Blind Run Page 11

  “Damn the man.”

  Avery pushed to his feet and crossed to the glass wall overlooking the SCTC bullpen, a hive of activity deep within the bowels of Langley. Dozens of computer workstations filled the room, and two walls of monitors displayed video feed from around the world. Directly across from his office, a massive electronic map tracked worldwide operations. Around it all, hustled a score of people, his people, the best and brightest analysts in the world.

  Morrow was getting out of hand.

  Unfortunately, Avery still needed him. Turner had called a little over an hour ago. Not only had Adam finally revealed Danny and Callie’s destination, but the girl was sick. Real sick. With those two pieces of information, they had a rare, and narrow window of opportunity to retrieve them. If Morrow showed up.

  Using traditional SCTC resources to find him was out of the question. It would raise too many eyebrows. Avery had also considered sending someone else after the kids, but that held its own risks. It was how they’d gotten into the current situation with Anna and Ramirez. The fewer people with contact to Haven Island, the better.

  He’d built this place from scratch, fighting for funds from tightfisted politicians. He wasn’t about to let it all fall apart because Anna Kelsey had helped a couple of kids run away from that damn island. Or because John Morrow was too damn arrogant to follow orders.

  Avery had come too far.

  Twenty-five years ago he’d arrived in Washington, a young man with no family connections and a law degree from a no-name school in rural Mississippi. He’d had to scramble for a position as a law clerk, which paid less, with longer and more grueling hours, than the bartending job that had gotten him through school. Add to that the subtle and not-so-subtle snobbery of Washington’s elite, and he’d been little more than an overeducated gofer.

  A lesser man would have given up and gone home. Avery had joined the CIA, where talent mattered more than family name, and a flair for navigating the underpinnings of a bureaucracy counted more than his alma mater. With an eye for talent and no desire to go into the field himself, he’d done well. Very well.

  Now, if he wasn’t very careful, he could lose it all.

  John Morrow wasn’t his only problem. That had become evident at the morning’s quarterly budget review before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. A week ago, the meeting would have been a mere formality, but something had changed. The opposition had emerged unexpectedly. A junior senator from Montana or Idaho, or one of those god-awful backward states, had started poking his nose into Avery’s business. The senator had questioned the money allocated to the SCTC and wanted a detailed accounting of operations. Others had picked up on the inquiry, and it had become a feeding frenzy as old rivals surfaced.

  Avery had crushed the questions, presenting charts and graphs and dire warnings about the need for newer and better technologies, along with the SCTC’s requirements to operate without interference. In the end the committee had approved his budget. For now.

  The opposition’s timing, however, was too coincidental. It had to be related to the situation on Haven Island. Someone had gotten word of, or at least suspected, the true nature of the project and its current problem.

  Avery retreated to his desk, the idea a nasty prick at the base of his skull. Who could have found out about the Haven Project? And how? Could Anna have sold information instead of the kids, then taken them as proof?

  The approach fit her personality. It held less risk, and the outcome would be much the same. She might still have to face Marco Ramirez, unless she’d sold out to someone powerful enough to protect her. It was a tall order.

  Avery tented his fingers beneath his chin and considered the few men with enough power to accomplish it. There weren’t many, and all of them had their own agendas, which Avery wouldn’t hesitate to expose if they delved too deeply into his affairs. No one wanted that. After all, Washington was the ultimate old boys’ club.

  Could there be someone else, an unknown player Avery had overlooked? Someone behind the scenes of the Senate committee? A money man, pulling a few senators’ strings? No one got to the U.S. Senate without backing, without owing a favor or two. And in Avery’s experience those without a public political agenda posed a greater threat than those courting the voters’ favor. The possibility that such a man or men knew about the Haven Project disturbed him. It would mean the situation had moved beyond his control, and today’s battle had been a warning, the victory a memory if Danny or Callie surfaced in the wrong place.

  Goddamn Morrow. If he’d blown their chance to retrieve those kids, Avery would have his head.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Cox.” His assistant’s voice held a nervous edge. “John Morrow’s on line three.” She dealt with dangerous and powerful men on a daily basis, but Morrow disturbed her. She wasn’t alone. He intimidated even the most stalwart of Avery’s staff, and that was exactly the way Avery wanted it. Usually.

  “Make sure I’m not disturbed.” He disconnected his assistant, punched the speaker button, then the flashing line. “You better have good news for me.”

  After a single barb of silence, Morrow said, “Take me off the speaker.”

  Avery smiled tightly, allowing Morrow his petty victory, and picked up the receiver. “Tell me you have good news.”

  “You want me to lie.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “We didn’t expect Decker’s ex-wife to call the cops.”

  “And you let them get away.” Avery barely contained his anger, reminding himself he needed Morrow for a little longer. “Killing two police officers in the process.”

  “It couldn’t be avoided.”

  Avery doubted that. “Half the state of Texas is looking for them.” Under different circumstances he might take some pleasure in the high-minded Decker wanted for murder, but at this point the police could only complicate matters. The stakes were too high to indulge in personal pleasures. He, at least, wouldn’t risk the future of the Haven Project and control of the SCTC. “This better not come back at us.”

  “We sanitized the building.” Morrow’s words sounded forced. He didn’t like justifying his actions. “Decker’s their only suspect. If they pick him up—”

  “They won’t.” Not unless they got very lucky, or Decker fucked up, and Avery wasn’t about to count on either scenario. No, he wasn’t worried about Decker turning up in a jail cell. “He’s more likely to go so far underground we’ll never find him.” Until he surfaced to bring Avery and his organization tumbling down.

  “He’s got the woman with him,” Morrow said.

  “I heard the news,” Avery snapped. Sydney Decker was yet another factor he couldn’t predict. “And I don’t give a damn about the woman.”

  “She’s not going to give up her life and go into hiding. Sooner or later, she’ll surface, and Decker won’t be far behind.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Call it an educated guess. We’ll get Decker,” Morrow said. “And the kids.”

  “Yes, let’s not forget the kids.” Morrow’s priorities were screwed up. “They are what this is all about, not your personal vendetta against Decker.”

  Morrow didn’t respond, a damn irritating habit which told Avery he’d hit on the truth. Morrow’s hatred of Decker went back to the fiasco with Ramirez. Something had happened between them that night, something that had left Morrow hungry for the other man’s blood. But Avery had no time for Morrow’s petty agenda. They had one shot at salvaging the situation before all hell broke loose, and he wouldn’t stand for another mistake.

  “What about Anna?” he asked. “The media didn’t mention her.”

  “No one’s made the connection, but New Mexico Highway Patrol found her body in the desert this morning, and I sent someone to check it out. It was a single gunshot to the head. Looks like Ramirez’s work.”

  Avery leaned back in his chair, uneasy with this latest development. It could be good
or bad, depending on who she’d contacted before dying. “Go on.”

  “My men did a little digging and found a recently deserted trailer about ten miles from where the cops found the body. Someone had left in a hurry.”

  “Decker?”

  “Anna could have dropped off the kids and split.” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe she figured selling them was more trouble than it was worth. No surprise, with Ramirez on her tail.”

  No, no surprise. The twist was that Ramirez had found her so quickly. Though it no longer mattered what had happened to Anna Kelsey, except in the matter of who she’d been working for, but Avery would deal with that later. For now, Decker had the kids.

  “Any further sign of Ramirez?”

  “Other than the increased body count?” For the first time, Morrow sounded a bit uncomfortable. “He’s out there, I can feel him.” He paused. “And I can bring him in.”

  Morrow was entirely too eager, and he was hiding something. Avery considered calling him on it. Instead he decided to bring Morrow down a notch or two. “Maybe, maybe not. Ramirez just might find you first.”

  Silence echoed across a thousand miles of phone lines. Avery suspected he’d struck the nerve that was Morrow’s ego. He would like nothing better than to wrap his hands around Avery’s throat. No, that wasn’t quite right. The gun was more to Morrow’s taste. Like Ramirez. Morrow’s fantasy would be to put a bullet between Avery’s eyes.

  A fantasy he’d never realize.

  Morrow knew he couldn’t survive without Avery’s protection. No one in the intelligence community wanted officers like Morrow, men who liked to kill. And he did like to kill, entirely too much. Such men had their uses, if they could be controlled, but Morrow was quickly getting beyond even Avery’s influence.

  “This time, stick to the plan.” Avery’s tone allowed no argument. “First I want Danny and Callie, then Ramirez. After that, Decker’s all yours.”

  “You’re running the show.”

  “I suggest you remember that.” Avery paused, letting his own anger carry across the line. Then he repeated Turner’s information. “Decker and the kids are on their way to Illinois. Champaign-Urbana.” He heard the surprise in Morrow’s sudden stillness. “The boy’s going after a Dr. Timothy Mulligan. He thinks the man’s his father.”

  “Is he?”

  Avery ignored the question. It had no relevance to what he wanted from Morrow. “Don’t screw this up, John. And,” he paused for emphasis, unable to resist taunting Morrow one more time, “don’t underestimate Decker. If it comes down to it, he will kill you.”

  Silence again, cold, angry silence. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “See that you are.”

  Avery hung up the phone, resisting the urge to slam it in place. Instead he pulled out a handkerchief, removed his glasses, and polished the lenses.

  Just a couple more days. A week at the most.

  Morrow was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d deliver the kids, and Decker would take down Ramirez. Then the three-year-old nightmare surrounding the assassin would finally come to an end. As for Ethan Decker, his death would be a bonus.

  Then, Avery would have time to consider the best way to rid himself of John Morrow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A DOOR CLOSED, and Sydney opened her eyes.

  The room was quiet and oddly empty, and she knew without looking that Ethan had gone out. It was a relief. Earlier, his intense presence had filled the room, making it difficult for her to breathe, much less think. He no longer behaved like the man she’d once married. Despite an undercurrent of defiance and recklessness that had always excited her, her husband had been easygoing, letting her set the pace of their lives. Now he possessed a fierce edge that was as unnerving as the situation was unreal.

  She looked at her watch and saw she’d been sleeping for over three hours. Evidently she’d been more tired than she’d realized.

  After the news about the shooting and Danny’s story about the Haven, nothing had seemed clear-cut. They’d all been too exhausted to think straight, so she’d suggested they get some rest. The children had objected, but she’d dug out blankets and pillows and tucked them onto a couch, where they’d fallen asleep almost immediately. She’d claimed the recliner, planning to close her eyes for just a few minutes, and Ethan had stretched out on the second, now empty, sofa.

  The children, on the other hand, slept on, entwined like a pair of kittens, Danny’s arm curled protectively around his sister. The sight clenched at her heart, though she couldn’t say exactly why their plight affected her so strongly. They seemed healthy, with no outward signs of physical abuse, but their story had contained a ring of frightening truth. And they were clearly afraid of returning home.

  If nothing else, she wanted to find the man Danny claimed was their father: Dr. Timothy Mulligan. He held a Ph.D. in physics and was on the faculty at the University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign. Danny even had the man’s address and phone number. It wouldn’t take more than a simple phone call to determine if Mulligan was indeed the children’s father, but Sydney wanted to meet the man. She wanted to question him and make sure he wanted these children and would . . .

  No.

  She cut off that thought abruptly. Forget it. She wasn’t traveling down that particular road. She’d gone to a support group a couple of times after Nicky’s death and seen women like that—broken, grasping women—and she’d sworn she’d never be one of them. She wasn’t looking for a child to replace the one she’d lost. All she wanted was to help Callie and Danny, and move on.

  Straightening in the chair, she shoved down the footrest and thought of the cell phone tucked away in her purse. It would be so easy to contact the authorities and let them take over. Or at least call Charles, who must be frantic by now, to tell him she was okay and ask again about the hang ups on her machine. Plus he could help them. He had friends and influence at both the state and federal levels of government. Together they could find out the truth about Haven Island. She reached over, letting her hand rest on her bag for several seconds, or maybe minutes.

  So easy.

  She couldn’t do it, not without talking to Ethan first. A few hours ago, he’d saved her life. She couldn’t go behind his back and bring someone else into this.

  Deserting the chair, she crossed the room to the picture windows framing the main entrance. Outside, the afternoon light had faded, throwing long shadows across the day. Ethan’s truck was nowhere in sight and she wondered if he’d gone or had just parked it out of sight.

  Then she saw him near the edge of the clearing. At first she couldn’t figure out what he was doing, it seemed so out of place considering his injured arm. Then she knew. She’d watched him and their son perform this same routine too many times not to recognize the precise movements; hands, arms, and feet flowing gracefully from one position to the next.

  Tai chi.

  Moving meditation, Ethan had called it. In China thousands gathered in parks and squares every sunrise and sunset to perform this ancient ritual, and although the movements seemed simple, they took years to perfect. So Ethan had taught Nicky as the Chinese taught their children. He’d promised to teach her as well, but she’d somehow never found the time. In truth, she hadn’t wanted to learn. She’d gotten so much pleasure out of watching father and son together. The slow, practiced pace and the concentration on their faces had been too beautiful to miss.

  Now she watched Ethan perform those same moves, but with an intensity he’d lacked with Nicky. She sensed the anger in every sweep of his hands and shift of his feet. And with a rush of shame, she felt his torment, an agony that had nothing to do with the bullet hole in his arm.

  Not once since he’d walked out on her had she considered his grief, or the guilt he must live with. She’d blamed herself for not preventing Nicky’s death, wishing she’d gone with her husband and her son that day. One small change, and everything might have been different. But if she’d tormented he
rself with what-ifs, how much harder must it have been for Ethan? He’d dedicated his life to protecting those weaker than himself, first as a soldier then as an intelligence officer. Yet he’d been unable to protect his own son. Ethan had been with Nicky the day he’d died, while her only sin had been her absence.

  A small hand slipped into hers.

  Startled, Sydney almost jerked away before realizing Callie had come up beside her without a sound. “I thought you were asleep,” Sydney said, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Danny.

  Callie smiled shyly. “I woke up.”

  Sydney nodded, a bit unnerved by the girl’s presence. “Me, too.” She turned back to the window and the man beyond it, although now all her attention was on the child at her side.

  With Callie’s hand in hers, Sydney felt the tug of old emotions. It had been a long time since a child had touched her like this, simply and with trust. And Callie was nearly the same age as Nicky had been when he died.

  “He’s really good,” Callie said, obviously referring to Ethan.

  “Yes,” Sydney replied, grateful for anything that diverted her from the direction her thoughts had taken. Even if that distraction was Ethan. “Do you know something about tai chi, Callie?”

  “I used to watch the others.”

  Sydney glanced at the girl. “The others?”

  “The other children at the Haven. They start their exercises every morning with tai chi. I watch them from my window.” Her smile turned wistful.

  “Why didn’t you join them?”

  Callie lifted her small shoulders in a resigned shrug. “I get sick a lot.”

  “Really?” Concerned, Sydney sat on the arm of the nearby chair and turned the girl to face her. With a physician’s eye she examined the child. She was a little thin, but nothing serious. Her eyes were clear, her skin soft and healthy looking, though a little warm—which could have been from sleeping. Outwardly, Sydney could see nothing wrong with her. Although appearances could be deceptive, an illness serious enough to deprive her of participating in a relaxed form of exercise such as tai chi would most likely be visible in some way.