-book app in her phone, coded in case someone ever managed to sneak a peek at the saved information. “I do.”

“Good. We can call them when we get our plans finalized. Tell them how they can help.” He gave her hip a little slap. “As tempting as it is to cuddle here with you on the sofa, we have to work out a lot of logistics.”

She sighed and slid out of his grasp, settling on the sofa next to him. “Starting with figuring out if Dallas Cole is still with the FBI.”

* * *

I
CE
CRUSTED
ON
the banks of the Potomac, an incongruous contrast with the cloud-streaked brilliance of the January sunset, reflected in all its fiery glory in the glassy surface of the river. The Jefferson Memorial was little more than a murky silhouette in the distance, a reminder that for all the beauty of its natural surroundings, Washington, DC, was a city built on power. Powerful men, powerful institutions, powerful ambition and powerful greed.

He had seen it all during his time in the capital. Idealism had died a million deaths on the altar of compromise. Good intentions soon became swallowed by desperation to score an elusive win at any cost.

Governing a free country could be a very nasty business, indeed.

He sighed and spoke into the phone. “When did you get the call?”

“Ten minutes ago.” The voice on the other line was deep and well modulated, though even if he hadn’t known the speaker already, he’d have been able to detect the hint of eastern Kentucky in the man’s inflections.

Dallas Cole had tried to leave coal country behind him, but there were things a man couldn’t escape no matter how hard he tried.

“Why you?”

“He said he was giving me a second chance to get it right.” Cole’s voice betrayed a touch of guilt, a hint of uncertainty.

“Get it right?”

“He said the last time he called, he had trusted me to do as he asked, and I failed.”

“And what did he ask?”

“For me to take the message directly to you instead of going through channels.”

Assistant Director Philip Crandall didn’t speak right away as he watched an egret rise from the water and take flight, its wings flapping slowly as it glided across the flaming sky.

“Did I do the wrong thing?” Cole asked as the silence extended.

“Of course not,” Crandall said. “You made the right call, Mr. Cole. I’ll take care of it. Please don’t discuss this call with anyone else.”

He hung up the phone and took a couple of deep breaths. In and out, cleansing the tension from his neck and shoulders.

Finally.
Finally.

He’d begun to think he’d never find a way to end the nightmare.

* * *

S
ON
OF
A
BITCH
.

Son of a
bitch
!

“What have I done?” Dallas Cole met his own gaze in the reflective glass of his office window. His office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building was little more than a closet with a single window he thanked his stars for every day, considering he’d started out in an even smaller closet without a window in sight. Support staff might be a vital cog in the FBI machine, but cogs didn’t get corner offices and great views of— Well, okay, not many people at that ugly behemoth of a building had great views, period, despite FBI headquarters taking up prime property a hop, skip and a jump from the White House and other DC landmarks.

“Did you say something, Cole?”

The lilting female voice drew his mind out of self-imposed chaos and his gaze to the door. Michelle Matsumara, his supervisor, stood in the open doorway, neat and pretty in her trim blue suit.

“Talking to myself again, boss.” He flashed a sheepish smile, feeling sick. Matsumara just gave a delicate shrug and continued down the hall.

He pressed his face into his hands. To say he’d been shocked by the phone call from a man claiming to be Cade Landry was an understatement of epic proportions. He’d spent the past year utterly certain Landry was dead and buried in some deep, dark hollow in the southern Appalachians.

Cole was from Harlan County, Kentucky. He knew all about deep, dark hollows.

Landry hadn’t answered any of his questions, just told him to get it right this time. “Tell AD Crandall where he can meet me. And tell him I want him to come alone.”

This time Cole had done as Landry asked. Bypassed Matsumara and her superior, Kilpatrick, and gone directly to Crandall, even though he knew, gut-deep, that both Matsumara and Kilpatrick were honest, trustworthy public servants—as good as they came, especially in a place like the capital.

After his phone call with the assistant director, Cole didn’t think he could say the same of Crandall.

It hadn’t been anything Crandall had said. His response had been everything anyone could have expected—an expression of concern about the contact from Cade Landry, reassurance that he’d done the right thing by calling him directly and, of course, an admonition to keep the call to himself.

But there’d been something else in Crandall’s voice. Something as deep and dark as any hollows a man could find in the hills of Kentucky.

Cole looked at his office phone, his mind reeling. The phone Landry had used to make the call had apparently been equipped with number blocking, for the phone display had been blank. It wasn’t likely redial would work, he thought, but he picked up the phone and tried it anyway.

Nothing happened.

Damn it, Landry.
How could he warn the man about Crandall?

Would Landry even believe him? Nothing Crandall had said would strike anyone as suspicious. Hell, if Cole hadn’t heard the man himself, he wouldn’t have given a second thought to Crandall’s responses.

Never ignore your instincts, boy.
His grandmother’s voice rang in his mind. Leona Halloran was a big believer in hunches and listening to the still, small voice in a person’s head. “It’s the warnin’ voice of angels, Dallas. They’re tellin’ you, watch out! There’s trouble ahead.”

He pulled out his cell phone and stared at the screen, thinking about his options. Who might know how to reach Landry after all this time?

The answer hit him like a gut punch.
Of course.

He pulled up a search application on his phone and found the number he was looking for. As he started to dial it, the hair on the back of his neck rose, prickling the skin as if a cool finger had traced a path across the flesh.

Warning voices of angels, he thought, and shoved the phone back in his pocket. It was almost six o’clock on a Friday. Like most of the employees who worked in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, he didn’t exactly watch the clock. But he’d worry about trying to impress management another day. He had a phone call to make.

And not from a phone that could be connected to him.

* * *

“D
O
YOU
THINK
he went straight to Crandall this time?”

Landry looked up at the sound of Olivia’s voice. She stood in the open doorway of his bedroom, dressed for bed in a sleeveless T-shirt—the Atlanta Braves this time instead of Alabama. Her shorts might have hit midthigh on a shorter woman, but Olivia was a statuesque Amazon goddess, and there was enough skin visible to inspire some of his favorite fantasies.

“I have no idea,” he admitted, dragging his mind back to business. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. Are Quinn and the others set for tomorrow?”

She nodded. “All set.”

He patted the edge of the bed, well aware that he was wearing nothing beneath the sheet covering his lower half. He could tell by the flicker of awareness in her blue eyes that she was aware, as well.

But she crossed slowly to the bed and sat down beside him, facing him. Slowly, she reached out and pressed her palm against the center of his bare chest. “I guess this could be it. Freedom or—” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed the rest of the thought.

“I have to believe it’s going to be a win. I think we’ve both earned one, don’t you?”