Even fully sober they might not believe her story. What if they accused her of trying to set up Aggressor to cover her own illegal activities? They’d say she spoofed Duncan’s account to make it appear that he’d assigned her those clients, using company time and resources to pull it off.
But she had Jay. Surely if they both told the same story, the FBI would at least investigate.
Returning to the kitchen to retrieve her cell phone, she dialed Jay. The call went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, she left the phone on the counter and stalked to her room.
Two hours. That was all she needed. Enough sleep to take the edge off. After donning her favorite sleep shirt—a super-soft cotton T with the words TALK NERDY TO ME across the front—and a pair of pajama pants, Valerie brushed her teeth, set her alarm, and barely made it under the comforter.
Strange, vivid dreams filled her head, but disappeared from her mental grasp the minute she woke to a loud knock on the door. The clock showed she’d only been out for forty-five minutes. She closed her eyes and groaned.
Who the hell could be at the door? She never had unexpected guests. Or expected ones for that matter. If it was a door-to-door salesman, she might seriously contemplate murder. Sliding her feet into slippers, she threw on a sweatshirt to hide her braless state and padded into the living room.
Her cell phone rang. She paused in indecision.
Another impatient round of banging came from the door. Valerie stepped up and peeked through the viewer. Two men stood on the outdoor landing in blue FBI windbreakers, badges on chains around their necks. Her stomach took a dive. How did they know…?
Ring ring.
She yanked open the door, unable to hide the frown on her face, or the shiver that ran through her from the cold wind’s assault.
A tall, trim man with close-cropped brown hair stepped forward. “Ms. Sanchez?” He was not quite handsome with sharp cheekbones, a thin nose, and gray-blue eyes that matched the winter sky.
Valerie didn’t respond, just waited. Her phone went silent.
His eyebrows narrowed. “I’m Special Agent John Dresner, FBI.” He flashed his ID at her, and then gestured to the stocky black man next to him. “This is Special Agent Curtis Williams.”
His credentials appeared real enough, but what did she know? “What can I do for you?” she asked. Had she called them in her sleep?
Her phonedingedto alert her to a new voicemail.
Agent Dresner crossed the threshold, forcing her to take several steps back. “Valerie Sanchez, you’re under arrest.”
Scott’s alarm interrupted the faint music he’d fallen asleep to after less than an hour of snoozing in the back of the Tahoe. “She’s up and on the move already?” he grumbled to the empty cargo space, pausing the tunes. Maybe he should get a dog. At least then he wouldn’t be talking to himself.
The fog of sleep lifted quickly. Two men wearing FBI windbreakers and dark slacks stood on the open-air landing in front of Valerie’s apartment. From a hundred yards away through binos, Scott watched as she opened her door wearing a Virginia Tech sweatshirt and striped pajama pants.
Her rumpled, yanked-from-sleep appearance ignited his protective instincts. She sure as hell didn’t look like a threat to the nation’s security.
Except Hollowell had proof. She’d taken the bait.
But why now? Not only had she been clean since her father went to jail over a decade ago, but she knew Aggressor performed routine investigations of their employees to look for anything suspicious, anything that made them vulnerable to extortion. Excessive debt, an extramarital affair, exploitable habits like drugs or sexual fetishes. The same things the military and government agencies looked for when performing background checks for top-secret clearance.
The only thing they’d found on Valerie was the offshore account. But wouldn’t someone with her skills know how to mask her ownership? Scott didn’t understand how all that computer shit worked, so he had no idea, but she didn’t strike him as an idiot.
The two men entered her apartment.
Scott’s job was basically over. After less than a week of round-the-clock surveillance, she would be out of his life for good. With one hand, he started to clean up, placing his Nikon in his backpack, along with a couple of CLIF bar wrappers.
He kept the binoculars trained on her doorway, his body heavy as a tank.
It wasn’therhe’d miss. Definitely not. But he’d miss the work, the chance to return to his roots. In Afghanistan, he’d spent days at a time camped out in one position, he and his partner isolated from the rest of the platoon in the middle of enemy-controlled territory. Scott ate, pissed, and napped in the prone position, undetected thanks to his ghillie suit and sloth-like movements as he observed a group of terrorists to determine their habits and rank structure.
Surveilling Valerie had been a hell of a lot easier and light years more comfortable. But still good practice.
Outside, the agents exited the apartment with Valerie in tow, her hands shackled. The white guy had her large blue handbag slung over his shoulder, one hand on her, the other near his service weapon.
The FBI agents reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the parking lot where their nondescript, tan bureau car waited in a “no parking” zone.
Ten yards from the car, the fair-haired fed doubled over and dropped to his knees. The ear-splitting report of a high-caliber shot shattered the air.
