Page 39 of Witness Security Breach

Cold sweat broke out on Aiden’s back. “Are you sure?”

“Yep. His police chief in the Fifth District attested to his honesty, integrity and astounding service record in SWAT.”

The truth closed in on him. The fluidity of the men who had attacked them. Their precision. Their paramilitary approach. Their...professionalism.

They’d been ambushed by a special weapons and tactics team.

“This just keeps getting better and better,” Charlie said.

“Do you have a name and address?” Aiden asked.

“Sure do. His name is Frank Devlin.”

Chapter Ten

Everything Nick had told them played on a loop in Charlie’s head during the three-hour flight. She and Aiden had to go up against a corrupt SWAT team.

Without backup.

Without weapons.

On the enemy’s turf.

She cursed the hand they’d been dealt.

A flight attendant had managed to get Charlie and Aiden seats together, but they hadn’t been able to risk discussing their predicament on the flight.

Her skin itched, and she couldn’t wait to get off the aircraft and move.

The plane’s touchdown was smooth and the taxi to the terminal was fast. The tiny chime sounded, the seat-belt light went out, and passengers leaped to their feet to disembark.

The plane emptied from the front, people moving in a steady single-file stream, funneling out row by row. Charlie and Aiden went out the door onto the Jetway. Muggy air and the stench of kerosene hit them, and they moved on into the Louis Armstrong Airport.

Thanks to their flight time plus the two-hour time-zone change, it was eleven thirty.

Nick had passed along Devlin’s address. That was where they’d start.

They had to find the place on Rampart Street in the Seventh Ward, break in and search the dirty cop’s home for anything that might help them.

Sounded simple enough, but in the pit of her stomach she knew better.

They went to the taxi line and slipped into the back seat of a sedan. Not as if they could take a cab to the cop’s house.

“We need a car rental company,” Aiden said.

“Which one?” the driver asked. “Enterprise? Avis?”

“No, none of those.” Charlie shook her head. “Not one of the big brands or anything in the yellow pages. We want something away from the airport. Small. Discreet.”

The driver flashed a lopsided grin. “I know just the spot.”

Without asking questions, he drove them to a place fifteen minutes away. A lot with about twenty cars, located next to an auto salvage yard. There was a little shack situated between both properties, with two signs—Dan’s Auto Wreckage and Dealing Dan’s Car Rentals.

The driver honked twice.

A minute later, the door of the shack opened, and a man wearing a fedora stuck his head out and waved.

“You’re good to go,” the driver said.