Jeff Abbott - Collision

“I don’t know. I’ll keep digging.”

“Maybe the only want was wanting everyone dead.”

It still didn’t tell her why. She thanked him and hung up. She wanted to sleep-she had gotten precious little of it last night-but she couldn’t shut her mind down.

She called Margaret Pritchard. “Did you find out about Sam Hector, if he was CIA?” she asked.

“I’ve got feelers out. Don’t get your hopes up for a speedy answer.” She sounded uninterested.

“Feelers?” Impatience churned in her chest. “Pardon me, Margaret, but can’t you just call the CIA director and ask?”

“Please. If he was CIA deep cover, they aren’t going to tell me.”

“They will if you tell them he’s a suspect in a Homeland agent’s death.”

“Sam Hector is hardly a suspect.”

She told Pritchard about the Murad/CIA connection, what Mrs. Murad had said about a man called the Dragon.

“I don’t care about an idiot called the Dragon. He sounds like an extra from a Bruce Lee film. I care about Randall Choate.”

“Choate and this Dragon are both ex-CIA. Hector is allegedly ex-CIA. We need to see if they’re connected.”

“You would make me proud if you would follow a straight line, Joanna.”

It sounded like a compliment she’d wish her mother would make instead of complaining. “You hired Hector to give us logistical and security support in hunting down the off-the-book operations. But could he have his own agenda in finding these groups? He could be using us to piggyback for his own purposes.”

Pritchard made a dismissive huff. “He could hardly plan for me hiring him.”

“Maybe he didn’t plan, until you hired him.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock on the wall measured the wrath of Pritchard building. Maybe she knows she made a mistake in hiring Hector and she doesn’t want to admit it. It could be fatal for her career, Vochek thought.

Pritchard said, “He would hardly risk a lucrative business screwing up a government operation.”

“A businessman will do anything if he thinks the risk is worth the payoff. Who told you we had to go after the off-the-books groups?”

“That’s classified, but my directions came from a very senior person.”

“And Hector has millions in contracts with the government. He knows every senior person.”

“You’re making a presumptive jump.”

“Then test my theory. Find out about Hector. What are you afraid of?”

“Remember we work in a hierarchy, Agent Vochek,” Pritchard said coldly. “But if it will be of help to you, I’ll tug a bit harder on my fishing lines.” Pritchard hung up.

You’re stalling, Vochek thought. She could hear it in Pritchard’s tone. So either Pritchard knew more about Hector than she admitted, and didn’t want Vochek to know; or-far more frightening-Pritchard didn’t know about Hector’s background, and she had been played by him, and was refusing to see that she’d been played.

The phone rang. Ah, Hector hopefully. She answered her cell, frowning at the number-blocked readout on the screen.

“This is Vochek.”

“I hope you didn’t have a headache.”

Shock raced through her like steam through a pipe. She knew the voice instantly. The man at the hotel who had knocked her out, locked her in the closet.

“Yes. Hello.”

“I hope the headache’s past.”

“Nearly. I’d like to talk to you, Randall.” Her own voice sounded thin to her in the stillness of the room.

“Randall Choate is still dead. At least until you and I come to an agreement.”

“What are your terms?”

“Sam Hector goes down.”

Silence for ten long seconds. “Excuse me?”

“Hector hired the gunmen that killed your partner. One of his people killed Delia Moon and tried to kill Ben yesterday. We stole the guy’s car from him and it’s registered to a shadow company that’s connected to Hector.”

“I need details.”

“You’ll get them. When we meet. You come alone. Anyone else is there, I run, I don’t look back. Homeland gets nothing and you’re still hooked at the hip to a killer like Sam Hector.”

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable coming alone. You hit me in the head.”

“You tried to break my neck with a baton. Let’s forgive and forget.” She could almost hear the smile in his voice. “If I wanted you dead, you’d’ve been dead in Austin. I’m still waiting for the thank-you for saving your life by sticking you in that closet.”

She swallowed. “Thank you, Randall.”

“Soccer fields off Plano Parkway. Noon. Come alone. If I get a sense that you’ve brought company, I’m smoke.”

“Ben Forsberg. Is he all right?”

“Ben is okay.” Then she heard regret tinge Pilgrim’s words. “So you know-Ben is entirely innocent. He did not hire Nicky Lynch. I used his identity without his knowledge. But Hector’s tried to kill Ben multiple times in the past two days, so Ben’s shy right now. One more thing for you.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t have details, but if you’ve got any hot leads about a threat in New Orleans, take it seriously. That’s my Boy Scout moment.”

“New Orleans.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Randall?”

“Yes?”

“I want to help you come in. I don’t want you or Ben hurt.”

“Words are cheap. See you at noon.” He hung up.

Well. Pilgrim’s offer could be genuine or it could be a trap. Protocol demanded that she inform her superior.

She hesitated. She was not by nature a rule-bender. But… she knew Pritchard. Pritchard would demand backup for Vochek and the immediate capture of Pilgrim. They would have an actual rogue CIA agent-tied to an actual dirty dog group-in their custody. Of course she might talk him into surrendering, but capture would guarantee he would be in their grasp.

And New Orleans-what did that mean? She had no idea if a threat had been identified against the city. It was a lead she couldn’t keep to herself, it would be grossly irresponsible. Decision made. She called Pritchard and explained the conversation.

“I’ll contact the New Orleans office, see if they have a hot situation working,” Pritchard said. “Of course it will be a bit difficult to attribute this warning to a man who’s been presumed dead for a decade. Are you willing to meet with him alone?” Pritchard asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m not willing to risk it. If he won’t surrender to you, then I want him followed.”

“He’ll spot a tail.”

“Not our people. I’m calling Secret Service in Dallas.”

“Not their jurisdiction.”

“Ah. But he said he stole Ben Forsberg’s good name. Identity theft and financial fraud are under Secret Service’s purview.”

“Please. Let me handle this. Alone.”

“We already lost Kidwell. We have no idea of what this man is capable of.”

“And the things he said about Sam Hector?”

The long silence returned. “I want to see the evidence that he has.”

“Should we put working with Hector on hold?”

“On this man’s word? Please.” On the phone, Vochek could hear the tap of Pritchard’s nail against the desk. “Evidence, Joanna. Let’s find the meat on the bone first.”

Teach broke at ten-thirty Saturday morning. She gave them the name of the street and the apartment number-she had known about them for years, shortly after Pilgrim got the property under a false name, and let him think she knew nothing.

Jackie cleaned off the knife-not too much blood, the cuts had been shallow and strategic-and patted her on the cheek. “Lovely help you’ve given us. You’ve saved that girl a bad few hours. Now she can die an old lady.”

Hector gave her a cloth to sponge her face, her mouth, her legs. She trembled and he wondered if it was more from rage than fear.