Turner walked through the terminal toward his gate, and a sense of relief rushed through him now that Heckler had come through. He still had plenty of time to kill before his flight left, so he sized up the Starbucks in front of him. Lack of sleep had started to dull his mind, so caffeine seemed like a good option. He stood in line and turned around when he sensed someone close behind him.
Their eyes met and he felt a jolt of electricity. She was tall, beautiful, with long black hair, but her bright green eyes were what threw him off.
“Hi,” he heard her say.
He had already averted his eyes, knowing they had given away too much. Curiosity pulled with the force of a black hole as he casually glanced in her direction. He had hoped she was talking to someone else, but she wasn’t.
“Hi,” he replied with a forced smile, and then turned to the menu on the wall behind the counter.
He exhaled slowly and tried to erase the image of the striking beauty from his mind. A half smile formed when he considered the crazy thoughts going through his head. It was like he was in the fourth grade again, having a crush at first sight. There was no way she had felt what he did, although it felt good to imagine she might have, if only for a moment. Sleep deprivation could do funny things, and he banked on his pending conversation with the barista to bail him out of any potential for small talk.
“A venti iced mocha. No whip, please,” he said.
“A man after my own heart,” the green-eyed beauty said.
She looked at him appraisingly.
Trent Turner was an attractive man, fit, his hair dark, like hers. He dressed stylishly, but his look was equal parts restraint and refinement.
Turner exhaled. He couldn’t believe she was still talking to him after the obvious blow off. He wasn’t sure which was worse: being uncomfortable with her persistence or being intoxicated by her beauty. He turned toward the young woman and noticed the violin case slung over her shoulder. Their eyes locked, and he felt it again. The hairs on his neck began to tingle, and he considered for a moment that his thumping heart meant the connection might be real.
His eyes drifted back to the violin case and then met hers. “The heart is the only broken instrument that works,” he said, before heading to the pickup counter.
He could sense she was alone. Perhaps a kindred spirit. His goal was to get her off his mind by the time his drink hit the counter. Turner felt his XHD3 vibrate, signaling a new development, but before he could have a look it happened again.
“Victoria. Victoria Eden. And you are?” she said.
He turned around and there she was. Her hand was extended, awaiting his. He felt like an ABC book, an easy read, something incredibly uncomfortable for a man in his profession. She had obviously felt the connection too. Maybe it was about wanting what you couldn’t have, but he could tell she enjoyed making him squirm.
“Tony, Tony E. Kalem,” he said. He decided it would only be a half truth if he associated his name with the quote he’d used.
“What does the E stand for?”
He flashed a friendly smile to the barista, who was headed for the counter with his drink and turned back to Victoria. “Everything,” he said. “Have a safe flight.”
He scooped up his drink and headed for the gate, trying to work out what had just happened.
Chapter 51
Jake Sanders had a shit-eating grin on his face.
“Can you believe that gas station sold good coffee? Here, in the boondocks?”
He had to admit Special Agent Cathy Moynihan had managed to break him out of his shell. It was unusual to find a woman who could dish out attitude with her aptitude for precision and wit.
“It’s the strong stuff too. Café Verona. Mmm mmm good,” she said. “Are you sure there’s a coffee grinder there?”
He liked her skeptical nature. “Absolutely. We don’t mess around.”
“If you didn’t mess around, we’d be drinking coffee, not picking it up.”
“Touché!” All he could do was smile. For a second he considered that he may well have met the perfect woman, but then her next question smacked him with reality.
“So what division are you in?”
Sanders spat out the canned response. “We work out of Baltimore. You?” He already knew the answer to the question, but this was about changing the subject to her.
“DC. I’m hoping to make the Hawaii beat one day.” There was an awkward silence, like she knew he didn’t want her to ask any more prying questions. “So…” Her tone was serious. “What are a bunch of guys out of Baltimore doing grabbing teenagers and driving them around in kit like that? I mean, come on. Three decked-out Tahoes? Pretty impressive considering how stingy the bureau has been about every request I’ve ever made.”
He needed to shut this down fast.
“Jealousy will get you nowhere in this business.” He flashed her his shit-eating grin again.
She shook her head as she turned onto the gravel driveway that led to the black site. Sanders knew she wasn’t buying his bullshit, and he respected her for it. This was one of those times where being intelligent wasn’t in one’s best interest. He wasn’t sure how his boss would want him to handle this one.
Over the past decade the scope of his job had increased significantly. He was getting used to working in the gray area after being moved out of TacOps. When he was with the FBI Tactical Operations team, he was responsible for the bureau’s black-bag operations, but when he and his crew of trusted men were promoted to create a new unit, that new assignment had morphed into something well beyond illegal entry-and-search missions and surveillance. They had added terrorist hit squad to their list of duties.
The HVT Squad, short for High-Value Target Squad, was put in place for matters of national security. One-off missions like the one they were currently on muddied the waters between right and wrong, but the squad had become desensitized to the work over the years. Its team filled the gap that the CIA, unable to run black operations on US soil, was legally bound to leave. The squad had lost a few good men in the fight, but it was still five-strong and extremely capable.
Moynihan and Sanders got out of the car. Sanders caught a quick glimpse of her in the moonlight and noticed she was the complete package. He was beginning to imagine the possibilities when she spoke.
“Do you smell that?” she asked.
He snapped out of his daydream and said, “Huh?”
“It smells like someone discharged a weapon.” She tilted her head slightly as if it would catch more air and took a couple more whiffs.
“Don’t be…” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Yeah, I smell it now.”
“It’s probably nothing,” she said. “We’d already be dead if there was a problem.”
He realized she was probably right. The fact that she picked up on both points first annoyed him.
“Tell my ex that,” he said.
She turned to him and squinted. “What?”
He smiled and said, “I’m dead to her.”
They shared a laugh, and it helped to lighten the mood as they approached the house. He slid his thumb across the reader and unlocked the door. The smells released by the open door caused them both to instinctively draw their weapons. Someone had definitely fired a gun.
“Ken? Scott?” Sanders’s voice was a little tentative. “Glen… Guys?” He strained to see inside. “No fucking around. Are you in there?”
He led them through the door. Their training was evident from their cadence and actions. He signaled Moynihan to check the upper floors with a nod of his head.
The smell of violence grew stronger as he silently made his way down the stairs. His weapon was leveled, and his heart pounded as he took in the scene. Both Scott and Glen were dead. They had been shot execution-style, each with a dime-sized bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He continued to clear the basement and checked the outside stairwell. The situation hit him like a ton of bricks.