Page 111 of Until the End

Cutter laughed into the phone. Those two would chat for a little while, as they always did.

If Emily was going to gamble and make a play, this was the time. She spun out of her chair, pulse racing, and strode up to the tech-savvy analyst. “Hi.”

Willow turned, taking out an earbud. “Yes, Doc?”

“I just discovered some critical information that I have to relay to Sanborn immediately. About the bioweapons.” Emily’s gaze bounced to Cutter, engrossed in conversation, and boomeranged to Willow. “Do you know where he is?”

“No. Have you asked Janet?”

“I did. She doesn’t know.” Emily rubbed her forehead. “I would call him, but it’s classified, and I can’t discuss it over an open line.” She kept her voice low. “I have to tell him in person, as soon as possible. It’s time sensitive. Can you find him for me?”

“I can track his cell phone and give you his coordinates.”

“It’s turned off. I tried calling him to see if he was close by or could get to a secure line.”

“I have ways around that in case of an emergency.”

“Perfect. Start looking for him. I’m going to my car. Call me with his location.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Guilt stung Emily for lying and using Willow, for checking on Sanborn, but she was 0–4 in the relationship department. Every man she’d ever ended up in a relationship with had invariably turned out to be some species of filthy vermin.

Sanborn was a good man, the best kind of man.

She just had to prove it to herself.

* * *

Somewhere along the Potomac River

7:15 p.m. EDT

Sierra paced the ground floor of the abandoned warehouse along the river. She glanced at her husband, torn. She’d been ordered not to bring Yankee and she’d let him come along anyway.

It wasn’t as if he’d given her much choice.

Officially, he was the team leader, but when it came to balancing marriage and Alpha-Zulu’s command, authority oftentimes blurred. Alpha-Zulu didn’t want Yankee present for the Khan handoff for some reason, and her husband had refused to stand down and stay in the rear. On these deep-cover missions, it was hard to compartmentalize. Sticking to codenames helped buffer the degrees of separation and enabled her to do a better job.

Yankee looked at her from his position by the westside window and gave her one of his panty-wetter smiles—one of the things that had made her first fall in love with him. That, along with his sense of humor, courage, and integrity. His devilishly good looks and his six-foot-six ripped body didn’t hurt either. He stared at her now, his one good eye lit up and gleaming.

A terrorist attack on their team years ago—when they’d both worked for the CIA—had stolen the sight from one of his eyes, the hearing from an ear, and the unmarred landscape of his back. The car bomb might have scarred him on the outside, but not his heart. Not his soul. He was still one of the most capable operatives on the planet.

Yosef Khan grunted on the floor, six feet in front of her. He was blindfolded, gagged, his hands and feet bound, and had earmuffs on pumping music by Death Before Dishonor.

“Alpha-Zulu is here,” Yankee said, announcing the arrival of their boss as he looked out the window that overlooked the rear of the building where they had parked. A car door slammed, followed by another. “Shit. He’s not alone.”

“Who’s with him?” she asked.

Yankee drew his weapon and trained it on the doorway.

Adrenaline sent her pulse skyrocketing and she pulled her gun from her shoulder rig. “What’s wrong?”

“You’ll never believe who he brought.”

Alpha-Zulu, the man conducting this orchestra, the one and only Bruce Sanborn, waltzed into the room. A man trailed behind him. Reddish-brown hair the color of rust in a corroded drainpipe. Milk-of-magnesia-white skin. Glasses.

The gut punch of recognition dragged her to a different time, a different place. Seven years ago, Germany. She’d been on her first assignment as a CIA operative in the field for Sanborn.