Not Without Cause
His confidence in her was reassuring. For a minute, she felt as if her dad were sitting beside her. “And Prescott?”
He crumpled his coffee cup, the action holding a finality. “Prescott’s a civilian. If something happens to him, it would be unfortunate, especially if he’s innocent. Try to bring him back.”
Her words came out with difficulty. “How do you want it to happen?”
“I don’t really care,” he said coolly. “But if I were you, I’d find out if Haden knows where Prescott is before you take care of…things. Other than that, it doesn’t matter. You’re the professional.”
TELLING HER MENTOR she needed some time, Meredith left without giving Dean Reynolds a firm answer. She turned in her rental car at the airport, found her terminal and sat down, her thoughts a lot more convoluted than they had ever been before.
She’d loved working at the CIA and felt as if she’d been made for the job, but that had been the trouble, according to Reynolds. She’d been so good—“born to it,” he’d said, “the kind of agent we get once in a lifetime”—it was felt her talents were being wasted at her post in D.C.
Still, she’d been surprised by Reynolds’s support. The Agency was a place where it was every man for himself. Reynolds was an uptight, by-the-book patriot lawyer who’d been the Director of Operations for years. He’d survived four presidents, two wars and a terrorist attack at the CIA’s headquarters eight miles outside downtown D.C. He didn’t hand out favors easily.
At the conclusion of Meredith’s third year, though, Reynolds had pulled her into his office and pushed a laptop computer across his desk to her. Open on the screen was a written report, the pages of which vanished after she read each one. In the corner there had been a drawing of a small black box. She’d understood what that meant at the end—when the words Classification: Black Box had flashed across the screen, then disappeared.
She’d had no idea there was a level of secrecy within the Agency designated as black box. A class so far above the others that it was described only as silent. When Dean had explained the protocol, she’d been speechless.
“You’ll have to be fired from the Agency,” he’d said. “And you will have to leave in disgrace. No one can ever know that the Operatives have the president’s blessings. If anyone did find out—” He’d stopped abruptly and broken their eye contact. After a short pause, he’d continued. “If they find out, it would be bad, very bad, for all concerned.”
In a daze of disbelief, she’d almost laughed out loud at that point, the old joke about “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you” coming to her. One look at the older man’s expression, however, had sent her amusement fleeing. She’d gone home and agonized over the opportunity but in the end, she’d agreed, the patriotism running through her too strong to resist the pull of performing a service this special for her country. She’d thrown in only one condition—she wanted her father’s help. A former Navy intel man, he’d been quickly approved and even welcomed into the circle.
The Operatives had come together shortly after that. Handpicked by her father and cleared by Meredith, the three men on the team each had their speciality: Stratton O’Neil was a sniper. Jonathan Cruz used his hands. Armando Torres was a doctor, and no one understood exactly how he did what he did.
Meredith’s weapon of choice was the knife.
They were assassins and only a handful of people knew it.
Of those, fewer still knew the whole truth: Every hit they’d ever made had been a sanctioned one, vetted and cleared by the president of the United States himself. The secret was buried so well that even the men on the team didn’t know. At least, not officially. They’d guessed by now, she was sure, but nothing had ever been said about their status.
Haden had not been included in the group who knew these facts. He thought the Operatives were mercenaries, plain and simple. A year or so after she’d been “fired,” she’d run into him at Heathrow. He’d been on his way to the Sudan and she’d been going to Hong Kong. She’d wanted desperately to avoid him, but escape had been out of the question. He’d started straight for her the second he’d seen her.
“I hear you’ve a very rich woman,” he said without preamble.
“I make a living.”
His eyes had turned hard and glittery. “A real killing?”
The double entendre had left her trembling on the inside but she’d smiled. “You could say that.”
He’d shaken his head in disgust and walked away. Watching him leave, Meredith had understood, in a way she hadn’t before then, that her former life was truly over. All she had left was her job. Everything else had been sacrificed for her country.
With the motivation of a higher purpose guiding their actions, the Operatives had proceeded to make the world a safer place. She’d never felt a moment’s doubt about their goals until today when she’d looked in Dean Reynolds’s eyes and heard him say Jack Haden’s name.
Watching a 747 angle into its berth twenty feet from where she sat, she sighed heavily and admitted to the hesitation she’d felt during her meeting with Dean. She didn’t doubt his intel but something just didn’t feel right.
Her doubts plagued her the whole flight home. She knew the Miami airport better than she knew her own backyard but when she got in late that night, she got lost pulling out of the parking lot. Finally, she found the right road and she headed home.
Turning into her driveway at midnight, Meredith parked inside the garage and lowered the door. When it was completely down, she unlocked the car and retrieved her overnight bag from the trunk. Once inside, she flicked on the lights and turned off her burglar alarm, then she went through the house with her blade at her side. Her actions were routine but they weren’t taken lightly. A price had been on her head for years.
She finished her check and came back to the kitchen. Laying her knife on the countertop where her cell phone already rested, she leaned her hip against the cabinet and closed her eyes, her mind occupied with the images and sensations Dean’s proposition had brought back to her.
Haden’s face in the dark, his body, toned and hard, the touch of his fingers along her jaw. She’d hidden her memories beneath a layer of protective armor after their breakup, but Dean’s words had ripped that shield right off.
She’d given up everything for her country; the possibility of a family and a husband, not to mention children, were not in her future and they never would be. She’d traded those things for adrenaline and power—life-and-death power—and it was way too late to go back and make changes.
If she’d ever had a chance at having any of those things, it would have been with Haden, though. He’d been wild, but under the craziness there had been a rock-solid man she’d come to care for more than she’d expected. More than anyone she’d ever cared for before—or since. He’d been special and rare—one of those guys who caught you unaware when you’d decided no one else could possibly surprise you.
For a single second she wanted to walk away and ignore the decision she’d wrestled with for the past five hours, but she knew that wasn’t a real option.
If Reynolds wanted Haden dead, it was going to happen.
If she didn’t take the job, then someone else would. Haden would fall ill. Or get hit by a car. Or drown in a pool.
He was a dead man walking.
Before she could think about it any more, she picked up her cell phone and dialed. It was almost 1:00 a.m. but Dean Reynolds answered on the second ring, his voice deep, his manner alert. “Reynolds here.”
“I’ll call you when I get there,” she said. “Don’t try to contact me. You won’t be able to.” She hung up before he could ask any questions.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE HIT THE END BUTTON then dialed a second number. It was an hour earlier in Peru where Armando Torres lived, but he answered as quickly as Dean Reynolds had.
“I’m taking some time off,” she said. “I thought I should let you know.”
“That’s good.” His calm acceptance of her announcement was typical. Nothing ruffled Armando, except his new wife. They’d met when she’d come to his clinic near Machu Picchu in search of some answers to questions from her past. He’d helped her find them and they’d fallen in love in the process. “Are you going somewhere warm where the water is blue and the drinks are cold?”
“I’m going to Guatemala,” she answered. “Does that count?”
A small silence built. “Since there is no other reason to visit that godforsaken country, I must assume you’re an aficionado of antiquities and I didn’t know it.”
“I’m not, but a friend of mine is having some problems. I’m going down there to see if I can help.”
“You have a friend besides Julia?” His voice lightened. “I don’t believe it!”
Meredith chuckled. Armando had met her best friend, Julia Vandamme when she and Jonathan Cruz had married a short time ago. Cruz had saved Julia from a very bad situation in Colombia before stealing her heart.
“This is a friend I don’t usually claim, but I think he’s gotten himself into some trouble. I can’t walk away.”
Armando’s voice stayed neutral. “Trouble in Guatemala can be deadly. It’s not a nice place.”
“That’s why I wanted you to know where I’ll be. Whatever happens, it won’t be easy.”
“Maybe you should send Stratton instead?”
Stratton O’Neil had left the Operatives, but he still helped them out on occasion. He was very good in tricky situations.
“I’d like to send him,” she said now, “but this is something I have to do.”
“Are you sure?”
She looked out to the courtyard where a late night shower had left diamonds glittering on the leaves of the ferns. All her windows faced the courtyard. There were no openings to the street and the world beyond, a metaphor for her life, she’d often thought.
“I don’t really like Guatemala,” she mused. “I don’t understand the country but yes, I’m sure. I don’t have a choice.”
“Meredith, por favor, we always have choices. You know that better than anyone,” he chided her gently. “You have had to make some hard ones yourself.”
“You have, too, my friend.”
“Maybe so, but that is life, eh?”
“I suppose.”
He hesitated, as polite as ever, but his concern overrode his reserve. “If you have a lack of enthusiasm about this situation, perhaps it is best to reconsider?”
“I’ve already committed myself. That isn’t an option.”
“Which only serves to make my point.”
“You’re right,” she said. “But I said I’d help.”
“I understand,” he conceded. “Some obligations must be met, regardless of their cost.”
“Thanks for listening. You’re a good friend, Armando.”
“Return the favor by staying safe.”
“I’ll do my best.”
THE RAINY SEASON WAS supposed to stop at the end of May but someone had forgotten to tell Mother Nature. Water glistened in black puddles when Meredith stepped outside the terminal at La Aurora International in Guatemala City the following night, a cool breeze accompanying the errant drips still falling from the edge of the roof. She pulled her sweater close as she passed five men in military garb. They each carried an automatic weapon slung casually over the shoulder and they watched Meredith as she headed toward the waiting taxis, a single light bag in her hand.
The president of Guatemala had been overthrown in the late fifties and since that time, the government, such as it was, had been under the command of a parade of generals and dictators, each more corrupt than the previous. In the eighties, the country had turned into a killing field. Things had gotten better in the late 90s, but no one forgot what it had been like and most expected it would return. The poverty was staggering.
The address she gave the taxi driver was in the Zona Viva, an area of town comprised of restaurants and hotels with plenty of upscale houses as well. Traffic was heavy despite the lateness of the hour but they got there eventually. She tipped the driver an amount reasonable enough to be acceptable but not enough to be remembered, then climbed out of the car in front of a hotel. Walking briskly, she lost herself in the crowd of pedestrians coming toward her. Four blocks later, she turned south. The commercial buildings became villas and fifteen minutes after that, she stopped and tapped twice on a wooden fence. A gate, unseen until that point, swung back, a slice of light spilling out from behind it to the darkened sidewalk. Meredith slid inside and the lock clicked behind her.
She’d never been in this particular house but it was so similar to the ones she always used that she barely noticed its comfortable furniture or generous rooms. The only thing she cared about was privacy and anonymity. Having to worry about someone recognizing her was the last thing she wanted. She made a quick check of the windows and doors, then had an even quicker conversation with the man who’d opened the gate. He knew better than to ask any questions and twenty minutes after she’d arrived, Meredith was settled in. The maps she’d requested were on the kitchen table. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down with the phone.
The first number she dialed was Cipriano Barrisito’s. She’d called him from the States before leaving and told him what she needed. She listened to the phone ring and thought about the tasks that faced her.
His voice was slick and deep when he answered. He was a fixer, a man who hung on the edges of both good and bad, doing whatever needed to be done for whoever had the money. “¿Bueno?”
“It’s me,” she said. “I’m here.”
“That’s good. Was your journey a smooth one?”
“I’m still in one piece,” she said. “Will I see you tonight?”
“Actually, I’m sending my cousin, Rosario. When I told the family that I needed some information of a certain type, she came to me.” He laughed. “You know how it works. She has a friend, who has a friend, who has a friend….”
Barrisito’s “family” consisted of a dozen or so hookers he ran in the center of town. They represented only one facet of his organization, but when he needed to know something, the women were where he went first.
Meredith murmured her assent, but when he spoke again, his tone was guarded and uncertain, a fact that made her nervous. “I’m not sure we can shed any light on the problem, though.”
She hid her reaction by mock surprise. “Your family is always so friendly and helpful, mi amigo. I find that hard to believe. What are you saying?”
“The situation is…fluid, as you like to say in the north. The friend you inquired about seems to be out of town at the moment. Perhaps he’s joined the other gentleman you mentioned?”
As was her way, Meredith had explained as little as possible when she’d called Cipri earlier. She needed to locate Brad Prescott, she’d said, and Jack Haden might be able to help. Was he around?
“They’re both out of pocket now?” she asked.
“That seems to be the case,” Barrisito said. “I may have a handle on where they went, but like I said, I’m not sure at this point.”
“How long has my friend been gone?”
“That, I don’t know. All I do know is that he didn’t turn up for work yesterday or today. I may learn more within the next hour. If I do, Cousin Rosario will tell you when you see her.”
They said their goodbyes, Meredith’s concern rising over this latest turn of events. Where in the hell was Haden? Had he gone back to the States? For half a second, she thought of calling Reynolds to see what he knew, but in the end, she decided to stick with her original plan.
A little after eleven, she headed back to the business district. The bar was easy to find, its blaring techno pop competing with the even louder salsa music coming from the place next door. She sat down near the door and waited. Five minutes later Cousin Rosario slipped into the empty seat across the table. Her skimpy yellow blouse and cheap black skirt advertised her work, her hard face and made-up eyes, further confirmation. They chatted in Spanish and acted as if they’d known each other forever, checking on nonexistent relatives and verifying their identities in the process. After sharing a plate of tapas they got up and left together, heading down a busy side street to a small parque.
They made their way to a bench under a huge mahogany tree. It was late and getting later but the parque was still fairly full, a family with five children sitting in the grass nearby, their innocent laughter totally incongruent with the conversation the two women were about to have.
Meredith spoke first. “So what do you know?”
The woman was accustomed to people in a hurry. She took no notice of Meredith’s rush.
“Cipri told me you’re looking for someone. A gringo… I came because I have a friend who works up north. By Lake Ati. She goes to this place once a week. It’s like a prison but it isn’t.”
“What do you mean it’s ‘like’ a prison?”
The woman shrugged. “It’s not an official place, you know? The men, they’re locked up, okay? But the guards, they let the women in easy, no hassle like the policia would give them. All they want is some thing in return. They get la mordida—just a little money, not big like the police—then the women, they do their jobs and leave. No problems.” She explained the layout of the compound, her hands moving gracefully.
“Who puts the men there?” Meredith asked when she finished. “Who runs the place?”
The woman looked at her blankly. If she knew, she wasn’t telling.
“All right,” Meredith said impatiently. “So there’s two gringos there, correct? What do they look like—”
“No.” The hooker interrupted. “Not two. My friend, she say nothing about two. There was only one. One man. Cipri, he asked me that, too, but hay sólo uno.”
The uneasiness that had started during Meredith’s conversation with Barrisito raised another notch. Just as he’d pointed out, situations like this were always changing, but Meredith had come down here believing Prescott was the only MIA. Then Barrisito had told her Haden was gone, too.
Now she was back to one man?
“Does this gringo have a name?” she asked.
“They call him Árabe.”
“The Arab?” Meredith frowned in confusion. She’d always thought of Haden as a younger version of Nick Nolte in his good days. Bright blue eyes, white-blond hair, broad shoulders, a gravelly voice. There was no way anyone would confuse him with an Arab. If the man in prison was called the Arab, he couldn’t be Haden. At the same time, the picture Dean had given her of Brad Prescott had shown a fairly young man with light hair and green eyes. His features hadn’t been dark enough to give the impression of a Middle Eastern heritage, but maybe his skin could have burnished under the Mayan sun. “Is he Arab?” she asked.
The woman shrugged again, this time with a casualness that tried Meredith’s patience. “I don’t know.”
“What does he look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he speak English?”
“I don’t know. Look, are you gonna pay me now? I have to get my money—”
Meredith waited a beat, then she leaned closer, her voice a fraction lower, her face expressionless. “I want you to try real hard to remember what your friend told you,” she said quietly. “So far, I haven’t heard anything that’s worth a single quetzal, much less the hundred dollars you demanded.”
The woman inched backward on the bench as a soft drizzle began. The rain hit the leaves on the tree that sheltered them. “I—I don’t know what else to tell you. That’s all she said.”
“Try harder,” Meredith pressed. “What color is his hair? What color are his eyes? Which cell was he in?”
“I—I don’t know—” She stopped abruptly, her hand going to the base of her neck. “No, no…she did say something about his eyes, I remember now.”
Meredith waited.
“My friend, she say they were vacíe.”
“Empty?”
“Sí, sí. That’s right. Emtie, yes.” She stood and held her hands up, palms out. “That’s all I know, señorita. There’s nothing more, I promise.” A second later, she was gone.
For another ten minutes, Meredith sat under the tree in the falling rain and considered her options. Then she got up and started walking.
Her feet didn’t head the direction she ordered them to, though. They started down Calle 6b and fifteen minutes later, she found herself outside Jack Haden’s home.
CHAPTER THREE
STANDING IN THE SHADOWS across the street, Meredith stared at the house then closed her eyes for half a second. She could envision Haden inside, tracing the patterns on tiled floors with his toes, trailing his fingers over the polished wood banisters, leaning against the stuccoed wall. Haden was the kind of guy who liked to touch things he was familiar with—it gave him a sense of comfort, she’d decided after watching him one day. He liked to reassure himself that he was where he thought he was and the things around him were his own. He’d touched her that way, too.
She opened her eyes and studied the home a little closer. Built like the others around it, nothing about the building stood out, which was probably one of the reasons it appealed to him. Two stories with a red tiled roof, the place was surrounded by a painted wall that looked to be about ten feet tall. The top of it was decorated with bits of colored broken glass, the jagged edges pointing straight up. Anyone trying to boost themselves over would end up with a bloody gash across the palm.
A black iron gate was set in the stucco and through the bars, she could see a small garden. The front door opened to the patio. There was no garage and reminding her of her own home, all the windows faced the interior courtyard. A dim reflection ricocheted off the glass of the nearest one but there were no lights on inside.
She glanced down the street. Haden could have afforded a better colonia, but he’d obviously chosen this one for a reason. She wondered if his selection had had anything to do with the lack of vehicles parked outside. If your neighbors were too poor to have cars, then you heard one when it came down the street in the middle of the night. Here, in times past, the sound of a car drawing near after dark was one people dreaded. They’d lock their doors and hide, praying no one would knock. In the morning, they’d get up and surreptitiously check their neighbors to see who had been taken away.
Things were supposed to better now, but who could say for sure? Haden would have been cautious regardless.
She edged down the calle toward a patch of darkness that spread all the way across the street, then she crossed, the smell of fried tortillas filling the air, the sound of a distant radio coming with it. She’d planned on walking by and nothing more, but when she was even with the gate, she couldn’t resist. Her hand reached out and touched one of the bars and the whole thing drifted backward without a sound.
She froze.
Haden would have never left the gate open if he’d gone out of town and if he was home, he would have been even more careful about checking it.
She looked over her shoulder in both directions, then glided inside the walled enclosure, her steps muted. No moon lit the sky but there was enough ambient light to make out the bushes and plants in pots around a central fountain. Edging around the perimeter, she headed for a door set between two of the windows.
The taste of fear filled her dry mouth and suddenly she realized her knife was in her hand. She didn’t remember pulling the weapon from her boot but her fingers were wrapped around it so she must have. When she reached the door, she used the tip of the blade to press against the wood and swing it open. The slab of heavy mahogany complied with a soft creak.
She wished it had stayed shut.
The room before her had been destroyed. There were holes in the stucco where things had been thrown and most of the furniture was upside down. A brown couch lay on its side, its ripped cushions scattered from one end of the room to the other. Two small chairs had been pushed over, too, their arms sticking uselessly into the air. The coffee table was the same way, but it only had three legs. One had been broken off with a savagery that made her swallow, a jagged piece of wood sticking out from the frame like a broken bone. The leg that had been ripped off lay near the shattered television set. The tip had been dipped in something brown and sticky. Her eyes backtracked the trail leading up to it. The line was long and ropy. On the wall where it began was a smeared handprint.