Hunter watched the second hand on his antique brass desk clock, each tick drawing him closer to decision time.
The videoconference in twelve minutes with BAD would go one of two ways. Couldn’t be put off. Not after what he’d found on the memory stick from Linette.
Joe might threaten to put him in leg irons or release a termination contract on him.
Or a third way. Something worse.
No matter what, worse always waited just around the corner.
But first they’d have to find him.
Toeing his leather chair back from the onyx desk, Hunter sat back and stared at the view beyond the ten-foot-tall windows lining one wall of his office. Eliot had worshipped that view. An endless wash of Montana blue sky interrupted only by snow-dusted tips of ponderosa trees and white bark pines covering this remote mountain ridge.
Eliot would hike for days across the one hundred and twenty-eight acres of undisturbed wilderness surrounding the cabin, climbing every vertical surface cut from the volcanic rock and hiking the granite slopes.
Forever in search of a physical challenge.
Then he’d do his damnedest to drink up all the expensive liquor he could find in the bar downstairs, until he finally realized this house could operate two years without a serious supply drop.
Eliot would scoff at the pricey labels.
“Two-hundred-year-old scotch pisses out the same color as cheap whisky,” he’d say the next day, then grin and add, “But I find I like it better on the front end.”
A tap at the door shook Hunter from thoughts he normally kept locked away with an iron determination.
He glanced across the wide room to find his five-foot-eight permanent resident parked in the doorway leading to the foyer.
Borys could have been a ferret if he grew a black pelt and dropped down on all fours. “Compact” and “wiry” described everything about the fifty-two-year-old man who kept the household running in Hunter’s absence. Short black hair stuck out in all directions, none with any plan. Whiskers tried to match his hair. He had a wadded-up face that had been left out in the sun too long until the creases were permanent, but thick lashes and hawk-like hazel eyes saved him from being butt-ugly.
Best-dressed ferret on this mountain.
He wore black suits with starched and pressed white cotton shirts, determined to match some stereotypical role he’d seen in too many movies.
Nothing had ever been said about Borys being a butler or valet or any other position of servitude.
He’d decided that all on his own.
In Poland, he’d played many roles to gain the information he bartered to stay alive. He had a knack for languages and mimickry, which he practiced by drawing from the extensive movie library Hunter had supplied.
When in residence, Hunter wore jeans and T-shirts. He suggested Borys do the same since Eliot had been their only guest and favored jeans over any other clothing.
Borys refused to move from the basement, where he’d hidden for the first three months he’d lived here, to an upstairs bedroom unless Hunter agreed to a trade of labor for somewhere to live.
Once that deal was struck, Borys decided to dress the part.
Hunter gave up.
Seven identical eight-year-old suits hung in the walk-in closet off Borys’s bedroom suite, none of which he’d allow Hunter to replace with more current styles. “Who cares about style if we have no company?” Borys would point out, turning Hunter’s logic back on him.
Borys cleared his throat.
“What?” Hunter sighed at the silver platter his self-appointed butler carried.
“Thought you and the missus might like some coffee.” Today Borys sounded like a cowpoke from a John Wayne movie.
“She’s not the missus and this isn’t a social event.” By the time Hunter had put Abbie in a room last night she wouldn’t speak to him. He probably shouldn’t have been quite so honest when she pressed him about when she’d see her mother again, but he figured an honest answer would save days of arguing.
Telling her not to expect to get back for another week had ended all conversation. She’d withdrawn into herself. He’d have kidded her about losing the bet if she hadn’t looked so forlorn. He checked the wall security monitor for the orange light that indicated the front door remained secure.
“Treat a lady nice, you might see her again.” Borys’s wide lips twisted with a frown.
“She’s not staying long and I don’t expect to see her again once she leaves.” Hunter hadn’t figured out exactly what he was going to do with Abbie, but she couldn’t go back to reporting for a television station and she couldn’t stay here.
Especially not after that kiss had backfired last night.
He’d remembered Abigail Blanton all over again when her lips touched his.
He hadn’t met the real Abbie six years ago.
That one had strutted her stuff, looking and acting like every other woman he’d known to date.
The Abbie he’d met at Wentworth’s party hadn’t teased or flirted, and she’d filled out nicely. Unavoidable as it had been, he couldn’t wipe away the vision of all that creamy skin in nothing but underwear when he’d removed his coat from her on the airplane.
He got hard just thinking about holding her again.
And that’s why he had to figure out what to do with her.
Walking past the butter-yellow leather chair and sofa arrangement near the window, Borys muttered under his breath, then set the tray on the low table, a four-foot-wide slice of red oak polished to a shine. He poured coffee, grumbling, “No decent woman’s gonna put up with an asshole.”
Hunter ground his back teeth. Did everyone have the same mediocre vocabulary of insults?
You get what you pay for.
Hunter would pay Borys if he’d accept more than room and board.
No chance.
This had been the only place to hide the former snitch from Poland seven years ago when the CIA went after Borys, who had been the European connection between a Los Angeles crime family and a Russian mob they supplied with black-market weapons. If Borys hadn’t tipped off Hunter that he and his female partner had been made, the Russians would have tortured Hunter, slowly removing body parts for days while interrogating him. His female counterpart would have faced worse.
Hunter couldn’t let the CIA hand Borys over to the Russians when they conveniently forgot how Borys had helped their agents.
But right now he needed Borys to get the hell out of the room so he could contact BAD.
“I take it black,” Hunter told the ornery cuss still fussing over a coffee mug.
“I know what you drink, dammit.” Borys brought a thick white ceramic coffee mug with RUBY’S DINER printed in blue ink on the side. The one Hunter had used for over ten years after Eliot lost one of their famous “high-stakes” bets on a Texas firing range.
The loser had to produce a worn diner mug with blue ink that couldn’t be bought and couldn’t come from a state bordering Texas. Eliot rode his classic Triumph Bonneville motorcycle sixteen hundred miles over three days, searching for the mug.
Compared to what they both did for a living, the only high stakes worth betting on were creative ones.
Hunter smiled at the memory until a fist squeezed his heart.
“You want breakfast?” Borys asked.
“Do I ever eat breakfast?”
“Hell if I know what you do when you’re gone.” Borys walked away, mumbling, “Guess you don’t bring women here either, but that’s better’n seeing you with a man.”
Hunter shook his head and waited until Borys reached the door. “I don’t want to be disturbed. Would you close-”
The door slammed shut.
He glanced at the front-door security light once more, then dismissed his concern over Abbie trying to leave. She’d been rattled in the woods last night. She wouldn’t face the wilderness alone.
Turning back to the computer, Hunter scooted up to the table and tapped keys to boot up the videoconferencing software. He reached over to a control box that resembled a low-profile stereo receiver and pressed buttons to close blinds inside the double-paned glass windows to darken the room. The only thing anyone at BAD would see when they came online was Hunter with a blank wall behind him.
Eliot had set up this computer system that routed to a different location every time Hunter had to make direct contact, which he rarely did from his safe house in Montana. No one, not even BAD, knew about this location. Until now, he’d never had a reason to keep his distance from BAD. Today’s feed went to a location in Canada. The minute he ended communication, he would dial a number by phone that would trigger a minimal explosive, destroying the computer hidden in the basement of a telemarketing center and ending the satellite link to the site.
His forty-eight-inch monitor flashed with the image of a retro-looking video countdown like the old television sets used to have in the sixties. The number 1 appeared, indicating the link was secure.
Joe’s bold face and broad shoulders filled the screen, his gray-blue eyes as hard as his tone. “Start explaining.”
Hunter hadn’t expected pleasantries from BAD’s director, but he had thought Joe would ask for his current location first. “I followed the Blanton woman to her apartment and tagged her with an audio transmitter. An intruder grabbed her before I could get inside.”
He couldn’t very well tell the head of BAD he had Abbie with him at a location he wouldn’t share the coordinates on. If he did, Joe would end the conversation and order them both to headquarters. He had the information Joe wanted and with a little luck he’d pull even more out of Abbie, then worry about what to do with her.
“Where is she?” The quieter Joe spoke the more an agent should worry.
“Don’t know. Her apartment was hit with tear gas. When I left, I picked up a tail I couldn’t shake. Protecting the memory stick I retrieved at the Wentworth estate came first so I took a jet out of Midway. I’m at a safe house. Didn’t want to risk coming into headquarters in case I didn’t lose the tail.” Hunter paused for more feedback from Joe to test the strength of his lies.
“What safe house?”
“Belongs to a friend.”
Joe didn’t ask what friend. In their line of work everyone had “friends,” and no one gave up a name with trust at stake.
To deflect attention from that subject, Hunter asked, “What happened to Gwen Wentworth?”
“In ICU at the Kore Women’s Center, stable but not promising. She’s pregnant.”
Another surprise, only because Hunter remembered her losing a baby during childbirth two years ago, then her husband dying not long afterward… a sailing accident. “What about the three men suspected of being Fratelli? What happened to them?”
“Gone.” Joe’s voice dropped with disgust. “Seven matching Land Rovers exited the estate at the same time and split up in different directions in a matter of minutes. We didn’t have enough resources on-site to cover them all and the three we followed each entered a parking lot, then exited with an additional matching vehicle on its tail before they took separate routes.”
That meant all seven had contingency plans. It would have taken an army of agents in separate vehicles to track them.
“I need that memory stick now,” Joe interjected.
“I can bring it in.” Risky. Joe might use that to lure Hunter back to headquarters only to put him in lockdown if Joe silently suspected anything. “But in the interest of saving time I reviewed everything on the USB key and downloaded the data into one of our secure electronic vaults. Our informant explained the Fratelli hierarchy as twelve Fras who operate as a ruling unit on each continent but said little about their identities.”
“Give Gotthard the vault code in a minute,” Joe said. “He received an electronic missive two hours ago from our informant about the Fratelli in North America gearing up for an operation on U.S. soil in conjunction with a product developed by a UK Fra who’s supposed to be noted on the memory stick.”
“He is,” Hunter said. “Here’s the short version of what I downloaded. Vestavia is at odds with Fra Bardaric from the UK. Last night at the Wentworth event, I got a look at the man I think was Vestavia, but he was too far away to render a decent sketch. There may be a connection between the JC killer and this Bardaric.”
Hunter continued, careful not to show any change in his voice rhythm when revealing what he’d learned about that murdering JC bastard from Linette’s memory stick. “Peter Wentworth told Vestavia about ten male babies born thirty-two years ago in North America. All ten were taken as a group and raised in China to be disciplined killers completely loyal to the Fratelli. Five proved to be incapable and were terminated. Three died on missions. Of the two that remained, one was training the next generation, but he committed suicide. The tenth one entered MI6, spent four years in the organization, then disappeared five years ago. He’s known only as the Jackson Chameleon, because of the titanium baby spoons he leaves when he completes a mission and the spoon image he stamps on confirmation kill photos.”
“He could be MI6 or a double agent for them and the Fratelli or just plain rogue.” Joe let his opinion of “rogue” come through clearly on a note of disgust.
“What’s the chance of getting MI6 to admit they have a rogue agent?” Hunter doubted the possibility, but Joe had contacts everywhere.
Joe’s eyes turned the dark shade of honed steel. “About as good as getting me to tell them anything on one of mine.”
Hunter didn’t miss the warning. “We have a motive for shooting Gwen?”
“No. Another reason we need this Blanton woman. I’ll let Gotthard explain what he has,” Joe said, looking to his left before the video blinked and Gotthard Heinrich’s wide face popped into view. Hair slicked back in a ponytail, overemphasizing the wide forehead and bold jawline, his bulk filled much more of the screen than Joe and Joe was no slouch in size.
“Tell me the code for the vault files and what else is in the file while I download everything, Hunter.” Gotthard had phenomenal computer skills and an ability to multi-multitask.
“Peter wouldn’t give Vestavia any significant details on the ten babies. The Wentworths have been Fratelli supporters for many generations, with roots in England, so Peter refuses to take sides in a dispute or in sharing breeding information. He provides financial support and political clout to the North American contingency since this is now his home. The Wentworths are one of only three families in the world that protect genetic records of the Fratelli. Vestavia believes this killer works for Bardaric since the hits that have occurred benefit Bardaric’s agenda.”
Gotthard stopped typing. “The meeting during the fund-raiser had to do with Gwen’s baby and some other babies being bred.”
“What do you mean by ‘bred’?” Hunter pulled a writing pad and pen from the corner of his desk to jot notes.
“Remember the genetic markers you and I located on the students from France last fall?”
“Yes.” Hunter had tapped genealogy specialists he knew in the UK who traced the heritage of royalty and world leaders. Those particular specialists spent their days inputting and analyzing ancient DNA taken from clothing, personal items, anything that might carry a specimen. Their computers weren’t capable of processing that much information in a timely manner, so Hunter arranged for Gotthard to offer secure computer services as a contractor. BAD possessed a supercomputer called the Monster that Gotthard had been running the information through for the genealogy specialists… and BAD.
Gotthard explained, “Our informant says there’s a power struggle going on within the Fratelli that has to do with these bred children. We’re hoping the information you picked up will explain more. I’ve got the Monster cross-referencing some of the world’s most influential families, like the Wentworths’ group, but some have no readily available medical records.”
“I have a thought on that to do with the Kore center I’ll share in a minute. You think if we find the people connected by genetics that will lead us to the Fratelli?”
“That’s where we hit a wall.” Gotthard’s attention moved to something offscreen and tapping sounds came through the speakers. “Got the download.” His eyes moved back and forth, reading. “There’s our start point.”
“What?” Hunter had scanned Linette’s information, including photos of the three Fras who met at the Wentworth home, but he hadn’t put together anything linked to genetic markers.
Gotthard continued typing and reading something, then his eyes stared forward again. “The genetic markers I’ve found started disappearing around thirty years ago. I just entered seventeen dates of birth listed by our contact in a file on the memory stick for people Vestavia calls genetic assets for North America. The contact says there are more, but this is what was accessible. The computer is matching them to… yes. The birth dates our contact supplied match seventeen of the UK genealogy specialists’ records and all seventeen have similar but rare blood types. And I don’t mean AB blood but some form of HH. All seventeen are listed as being born at Kore during the past thirty-five years.”
“I’m not following you. It’s not like all the people with that rare blood type and similar DNA markers just decided to go to Kore.” Hunter scribbled notes on the pad about the Kore Women’s Center, Gwen and Abbie plus her mother’s H-1 blood, connecting them with a line, then drew a question mark in the center. “Maybe they didn’t go willingly. With this being a premier center for rare blood are any men admitted?”
“No men. We’re dealing with women only. And I’ve been keeping a list of women with similar rare blood types popping up in our database search who did not enter the Kore Women’s Center. Every one I’ve found ended up terminated.”
Hunter stopped drawing. “What? Explain.”
“We have more data to process, but we have enough to show a pattern of women dying by accident-drowning, traffic accidents, muggings, a bad fall hiking, anything but a natural cause.”
“So none of the women had a disease or cancer or something? Hard to believe in this day and age.”
“Some did, but we haven’t found a female with this genetic profile from outside the center who died of a natural medical issue. And the ones who did go into the Kore center who died later committed suicide or succumbed to a fast-paced illness.”
Hunter crunched on that. He was first to argue that anything coincidental in this business deserved a closer look. Few could surpass him when it came to electronics and processing intel, but he’d defer to Gotthard’s electronic capabilities any day and frankly preferred action over studying intelligence reports. “About the Kore center. Before Gwen was shot, I overheard her tell Abigail she couldn’t share something about the center or the Fras would kill both her and Abigail. I did find out Abigail’s mother has rare H-1 blood and she visited the Kore center recently. Abigail was trying to press Gwen for information, because her mother was healthy when she went in ten days ago and came out sick. The Kore center claims they only took a blood donation to bank for her mother and performed routine tests.”
“When’d you find all that out?” Gotthard asked with a tiny lift of his eyebrows.
Hunter understood Gotthard’s sign that he was asking the question for Joe’s benefit. His teammate was trying to help him. “Heard it while they were talking right before Gwen was shot.”
Gotthard grunted, then continued. “Our informant inside Fratelli believes the JC killer is linked to the prime minister’s death two months ago, was behind Gwen’s shooting-which we’ve confirmed as true-and will be playing a role in the upcoming attack. The informant says Vestavia believes Bardaric’s directing the killer. Based on a series of kill photos Vestavia received with the JC killer’s signature stamp, Vestavia believes Bardaric is going to hit a political leader. He speculates that our president may be in danger when he meets with the new UK prime minister in DC next week over a United Nations issue coming up.”
“UN issue my ass.” Hunter scoffed. “Everyone knows the president is trying to smooth over tension between him and the prime minister. Hell, half the world suspects this prime minister of having a hand in assassinating the last one.” A plan started forming in Hunter’s mind. “Did the informant have any idea what type of attack the Fratelli were planning?”
“Possibly an explosive. Something new, not on the market.”
“Time frame?”
“Nothing definitive. The prime minister is meeting with the president on Tuesday in DC, but he’s arriving in Colorado Saturday to visit a friend and speak at a college on Monday. We can’t dismiss someone killing the prime minister as an unwilling martyr. We’re using Saturday as an early time frame.”
Hunter’s next move would determine if Joe suspected his actions. “That means we have anywhere from three to five days. And the informant warned us to be prepared for quick changes in the schedule. Vestavia has switched plans and escalated time frames in the past to keep anyone from outmaneuvering him. He trusts no one. Until the informant can supply a time frame, locations, and what the explosive is, our best bet is to get inside the Kore center. We locate records on those ten male babies and we’ll have a shot at finding the JC killer before he strikes. He might be the loose thread to unravel this whole scheme.”
Hunter forced his fingers to unfold from gripping the pen he held in view of the monitor. Opening the jaws of an alligator in the middle of a kill would have been easier.
Gotthard’s eyes shifted left. He nodded, then faced the monitor again. The big guy showed wear around the edges, his eyes more tired looking than usual. Could be the job or his rocky marriage taking a toll, or both. “Joe plans to have teams stationed in different parts of the country ready to go at a minute’s notice. He can’t send an alert through channels to other government security branches of the possible strike with nothing to hand them as hard intelligence. If someone shows our hand too soon, we risk alerting the Fratelli. Then they’d just find the leak, reset their plans, and strike at a later date.”
Gotthard’s point was clear. The Fratelli would find their informant, kill her, and move forward.
Hunter had observed the long hours Gotthard spent trying to connect with this informant online last year and his friend’s excitement when she responded. Gotthard didn’t hide the fact that he was protective of Linette’s safety. What the others probably hadn’t noticed, since few had spent the intensive time Hunter had working with Gotthard in intelligence research in the past year, was that Gotthard also seemed possessive when dealing with her.
He began mentally listing what this B &E would require. “It’ll be tight, but I can insert into Kore in forty-eight hours.”
“A female agent has to insert,” Gotthard said. “Only men in the facility are Wentworth doctors everyone knows.”
Hunter sat up. “The staff is all women?” Of course, that would make sense for a women’s center.
“Pretty much. Joe has a team searching for those three Fras. Carlos and his team are hunting the sniper and Korbin’s tracking the Blanton woman.”
Carlos could search all he wanted for the sniper, but so would Hunter. Korbin wouldn’t pose a problem as long as Hunter kept Abbie out of sight.
That would mean locking her up here or she’d try to leave. He glanced at the orange security light still shining to let him know the front door had not been opened. How could he tell her she couldn’t be with her mother any time soon and might have to stop making phone calls? He’d figure out something, some way to help her mother, too.
And if her mother died while he held Abbie hostage?
Fuck. Moving back to his plan, Hunter said, “I can figure out a cover to access the Kore Women’s Center.”
“I hear ze female vaxing is vorst form of torture. Only for real men,” Gotthard deadpanned, eyes creasing with mirth. He allowed his German accent to surface when he relaxed.
“You need a humor makeover. Tell Joe to give me some time to come up with a plan. If he doesn’t like my plan then send a female, but if the Kore security is as tight as I think, it’s going to take more than inserting as staff.”
Eliot could bypass anything. Could have.
Gotthard’s eyes thinned, sending Hunter a visual message to heed him. “This may not be something one agent can do alone.” When Hunter didn’t reply, Gotthard turned to his right, clearly listening to Joe, who would have heard everything, then Gotthard faced the screen. “You have two hours to hand Joe a plan.”
Hunter signed off and shut down the computer. Time for Abbie to tell him everything she knew. He strode over to his office door, opening it to shout into the foyer. “Borys?”
Boot heels clicked across the buffed cherrywood floors. Borys appeared at the door that led to the kitchen. “I’m busy.”
“Tell Abbie I want to talk to her.”
“She’s not with you?”
Hunter walked over to the stairs and shouted up, “Abbie!”
“I coulda done that.” Borys crossed his arms. “I just looked everywhere for her. She’s not in the house.”