Mark froze, shock stiffening his spine. His gut told him to keep moving, but he turned back to face Paul instead.
"That's right. It took me awhile to figure it out," Paul said, stepping down to the porch. He was in civilian clothes for a change, jeans and a grey T-shirt. Muscles flexed as he shifted his arms. He was clearly on edge, itching for a fight. "When I saw one of your buddies at the courthouse a few days ago, I started getting this weird vibe. I knew I recognized him from somewhere, and then it dawned on me—Steve Morgan. I met him at Quantico, years ago. We attended a summer OCS together."
Goddamn it! Mark stood still and silent, waiting for Paul to make his point.
"He was quite the rising star from what I remember. The Corps had big plans for him. Last I heard, he had invented some new water purification system for the bases in Afghanistan. After that he disappeared, assigned somewhere else. I never heard much more about him." Paul spread his arms wide. "But, ta-da, here he is. Your glorified bodyguard."
"Yeah, so what? Ex-Marines make great security guards."
Ignoring him, Paul started walking, circling Mark where he stood. "So, I asked around a little. Man, let me tell you, you are in deep. Just asking about you two got everyone in a panic." He laughed as his fingers played out mid-air quotations. "Mucho restricted." He shrugged. "I've heard stories about undercover infiltrations into civilian organized crime, but I always assumed they were urban legends."
Paul came to a stop and leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms at his chest. "Being a judge advocate gives me certain advantages. It is quite the file they have on you. Recruited at a young age, finding solace in the mentoring program after a somewhat traumatic childhood, you climbed through the ranks quicker than most, becoming a favorite with the top brass. No family to hold you back except for, of course, your sister and nephew, who only opened the door to Augustus Chilvati. All you had to do was walk through it."
A smug smile eased onto Paul's face, giving Mark a pretty good indication of what his own must look like.
"Oh, yes, I know that little fun fact too," he drawled.
I'll wipe that stupid-ass grin off his face, Mark promised himself.
Paul went on, as if reading his thoughts and knowing he was getting close to that rematch he wanted. "As for your other men, I've checked their files too. Each has their own special abilities: Bruce Morgan, electronics expert; Adam Wise and Ben Moyer, reconnaissance men. All previously part of an elite unit under your command nicknamed 'The Silent Ones' "—he waved a hand in the air—"mainly because of that whole affinity for knives thing you've all got going on."
Pushing himself from the railing, Paul straightened and cocked his head. "Any of this sounding familiar?"
"You done?" Mark ground out.
"For now."
"I hope you didn't tell your sister any of your ridiculous theories."
"I'll make you a deal. Stay away from her and she'll never have to know. She doesn't need all your convoluted shit." Green eyes drilled into his.
Her green eyes, Mark thought.
They stayed like that, fixed in a non-verbal, non-physical combat, until Mark's focus turned back to Virginia. She was the priority right now. Stay away from her? That was not going to happen unless she asked him to, but he would have to deal with Paul later.
Mark nodded and stepped back, putting some distance between them. "Captain," he said with a commanding intonation he hadn't used in years.
Paul's reaction was a habitual one, pulling his feet together to stand stiff and straight before responding, "Colonel."
Mark walked off. He was almost to his bike when Paul shouted over, "Have you notified Walt's father?"
Not wanting to announce Virginia's business to the whole neighborhood, Mark went back to the porch, his heavy steps revealing his impatience. "Why would I care about that asshole's father?"
"He's a Marine too. Didn't you know that?" Paul tilted his chin up and exhaled before muttering, "The world is getting too fucking small in my opinion."
Mark stood motionless as his mind raced. "Are you sure about that?"
"Walt talked about it one night when the two of us went out for a beer. Man, if only I'd known then—"
"I know," Mark hissed. They locked eyes, having found the one thing they could agree on.
Turning his head, Paul squinted into the midday sun with a frown. "He came into the gym one day with Walt. Virginia and I met him. He has a different last name, though. I can't think of it . . . something about a divorce and Walt's mother being remarried. He's stationed in Afghanistan, or he was at the time. He seemed uncomfortable when Walt introduced him as his father. I thought it was odd but figured maybe they weren't all that close."
Mark considered the possibility. "Shit, this may be it—the connection."
"Connection?"
"Can you identify this man?"
Paul shrugged. "I guess so. Why?"
Mark made a decision which wasn't going to go over well with the people he reported to. "You're coming with me."
)l(
Following the directions from her GPS, Virginia turned into the driveway of Bill and Carol Kelly's house. The large Cape Cod stood picture-perfect in its park-like setting of rounded gardens and sculpted hedges. Sunlit glimpses of the beach and ocean sparkled between the trees in the yard like bejeweled prizes in an Easter egg hunt.
"Wow, that's pretty," Janine whispered.
"It is, isn't it?" Virginia breathed.
She had driven home from Mark's house numbly. Paul had been there, asking all kinds of questions, and she couldn't remember all that she had told him as she packed the suitcases. From there she had pulled Janine out of school and stopped at her parents place to let them know what was going on. They had begged her to stay after hearing her story and seeing the condition her car was in. She could understand their concern—her face had to be reflecting the emptiness of feeling as if part of her had been ripped away and held to ransom—yet she couldn't give them what they wanted.
It was a long drive to Bodega Bay in Sonoma County, but this was the place she was drawn to, to be near Jack in some way. It had been the last call she had made—delivering the discovery of Jack's killer to the Kellys, then seeking their permission to come—before turning off her cell phone.
Bill was in the driveway when she pulled up. He greeted her with a fierce hug once she stepped out of the car. "We are so happy you two are here," he said as he lifted Janine into his arms for her own squeeze.
"I'm sorry about the damage." Virginia looked down at the Mustang, drawing Bill's attention to it.
He waved away her concern. "Jack had all the modifications done here, so I know who to call. I'll just pull it into the garage." Virginia's gaze went to where he had pointed. What he called a garage had a second story, complete with balcony, and its own colorful array of gardens. It would have been mistaken for another home if it weren't for the four sets of carriage-style doors taking up the first floor.
He nodded to the house as he lowered Janine to the ground. "Go on in. Carol is inside. I'll bring up your bags. I hope you're hungry because she hasn't stopped cooking since you called."
Bill wasn't kidding. Carol was in the kitchen, going above and beyond judging by the amount of food spread out. After a tearful hello, she insisted they sit down and eat. Although not feeling hungry at first, Virginia ended up having seconds it was so delicious.
The Kellys put her in Jack's old bedroom, giving Janine the guest room beside it. Virginia spent most of the next hour looking at the memorabilia from Jack's life spread throughout the room. She traced his face in a framed picture. Dressed in uniform—most likely the day he graduated the academy—he looked young and stoically proud as he sat posed for the headshot.
"I could use your help right now," she whispered. "Tell me what to do." She blinked back the tears knowing it would only make him sad to see her cry.
Before going to bed, she switched on her phone. Listening to Mark's message, she smiled at his explanation, thinking how foolish she was to have not remembered that. She played the message twice, craving the sound of his voice while having to fight the panic rising in her throat as the day's events rushed back at her. Her fingers shook as they took to the keys, texting the same simple message to Mark, Paul, and her parents:
I'M OKAY.
That was it. The phone was turned off, silencing that part of her world again until she was better ready to face it.
)l(
Paul followed the motorcycle as it pulled up to an unassuming five-story office building in the warehouse district near LAX. It looked like every other boxy structure in the industrial area except for the high security fencing and anti-ram bollards surrounding it.
Spinelli came to a stop at the gate and talked to the guard on duty, pointing back to Paul's car a few times in the process. The guard was not easily persuaded and used the phone on the wall next to him to call someone of significance.
Someone likely looking down from the windows above.
Someone with more authority than the three of them currently at a standstill at the gate.
It took a few minutes and a lot of back-and-forth calls before the guard finally let them through. Paul parked next to the bike, got out of his car, and waited for the helmet to come off before asking, "What is this place?"
Ignoring the question, Spinelli headed toward the building, forcing Paul to follow in order to get his answer. At the door, the bastard paused and half-turned his head, his profile rigid. "It's on a need-to-know basis. Don't ask questions and only speak when you're spoken to."
"Fine," Paul spat.
Upon entering the building, Spinelli flashed a card to the guard in the lobby, who nodded back. The elevator delivered them to a third-floor, non-descript hallway that was silent except for the long tubes of fluorescent bulbs that buzzed and flickered but did their job, flooding the empty space with cold, white light. To both the left and right, steel security doors with keypad combination locks stood like soldiers on duty. If somebody had made it this far without permission, their only choice would be to turn around and get back on that elevator.
Spinelli went right and punched in a series of numbers. The room they walked into was spacious and hectic. Roughly twenty people were within view, most of them sitting at large video monitors with others standing in a group behind them to observe what was on the screens. Higher-ups could be seen in the glass enclosed offices occupying the outer walls while those of lesser standing inhabited cubicles squared off around the main room. Scattered among them were the messengers that moved back and forth between locations.
A man in a suit with an FBI tag dangling from his pocket rushed over with a gritty look. He was short and balding but carried himself with a ballsy confidence that gave him a much bigger presence. At the moment, he looked like he was about to have a coronary as he thrust his finger at Paul's chest. "He doesn't have clearance here, Colonel."
"I'm his clearance," Spinelli said, glaring down at the man.
The guy held Spinelli's stare and waited, throwing off an I'm-way-too-busy-for-this-shit look.
It was somewhat of a surprise to Paul when Spinelli gave in. "He can identify a person of interest. Agent Carter, this is Captain Paul Sullivan."
"I know who he is," the agent said, ignoring the pleasantries. After another moment of deliberation, he motioned for them to follow.
"Okaaaay," Paul muttered as he dropped his attempt at a handshake and fell into step beside Spinelli. "I don't need this shit," he hissed in his ear as they headed over to the small group huddled by the monitors.
His irritation was brought to an abrupt halt, however. In fact, it did an about-face, came around, and kicked him in the ass when a few of the men turned to greet them, one of them being General David Evans, National Security Advisor to the President.
"Colonel," the general said, offering Spinelli his hand.
"General Evans, this is Captain Sullivan," Spinelli introduced.
Another handshake. "Good to meet you, son."
"My pleasure, sir," Paul said, trying not to sound too awestruck.
The other men were introduced, all FBI agents.
Once the formalities were finished, the general turned back to Spinelli. "Why are you in the Nest, Colonel?"
The Nest? Paul took another look around.
"I need the captain to check out some surveillance. We may have a lead."
General Evans studied Paul with renewed interest. "That's great news." His hand swept out in the direction of those sitting at the monitors. "Go right ahead."
Spinelli pulled out his cell phone, hit some numbers, and waited for the line to be picked up before saying, "Bruce, I need video from the gym from approximately—"
His arched brow and pointed stare had Paul doing some quick calculations in his head. "It was about a month ago."
"—one month ago. Let's look to a week before and after. We're at the Nest, send it here."
Ten minutes later, during which Spinelli gave the group a brief rundown of Walt's history, one of the operators at the monitors called, "It's coming in." Keys were pressed and he pointed to a widescreen hanging on the adjacent wall. Footage from the gym started to play. It seemed like everyone in the room stopped what they were doing to walk over and watch.
"You can fast-forward until you see me in there," Paul suggested.
The operator nodded and days of images flashed by until Paul saw himself walk comically fast across the gym floor. "There," he said. Another key was pushed and the feed slowed to a normal pace.
According to the digits on the bottom right of the display, it was three-forty in the afternoon when Virginia walked in the door. After talking to Dominique and spending some time in her office, she and Paul took turns spotting each other as they worked out together on the equipment.
On screen, Paul removed his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
A muffled, feminine "woo-hoo" coming from the back of the group had Agent Carter up on his toes and searching faces to get a bead on which of his female subordinates had been so unprofessional. When Carter's eyes found his, Paul winked and pursed his lips at the guy. The agent jerked his gaze back to the television. With a chuckle Paul turned to Spinelli.
But he would've needed a crowbar to pry those eyes away from the woman on screen.
Walt walked into the gym at four twenty-five with his police uniform on. An older man followed, wearing a tan jacket and a blue Dodgers baseball cap pulled low on his forehead.
"Stop," Paul directed. "That's him."
It wasn't much of a view of the man. The collar of his jacket was turned up, and the angle of the camera did not capture a full shot of his face under the hat. The operator had the feed advance in slow motion as Virginia approached the two of them. Paul came up to join them. Introductions were made, hands were shook, but there was never a time when the man in question turned full-on to the camera.
"Damn it," Agent Carter muttered as the Dodgers fan left the gym.
"That's it," Paul said. "He didn't come back after that."
General Evans turned to Spinelli. "You need to get your boys in here to sit with the captain and look at all their surveillance. He's the only one who can identify him, if indeed there is a connection."
Spinelli nodded. "Someone should talk to the cops before Walt's next of kin are notified. We need a filter on the circumstances surrounding his death before the father gets wind of it."
"I'll send an agent now," Carter said, rushing off.
As the rest of the group dispersed, Spinelli's hand came up to clutch Paul's neck and give him a benevolent shake. "Looks like you and I are going to get to know each other a little better," he said with a half smile.
Paul pushed against his forearm, knocking off his grip. "Don't get your hopes up."
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Okay, let me have it :D
Did anyone see this coming?
Don't be so shocked you forget to vote!! :)