Mallory Kane - Under Suspicion

While it left Maddy with her hands tied, it worked in Tristan’s favor, as he could stay on the rig and work as much overtime as he could get, thereby having more time to eavesdrop on transmissions between the captain and his superiors and verify their conversations against the chatter the Department of Homeland Security had picked up about planned terrorist activity in the Gulf of Mexico.

It had already been established that much of the chatter originated from the Pleiades Seagull. On a rare week home with Sandy, Tristan had talked to his handler, citing several specific matches between unidentified chatter and telephone conversations that took place between the captain and an unidentified satellite phone.

His reports had prompted sending Maddy. By the time Maddy got there, Tristan was working practically nonstop aboard the rig. Once it was obvious that the captain was not going to allow Maddy on board, Brock had given her the alternate assignment of bodyguarding Tristan’s wife, Sandy, cautioning her and Tristan not to let Sandy know that she was anything more than a new friend.

Maddy had been there nearly four weeks by the time Tristan finally got a week off. Between them, they’d convinced Sandy to let Maddy stay with her while he was working offshore. Tristan was happy because he wanted protection for his pregnant wife.

Maddy was not as happy. This was her first field mission and she wanted to be on the oil rig, in the middle of the action. She approached the captain a second time about a spot inspection. But again, he’d put her off.

Now Tristan was dead, and Maddy felt responsible. She blinked angrily at her stinging eyes. Stupid tears. She had always struggled with her weak side. The side of her that sniffled at funerals and weddings, and sometimes even Hallmark commercials.

“Maddy?” Brock said. “Continue.”

“Right,” she replied, blotting the dampness from her eyes with her fingertips, then grabbing for two cups that were slowly rolling toward the edge of the island. “There were fewer people at the graveside service. I saw three men who were not at the funeral. Two are Vietnamese fishermen, a man and his son, whom I had not seen before. Nor had I ever seen the third man.” She stopped.

The third man. Once again, his image rose before her inner vision. His runner’s body unfolding from the BMW. The sunglasses that he’d removed to reveal green eyes. According to Sandy, his name was Zach.

“Assessment?”

“Oh, right,” she said, pushing thoughts of Zach out of her mind. “As I said, two of them were local fishermen, according to Sandy. Their names are Murray and Patrick Cho. They were respectful and dressed appropriately but seemed uncomfortable and somewhat belligerent, as if they were expecting to be grilled about why they were there.”

“Did you get a photo of them or their vehicle? A license? Make? Model?”

“They didn’t have a vehicle, at least not at the grave site. They walked back to town. And the entire time they were there, they didn’t speak to anyone. They just stood and watched. A time or two they whispered to each other. Once, the younger one, the son, pointed at Sandy.”

“Okay. Text me their names. I’ll have them traced. What about the third man?”

“He was well-dressed and driving a BMW. I suspect it was a rental.”

“So we can get ID on him.”

“Absolutely. His name is Zachary Winter and apparently he’s an old friend of Sandy’s and Tristan’s.”

“Did you get a photo?”

Her hand tightened on the phone. “No. He was watching me the whole time. Sandy obviously cares a lot about him, but I don’t think he’s just a friend, though. He was too alert, too ready...”

“Ready for what?”

“Anything,” she said as her imagination pitted Zach against a burly gunman, whom he took down with his bare hands as a single drop of sweat slid from his hairline down his temple. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked. Brock had said something else but she hadn’t caught it.

“Text me his name and the license number of his vehicle.”

“I don’t have the tag. He parked too far away.” She saw a car pass the kitchen window, then pull over and stop. “Oh, hold on. Maybe I can get it right now. He just pulled up. I can see the tag out the window, if I can just read all the numbers.” She angled her head a bit so she could see the license and read it off to Brock.

“I’ll see what I can come up with. You get all you can from him and Sandy DuChaud.”

“Anything from your end? Are you going to be able to get another agent hired onto the rig?”

“It’s not looking good. We’re trying to see if we can go another way to find out what Tristan overheard and if it’s an immediate threat. We may pull you out, based on what we find.”

“Oh,” Maddy said as another car pulled up to the house. “I’d like to stay,” she said. “Sandy’s pregnant and alone here.” A third car pulled up. “Here they come.”

“Who?”

“Everyone in town. They’re all here to comfort Sandy and eat the food.”

“Stay alert.”

“No problem,” Maddy said, resting her hand on her pocket, where she’d concealed her Sig P229 handgun. “I’m always alert.”

“Usually,” Brock said wryly.

“What? What do you mean by that?” she retorted.

“I thought I was about to lose you twice in this conversation. First with the cups and then again when you described the stranger who is ready for anything.”

“Give me a break, Brock. I was just reporting what I saw.” She felt her face grow warm. “It’s been a long day.”

“Maddy, we don’t know yet what we’re dealing with. But you know that you have to assume that—”

“Everyone is a potential threat. I know. Don’t worry. I’ve got this under control.” She did. She was confident and alert. As confident as she could be. Tristan’s death was unexplained. It could easily have been an accident, as the drilling company said. Accidents were unfortunately not unknown on oil rigs. But there was another possibility. A very real, very ominous possibility.

Two months before, Tristan had told his handler that the captain was becoming suspicious of him. That’s when he’d asked for backup and protection for his newly pregnant wife.

“Brock? I know we have very little to go on, but what if Tristan was pushed or knocked out and thrown overboard? He was sure that the captain had found out he was listening in on his phone calls.”

“The director is having that looked into, but it’s a pretty touchy subject right now, with elections coming up. No congressperson is going to be excited about the possibility of corruption going on in the offshore drilling industry.”

“But a DHS agent died,” Maddy said.

“No. An oil rig worker died. We’re not disclosing his connection to DHS. Not yet. The director is insisting on moving slowly. He’s got experts reviewing all of DuChaud’s communications for any clues.”

“Clues? He told his handler he needed backup and protection for his wife. Isn’t that a clue?”

“Agent Tierney, I have told you what the director’s position is,” Brock said coldly. Then he went on in a kinder voice. “Listen to me, Maddy. The director is concerned. He’ll be speaking with the top officials of Lee Drilling, the company that owns the Pleiades Seagull, very soon. In the meantime, we need you to take care of Mrs. DuChaud.”

“What about getting onto the rig?”

“No. That’s no longer your assignment. We’re trying out some new technology, advanced listening devices, to pick up communications on the Pleiades Seagull. So you don’t worry about the platform.”

“New technology? Why didn’t you use those before, instead of putting Tristan in danger?” she asked.