The Rogue Agent (The Agent Series) Read online

  “I came here on my day off last month.”

  “We need to make sure it’s secure.”

  Krista led him up the path to the church. She unlocked the front door and entered, Tom behind her.

  A keypad was mounted on the wall to the right of the door. Krista approached it and punched four numbers. The beeping of the security system ceased, and she led Tom through the foyer and into the main room.

  The stillness and near darkness was like that of a cavern.

  He saw rows of pews divided by a wide aisle, at the end of which was an elevated altar.

  The layout was virtually identical to the Episcopalian church Tom had attended as a boy with his mother and sister.

  To the right of the altar was the door to what had likely been the reverend’s office. Another door was in the far left corner. In the church of Tom’s youth, that had led down to the basement.

  Above the foyer behind Tom was a balcony and organist’s perch.

  It was clear that this church had been shuttered for a long time, because the air was both stuffy and raw.

  He asked Krista whether the heat worked.

  “Yes,” she said. “The thermostat is in the office. It’s set low. I’ll turn it up. In an hour the place will be warm.”

  As she walked into the aisle, Tom said, “I’m curious about something.” She stopped and faced him.

  “You’re not the way you used to be,” he said. “Toward me, I mean. You never used to be able to look me in the eye. You barely even spoke to me. I’m assuming this is the real you, but why the act? Why go out of your way to make things so awkward between us?”

  Krista shrugged. “I really wasn’t going out of my way to do that. I guess I’m just not very good at lying to people. I was afraid of slipping up. Cahill warned me that you guys were smart. And anyway, sometimes you’d look at me in that way you have of looking at people, and I’d wonder if you knew.”

  “I have a way of looking at people?”

  “Yes. Stella calls it ‘the Sexton Stare.’”

  Tom said nothing.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” Krista joked. She paused. “She says your stare is what first attracted her to you. She says she could feel your eyes on her. I always felt like you were looking right through me. Like you knew.” She paused again. “Did you, by the way?”

  Now Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. You showed up looking for a job exactly when we needed you. I guess maybe I was keeping an eye on you. I don’t trust a lot of people.”

  Krista smiled. There was a genuine sadness to it, but there was also a hint of the awkwardness Tom had seen before.

  “Yeah, it gets kind of lonely, doesn’t it?” she said.

  Tom recalled Stella’s ongoing concern with the fact that Krista didn’t seem interested in finding a boyfriend.

  He now understood why.

  More than that, he recognized the sacrifice she’d made while assigned to keeping him and Stella safe.

  “Thanks,” he said. “For everything. And for what you did this morning.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “You do it well. I’ll make sure Cahill knows that.”

  Krista nodded once.

  “One more question,” Tom said. “Did you know our real identities?”

  “No.”

  Tom thought about that, then nodded and said, “I’m Tom.”

  “Nice to meet you, Tom.”

  “And is Krista your real name?”

  “Yes. Cahill had said it needed to be that way, in case you ran a background check.”

  “He thinks of everything, doesn’t he?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “I’m assuming protocol requires that you’ll need to contact him.”

  “I already did.”

  “When?”

  “The moment I heard the first shots. I transmitted to him the location of my safe house. He should be here soon.”

  Cahill was likely airborne at this moment, heading by helicopter for what was now no more than a heap of charred timbers. From there he would be flown on to this location.

  So Tom had maybe two hours, tops, to do what needed to be done. “You have some clean burner phones here, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll need two. And Stella will need access to the Internet. That’s her real name, by the way. Stella.”

  “It suits her,” Krista said. “I have a laptop and a portable hot spot here. Everything’s secured down in the basement.”

  “I’d like the phones as soon as you can get them. And then I’ll need to borrow your Jeep, too.”

  Krista nodded. “No problem. I’ll get the heat on first. After we get everyone inside, I’ll make sure you’re geared up.” She paused. “Can I ask where you’re going?”

  Tom shook his head. “No. But I shouldn’t be gone for long.”

  Later, Tom returned the .357 to Stella, who was seated in a pew with Krista’s laptop beside her.

  In her life prior to meeting Tom, Stella had been a successful realtor and investor.

  The recession had put an end to all that.

  But she still had access to the necessary industry websites, so it had taken her only a few minutes to complete the research Tom had requested.

  She whispered to him, “It checks out. The property was purchased by a man named Declan MacManus. It was a cash sale.”

  “And the date?”

  “The deal closed two months after we bought the restaurant.”

  Tom nodded. “Good.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, then Tom said a quiet goodbye and left.

  Krista was on the level, so some of Tom’s questions had been answered.

  But more urgent questions remained. He needed those answered, too.

  Using the portable GPS unit in the Jeep, he entered the coordinates that Carrington had shown him when they had shaken hands.

  How long ago was that? Tom wondered.

  It felt like days but was really only a matter of hours.

  The device showed the location and the turn-by-turn directions to it. The map overlay indicated that it was a rural area thirty-eight miles to the southeast.

  Due to the fact that the entire route was along secondary roads, the ETA was fifty-nine minutes.

  Taking out one of the two phones Krista had provided—the second was in Stella’s possession—Tom keyed in Carrington’s number.

  He recalled Carrington’s instructions regarding how Tom was to contact him by text message.

  According to Marcus Aurelius, what are the three disciplines contingent in overcoming any obstacle?

  All Carrington wanted was one of the three words, so Tom keyed in one—the shortest of the three.

  Will.

  It didn’t take long for a reply to come through.

  Location.

  Tom composed and sent his response: En route to coordinates.

  The reply to that came even faster.

  Bring shovel.

  Attached to the Jeep’s hood just below the windshield were a pick and shovel.

  Tom shifted into gear and drove.

  He had the next hour to think and to organize the many questions he had, but really all he did was relive the end of the home he and Stella had made.

  The last hours they’d spent in it—first falling asleep together, and then waking to the barking dog.

  Then the hell that followed.

  But everything he thought of—every moment he relived—only seemed to funnel him back to what the man he knew as the Algerian had said.

  You would, I think, have been better served had you chosen a different path than that of loyalist.

  If you had, perhaps, been more like your father.

  What had he meant by that?

  How did he even know of Tom’s father?

  But more came.

  I see now why he fears you as much as he does.

  I see why he wants you dead.

  I, too, want you dead.

&nbs
p; I dislike loose ends.

  Who was this man?

  And who was so afraid of Tom that he had sent a professional killer to murder him?

  Not just him, but the girl, too.

  Out of this cacophony of thoughts arose the question that concerned him the most. The question that both puzzled him and troubled him to his core.

  How had this man—this Algerian—found him?

  By the time he arrived at the location, Tom’s mind was racing.

  Despite its four-wheel drive and mud tires, the Jeep could take him only so far.

  The last quarter mile he’d have to cross on foot.

  Unhitching the pick and shovel, he walked through a sparsely wooded area, stepping over fallen trees and crossing rough ground.

  The GPS guided him to the precise coordinates, and once there, he began to dig.

  Thirty-Four

  It took him only a few minutes to reach the buried cache.

  The container was a four-inch-diameter, three-foot-long PVC pipe with caps on its ends.

  Pulling it from the ground, Tom unscrewed one of the caps and upended the tube, pouring its contents onto the ground.

  Everything the pipe contained was stored inside plastic Ziploc bags.

  The heavier things came out first.

  A pistol and loaded mags, one smartphone with a backup battery charge, a folding knife, several bottles of water and protein bars, and an IFAK—individual first aid kit.

  Among the lighter things were a leather holster, a map, and a small compass.

  The last to come out was the lightest of them all—a letter, also sealed in a Ziploc bag.

  Tom opened the letter and recognized the handwriting as Carrington’s.

  The second thing he noted was the date at the top, which was roughly one week after he and Stella, with Carrington’s assistance, had closed on the restaurant.

  Tom,

  If you’re reading this, you’re in trouble. Or maybe I’m the one in trouble, and you’re hoping to help me. Whatever the case, here are some things you might need.

  I know you’re a 1911 man, but enclosed is a Glock 30S and four mags.

  The sights are Trijicon HD night sights. They’re a little higher than the stock sights, so keep that in mind. I know you’re not a fan of polymer-framed subcompacts chambered in .45, but I’ve replaced the stock guide rod with one made of tungsten, and the added weight under the barrel should help reduce the muzzle flip.

  Obviously, the Glock is smaller than your 1911, so you can conceal it more easily, but its mags hold ten rounds instead of eight, and that extra firepower might come in handy.

  Let’s hope, of course, you don’t need the thing at all.

  The pistol has a round in the chamber, and the mags are loaded. Couldn’t find those lightweight, high-speed frangibles you like, so I’ve included these new polymer rounds that I find interesting. They’re fluted, which helps build up kinetic energy as they spin through the air, and even though they’re nonexpanding, the increased speed helps create a massive initial wound cavity upon impact.

  Nothing but the best for us, right?

  If you need my help, you know I will do everything I can. Recruiting you all those years ago was one of the best things I’ve ever done. Maybe the best. I’m proud of the man you turned out to be. Always remember that, no matter what.

  Your Skipper,

  J.C.

  Tom folded and pocketed the letter, then proceeded to gather up the gear.

  It was too much to carry, so he checked the PVC pipe and found a small backpack crammed deep inside.

  He loaded the pack and slung it over one shoulder, then holstered the Glock, sliding the holster into his waistband and clipping it to his belt.

  As he started to backtrack his way out, he powered up the smartphone.

  Halfway to the Jeep, however, he stopped to look around.

  He needed to make sure of something, and this forest was as secluded an area as he was going to find, so now was the time.

  Stepping off the path, Tom drew the Glock from its holster and sighted on a half-fallen trunk roughly twenty-five feet away.

  This pistol’s grip angle was significantly different from his Colt’s, so his initial aim was high and to the right.

  It took a minor adjustment to place the orange dot of the front sight just below his intended target.

  Remembering what Carrington had written about the Trijicon sights, Tom eased the muzzle up until the target was obscured by the dot.

  Then he fired a single shot, striking his target dead on.

  The bullet’s impact sent fragments of wood flying.

  Even with the tungsten guide rod installed, the weapon’s kick was wild—certainly wilder than the kick from his heavier, all-steel Colt.

  Fully extending both arms, Tom leaned forward more than usual and this time went for a controlled pair—one shot followed immediately by another, the goal being to place the second shot just above the first one.

  The first shot was dead on, but the second landed high and to the right.

  Tom knew this meant he was anticipating the felt recoil, so he made another set of adjustments to his two-handed grip.

  Raising his right thumb in a wide sweeping motion, he wedged the webbing between his thumb and forefinger up against the spur.

  This would help minimize the leverage created by the weapon’s high-bore axis.

  Covering his right hand with his left, Tom squeezed the heel of both palms against the grip, which allowed his right hand to relax.

  This in turn ensured that he could manipulate his trigger finger without affecting the aim.

  He sent another controlled pair downrange, these two hitting the target exactly as he wanted, the second shot landing just above the first one and creating a keyhole pattern in the wood.

  Tom then shifted to a fallen tree that was twice as far away and fired another controlled pair, replicating the results.

  He holstered the weapon.

  Seven shots had been fired.

  The Glock had held eleven—one in the chamber and ten in the mag.

  He exchanged the nearly spent mag with a fully loaded one.

  Out of the forty-one rounds he’d begun with, thirty-four remained.

  Tom was approaching the Jeep when he heard a buzzing sound coming from his backpack.

  He swung the pack around and pulled out the smartphone he’d retrieved from the cache.

  It was vibrating, and while the number on the display was not one he recognized, it made sense that Carrington would use a burner phone to contact this one.

  The message was another set of coordinates.

  Tom entered them into the GPS unit.

  By the time he reached the Jeep, the active turn-by-turn directions were in play.

  His destination was just fifteen minutes away.

  He was directed to a single-story motel in a small town.

  The main street was all of five blocks long.

  The motel had fourteen rooms, but only three cars were in the parking lot.

  Just one of those cars—a Ford Escort—bore Connecticut markers.

  Tom parked beside that vehicle.

  Getting out, he stepped to the passenger door and glanced inside.

  A rental form lay on the passenger seat.

  The vehicle wasn’t parked in front of a particular door but rather between two of them.

  Of those two rooms, only one had a piece of black electrical tape stuck to the bottom right-hand corner of its door.

  Tom approached and knocked gently, but the door was unlatched and the force of his knock was enough to swing it open slightly.

  He moved the door back a little bit more with his toe and scanned the room, but he saw no one.

  Entering, his palm on the grip of his holstered Glock, Tom made a quick search, ending with the bathroom, where he found a nearly empty bottle of Oban scotch by the sink.

  He was back in the room and making another scan when he heard a cell pho
ne ring.

  The sound was muffled, but he tracked its location source—the bureau.

  Stepping to it, he pulled open the top drawer.

  Inside was a cell phone, resting on top of a stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills.

  Tom answered the phone. “Where are you?”

  Carrington ignored the question. “I left money for you, Tom. Take it and get Stella and go. I don’t want to know where, just go somewhere safe and lay low. I’ll start working on new identities for you two as soon as I can. I’ll contact you by the phone in your hand when they’re ready.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ll stick to a similar protocol as before. Turn this phone on between five and six every afternoon. But drive a few miles from wherever you are before powering up. And keep the battery removed the rest of the time, just to be safe.”

  “Skipper, what’s going on?”

  “Hammerton was attacked last night. At his apartment. I don’t know the details. All I know is he’s gone missing, just like Frank Ballentine.”

  “Jesus,” Tom said.

  “It’s a shit storm.”

  “Men came for us, too.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Cahill contacted me. He told me about Hammerton. How bad? The attack, I mean.”

  “A dozen operators, full tactical.”

  “Stella?”

  “She’s safe. An operative Cahill had planted helped us get out.”

  “Yeah, Krista was one of my recruits.”

  It took Tom a moment to process what this meant.

  “You told Cahill where Stella and I were living,” he said finally.

  “Yes. He wanted to assign a close-protection agent, so he came to me. I thought it was a good idea. And I knew the perfect person for the job.”

  “Who else knew where we were?”

  “As far as I know, it was just me and Cahill. It’s possible Krista was his private asset and that he paid her with his own money, didn’t inform Raveis or the Colonel of his plan. But he also could have been acting on orders when he came to me—the Colonel’s orders, Raveis’s orders, orders from the both of them. They don’t really tell me a lot these days.”

  “Then why did they go through you to contact me yesterday? If any of them knew where to find me, why didn’t they just come to me directly?”

  “I’m guessing so you wouldn’t ever know that they knew exactly where you were. You made it perfectly clear to them on your way out two years ago that you wanted a private life. Letting you think they respected your wishes was a way to keep the peace so you’d be there when they needed you.”