“Have you seen the news today?”
“Yes. It’s terrible. But you can’t possibly think Michael had anything to do with it.”
“No, of course not. But there’s a cell-phone video of the attack going around, and the man who took it is in danger. Years ago, he turned state’s evidence against some very dangerous and powerful criminals. They attempted to kill him before he could testify. Until today, everyone-good guys and bad-thought they’d succeeded. Now that he’s resurfaced, I think they’ll try to kill him again, and I can’t let that happen. I need Michael to protect him.”
“You’re not serious,” Stuart said.
“Unfortunately, I am.”
“Why can’t you do it? You’re FBI, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’ve been ordered not to. The Bureau’s spread too thin. Until we catch the bastards who attacked us, my hands are tied.”
Evie frowned. “Even if I wanted to help you, what makes you think I have the faintest idea how?”
Thompson sighed. “Because for months, you refused to testify against Michael, and then suddenly, you agreed. Because I happen to know he wanted you to accept federal protection, even if that meant cooperating with us to build our case. Because…” she began, and then she glanced at Stuart, uncertain if she should verbalize the rest. Because despite everything, you still care about him. But she didn’t need to. Evie caught her meaning and silenced her with a glance.
“This is bullshit,” Stuart said. “You can’t just show up here and accuse my wife of-”
“Stu, don’t. She’s right. Michael and I have been in touch.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? After everything he put us through?”
“It’s not that simple, Stuart. He saved our lives. And whether you like it or not, he and I have a history. Besides, it’s not like we’ve been secret pen pals. He reached out a few months ago to insist I take the deal the Feds were offering. Told me not to lie or hold back to protect him. Said it was the only way for me to keep my family safe. So I did. For Lucy. For you.”
“And to feed his fucking martyr complex,” Stuart snapped.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? Sorry, Evie, but your ex-boyfriend’s not some tortured soldier with a heart of gold-he’s a bugfuck whackadoo who murders people for money. The sooner you come to grips with that, the better.”
“Fiancé,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Stuart-indignant.
“He’s not my ex-boyfriend. He’s my ex-fiancé.”
Stuart shook with rage. He cocked his arm back and threw his bottle at the wall. It exploded, raining glass and suds, and Thompson’s hand moved by instinct toward her gun, but Stuart was already halfway to the back door. He banged it open hard enough to shake the house and disappeared into the night.
Tears shone in Evie’s eyes. Abigail cowered at her feet. Down the hall, Lucy began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Thompson said. “The last thing I wanted was to drive a wedge between you two. Believe me, if I had any other choice, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t worry about Stuart. He’ll come around. He just needs time.”
“I hope so,” Thompson replied, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Do you swear that you’re not playing me? Because if you are-”
“I’m not. I swear.”
“And you really think that Michael can protect this man?”
“I honestly don’t know, but if anybody can, it’s him.”
Evie wiped her eyes and nodded.
“Okay,” she said, “I’m in.”
16.
HENDRICKS SLID INTO the booth opposite Thompson. She raised her mug to her lips and sipped, then set it down again but left both hands wrapped around it. It was a calculated gesture, he knew, intended to call attention to the fact that she was unarmed. Hendricks’s own hands remained thrust deep into his sweatshirt pockets, his right palm sweaty against the diamond grip of his stolen.45.
“That Evie’s truck out there?” he asked.
“Yeah. I thought you’d bolt if you saw my car, so I borrowed it.”
“Is she okay?”
“Evie’s fine. She sends her regards.”
Hendricks hesitated. “And the baby?”
“Beautiful,” Thompson said. “Just like her mother. Stuart says hello,” she added.
“Somehow,” Hendricks replied, “I think you got his message wrong.”
A waitress shuffled over to take his order, her tired eyes, oily skin, and frizzy hair suggesting that she’d been on shift since dinner.
Hendricks asked for coffee, black. In his earpiece, Cameron said, “Ooh-get me some!” Truth be told, he’d forgotten she was still on the line. He reached up and tapped the button on the earpiece to terminate the call. Thompson arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
Once the waitress delivered Hendricks’s coffee and retreated out of earshot, Hendricks said, “I’m listening.”
“I assume you know what happened in San Francisco.”
“Yeah. I saw. It’s awful. How are rescue efforts going?”
“Slowly, from what I’m told. Structural damage has made clearing the debris difficult. The wrong move could be catastrophic.”
“What about this True Islamic Caliphate? I confess I’d never heard of them before today. You have a bead on them yet? Any idea what else they might have planned?”
“We’re pursuing a number of leads,” she said-a rote response. As Thompson heard her own words, she rolled her eyes and slumped a little in her seat. “Oh, to hell with it. Who’re you going to tell? Truthfully, until today’s attack, those mopes were barely even on our radar. Nobody thought they had the know-how-or the stones-to pull this off. Which means we’re stuck playing catch-up, and we have no idea when or where they might hit next.”
“I imagine finding these bastards is the Bureau’s sole priority right now,” he said. Thompson nodded in assent. “Which begs the question: Why are you here talking to me?”
“Have you seen the cell-phone video the networks have been playing?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Who hasn’t?”
“The old man holding the camera is a former mobster by the name of Frank Segreti. Seven years ago, he walked into our Albuquerque field office, half mad and badly injured, and demanded to speak with the special agent in charge. I was manning the front desk at the time. It was late. Storming. The guy was so bedraggled, I figured he was just some crazy homeless person trying to get out of the rain. I summoned security. He incapacitated them without breaking a sweat. Then he put one of their sidearms to my head and demanded that I call my boss. Once I did, he put the gun down and surrendered.”
“What did he want?”
“Revenge. Protection. An audience to hear his tale. Understand, I wasn’t present when they questioned him, and his file’s so locked down, I still don’t have clearance to see all of it, but I got an earful when I escorted him three hours south to an FBI safe house in Las Cruces. He claimed there was a shadow organization-some kind of criminal UN, to hear him tell it-operating in secret within the United States. That every major outfit in the country had a seat at the table. That you couldn’t move so much as a kilo of coke within the contiguous forty-eight without their say-so. He said he’d worked for them for years. That he was their top lieutenant. He called himself the Devil’s Red Right Hand.”
As Hendricks listened, his mouth went dry. As casually as he could manage, he asked, “What did he say this organization was called?”
“Understand, we’ve never been able to confirm his story, but he said they called themselves the Council.” She sized him up for a sec, her gaze burrowing into him. “That name mean anything to you?”
There was no point lying, he realized. She knew it did. She could see it in his body language, in the dilation of his pupils. “Yes.”