Allison Brennan - Fatal Secrets

They were both dressed in black. Once they were out in the night they could blend into the surroundings.

“They agreed,” Noel said. “We have one hour.”

“Mr. Marchand, the news.” Ling turned up the volume of the television with a remote.

“… Bob Richardson earlier this evening,” the newscaster was saying.

The shot cut to film of FBI headquarters, evident from the seal on the podium and the American and California State flags behind him. The ticker moving along the bottom of the screen repeated:

FBI SAC Bob Richardson is releasing a new Sacramento Most Wanted list with a public plea for help in finding a dangerous fugitive .

Richardson said, “Tonight the FBI has learned that notorious human trafficker Noel Marchand is in the greater Sacramento area. We have a witness who puts him at the scene around the time philanthropist and lobbyist Xavier Jones was shot and killed near his restaurant in Clarksburg.”

An old picture of Noel was put on-screen and Richardson’s voice-over said, “We’re releasing the first known photograph of Noel Marchand, taken seven to ten years ago in Mexico.”

Noel turned red. Where had the FBI obtained that photo? He never allowed himself to be photographed, but it appeared posed. Then he remembered. He’d been fishing with friends in Tres Palos. On his own property. Tobias had a new camera. A present from their father as the old man died, half out of his mind with syphilis. Noel had let Tobias take pictures, but he’d destroyed the film every night. The hobby lasted less than a month, when Tobias broke the camera. Who had kept the film?

Jones. It had to be. The FBI was at his house, they’d found it. Not for the first time, he wished he’d made Jones suffer.

A computer-generated enhancement came on-screen with the voice, “An FBI forensic artist has aged the picture to what Marchand may look like now. Marchand is between five foot nine and five foot eleven inches tall and approximately one hundred seventy pounds. He has light brown or graying brown hair and blue eyes. He’s approximately fifty-five to sixty years of age. He may be traveling with a Chinese American using the name Sun Ling.” An old, shaded photograph of Ling popped onto the screen. “If you see either of these men, do not approach. They are armed and dangerous. Call the FBI or your local police department. A special tip hotline has been set up and will be answered by a trained agent.”

Richardson came back on the television and the hotline number ran on the ticker.

“Marchand is the leading suspect in multiple felonies in the United States, Mexico, and Central and South America. He uses multiple aliases, including Sergio Martin and Pierre Devereaux.”

Noel fired his.45 into the television. In rapid French, he swore. “That bitch! How dare she give them that name! I will tear her apart limb from limb. I will cut off her fingers and stuff them down her throat and leave her dying for the coyotes to eat for dinner. I hate that girl. I should have drowned her after I slit her mother’s throat!”

He pressed the trigger again and again, until his ammunition was gone. He threw the gun across the room, picked up a knife, and cut deep gouges into the handmade leather couch that graced the small cabin. When he was done, the only sound was his rapid breathing.

“We should leave now,” Ling said quietly.

“Right. The buyers.” He shook his head to clear it.

“I mean, we should leave the country.”

“No.”

“Sir, it’s too dangerous-”

“I said no! I’m not walking away from my money. I had to pay out of pocket to change the day and time. I’m not leaving half a million dollars behind.”

“The first half million is already in your bank. I think-”

“No. Let’s go to the mine.”

“I would not do well in prison.”

“You won’t be going to prison.”

“I will get your plane ready.”

“You will be coming with me!” Ling looked at him with defiance. Noel fumed. How dare he disobey. Contradict him. Noel was in charge!

“I believe you’ve lost sight of the goal,” Ling said.

Noel forced himself to breathe slowly. Lower his heart rate. Take it easy.

“Perhaps.”

Ling relaxed. “Very well. Let’s go to the airstrip.” He turned his back to Noel.

That was his second mistake.

Noel threw the knife. It hit Ling right where he aimed, between the shoulder blades. It went in deep, deep enough that Ling couldn’t scream or make any sound.

His first mistake was telling Noel what to do.

Noel never ran away, especially from a woman.

He retrieved his gun, calmly reloaded it. He felt much better now that he had a game plan. Headlights cut a swath of light across the room, then stopped. One long, three quick beeps of the horn and Noel was assured Ignacio had arrived.

He’d lost half his U.S. team during this operation. Someone had to pay for his losses. Hell, a lot of people were going to pay.

Noel stepped over Ling’s body without giving him a second thought, for the years of service, for the people he killed on command, or for the friendship.

If he felt a twinge of regret it was only because he would miss Ling’s perfectly steeped morning tea.

At Dean’s command, FBI SWAT team leader Brian Stone pulled together a team of tactically trained agents within fifteen minutes. Dean had Sam Callahan dragging the curator of the Calaveras County Museum out of bed to meet them at the sheriff’s department. Warren Shef field had the only known map of the closed mine. Dean wanted to consult the man because Callahan’s quick research told them the mine was severely unstable.

It was an hour before midnight when they gathered at the Calaveras Sheriff’s Department in San Andreas, twelve miles from the abandoned mine off Salamander Gulch Road. Unfortunately, the twisting road was narrow and treacherous in places, and the sheriff said it would take thirty minutes.

“Do you have a helicopter?” Dean asked.

“Yes, Agent Hooper, two. We use them primarily for search and rescue.”

“I need them.”

“One of our pilots lives quite a ways-”

Brian Stone said, “I can fly a chopper.”

The sheriff cleared it and called in the on-call deputy pilot. While they readied the equipment, Dean spoke to the curator.

Sheffield was skeptical. “The Grouch is dangerous. No one goes there.”

“Grouch? Don’t you mean the Gulch Mine?”

“Technically, it’s called the Second Quartz Mine. The primary mine is about five miles from there, and is open in the summer for tourists. The caverns are amazing, and you can-”

“I’m interested in this one,” Dean interrupted impatiently.

“The Grouch. The miners nicknamed it because it has a temper.”

“A mine with a temper,” Cammarata interjected, shaking his head.

Dean cringed. He hadn’t wanted to bring Charlie Cammarata with them, but Callahan said the man would be valuable since he was the only one who had recently seen Marchand. Dean relented. They needed every advantage they could get.

Sheffield nodded. “Fourteen miners lost their lives in the twenty-six months the Grouch was operational. It took nearly five years to build it, and it was open less than half that. Shafts collapsed spontaneously. It’s boarded up.”

“Are these blueprints accurate?” Dean asked.

“As accurate as they were since the last inspection, which was five years ago. During the inspection one of the geologists fell thirty feet and broke both legs. It took them six hours to get him out of the hole he’d fallen into because they had to shore up the sides, otherwise he would have been buried alive.”

“Sounds lovely,” Sonia said. “We need to get up there, Dean. If Marchand saw that broadcast-”