Jeff Abbott - Collision

“Ben… killed Delia?”

“We don’t know yet. What the hell is going on, Vochek?”

She didn’t like the chiding tone in Pritchard’s voice. “This software that Adam Reynolds was developing, about searching financial databases-what has the team found on it?”

“Why do you ask?”

It was not the response she expected. “Because Delia was dodgy about a project he was working on, said it was a prototype. She didn’t want to describe it to me. She was worried we wouldn’t return his property.”

Silence for a moment. “He was working on a way to identify and track people using false identities via combining information from lots of different databases. At least that’s what an encoded prototype on the system appears to be. But he didn’t save any queries or results from the program-I’m not sure this program would even work. And we can’t test it, we don’t have access to all those different databases.”

Vochek said, “False identity. One you invent, or one you steal.” The competing charges on Ben’s credit card made more sense to her now- especially if someone had stolen Ben’s identity. “I want to know why you told me to stay away from Sam Hector.”

“He’s just a contractor. We’re under the gun to produce results here, Joanna. He has nothing to do with-”

“He knows Ben Forsberg. He might be of help in finding him.”

“He’s not going to give shelter or help to a fugitive. It would be career suicide.”

Vochek couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. “You’re the second government agency to be shielding Hector during a criminal investigation. Why?”

“I am hardly shielding him; I am keeping you focused on what matters, Joanna.”

“I want you to find out for me if Sam Hector is ex-CIA.”

“You want.”

“Please.”

“Well, he’s not. There’s an extensive government file on him. He’s ex-army. Not CIA.”

“Never mind what his file says.” She tempered her tone.

“Joanna. Leave it alone. Just find Randall Choate. That’s all that matters. Don’t get distracted.”

“If Hector is ex-CIA, don’t you think we should know that little fact?”

“Sleeping dogs,” Pritchard said. “But I can tell you won’t give this up, so fine. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Thank you, Margaret.” Vochek hung up. She had a sinking feeling that she’d opened a box best left sealed. Sam Hector was a powerful and respected man, but too many of the threads seemed to loop back toward him.

Vochek clicked on the television, found a twenty-four-hour Texas news channel, waited for an account of Delia’s murder to run.

Dead. Adam Reynolds, who had called Kidwell for help. Kidwell and the guards. Now Delia. The same awful sense of helplessness that she’d felt seeing the dead Afghan boys, cut down by a covert group, clenched her chest. No more, no more, no more.

She dug through the phone book and called Hector Global, argued her way up the chain to Sam Hector’s assistant.

“I’m very sorry, Agent Vochek,” the assistant said, “he’s not in today, and I doubt he’ll be in this weekend. We’ve had a real tragedy here…”

“I know. Tell him I was at the hotel when his men were killed. Ask Mr. Hector to call me at this number. I need to talk to him about Ben Forsberg.” She thanked the assistant for his help.

She went back to her unfinished dinner, ate the rest of the food without tasting it.

Leave it alone. Just find Randall Choate.

She was suddenly afraid of what else she might find.

Pilgrim pulled the stolen Volvo, now on its third set of license plates, into the parking lot of the apartment complex in east Dallas. In the backseat were two sacks of groceries. Food and sleep sounded like heaven.

He got out of the car. He had been careful in approaching the lot, trying to make sure he wasn’t being followed, making sure no hunter lurked in a car. No one in the Cellar knew about the apartment, the same as no one knew about the storage unit he’d loaded with guns and cash. It was his escape hatch, his hideaway. He spent most of his time in the wonderful constant anonymity of New York City, but this dump was his secret base for any job that brought him to the Southwest or Mexico or beyond. He paid for the apartment once a year, sent cash for the utilities. The complex was seedy and the landlord was only too happy to have a unit that he didn’t need to worry about dunning for rent.

He had not been here in months. Another large apartment complex next door had been razed, a bigger shopping center rising in its wake, just the shell of the building-steel beams and concrete floors-in place so far.

Pilgrim headed up the stairs. Sitting in front of his door was Ben. He held a gun between his raised knees, loosely, not aimed at Pilgrim. On his wrist Pilgrim could see the remnant of the plastic cuff. He was pale, shivering in pain, and Pilgrim saw dried blood on his hand. He could probably take him in three steps, knock the gun from his hand. But he wanted to hear what Ben had to say.

“Hello,” Pilgrim said. “I’m really surprised.”

“I’ll take that as an insult.”

Pilgrim shifted the bags in his grip.

“I do what I put my mind to,” Ben said.

“You didn’t bring the police with you.”

“Are you scared that I’m here?” A challenge rose in his voice.

“Scared. Of you.” Pilgrim set down the grocery bags. “How did you find me, Ben?”

“I got shot in the arm. You patch me up and I’ll tell you how I found you. And I’ll tell you exactly how Adam found you.”

“I’m suspicious you would trust me again.”

“I don’t trust you for a second. You screw me over, you screw yourself over.” A hard edge touched Ben’s gaze. “When Emily died, I was so frozen… it took me two minutes to call the police. Because her being dead couldn’t be true. I refused to see what was right before my eyes.”

“It’s called shock.”

“It’s called how I live. I saw a woman-completely innocent-die today. I can’t see that again, not after my wife. I can’t keep running. I want to take the fight back to these people. Whatever it takes.”

Pilgrim picked up the bags. “Come in and let’s get you cleaned up.”

Pilgrim disinfected and bandaged Ben’s arm as Ben gritted his teeth. “An expert shot Jackie made, to wound you.”

“Don’t compliment him.” Ben dry-swallowed four ibuprofen tablets. He sat still and then started to shake, the adrenaline easing out of him.

“So, Sherlock. How did you find me?”

“Bugs you, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t like security holes.”

“Your storage unit-slash-army depot. I figured if you had a storage unit near a major airport hub, you might also have an apartment close by. In case you needed to hide before you got on a plane, or you wanted to vanish for a few days without having to travel. It made sense to be close to your resources, as you call them. You didn’t want me to know about any residence you had since you were planning to dump me as soon as you were recovered enough from your injuries. So I went back to the storage facility office and they remembered I’d been there this morning, moving out boxes with you. I was asking about renting a unit myself, prices and such, and the very nice clerk was looking up units on their system to see what was available. She got a phone call, and when she turned to take it, I snuck a peek at their computer screen and typed in your unit number. It gave this address.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t recognize you from TV.”

“I wore a cap and I talked in a thick fake Boston accent. I didn’t even use the Sneeze and Hide.”

Pilgrim went into the narrow, compact kitchen. “Tell me how Adam found the Cellar.”