When Adelina looked at her daughter, she saw the four-year-old who had once followed Sarah around the house, both of them leaving a trail of chaos everywhere they went.
Adelina walked out to the minivan. She looked around in the darkness. She couldn’t see anyone, so she reached far back under the driver’s seat and removed the thick envelope full of cash. She wouldn’t risk leaving that in the van. She removed the blanket and their bags from the back seat, then carefully locked up the van and went inside.
She closed and locked the door, covered her daughter with the blanket, then curled up beside her in the darkness
Adelina suppressed a tear. She didn’t have time to fall apart right now. She’d already done that too many times in her life. For now, she needed to hold it together.
All the same, she missed her little girl.
Bear. May 2. 12:10 am.
“Are we finished? I need to get my daughter to sleep somewhere appropriate.”
When Carrie Sherman said the words, her daughter stirred in the sling. The baby had cried most of the last hour, finally drifting off into a fitful sleep. They were inside a sterile office in a building she’d never paid attention to before, a few blocks from the main State Department building. A stream of investigators, uniformed officers, and God only knew who else continued to demand answers. The noise had made for a challenging time, as the team of federal investigators asked questions and then asked them again, over and over.
Where was Dylan? Why hadn’t he or Andrea come out with them?
Why were drugs found in Andrea’s room?
What did they know about their father’s career?
Bear Wyden knew the questions wouldn’t get any answers, because he knew that the three sisters knew nothing. But her demanding, arrogant tone infuriated him. People were dying out there.
“We’re done,” he said. “For now, we’ve got you in a safe house in Alexandria. I’m going to need to get clothes sizes for all of you.”
“What?” Carrie asked. “We’re not going to a safe house.”
“Just for a couple days. Your condo is a crime scene, Mrs. Sherman.”
“Fine. I’ll need all new baby supplies then too. Diapers. Clothes. Formula. Bottles. Breast pump. Either we get that stuff from my condo or someone buys it. And where are my sisters?”
Bear closed his eyes and heard the phone call with Leah in his mind again.
Bear, is there supposed to be a relief team here?
No, he’d said. There wasn’t time to say anything more, because the supposed relief team, led by Ralph Myers—an insider, a fifteen year DSS agent Bear had known for at least a decade—killed Mick Stanton and critically injured Leah.
He’d been frantic. Two hours he’d attended to duty instead of running to the hospital. Two hours. And now he had to listen to this spoiled woman demand diapers and bottles.
“Just in case you missed it, Mrs. Sherman, two of my agents died protecting your family. Leah Simpson is in the hospital. Don’t take that demanding tone with me.”
Carrie wasn’t cowed. “Just in case you missed it, Mr. Wyden, my sister and brother-in-law are missing because your team failed to protect them. So don’t take that judgmental tone with me.”
Bear felt his chest and throat tighten. He closed his eyes and struggled to take a deep breath. His mother had suggested breathing exercises to keep his temper under control through the divorce. Sometimes they actually worked. He turned and walked out of the room and into the hall. He could not stay in the same room with that woman another moment.
He paced in the hallway for just a moment then reached for his phone. It rang before he had a chance to start dialing.
Secretary Perry.
Secretary James Perry. Former soldier. Vietnam veteran. US Senator for three decades, then presidential candidate. He’d been Secretary of State for six months, and for reasons that didn’t mean one lick of shit to Bear, he’d taken a liking to Bear Wyden.
Bear answered the phone. “Wyden, here.”
“It’s James Perry, Bear.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to ask you about progress in just a moment. But first, how’s Leah Simpson?”
Jesus. Bear muttered under his breath, then said, “Critical condition, sir. That’s all I know. Hospital wouldn’t tell me shit when I called.”
Damn it. He couldn’t recall the words, but using profanity with the Secretary of State was never a good idea.
“And you’re downstairs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put someone else in charge for the next two hours. You go to the hospital.”
Bear choked a little. “Sir, I can—”
“That’s not a request. She’s your ex-wife. Go find out if she’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Bear replied.
Perry disconnected without any further courtesies. Bear leaned against the wall for a moment.
Bear, is there supposed to be a relief team here?
She was calm. Not panicked. Not even anxious. Concerned. Businesslike. Within two minutes of that call she was lying on the floor, a bullet through her hip and another in her chest. And he was here, babysitting the investigation. Screw that.
He walked down the hall and pushed open the door to the offices assigned to the investigation team. His eyes scanned the room and fell on Scott Kelly.
Kelly was a forty-four-year-old former federal prosecutor from Boston. Precise, competent, exacting. Four years prior, his wife had left him, and he decided he wanted to travel the world. He resigned from his position and joined DSS as a high-level investigator, where his first three-year tour had been in Bangkok. He had slightly prominent jowls and dark circles under his red rimmed eyes, and looked perpetually exhausted. His performance reviews, however, were stellar.
“Kelly,” Bear called across the room.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to the hospital to check on Leah, then out to the crime scene. You’re in charge.”
Kelly raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? When do I get to sleep?”
“You can sleep when the investigation is over.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go check on Leah.”
Bear didn’t stick around to figure out what else Kelly might have to say. Everyone on the team knew he and Leah had been married for fifteen years. He didn’t need them looking at him, wondering, speculating, whatever. He had a job to do.
He was soaking wet by the time he got to the parking deck, and the drive to the hospital felt like it took days. Even though it was well past midnight, traffic near downtown DC was snarled from the downpour. Bear didn’t like to drive at all, not in DC, but under the circumstances he had little choice. It pissed him off that he was stuck in traffic. It pissed him off that someone out there was running circles around his investigation. It especially pissed him off that he still had feelings for his ex-wife. His ex-wife, who left him and remarried a college professor of all things. It pissed him off that from the moment he’d gotten her phone call, he hadn’t been able to think about anything else.
So he drove through the storm in a fog, the rain drumming against the roof of the car, then he walked through the hospital paying little attention to his surroundings, until he finally reached the trauma center at George-Washington University Hospital—the epicenter of the convulsion which had taken one of his daughters and destroyed his marriage.
He’d been here before. Four years before, to be exact. It was the end, really, of his and Leah’s marriage, although neither of them knew it at the time. At the time they thought they were there because their eldest daughter was diagnosed with encephalitis. They thought they were there because loving couples support each other through crises.
But when Leanne died of the brain infection, their marriage died too. Part of Bear’s soul died, really. He tried to be there for Leah. He did. But all he could see was their daughter. Dying. He had nightmares—nightmares where he woke up choking, nightmares where Leah was shot on duty, and he’d begun to figh
t for her to switch to a desk job.
Their mild arguments turned into loud ones, and that was fine, until they went silent. When she went silent. One year after Leanne’s death, an angry silence reigned over their home. Until she left him. Then Bear was transferred overseas—without her.
The thing was, Bear never said goodbye. Not to Leanne. Not to Leah. Not to his marriage, or his life. So now, being back in Washington—even if only briefly—supervising his ex-wife? Not something Bear wanted. It was old wounds being torn open, problems being stirred up. If it hadn’t been for Andrea Thompson’s kidnapping, Bear would have spent a quiet week in Washington before being reassigned.
Wouldn’t that have been nice?
Shit.
Gary Simpson was pacing in the waiting area. Leah’s husband.
She hadn’t been married long. Only a year ago, Bear had been up to his ears in terrorists and jihadis in Islamabad. But he still called Jimmy and Rebecca, via Skype every Sunday afternoon. The kids were getting older, and it had been a couple of years since the divorce was final, so the fact that Leah was dating shouldn’t have been any surprise to him.
Married though? That was a surprise. To Bear, her getting remarried was final in a way the divorce hadn’t been. So when she broke the news one day via Skype, he congratulated her, and then got off the line as quickly as possible.
He’d never admitted to himself that he’d secretly believed they’d one day get back together.
He’d never admitted to himself that their divorce had broken his heart.
Now he was faced with Gary Simpson, who approached him with a wounded, red-faced expression. Simpson was everything Bear wasn’t—an intellectual, a college professor, an academic. Simpson would have set off every alarm Bear had for a limp wristed pretty boy. Except for the fact that he was built like a truck and had earned his first degree, a Bachelors in Economics, with a full scholarship as a fullback at Notre Dame. He’d gone on to earn a Masters and a PhD at Harvard.
In short, Gary Simpson was a man to be reckoned with. And right now his face reflected nothing but rage.
Bear started to back up when Gary got close.
“Gary, chill,” he said.
“Motherfucker,” Simpson said, preparing to take a swing.
“Gary! This isn’t going to help Leah!” Bear got his arms up in a protective stance as he shouted the words.
“You got her shot. Doctors said she might die.”
“I didn’t get her shot, Gary.”
Simpson moved to attack again, and Bear stepped back. “Gary. I just came to find out how she is.”
“What do you care?”
Bear sighed and dropped his arms to his side. “Fine. Hit me. Whatever. I don’t care, Gary. I just want to know how she is.” As a final step, Bear closed his eyes and waited, because he knew if Simpson hit him, he was going to feel it.
The punch didn’t come. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes. Gary Simpson had turned away. “They don’t know if she’s going to make it, Bear.”
Bear muttered under his breath, “Motherfuckers.”
“Who did this?”
“Don’t know yet. It was partly an inside job. And I didn’t tell you that. We’re working on it, all right? Whoever did this—we’ll find them. They won’t get away it. I promise.”
Simpson leaned close. Bear braced himself, but Gary didn’t have any fight left in him. Instead, he whispered in Bear’s ear. “Don’t just find them, Bear. Kill them. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, buddy, I hear you.”
Twenty minutes later, Bear was back on the road. He was grateful, for the ten thousandth time, for Leah’s parents. As they had in more than one crisis in the past, they’d stepped in, Leah’s mom watching the kids while her dad held a vigil at the hospital. He ached to go to them right now. What kind of father stayed at work at a time like this?
The type of father Bear was. He couldn’t go to his kids right now, because he needed to find out who had hurt their mother. So, he drove from the hospital to the Thompson family’s condominium in Bethesda.
The crime scene.
Despite the very late hour, traffic was snarled on Wisconsin Avenue. A cluster of police vehicles—both federal and Montgomery County, Maryland—spread out in front of and around the 20-story building, blue lights flashing. One lane of Wisconsin was blocked. Bear pulled his car to a stop, parking half on the sidewalk, and a local police officer in a heavy rain poncho approached rapidly. Bear flashed his badge and said, “I’m Bear Wyden. Diplomatic Security.”
The cop backed off immediately. They knew who he was, of course.
Bear sprinted through the rain to the entrance of the building. Two more local cops were there, and they scrutinized his ID while he stood there dripping on the tile floor. One of them made a quick phone call, presumably to ensure Bear was cleared to enter the crime scene.
“Forensics team is upstairs,” the officer finally said.
“Thanks,” Bear replied. Then he walked toward the elevator.
The ride up to the 20th floor seemed to take hours, and the soft music playing in the elevator didn’t help. Finally, the doors opened. A uniformed officer—this one from Diplomatic Security—blocked the elevator.
“Bear,” the officer said. Now that he’d verified Bear’s identity, he stepped back.
The FBI forensics team had spread out across the entire top floor of the building. From the door of the elevator, the hall went off in two directions, with two doors at each end, a total of four penthouse apartments. As he stepped off the elevator, Bear saw that large sections of the floor were taped off.
Ejected cartridges littered the floor near the elevator, each of them neatly marked. It was clear, from here, what had happened. The shooters—as best they could tell there were three of them—sailed past the ground floor security by flashing their IDs. They rode up the elevator just as Leah was calling Bear to ask why a relief team was coming on duty.
On arrival, they opened fire the moment the elevator opened up. Mick Stanton had been halfway down the hall to the left. Twenty-eight years old. Unmarried. He finished law school at Georgetown and decided a future of poring over the books and writing briefs didn’t suit him, so he’d joined the Diplomatic Security Service two years before. A promising young agent, shot in the head.
The shooters shifted their fire to Leah. They’d missed her with their first round of bullets, probably because she’d instinctively ducked. She took out one shooter, midway down the hall, and wounded another before she got hit.
The position of the dead shooter was marked clearly on the floor. That one was Ralph Myers.
Ralph Myers. Bear had known him ten years. He and Leah, back when they were married, had hosted Ralph for dinner at their house. Bear knew a lot about him. He was single. Late thirties. Myers was smart as hell, ambitious. He volunteered for dangerous and sticky assignments, and had spent a lot of years in the Middle East, including Iraq, Pakistan and Afghanistan.
Huh. Suddenly it occurred to Bear to wonder. Was Ralph agency? Did this have something to do with the CIA?
Bear walked on further. On the left side of the hall, in the alcove across from the Thompsons’ doorway, was a large bloodstain. Leah’s blood. She’d taken two bullets and probably looked dead to the attackers when they busted through the door into the Thompsons.
What happened after that was … less clear.
The first attacker didn’t make it through the front door, and the reason was clear enough. His gun-hand had been removed at the wrist with a large meat-cleaver. When they ran the fingerprints they got an immediate hit from the military database. Dylan Paris’s fingerprints were on the knife, which was partially embedded in the wall.
The second attacker made it into the condo, but not much further. Another knife—this was a sharp, fourteen-inch kitchen knife—was embedded in the man’s back. He lay on the ground, arms splayed out, in the middle of the living area. He had a shoulder holster under his coat, but no weapon.
<
br /> Presumably, after Dylan killed both attackers, he took their weapons. But there were a lot of unexplained questions here. Who were the attackers? Who were they after? Presumably Andrea Thompson, but what was she up to? After the assorted dead bodies, the second big surprise in this investigation was the discovery of four kilos of cocaine in Andrea’s room, along with a lot of cash. The cash and the cocaine were out on the floor, and the cash had been tampered with.
Who did it belong to? Andrea?
Bear didn’t buy it. But it looked bad. Especially after she apparently abandoned Dylan and busted through the apartment below in an effort to get away from the gunmen.
If it hadn’t been for the insider, it looked very much like Andrea’s kidnapping—and the subsequent attacks—had to do with some kind of drug war more than anything else.
Which made absolutely no sense at all, unless she was working for someone else.
If so, that was one cool actress. He’d seen her right after she was rescued from the kidnapping. And not in a million years would he believe she’d been faking the shock and terror of that experience.
But something was clearly wrong here, and the Thompson sisters were right in the middle of it.
Julia. May 1. 11:30 pm Pacific
Julia Wilson ran her fingers through her hair. She was frustrated. It was eleven-thirty, and she and Crank had been at the Hall of Justice, the headquarters of the San Francisco police, for hours. She was more than a little bit tired of being stuck there, answering questions hour after hour.