Set Up With The Agent
Set Up with the Agent
Lori L Harris
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Copyright
About the Author
LORI HARRIS has always enjoyed competition. She grew up in southern Ohio, showing Arabian horses and Great Danes. Later she joined a shooting league, where she competed head to head with police officers – and would be competing today if she hadn’t discovered how much fun and challenging it was to write. Romantic suspense seemed a natural fit. What could be more exciting than writing about life-and-death struggles that include sexy, strong men?
When not in front of a computer, Lori enjoys remodelling her home, gardening and boating. Lori lives in Orlando, Florida, with her very own hero.
For Bobbie Laishley and Bill Laishley And for the Harris Family: Trip, Kathy, Gracie, Mike, Nichele, Brett, Connor, Dillon, John, Billy, Patsy and,
most of all, for Bobby. Love You All!
Prologue
FBI Special Agent Mark Gerritsen ripped his shirttails from his trousers. It was just past 3:30 a.m. on a hot July night, and he was standing on the street in front of a modest home in a quiet Frederick, Maryland, suburb.
“Has the lab determined how much of the chemical weapon is missing?” Mark kept his voice low. As he stripped off his shirt, he glanced at Special Agent Colton Larson, who stood several feet away.
Larson was also down to his T-shirt. “They’re calling it sizable.”
Mark offered a terse smile. “In other words they don’t know, and they’re trying to cover their asses.”
He suspected it was also the reason the FBI hadn’t been alerted of the theft until the middle of the night—because those in charge of security, of protecting the people from the kind of occurrence that had just taken place, had been scrambling to protect their jobs instead of the American public.
Leaving his shirt hanging over the open car door, Mark grabbed the heavy body armor off the seat and settled it over his shoulders. He shrugged the protection into position before pressing down on the Velcro straps. The rest of the counterterrorism unit had been contacted but was unlikely to arrive in time, which meant Mark and Larson would be working with a local SWAT team.
The target was a home two doors down from their current location. Mark scanned the front of the residence. Except for the dim front porch light, the small, brick ranch house with peeling trim paint had been dark when they’d arrived and remained that way.
The owner, Dr. Harvey Thesing, made a good wage, but from the brief background information Mark had obtained en route, over the past year Thesing had been spending his money on environmental causes. Which should have tipped off his superiors that no matter what his credentials were, Thesing wasn’t the best chemist to work on MX141.
Along with the rundown on Thesing, Mark had also received one on the chemical weapon. Though fairly stable in the powdered form, once dissolved in a liquid and vaporized, its lethal power was immeasurable.
Bottom line, they were talking some nasty stuff.
Mark checked out the surrounding residences. “How are those evacuations coming?” While he had been meeting with the SWAT guys, Larson had been seeing to the perimeter.
Larson looked up. “Local cops have cleared a block in all directions and are in the process of closing off roads.”
Mark would have liked to ask for a larger area, but there just wasn’t time for that luxury right now. It was a decision that he hoped he didn’t end up regretting. “Make sure they stick close by in case we need to get more people out.”
A SWAT team member rounded the front end of Mark’s car, striding soundlessly toward them. “Car’s in the garage. Bedrooms appear to be at the back.”
Mark grabbed the olive drab hazmat suit and stepped into it. Because he’d been assimilating a lot of information when they’d met five minutes ago, it took him a second to recall the officer’s name. Rogers?
Mark slid his arms into the sleeves of the suit. “But you don’t know which one Thesing is using? Or if he’s even in that area of the house.”
“No. We’re not picking up any sounds inside.”
Which meant they might find an empty house. That Thesing could already be putting his plan into motion.
Mark zipped up the lightweight suit. But what was Thesing’s agenda? What in the hell did a tree hugger do with a chemical weapon that he’d been instrumental in developing?
“What about a basement?” Mark asked.
“There’s one.”
“Any type of entrance?”
“Two well windows that are boarded up from inside.”
Was it possible that Thesing was sleeping down there? Perhaps because with the recent heat wave it was cooler?
Mark grabbed his holstered weapon and strapped it on. “Any word on whether Thesing owns a gun?”
“Nothing registered.”
Which, given current gun laws, didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot. Thesing could be sitting on a whole arsenal.
Rogers scanned the area quickly and then returned his attention to Mark. “How do you want to do this?”
“Covert entry through the front door. I’ll need for one of your men to handle the pick gun, then hang around long enough to offer some initial cover. Once Larson and I are in, though, your man needs to back off immediately. Best-case scenario, we reach the chemist before he has time to get to the stuff.”
Mark looked up, his gaze connecting with Rogers’s. “No one goes in without full hazmat gear, understand?” He waited until the officer nodded before continuing. “Have the rest of your men keep the windows and doors under hard surveillance, while still maintaining a safe distance.”
“Does this stuff have a name?” Rogers asked.
Larson had just stepped past Mark to grab a hazmat suit. “Yeah. Scary.”
Even as Rogers offered a tight nod and turned away, Mark sensed the local cop’s frustration at being asked to respond to a situation where critical information was being withheld.
Not that Mark had any choice in the matter.
They were under orders to avoid full disclosure of MX141’s capabilities, something that made him extremely uncomfortable. But if everything went well in the next few minutes, if the MX141 was recovered without incident, the decision to withhold certain facts could turn out to be the right one.
At least, that’s what he was hoping.
Grabbing the twelve-gauge he’d left on the sedan’s floorboard, Mark spilled the box of shotgun shells onto the floor mat. After collecting six of them, he backed out of Larson’s way and then waited while the other man did the same. They’d worked together often enough that there was no need for discussion.
With his chest already beginning to tighten with tension, Mark glanced across the hood of the Taurus and toward the residence. Still no sign of life. Maybe he should at least be thankful for that.
Mark took the lead, and by the time they reached the front door, a SWAT officer was already in place. Mark and Larson tugged down their night-vision goggles and adjusted their breathing apparatuses before lowering their hazmat hoods into place.
At Mark’s nod, the officer inserted the pick gun into the first of two locks. In seconds the door was unlocked, but it took another few to dispense with the safety chain.
As the SWAT officer stepped out of the way, Mark moved inside, intent on reaching the bedroom hallway as quickly and as soundlessly as possible.
The door to the first bedroom was open. A home office. Unoccupied. The doors to the other two remained closed. Mark stopped next to the nearest of them, and then waited for Larson to reach the other one.
At Mark’s signal, both men checked to see if their door was unlocked. Larson offered a slight nod, indicating that his was. Mark did the same. On Mark’s next signal they entered their assigned rooms as silently as possible, twelve-gauge shotguns leading the way.
Mark did a quick sweep before focusing on the double bed covered in unfolded clothes. He made sure Thesing wasn’t buried beneath the laundry, and then did a fast inspection of the closet. He hooked up with Larson in the hallway again.
Taking the point position, Mark moved cautiously toward the living areas. The element of surprise was off the table now. If Thesing was in the house, even if he was in the basement, it was unlikely that he’d still be unaware of their presence. Which made it more likely they’d be facing an armed suspect.
Motioning Larson to hang back, Mark skirted the dining room table. Cardboard moving boxes sealed with tape surrounded the table, and a mountain of newspapers covered it.
Because of the hazmat gear, Mark was drowning in sweat, but his breathing was still slow and easy. Like the bedroom he’d just left, the kitchen was a mess. Trash overflowed the fifty-five-gallon waste can in the center of the room, and a healthy roach population was chowing down on the food remnants covering pots and pans and plates. For a man worried about the environment, it looked as if he was well on the way to creating his very own toxic-waste site.
The family room was just beyond and appeared to be in the same condition as the rest of the house.
Backtracking, Mark returned to the kitchen where he waited for Larson to get into position before opening what Mark had correctly assumed would be the door to the basement.
Positioned just to the left of the opening, he peered into the lower level, looking for any hint of movement. Seeing none, he slowly lowered his foot onto the first tread, allowing the wood to absorb his weight.
As he continued to work his way down the stairs, his breathing became less smooth, less even. He kept his back pressed to the wall. Larson was covering him from the head of the stairs, but Mark was still in a very exposed position.
Halfway down, a single tread gave under his weight, the resulting sharp squeal enough to wake anyone. Seeing it as his only option, Mark took the remaining steps quickly and noisily. At the bottom, he dropped into a crouch next to the wall.
The conditions in the basement were even worse than those above stairs. Along with stacks of junk, there were more piles of newspapers and cardboard boxes and bags of trash. Why in the hell would Thesing hoard garbage? What kind of nut case were they dealing with here?
Larson had made it to the bottom of the steps and spread out slightly to Mark’s left as both men moved forward cautiously.
A workbench stretched along the closest wall and was the only relatively neat area. A washer and dryer occupied the opposite wall. In between was a gauntlet of every type of imaginable junk—a tricycle, a dollhouse, an old sewing machine. A rolling cabinet for tools. More sealed plastic bags.
It wasn’t until Mark got past them that he saw the bed tucked back in the far corner. And Harvey Thesing’s body on the floor next to it. Even from his current position, Mark was fairly certain the chemist was dead, but kept his weapon leveled on him as he closed the distance.
It looked as if a shotgun had been used, the blast to Thesing’s midsection nearly cutting him in two, while the one to his head had taken off half his skull.
Knowing it was a waste of time, he checked for a pulse and found none. But as he started to pull his hand away, he realized that, given the cool conditions of the basement the body was warmer than he would have anticipated. He checked the facial muscles—the first place that any signs of rigor mortis would appear—but found no rigidity.
“How long?” Larson asked.
“If I had to make a guess?” Using the method to determine time of death was risky at best. “I’d say only a short time—possibly less than an hour.”
Mark desperately wanted to plow his fist into something—into anything. If the damn lab hadn’t been trying to cover their asses…If they’d made the call an hour earlier…
Talk about being screwed. Even the relatively short lead time wasn’t going to help them. For the moment at least, they were chasing a ghost.
A ghost armed with the most lethal chemical weapon ever developed.
Chapter One
Four Months Later
Leaving her dark, wool coat and white scarf draped across the chair, FBI Special Agent Beth Benedict paced to the bookcase and scanned the titles. Experimental Psychology, Evaluation of Sexual Disorders, The Problem of Maladaptive Behavior—a bevy of volumes detailing human psychoses. Exactly what she would expect to find on a psychologist’s shelf.
As with her previous two sessions, she was the last patient of the day. The receptionist had shown her into Dr. Carmichael’s office, indicating that she should take a seat in one of the high-backed contemporary chairs. Dr. Carmichael would be with her shortly.
But since Beth had been released from the hospital, she’d found it very difficult to sit still for any length of time. Another reason that she needed to be out in the field and not trapped behind a desk.
She took a deep breath in preparation for the coming confrontation. The FBI had trained her how to deceive criminals, how to gain their trust, so scamming one psychologist shouldn’t be all that hard. She just needed to stick with the plan, with her “blueprint of progress.”
This week she’d remain calm and in control, no tears, no outbursts. And no more stony silences that suggested she was bucking authority. By her next appointment, the claustrophobia issue would be nearly resolved.
As with any type of deception, the key was to keep it believable.
When she heard the office door open behind her, her shoulder muscles tightened, and the headache that she’d been coping with exploded at the base of her skull.
Dr. Samuel Carmichael paused momentarily in the opening. He was somewhere in his late forties, with thick, prematurely gray hair and a quick smile. Because any good con required that you know your mark, she’d done her homework. He liked to sail and was on his second marriage, this one to a law student half his age.
“Sorry about running late,” the psychologist offered as he pushed the door closed.
“No problem.” Beth took a seat and settled back, giving the illusion that she was comfortable.
“Can I get you some water before we get started?”
“No. Thanks.”
Taking the chair opposite hers, Carmichael propped his right ankle atop his left knee before resting the legal pad in his lap. “So how do you think you’re doing?”
“Actually, a little better.”
“What about the nightmares? Are you still experiencing them?”
“Occasionally.” She kept the confident and somewhat bland smile on her face. Though this was only her third session, she knew the routine, so she waited for the psychologist to pursue the current subject.
“Are you saying there’s been a decrease in their frequency?”
“Yes. Some.” In reality, the opposite was true. Every time she was lucky enough to fall asleep, it was only a matter of time before she sat straight up, her heart pounding, the scent of spilled gasoline so real that it usually took her several seconds to realize that the smell was a remembered one, a cruel joke played by her own mind.
Dr. Carmichael scribbled a note. “And when they do occur, would you characterize them as any less vivid than when we started meeting?”
“Definitely.” She knew she needed to start offering more than short responses, but despite her earlier resolve, she was finding it surprisingly difficult, her emotions already bubbling to the surface. Her palms were now damp and as she met Carmichael’s gaze, her respiration quickened, almost as if he had leveled a gun at her chest.
But in some ways, the situation she found herself in now was just as much a life-or-death struggle as the event that had landed her here. Dr. Samuel Carmichael held her career in his hands. And since her career was her life…
Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “What about the claustrophobia?”
“It’s better.” Another short response. “I’m back to riding elevators. Wouldn’t you say that’s a pretty major step?”
She managed a slight smile, but when she tried to force it a bit wider, she felt her facial muscles freeze. And knew that she’d made a mistake. She could see it in his washed-out blue eyes and in the way his mouth tightened.
“Beth.” Carmichael uncrossed his legs. “I’ve been in practice for a lot of years. I know when I’m being manipulated. I can’t help you unless you’re open with me.”
She kept her gaze level. How should she respond? Pretend confusion? Try a small amount of honesty?
Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, having decided the latter was going to be the best course of action.
“You’re right. But you have to understand what I need to get better. I need work. Real work. I’ve been pulled out of the field and assigned to administrative duties. Do you have any idea what that includes? I run a copier. I collate reports for other agents. I answer the phone.”
“You do recognize that your boss, that Bill Monroe is concerned that the incident has left you—”
Irritation kicked in. “Incident? Isn’t that a slightly benign description for being locked in the trunk of a burning car? The fact that I have some difficulty sleeping, that I’ve had occasional problems handling tight spaces isn’t all that unusual, is it, given the circumstances?”
“No. What you’re feeling is quite normal.” Holding a pencil in one hand, he ran the fingers of the other one up and down the length as he studied her. “So you believe that you should be put back out into the field? Where your failure to function at a crucial moment could possibly endanger your life or the life of an innocent bystander or coworker?”
She held on to her irritation. “I recognize that I do have issues at the moment, but I believe they are temporary and controllable. I don’t feel they undermine my ability to do my job.”
“So, if you don’t believe you need help, why are you here?” He paused before adding, “My understanding is that these sessions are voluntary.”
“That is what the manual says,” she agreed. Unable to sit still any longer, she got up and paced to the window. Even though her SAC—Special Agent in Charge—had characterized the counseling as voluntary, she knew better.
“Don’t you want to improve?”
“Sure.” And she wanted to keep her job, too. She looked out at the dark night. The window overlooked the parking garage across the street where she’d left her car.
“Of course I want to get better.” She just couldn’t see how dwelling on problems could be therapeutic. That wasn’t the way she’d been raised. You get knocked down, you get back up. End of story.
With her carefully constructed blueprint of progress a bust, she decided maybe it was the right time to put at least a few cards on the table. And at the same time momentarily steer the conversation away from her. “You attended University of Maryland, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
She faced him. “And graduated the same year as Bill Monroe?”
It was Carmichael’s turn to look uncomfortable. “So you think you’re being set up in some way? That I’m your boss’s hit man?”
“It crossed my mind.” Having given up all attempts to control her body language, she tightened her arms in front of her. “I suppose after that remark, you’ll be adding paranoia to the list.”
Carmichael’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Do you consider yourself to be overly suspicious of the motives of people around you?”
She pretended to consider the possibility. When she’d been doing the background check on Carmichael, she’d done a little self-diagnosing while she was at it. She might be experiencing a sense of fatalism where her job was concerned, but it was fully grounded in cold, hard facts.
Beth realized the psychologist was still waiting for an answer on the paranoia issue. “No. I don’t consider myself to be paranoid.”
Even if Carmichael didn’t know the real reason she was undergoing counseling, the only reason she still had a job, she did. She was the prosecution’s only witness on the Rabbit Rheaume money laundering case, and they were worried that she’d fall apart during cross examination. These sessions were meant to keep her functioning until after the trial—until after she’d taken the stand and the feds had their conviction.
But once they did, all bets would be off.
For more than two years now, since she’d gone over his head, Bill Monroe had been looking for a way to get rid of her—not an easy task considering the previous glowing evaluations he’d given her.
The knot in her gut tightened. Even before she’d gone in undercover, landing a position as Rabbit Rheaume’s assistant, she’d been trying to hold on, to play Monroe’s game. She was hoping that those above him would somehow miraculously recognize that he was conducting a witch hunt against her. But even from the beginning she’d known that her survival was unlikely. That even though she’d managed to survive Rabbit’s car trunk, it was unlikely she’d survive Monroe. He was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Bureau. Part of the men’s club. And the FBI historically tended to protect those in higher positions, sacrificing lower-ranked employees.
Realizing Carmichael was watching her again, she slammed the door closed on that line of thought. She couldn’t afford it right now. “Maybe I’m a little lost at the moment, that’s all.”
“We all are sometimes. But none of us has to remain that way.” Carmichael crossed to his desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a prescription pad.
She found it difficult to hide her exasperation. What kind of pill would it be this time? She’d tried taking what he’d prescribed on the first visit, something for anxiety, but when the drug had interfered with her ability to function, she’d quit taking it. She’d needed to stay clear-headed, keep her wits about her.
When he finished writing, he ripped off the top sheet and handed it to her. Even though she had no intention of having the prescription filled, Beth glanced down at the writing. The name Harriet Thompson was followed by a local phone number.
“She’s a colleague of mine. She didn’t attend Maryland and doesn’t know Bill Monroe.”