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  She had never been introduced to him, despite being newly married to Alex. The fact that she had overheard a portion of the conversation at all had been a matter of pure chance. It had been late and she had been looking for Alex, to see what was keeping him. When she had heard the discussion and realized he was talking business, she had turned around and padded back to bed.

  The next morning, when she had asked Alex about the visitor, he had shrugged it off. It had been no big deal, a meeting with a client who had flown in late and who had to catch an early flight out.

  Except that it had happened twice more. Both times, the same visitor had come to the house late, after Rina had gone to bed. Like the first time, though irritated that Alex was forced to work so late, she had dismissed the nocturnal visits as part of Alex’s wide-ranging business empire and his client’s different time zones.

  The camera panned to the reporter as he asked Senator Radcliff for his views on the recent bomb blast in Colombia.

  Radcliff. She hadn’t expected the name to be familiar, but it was, because Radcliff was newly elected to the Senate and she had recently seen both his picture and his name in the papers. Another reason his name stood out was that she had read that he had a coastal retreat midway between Winton and Eureka. At the time, the mention of Winton had caught her attention more than Radcliff’s election success, but that was all changed now. Not one connection with Alex, but two; Radcliff had a house that was only minutes away from Alex’s Winton estate.

  The cold tingling at her nape that had started when she had heard his voice increased. Crazy or not, the more she thought about it, the more certain she grew. The property Wendell had taken Baby from hadn’t sounded like the kind of high-security estate Radcliff would own, but even so, she couldn’t dismiss the idea that Taylor could be at Radcliff’s estate.

  The name “Chavez” jerked her attention back to the screen. A bomb blast, with buildings reduced to rubble and people picking through the ruins looking for survivors.

  The actual content of the news story involving Radcliff registered: Colombia…Chavez cartel…Rumors that this had been a clandestine military strike by the U.S. and not revenge by a warring cartel.

  “Would Senator Radcliff, a former Army Ranger who had fought in the South American theater, and a previous military adviser to the Pentagon, care to comment on the situation?”

  Radcliff’s answer was smooth and dismissive. He had been out of the military too long to make any kind of assessment on the attack.

  The interview ended, and the local segment of the news began, headed up with the lead story, breaking news that a body had just been recovered from the Neches River. The dead man had been identified as Harold Sayer.

  Wendell watched as JT pulled away from the curb. He walked back into the living room just as the hall door opened. A tall, balding man stepped out, followed by a woman. Slater was a hard-ass, and up until now it had been Slater he had been dealing with, but it was the woman who really frightened him. She was blond, well dressed and slim, with a pleasant face and a businesslike Walther in her hand. Slater exited by a side door, leaving him alone with the woman.

  She stared at Wendell, making him feel about as important as an insect. “Now, I wonder if you can still be of any use to us?”

  She raised the handgun and motioned him toward the back bedroom he used as a home office. Before the interruption, Wendell had been searching for every piece of information he had managed to unearth about Rina, which wasn’t much. The details she had given Sayer had been scanty, but the combination of the missing dog and Winton had been enough to set off alarm bells.

  Sayer, who hadn’t had any connections with the criminal underworld, had had no understanding of who their client really was or the opportunity that had been presented, but Wendell had. With the seven-figure bounty Slater had posted for Rina Morell’s capture—alive—every hit man, snatch artist and two-bit criminal in the country was searching for her. Once he had realized who she was, it had been a simple matter to make contact via a third party with Slater and set up a deal. Slater had supplied the dog; his job was to supply Rina’s address.

  So far he hadn’t been able to trace her physical address. He had her cell phone number, but Slater already had that. After she had left his shop the previous day, he had followed her as far as the DPS office. He hadn’t been able to get any details right then, because he hadn’t wanted to alert her to the fact that she was being followed, but he had been content to wait. It had been obvious that she was applying for a driver’s license, so finding her real address once it went into the system would be a cinch.

  After she had caught him flat-footed and gotten away with the dog, she’d left him with a six-figure part payment in his account and still no address. He had e-mailed a contact in the police department and requested the information, offering the usual monetary reward. Rina had both a license and a vehicle, so he had her on two counts now.

  Wendell booted up his computer. The woman perched on the edge of his desk. “How long before you can give me a physical address?”

  He would have supplied it to Slater and have left town already, if his uninvited guests hadn’t arrived.

  Wendell’s fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard. His mail program opened up. “Here it is now.”

  He opened up the e-mail, read the contents and hit the print button. Swiveling around in his chair to collect the sheet that was feeding out, he stared blankly into the thickened barrel of the Walther and a small, inane fact dropped into his mind.

  While he had been busy online she had fitted a silencer to the weapon.

  JT thumbed in a short dial on his cell phone while he waited in traffic. While he had been talking to Wendell, the weather had closed in, dark clouds blocking out the last yellowish glare of the setting sun.

  Kurt picked up. “The surveillance team on Wendell reported in. A woman just left the house. She fits the description of his girlfriend, but they don’t think she is.”

  The niggling unease JT felt about Wendell took on a sharper edge. He hadn’t heard anyone else in the house, and he had been listening. “What does she look like?”

  “Blond, about five-four, one hundred and ten pounds, and wearing a classy suit. She’s a little younger than Wendell. Maybe early fifties.”

  The lights changed, JT inched across the intersection, then braked as traffic backed up. He was en route to Rina’s house, but rush-hour traffic was doubling the time it should take him to get there. “If it’s who I think it might be, that means Slater’s in town. Did they get a tail on her?”

  “McElroy’s on it, but the traffic is tough.”

  “Rina?”

  “Don’t worry, she’s fine. I can see her from here. Before you go, I did a little more digging on Wendell.”

  “And Wendell isn’t his real name.”

  “Not for the past ten years. The real Wendell died in Detroit in the nineties, and for the record, he was a Pinkerton man. And get this, the Winton P.D. have just pulled in a couple of very interesting tourists—two hitters from L.A. They’re not talking, but the word is out that Slater has put a bounty on Rina. Although, he wants her alive, not dead.”

  JT’s hands tightened on the wheel. Now it all made sense. Slater had been working to a plan. The combination of the advertisement about Baby, circulated nationwide, and the bounty, had created an environment for Rina to be caught. Slater had wanted to make her visible, and it had worked. She had taken the bait, and Wendell had recognized who she was.

  Wendell had been nervous, but he hadn’t panicked when JT had produced the CIA badge. He had fielded JT’s questions like a pro, because that was exactly what he was.

  Rina had been careful, and he had made sure she couldn’t be followed after she had picked up Baby, but Wendell would find her. It was possible that he already had.

  JT calculated how long it would take him to get across town to Rina’s place. Fifteen minutes if he ran every red light.

  “There’s one more p
iece of news you need to know. Harold Sayer’s body has just been pulled out of the Neches River. If you want to talk to Wendell now, you’ll have to line up behind the Beaumont P.D.”

  JT terminated the call and accelerated as traffic began to move more freely, courtesy of extra lanes and a major intersection just ahead. As he picked up speed a van cruised up next to him. The side door slid open a few inches. He glimpsed the familiar features of one of Slater’s security goons as he sighted down the barrel of a high-powered rifle.

  The first bullet exploded the windshield. The second slammed into the headrest just inches from JT’s head. He swerved. Car horns filled the air, along with the sound of squealing tires. A truck-and-trailer unit appeared out of nowhere, filling the road. JT wrenched on the wheel and felt the rear of the truck fishtail out of control.

  Twenty-Six

  Taylor stumbled as the stony-faced security guard who was assigned to take her to the kitchen for her evening meal stood back and indicated she precede him through the door. It wasn’t politeness. All the guards knew she was an agent. So far, Stavros hadn’t taken any risks, despite Taylor’s attempts at appearing sick.

  Using her cuffed hands to steady herself against the kitchen wall, she straightened, her gaze automatically sweeping the large kitchen with its heavy stone pillars and stainless-steel catering fittings, glimpsing an empty hallway. Apart from the staff bathroom, which she had just used, this was all she had seen of the house.

  Despite being locked in a shed with one tiny barred window, and only being able to use the bathroom twice a day, she was physically well. She didn’t like the dark room or the captivity, but she hadn’t been starved, and apart from the initial struggle, she hadn’t been hurt. During the day, she occupied herself by exercising and mentally running through combat-training drills so that if an opportunity to escape fell in her lap, she didn’t freeze up.

  She was pale. That was easy, because she was genuinely frightened. She knew better than anyone what Lopez and Slater were capable of doing to people who were no longer important to them. So far, she had only seen Slater once—the day she had been caught—and she hadn’t seen Lopez at all. The fact that neither Slater nor Lopez appeared to be in residence was both a relief and a cause for concern. It had given Bayard time to find her when she hadn’t counted on any, but there could only be one reason they hadn’t used her to reach Rina. The ruse with Baby had worked.

  The absence of the second guard who usually accompanied Stavros registered. She had thought the lack of a second escort was a momentary lapse and that Tony would be waiting in the kitchen, but the kitchen was empty. Her interest sharpened. Normally when they let her out, there were two security guards with her at all times.

  She let her head droop. “Where’s your friend?”

  Stavros looked mildly surprised that she had spoken. He smiled, without humor. “Texas.”

  They had found Rina.

  Stavros jerked his head at the plate of food on the table. As usual, it was a plastic plate and there was a plastic fork with it—no knife. The food was good, because they simply served her up whatever they were having.

  Taylor sat down and picked up the fork. She stared at the steaming pasta swimming in a rich red tomato sauce, and one important difference from all of her previous meals registered. The fact that there were fewer personnel in residence meant she had gotten served sooner, and this meal was hot.

  She let the fork drop, then got to her feet as if she was going to be sick. When Stavros stepped toward her she slumped forward slightly, bracing herself on the table, letting her hair slide forward, masking the movement as she picked up the plate. As soon as she gauged he was close enough, she straightened and flung the hot pasta at his face.

  Dropping the plate, Taylor launched herself, driving him back against one of the arty stone pillars. The second he hit the stonework, she swung her fisted hands in a doublehanded punch, snapping his head back.

  His head bounced, his eyes rolled, and he crumpled to the floor. She searched Stavros’s pockets for a cell phone, her cuffed hands awkward. There was no phone in the kitchen. Slater had ordered it removed so long as she was a “guest,” so she was banking on the fact that Stavros would have a cell phone on him.

  She located the phone in his jacket pocket. She would only have a few seconds at most. Someone would have heard the noise Stavros had made when she’d flung the pasta at him.

  She stabbed the menu button. The key lock symbol glowed on the screen. Gritting her teeth, she tried the standard codes for unlocking, none of which worked. Seconds later, she gave up trying to break his lock code. Neither Lopez nor Slater were stupid. She doubted there would be a cell phone on the property that didn’t have a security-coded lock. She was going to have to go looking for a landline.

  Seconds later, she stepped into a small sitting room just off the kitchen that looked like it was used by the kitchen staff, and picked up the handset of a phone.

  Rina shoved items into a knapsack: a change of clothing; the few personal possessions she couldn’t risk leaving behind; the documents and the key from the music box; and food and water for Baby. Stuffing her handbag on top, she fastened the top flap.

  Wendell had murdered Sayer and sold her out.

  She walked through to the bathroom, grabbed her toothbrush and deodorant and shoved them into a side pocket of the knapsack.

  She couldn’t stop shaking, but her mind was clear. She hadn’t given Wendell her address, and JT had made sure he hadn’t followed her once she had collected Baby. Despite that, she had to assume that if Wendell was clever enough to connect with either Alex or Slater and find Baby, he would find her.

  She reached for her cell phone and tried JT’s number again. She was put through to his voice mail. Hanging up, she tried again and was once more shunted through to voice mail. Either he was too busy to answer, or he couldn’t.

  She placed the cell phone on the bed beside the knapsack. Almost immediately, it beeped.

  She checked the screen. The number wasn’t JT’s. She pressed the call button, put the phone to her ear and waited for someone to speak.

  “Rina?”

  Adrenaline flooded her system. “Taylor? Where are—”

  “Eureka. Listen, I don’t have much time. One of Slater’s men has been holding Baby. Whoever it is you’re dealing with to get Baby back, don’t trust him. He contac—”

  A dull thud was followed by a series of sharp clicks, as if the receiver had been dropped and was swinging against something hard.

  Heart pounding, Rina strained to listen. She heard the faint but definite rhythm of breathing; someone had picked up the receiver. Her stomach constricted. There was no way she could be sure, but she was abruptly certain the person on the other end of the phone was Alex.

  Filled with fear, Rina disconnected the call.

  Alex Lopez studied the unconscious form of Taylor Jones where she lay sprawled on the floor of the sitting room, just yards away from the security guard she had knocked out.

  The viability of keeping her as a hostage had always been in question. If the ploy involving the dog and Wendell had been successful, she would already be dead, but as it was, they had to keep her just a little while longer.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a plastic case which contained a syringe, prepped the needle and injected the full dosage into a vein in her arm.

  The sharp sting brought her around. Lopez withdrew the needle and stepped back.

  Taylor clutched at her arm, her gaze fastened on the syringe. “What did you inject me with?”

  Lopez smiled. “Ketamine.”

  Raw terror registered. Street name “K” or “Special K.” An anaesthetic and powerful hallucinogenic drug. A split second later, her eyes glazed over.

  Rina rapped on the driver’s-side window of Kurt’s car. The window slid down.

  Kurt had the driver’s seat pushed back as far as it would go and was working on a laptop. When she relayed the news about Sayer,
he looked grim but unperturbed.

  “It’s all right, JT knows. We got the information through to him a few minutes ago. We’ve arranged to have Wendell picked up.”

  Kurt checked his wristwatch. “How far away are WitSec?”

  Rina looked at her own watch and pretended to gauge the time, still reeling from the fact that both Kurt and JT already knew about Wendell and neither of them had bothered to inform her. She was beginning to understand what had driven Esther. When she spoke the lie was smooth. “Fifteen minutes.”

  Kurt nodded and picked up a cell phone. “I’ll let Hal know.”

  The howl of a siren cut through the dull ache in JT’s skull as he searched for his phone and the remains of his laptop, which had both, evidently, gone through his windshield. The truck was canted at an angle, stopped from being flipped completely on its side by the power pole that had punched in the left side of the vehicle, bending it like a pretzel.

  “Are you all right?” The question came from a well-dressed man in his late forties.

  “Never better.”

  “I’m a doctor. I can treat you if you need it.”

  He touched his nose, which was still bleeding after the impact from the air bag. Apart from that and a few minor cuts and bruises, he was uninjured. “I don’t.”

  The intersection was a mess. JT couldn’t see any sign of Slater’s men. They must have made it through unscathed, but the truck that had clipped him had smashed into the median barrier. The trailer had jackknifed, broken its coupling and slid on its side for about fifty yards, spilling a mountain of grain. Four lanes were blocked and traffic was backed up both ways.

  The siren got louder. He couldn’t find any sign of his phone. At a guess, it was also smashed and had probably slid beneath one of the vehicles littering the intersection. Limping around the truck, he picked up what was left of the hard drive against the possibility that some geek would get hold of it and actually manage to extract classified data, and threaded his way between traffic to a nearby shopping mall. The neon sign of a popular rental car agency glowed. He needed transport and he needed a phone, but most of all he needed to disappear before the highway patrol cruiser made it through the traffic jam. He had his CIA badge on him, but even with that, they would want to verify it, and that would take time he didn’t have.