Like any good cop, Ukka was diligent about practicing hostage drills with his family. His wife and each of his children knew that when they heard the word now, they should do their best to drop out of the way and give any rescuer the best possible shot. Kaylee had been a little late on the uptake, but the training and role-play had paid off. When she did move, Quinn had been ready to carry out his part of the bargain.
“Your mom?” he whispered, squeezing the girl’s shoulder, but watching the house.
“That guy hit her really hard.” Great sobs wracked her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.
“But she was still alive when you left?”
The girl nodded.
“How many in there with her?”
“Just one,” Kaylee sniffed. “The guy who had me called him Fico. He said he’s going to…” She started to cry again. “He’s going to do awful things…”
“Run to your auntie’s house,” Quinn said. “There are more of these guys down at the river and they’re probably coming this way. Work your way around behind the school. That’ll keep you out of their way. I’ll go take care of your mom.”
“Okay.” Kaylee sniffed. “Where’s my dad?”
“He’ll be with me,” Quinn said, as a shattered scream tore from the windows of the Perry home.
Chapter 8
Ronnie Garcia’s group supervisor turned to go, and then spun at the last minute, Colombo-style.
“You know,” Bobby Jeffrey said. “Why don’t you just call it a night? Get out of here. Go home, go to a bar, go for a run or whatever it is you do when you’re not guarding the nation’s secrets.”
Garcia’s heart was in her throat, but she smiled broadly, trying to keep it light. “I’m always guarding the nation’s secrets, Bobby,” she said. “You know that.”
“I’m serious.” Jeffery looked over the top of his wire glasses. He tugged at his tie to loosen it even more than it already was. “They didn’t order me to hold you, so I’m ordering you to haul ass. I’ll talk to this ID guy. You and I can discuss what to do about it in the morning.”
Ronnie took a deep breath. Jeffery had the face and demeanor of a man she could trust, with a reputation as a supervisor who took care of his people. A fifteen-year veteran of the Clandestine Service, he’d been yanked off what had to be a juicy counterterrorism assignment on the Pakistan Desk, and moved to be a group supervisor in Regional and Transnational Issues — Russia and Central Asia — just weeks after the new president took office. It was still important work, but pulling him off the major case was the equivalent of benching him.
A consummate spy, he kept his cards close, even among friends. He’d never say it out loud, but he seemed to know there was a movement against the new administration, and considering Ronnie’s association with the former national security advisor, he was smart enough to know she would be a part of it.
“Okay,” she said. “If you’re going to order me.” She logged out of her computer, then pulled the security ID card out of the slot in her keyboard and looped the lanyard around her neck. It was difficult to look nonchalant with her gut gurgling the way it was. Still, she didn’t want to look as though she’d just been caught looking for evidence that could bring down the presidency. “I’m not going to argue with my boss when he’s trying to get me to leave the office.”
She threw on a thin linen jacket to cover the butt of a Kahr 9MM. The pistol rested in a flat inside-the-pants holster that peeked above her light wool gabardine slacks and pressed against the fabric of a silk blouse. It was small enough that she hardly knew it was there. The light jacket made sure no one else did either. Reaching under her credenza, she grabbed the leather backpack that contained her credentials, some makeup, and most important, her prepaid cell phones. Giving the dial on her desk safe one last spin, she turned to leave.
Jeffrey stepped to the door of her cubicle, blocking her exit. She gave him the most relaxed smile she could muster.
“So.” She batted her eyelashes. “You’ll let me know what’s going on tomorrow?”
“Sure,” he said, “if they don’t cart me off to the gulag.” Jeffrey sighed, stepping out of her way. The lines around his eyes said he was only half joking. “But I have a feeling you already know what they want.”
He touched her shoulder as she slipped past. “Watch yourself, Garcia,” he said.
She gave him a tight chuckle. “Relax, Bobby. You act like you’re sending me on some suicide mission.”
Jeffery opened his mouth to speak. Then, thinking better of it, he turned back to his office door.
Ronnie Garcia’s cubicle was located in the OHB, or Old Headquarters Building, on the grounds of the George Bush Center for Intelligence. It was the iconic CIA building, made famous in movies and spy books with its huge seal of eagle, shield, and compass on the granite floor, portraits of past directors, and the memorial wall to fallen agents. Having patrolled these halls for years as a uniformed CIA security police officer, Garcia was intimately familiar with every inch of the entire campus. A relatively fast-rising star only months before, she was still low on the general pecking order when it came to seniority in the Clandestine Service and had to park in the hinterlands of the sprawling, mall-like parking lot to the north of the OHB. It was interesting to her that the closer spots were already vacant and the farther she walked — out to where the worker bees parked — the more cars were still in the lot.
She walked fast, low heels clicking on the warm pavement, but not so fast that she would look like she was fleeing the scene of a crime.
It was hot for June, not as humid as it would get later in the summer, but plenty uncomfortable for a girl who had to wear a jacket because of her firearm. Still, it was better than the uniform and ballistic vest she had to wear in her previous job. She pushed the auto-start button on her key fob. A half block away, wedged between a Lexus sedan and a beater Subaru, her black Impala flashed, and then roared to life.
“That’s pretty smart,” a male voice said from behind her. “Start it from a distance to check for an explosive device.”
Ronnie turned to see a man she didn’t recognize leaning against the hood of a dark blue Jeep Cherokee. He was tall, thick boned enough that he might have played college ball three decades before when he’d been in college.
“My mechanic told me it’s good for the engine to let it run,” she said, looking the man up and down. She didn’t recognize him. And while she didn’t know everyone at Langley, years in uniform at her previous job made her aware of most of faces that belonged.
“Still pretty smart,” the man said. “Unless someone rigs a tremble switch or pressure device under your seat — or, heaven forbid, has a radio detonator—”
He looked tall, even lounging against the Jeep — Ronnie guessed around six-four. He wore a gray off-the-rack suit that was rumpled as if he’d lived in it for three days in a row, but his shoes were polished to a high, military gloss. Dark Oakley Half Jacket shades perched on top of dirty blond hair that was long enough to be tousled by the breeze.
Ronnie gave him a suit-yourself shrug and walked on toward her car. It was broad daylight and she had been through enough violent confrontations that it took more than some creepy guy in a bad suit to scare her. Still, she was realistic and felt happy to feel the tiny Kahr under her jacket. A violent encounter wasn’t out of the question, even in the CIA parking lot.
“Miss Garcia,” the man said when she’d made it two steps past, “I wonder if I could have a word.”