She had no idea what the name of the boat was, and so she used the brand, along with her FBI radio call sign. “This is FBI Gladiator thirty-six, mayday. I’m northbound off Tijuana. Being chased. Helicopter. Armed and dangerous.”
Again, nothing but static. And then what she thought was the faint report of a weapon.
Crap. The helicopter could go at least hundred miles an hour faster than she could. She thought about returning fire, but figured she couldn’t drive and shoot at the same time. She glanced back, saw a man leaning out. Robert thought they were some sort of black ops.
If so, what chance did she have?
But the copter didn’t look like some military craft, so maybe she had a chance after all, because one thing these boats could do was move across water. And a moving target was damned hard to hit. She started a zigzag pattern, kept it up, wondered if the small bursts of white water were rounds hitting.
A group of sailboats glided ahead, their skippers oblivious to the threat. With no choice, she had to zip between them. The helicopter suddenly backed off. Apparently taking out a civilian wasn’t acceptable; someone would have to answer. Just as Robert said, she was the target. This pouch she carried guaranteed that.
There were more sailboats, but she wasn’t about to take the chance she was wrong. And as she passed them, the helicopter veered closer, banked in. And her radio squawked to life. “FBI Gladiator thirty-six. This is the coast guard. Identify your position.”
She didn’t have time to pick up the radio. Not if she wanted to stay alive. She continued her pattern, trying to outmaneuver the chopper. Its shadow crossed her hull as it banked, coming in from the front. It hovered, its beaters churning the water around her. A man leaned out.
She reached for her gun, figuring this was it.
“FBI Gladiator thirty-six,” came a booming loudspeaker. “This is the coast guard. We have you in sight.”
Just beyond the copter, she saw the welcome sight of a gray coast guard cutter, speeding south toward her. And then a hail of gunfire, as the man in the chopper opened on her.
27
Somehow Sydney made it through, unlike Robert’s boat, which had more holes in it than she cared to count. Lucky for her the cutter made decent time and the helicopter pulled up and out of there, before the coast guard trained its two. 50 caliber machine guns at it.
From there it took her twenty minutes to convince them she needed to get to the San Diego field office at warp speed, when what they wanted to do was question her for hours about what she was doing in Mexican waters driving a world-class speedboat, being chased by a helicopter bearing men with guns.
Sydney, having no clue as to what Robert really did for a living these days, claimed she was merely in Mexico on a pleasure trip, when she was set upon by smugglers, who grabbed her in Puerto Nuevo, and she managed to escape on a boat that just happened to have the keys inside.
When they wouldn’t let her off their cutter, she had them make a quick call to the last person she wanted to talk to, Scotty. After a brief explanation, with as many holes in it as the boat she’d left behind, Scotty told her he’d take care of FACE OF A KILLER 211 it, his last words being for her to get on the first plane back to the city.
Five minutes later, the commander of the boat received a call, listened to whatever was being told to him, then said two words, “Yes, sir.” He looked at Sydney, said, “We’ll be transporting you to the San Diego field office.”
What was it that Vince Pettigrew had said about dealing with someone very high up the food chain? No doubt who Scotty was dealing with, because that was one quick turnaround, and all interrogations about her ordeal had instantly stopped, further proof that Scotty was investigating something she could only imagine the depths of.
When she reached the Bureau office, she was able to fend off any questions with a simple “Had a boating accident. Coast guard rescued me.” It worked since everyone there had assumed she was merely there for a bit of sightseeing, and her scraped hands, and the tear in the leg of her jeans, somewhat stiff from the dried seawater, seemed to verify her story. At least the seawater had washed off most of the dust. Her leather coat was marred from the rocky cliff, but had probably saved her a number of cuts and scrapes, and if nothing else, it added character.
She called Carillo the moment she was at the airport, gave him a quick rundown, and he said, “Well, that explains why the shit’s hitting the fan here. And I thought it was bad yesterday, after Scotty told them about the you-know-what on you that I’m not supposed to know about.”
“So he did tell Dixon?”
“I’m guessing so, since Dixon’s been holed up with him in the ASAC’s office all morning.”
“Any word on what they plan on doing?”
“Like find you a nice safe room where you can’t get into trouble? No idea. But they called me in, and asked if I knew where you took off to the other night.”
“What’d you tell them?”
“What do you think? To ask Scotty. He’s the one who took you home, maybe he knew.”
“And Scotty said what?”
“What could he say? The big nothing, since he’s the one who lost you.”
“And Dixon didn’t mention my flight to Texas?”
“He was too busy popping Tums. Lettie mentioned that you’d, uh, called in sick this morning. I’m sure he probably thought something’s up by now, but frankly, I’ve been keeping myself scarce and busy. Easy enough to do since Operation Barfly’s starting up tonight.”
“Barfly?”
“Doc Schermer came up with the name. Our multijurisdictional stakeout of the area bars, looking for Jane Doe’s killer. We got a tentative ID on her and a tip that she was last seen at one of our bars with a guy who, at least from the description given, matches your sketch of the suspect that attacked Tara Brown. I’ve got you assigned to barhop with me, but who knows how that’ll go over. Especially after today.”
“Any word on Wheeler’s photos yet?”
“Sorry. Not yet. But you know the moment we hear something…”
And all she could think was Johnnie Wheeler had three days from tomorrow.
Her phone beeped with a low battery warning. “Gonna have to go, before I lose you.”
“By the way, whose phone are you using, if you left yours behind?”
“My neighbor’s. The one who lent me his bike.”
“Nice neighbor.”
“Yeah. I should probably get him a Christmas present.”
“Before you start shopping, you might want to get your ass back here, see if you still have a job.”
“I’m boarding the plane as we speak.”
Sydney took a taxi home, stopped there long enough to shower, throw on some clean jeans, on the off chance that they might let her go out, then grabbed the same leather coat, as well as Arturo’s backpack, not having time to search out something better, because according to Lettie, her bosses were on the warpath, and Sydney was the star victim.
The office buzzed with activity when she walked in, agents who normally would’ve been winding down, getting ready to leave for the day, were now just coming in, checking weapons, cuffs, and radios for the upcoming task force operation. Lettie cornered Sydney the moment she saw her. “Dixon wants you in his office right away.”
“I’ll be right there.” She passed Carillo, who gave her a once-over at the sight of her sunburned face and scraped hands, then grinned.
“This the new Baja look?”
“You know me. Cutting-edge style.”
“Never seen you dressed casual before.” He leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on the desk. “Want a bit of advice before you go in? Off the record, since Scotty informed me I know nothing.”
“Go for it.”
“Deny, deny, deny.”
“Gee, aren’t you the helpful one.”
“I’m here for you.” As she started toward her desk, he called out, “You look hot in black leather, but the whole reflective backpack? Gotta go.”