What Lies Behind (23 page)

His concerns had been unwarranted. Roosevelt had been a hard-ass, kept himself separate from the troops. Armstrong, on the other hand, was one of them, had risen up through the ranks. He and Lonnie worked out together. He’d given Fletcher the chance to work on the Joint Terrorism Task Force and promoted him to lieutenant, allowed him the autonomy to continue investigating in the field as he wished, instead of letting him ride out his twenty at a desk.

Fletcher knew he had an ally in Armstrong, but he was still reluctant to tell him all of his suppositions at this point. If he was wrong, it
would
cost him his job, and no amount of bonhomie from his boss would save it.

It was time to talk to Girabaldi, but Fletcher wanted to do it in his house, not in hers. Rattle her up, make her uncomfortable, find out why Kruger had tried to kill him, and who had been riding in the car with the would-be assassin.

But that wasn’t meant to be. He had to watch his back, make sure he didn’t get fired. As they drove back to Sam’s house, Fletcher called the number he’d been given earlier. The phone was answered almost immediately by Ashleigh Cavort.

“Is it true? Did Jason shoot at you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God. The shooting was on the news, but I didn’t believe it. His car was gone, his desk was empty. They said it was a State Department official. We knew it had to be him. How could he do this?”

“Ms. Cavort, I know this is a difficult time. But I need everything you have on Jason Kruger, and I need it now. And put Girabaldi on the line. She and I need to have a chat.”

Cavort gulped back her tears, adopted a more professional tone. “The undersecretary has been placed under protection, Lieutenant. With the events unfolding as they are, we can’t help you. We have to protect her—she’s our number-one priority. Even I can’t get in touch with the undersecretary right now.”

“Then screw Girabaldi, you have to get me Kruger’s file. Ashleigh, please. We’re under attack, and we don’t know why, or from whom. You gotta let me see who this guy really was. I don’t have time to go through the proper channels.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Do you have a secure email?”

“Sure.”

“Give me the address.”

He rattled off the combination of letters and numbers.

“I’ll do my best,” she said, and hung up.

Chapter 42

George Washington Parkway

RILEY DIDN’T SPEAK
after he dropped the bomb that Robin had just killed the wrong man. He wouldn’t answer any questions about who might have killed Amanda, and she finally grew frustrated and stared out the window at the darkening sky.

She watched the dimly lit scenery pass as Riley drove them into Virginia, getting her far away from D.C., to someplace safe. That place being his house. He was giving off clouds of black and gray shadows; she was trying very hard to control the synesthesia and ignore his anger. But it was becoming more and more difficult the crazier the day became. Riley was the first person who’d understood her gifts, accepted her despite them.

No. That wasn’t true. Amanda had, as well. Grief made her stomach seize, and she reached out to Riley, put her hand on his arm, seeking some sort of connection. She had to fix things, fast.

“Riley. I’m sorry. I reacted without thinking. He attacked me, and I, well, honestly, I don’t remember much.”

He shrugged off her hand. She set the offending palm in her lap and stared at it. It still had bits of his blackness swirling from the tips of her fingers.

He didn’t look at her, kept his eyes on the road. The sun had set; the lights of oncoming traffic were blinding her.

“You shot the man three times. Tortured him, and didn’t manage to gain any usable information. Is it that easy to forget, Robin? Can you turn yourself off so well now that you don’t even feel?”

She shook her head. “That’s not fair. I feel. I feel
too
much. That’s the problem. It sounds like a convenient excuse, but I’ve never lied to you, Riley. I’ve lost the edge that allowed me to stay neutral all these years. I can’t find it. And until I do...”

He ignored that. “Atlantic called. Amanda got herself into some serious shit. She smuggled out an SD card with encrypted data she’d stolen from a pharmaceutical company in France. And she brought a group of vaccines into the country. I can only assume someone followed her, tried to retrieve the info and killed her in the process.”

She thought about Cattafi, lying gray and unmoving in the hospital bed. “If Amanda was the target, why kill all the people around her, too? Because everyone she’s been in contact with is dead, or near to it.”

“We don’t know.”

She looked at his big, sure hands on the wheel. Was it possible that those hands had caressed her body in the night? They were lethal, deadly hands, worse even than her own. It was what drew them together, the understanding they had about why and how they needed to do their jobs. No wasted energy. No wasted death. Their code. How their lives operated.

She’d broken that unspoken pledge. She’d killed out of anger. Shame flooded through her, waves and waves of pulsing red.

She tried to pull it together. Weakness wasn’t allowed. Even admitting she’d lost her edge was a betrayal of their code. They weren’t allowed human emotions. And she knew she had them, and that was going to cost her everything.

“Does Atlantic know what was on the SD card?”

“No,” Riley said. “And the D.C. police have it in their evidence locker.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. There’s no way they’d be able to get through the encryptions. They’d need a major cryptographer, all the right programs, everything. I know my sister. She is—was—the best at what she did. The information is safe for now at least.”

“If only that were true, Robin, but I think you’re wrong. Metro has a chick from the FBI working with them. I’m sure the stiffs from Quantico have already gotten their grubby little paws on it and decrypted the information.”

She let that sink in. If the FBI was involved, things would be more difficult, but not unsalvageable. Not yet.

“Damn it, Riley, what the hell did Amanda stumble across? And why did the State Department want it? The email she received came directly from the Africa desk. She was bringing it in for this Kruger guy.”

“I don’t have an answer for you, Robbie.”

She took the nickname as a good sign. Maybe he had forgiven her. She straightened, forced his darkness away, filled her space with a light blue fog that felt calming, took a breath. “So what is our mission?”

He looked over to her, his green eyes muddy with anger. He was volatile, that was part of the attraction. He was so very much alive. Her calm vanished; the car went black again.

“
My
mission is to get you to safety and recover the SD card and the vaccines so we know what the hell is going on. Your mission is to lay low. You’ll stay here until I return.”

“Come on. That’s not fair. I need to do something. I can’t just sit around, knowing my sister’s killer is prowling the streets.”
And that I did nothing to help her when she asked
, she thought, but kept it to herself.

“Atlantic’s orders,” he growled. “Nonnegotiable. So don’t even try lobbying me.”

Damn it all. Atlantic had given her a life when hers was collapsing in on itself. If he was pissed at her, it was like going to jail, or worse. Siberia, without a coat.

“I want to talk to him.”

“He’s out of touch. We’re here.”

Riley turned down a dirt track toward the water. He lived on a houseboat south of Old Town Alexandria. He liked that he could pull up anchor at any time and sail away, though he never really did. He wasn’t ever home long enough to enjoy more than a glass of wine on the deck, watching the sun slip into the horizon, or the occasional sunrise, billowing pinks leading into soft yellow days, or, more often, sleepless nights, the water around him glowing silver in the moonlight.

At least, that’s what he told her. He could be poetic when he wanted to, when the night made anything possible. Now was definitely not one of those times.

She had never been here. He always came to her. It was how they worked. Compartmentalized from each other. She couldn’t help herself; she was dead curious about where he lived.

He pulled into the parking lot and practically dragged her to the boat. Inside the sliding glass doors, he gestured toward a round wooden table, built into the floor. He opened a cabinet, pulled out a scrambler and a laptop, set things up and called in on his satellite phone.

“I have Nightingale. She’s A-OK.”

They heard three clicks, affirmation of the transmission, then he shut it all down and stowed the gear. “There’s food in the fridge. Help yourself.”

He started toward the doors.

“Hey. Where are you going?”

He turned and gave her a sharp green glance. “To clean up your mess.”

“That’s uncalled for. Why are you so mad at me?”

He ignored her, kept moving toward the door, a big man with broad shoulders and strong arms, the swirling black accompanying him like a matador’s dirty cape.

“Riley. Don’t walk away.”

That stopped him.

Back still to her, he spoke carefully and evenly. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.”

He turned, and she was overcome by the colors of the emotions swirling around him. Greens and blues and pinks and yellows. Colors at odds with his harsh words. Before she could process things properly, he had her in his arms, his mouth hard on hers.

The kiss lasted forever, or only a moment, she wasn’t sure. Then he pushed her away savagely and walked out the doors and up the dock, away from her, without looking back, and when the engine of his car turned over, she felt the small interior walls she’d built over the past months with him crumble to dust.

He’d just said goodbye, and she hadn’t stopped him.

She didn’t cry. There was no point. They’d always been prickly together, and it was a thing of convenience, of mutual admiration, not love. Never love. She didn’t do love. And God knows, neither did Riley.

She tried to get the computer out of its cabinet, but it was locked. And not just any lock—it was biometric, the bastard. She’d need a thumbprint to open it.

She checked her phone, saw there was no service.

The pity party was over, replaced by a fine sheen of rage. He’d left her here on his boat, in total isolation. Not the most chivalrous act he’d ever committed.

If he was done with her, perhaps she should be done with him, as well.

The darkness of the Potomac was all-encompassing. But she didn’t mind the dark. It gave her more room to move, held the synesthesia at bay. She turned off the lights of the houseboat so she wouldn’t be backlit in case anyone was watching, stepped out the doors, slid them closed behind her and jumped quietly off the boat onto dry land.

Robin knew how to disappear. She didn’t even have to go back to her house if she didn’t want to. She had a stash out in Woodbridge at the bus station, a go-bag she could access, with money and passports and weapons, one of the many she had all over the world just for these kinds of situations.

These kinds of situations.

She almost laughed. She didn’t know what the exact protocol was when your sister was murdered, your boss dissed you, your lover broke it off, you crossed your own moral lines and you had nothing left to live for. She checked her bag—yes, the small locker key she’d clipped to her key chain months ago was there. She might have been a bit crazy, but she was meticulous.

She started off into the night. She’d need a car. It was a few miles back into Old Town; she was sure she’d find one that met her needs along the way. She laid out a mental map in her head as she walked. She could be at the station by nine and gone from the world five minutes later.

The bright lights of a car’s high beams swung into the gravel lane that led to Riley’s dock. Robin froze, then ducked into the brush, crouching against a small sapling, feeling the sticky wetness of its leaves covering her legs. The car drove in slowly, as if the driver was looking for something. Or someone.

She pulled her gun from its holster, screwed on the suppressor. Felt something inside her—the last shreds of hope—break. Riley had left her here to be eliminated. She’d faced a hell of a lot of betrayals in her day, but this, her own team turning on her? This was beyond the pale.

She felt the anger and hurt leave; icy certainty flooded her. She was calm, breathing slowly, heart rate dropping, eyes laser focused. Not a girl with synesthesia who felt too much, but a stone-cold killer who wasn’t about to be taken alive.

The car passed her. It was a black Lincoln Town Car with diplomatic plates. French, if she wasn’t mistaken. The glass was dark; she couldn’t see who was inside.

Curiosity kept her in place, watching dispassionately as the car pulled up carefully to the small dock. The engine idled. No doors opened.

Who had they sent to kill her? She knew most of the top assassins in the world, if not by name, at least by face. She’d spent years building dossiers on her competition. In her job, she needed to be aware at all times of who might be coming, and whether they were friend or foe.

Of course, the two roles could be reversed at a moment’s notice.

They’d need a top contractor to take her out, someone simply outstanding. She ran through a list of the few people she thought might be able to take her, preparing scenarios for each. Realized these could be her last thoughts ever, and forced that away. No. She wouldn’t go down without a serious fight.

At last, the door opened. The driver emerged, male Caucasian, five-ten, buzz cut, eyes roving, a hand on his waist. An operator. When he was satisfied no shots were coming, he walked around to the passenger’s side. She laughed to herself. She could knock him off in a heartbeat, and his passenger, too. She leveled the gun against her arm, sighted as the car door finally opened.

They
had
sent their best. Out stepped her old boss. Regina Girabaldi.

Robin lowered the weapon, took a deep breath to dispel the surge of adrenaline that tried to punch through her system.

There were few things in this world she was certain about. That Regina Girabaldi would want her dead, or even try to have her killed, wasn’t on the list.

She stood up, made her way carefully back to the boat. Regina was already on board, tapping gently at the glass. Her bodyguard—Secret Service, most likely, and nervous to be out alone, away from his flock—was watching intensely. While Regina wouldn’t hurt her, this loon might.

Silent as a doe in a thicket, she stepped to his side, pulled the earwig from his ear and pressed the suppressor gently against his temple. She felt his muscles bunch; he was going to attack.

“You’re looking for me,” she said softly. “I won’t hurt her.”

He didn’t relax, but he didn’t move, either. She took his weapons, just in case, and with a small jab to his ribs, started him onto the path down the dock to the boat.