Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Olivia

She heard Agent Cliff’s voice from the Farm, telling her to blank out fear, to focus on what would come next. Gay would worry soon something had happened, try to call her. Then he’d come looking, maybe track her phone, but he’d be too late. And this man had no reason to let her live once he had what he wanted from her. Whatever would happen was all up to her.

“Drive out of this hideous place and turn right on Wilton Avenue.”

Olivia drove slowly out of the Willow Springs strip mall, turned right.

“Where are we going?”

“It is not your problem. Drive slow, but not too slow. Go straight until I tell you.”

“Where are you from in France?”

He laughed, a scratchy, Gauloises laugh.

“You like the accent? Most American women do, it makes them think of sex and sweaty sheets.”

“Or of smokers’ breath, heavy on the garlic.”

She heard an angry hiss, felt the muzzle dig in, and she flinched.

“Ferme ta gueule! Keep your mouth shut, bitch. No, stop, do not go through that yellow light.”

Olivia stopped as the light turned, watched the crossing cars stream through the intersection, homeward bound. She wanted to ask him which French arms dealer he worked for, but she had to pretend she knew as little about the flash drive as she could. “What do you want?”

“You know very well what I want. You are going to take me to Mike Kingman or you are going to summon him to us. You are lovers, of course you know where he is. You will tell me now or I will have to persuade you.”

“I don’t know where he is, no one does. Don’t you mean what your employer wants? You know, the man who tells you what to do, the man who gives you orders? Who do you work for?”

The muzzle dug in again. She said, “Listen to me, whoever you are, if I knew where Mike is, if the CIA knew where he is, I wouldn’t be in a CIA safe house, hidden from you people. Of course you know all about Monday night, about those two men who came to my house. One of them was called Razhan, an Iranian security agent who’s been killing people for fifteen years for his masters. But you’re French. Who’s your master?”

Olivia felt his gloved hand reach around her neck and squeeze, hard enough that she jerked and the RAV swerved. He cursed, dropped his hand. She looked at him in her rearview. He was wearing sunglasses, a hat and scarf. She wouldn’t know him if she walked past him on the street, but she’d never forget his voice. She grinned at him. “You know Kingman is gone, disappeared. Everyone’s thinking he stole whatever it is your boss wants and plans to sell it to the highest bidder. Chances are he’ll try to sell it to your boss, so why threaten me when your boss can buy whatever it is from him? What’s a few million euros, petty cash to him, right?”

She heard contempt in his voice. “You give me an excellent joke. You are saying this agent is a traitor? This man you have sex with?”

Olivia shrugged. “Sex is only sex, isn’t that what you French say? Enough people believe Kingman’s a traitor. He’d be a fool to tell me, tell anyone, where he is. Hey, maybe he’s already contacted your boss.”

The muzzle against her neck relaxed a tiny bit.

Was he thinking through this new development? Would his boss be willing to pay Kingman for the flash drive rather than have him kill both agents? It would be much cleaner.

Olivia said, “Besides, do you think I haven’t already tried to call Mike? Do you think he’s stupid enough to have his cell phone on? It would be traced and he’d be found—caught—and this something you want would be in CIA hands. I’ll bet you he’s smashed his phone, bought a burner that can’t be traced to him. Seems to me he’s calling the shots, and you people are blundering around trying to take me when I have no idea what’s going on or where he is. If I did, I’d tell my superior and he’d find him, arrest him.”

“Even if part of what you say is true, you may be in this with him.”

She gave him a quick look again in the rearview. “But you should call your boss, ask him what he wants you to do, right?”

A snort. “I do not need to speak to anyone until you tell me everything you know. Shut up, keep driving straight. We are leaving this ugly city.”

They were already several blocks down Wilton, and traffic was thinning out. They’d end up in Maryland unless they turned at some isolated place he had ready for her and Mike. Olivia said, “Your boss wants this something Mike Kingman has. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

“Stop your ridiculous lies. You already know, you are playing the games with me. Be quiet and keep driving. I will tuck you away if I have to, make sure Kingman hears I have you. Then he will come to me, or I will wring your neck like the chicken.” He was leaning forward now, his breath on her cheek. “Turn right on Krager. It is what you call a shortcut.”

There was a red light coming up ahead, and a busy intersection. A chance. Olivia readied herself, studied the cars. She saw a big black Ford F350 driving fast toward the light on Krager, saw the driver was yelling at the person in the passenger seat, not paying much attention. She slowed a bit as if she was going to turn then suddenly floored it into the intersection. She saw a brief flash of the truck driver’s terrified face, felt the muzzle of the gun fall away, heard the man cursing in French as they slammed into the rear driver’s side of the truck. She was ready when the airbags exploded, but the Frenchman was leaning forward, thrown sideways. She pushed back hard against the airbag, reached down, and pulled her small Walther PP2 from its ankle holster. She flattened herself under the airbag and fired through the front seat, heard him yell in pain; she kept firing until the magazine was empty.

“Bitch! I could kill you now, but you are going to pay first.”

He didn’t fire back, so she knew he didn’t want to take the chance he’d kill her. He shoved the door open and ran. Olivia jerked up, pulled herself free of the collapsed airbag, and saw him—a tall man in a long dark winter coat, his face hidden by a thick black scarf wrapped around his neck, clutching his shoulder. Her Walther was empty. She looked in the back seat, saw her Glock, grabbed it. Horns were blasting, people yelling, and the driver of the truck she’d hit jumped out and stared dazedly at the RAV smashed into the rear of his truck and the woman running with a gun after a fleeing man.

Olivia yelled “Federal agent!” and didn’t slow. The man was running flat out, shoving people out of his way, but she was gaining on him. He was only half a block ahead of her when he turned off Krager onto Baker Street, then ducked into an alley connecting Baker and Mansford. He was fast even holding his hand against his shoulder. When she came through the alley onto Mansford, she couldn’t believe it, he’d already jumped into a taxi. Too dangerous to shoot at him or the tires. She memorized the license plate, stood for a moment, hands on her thighs, panting. Then she pulled out her cell. She didn’t call Gay, she called Dillon.

When Savich jumped out of his Porsche twenty minutes later, Olivia was sitting on the sidewalk, her RAV’s engine still sending up small plumes of black smoke. Two police cruisers and a fire truck were blocking off traffic, an ambulance standing by with nothing to do. Chas Gaylin sat beside her, three METRO officers hovering nearby.

She jumped to her feet. “Please tell me you got him.”

“METRO’s all over the taxi. You shot him in the shoulder, so we’ve alerted the hospitals and clinics in the area. Are you all right?”

She smiled. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Dillon, I couldn’t see him through the front seat, the airbag was collapsed on me, so I just kept shooting until my Walther ran out of ammo. Luckily he decided he shouldn’t kill me, so he gave it up and ran.” She reached down, pulled the PP2 out of its holster. “I love this little pistol, it probably saved my life.”

Savich smiled. “My wife always wears her ankle pistol as well. You did very well, Olivia.”

Gay rose, introduced himself, and shook Savich’s hand. “If it’s all right with you, I’ve been told to take Olivia to another safe house.” He stared at Olivia, shook his head. “This shouldn’t have ever happened. I was an idiot to let you talk me into getting the fricking pizzas. Believe me, Mr. Grace isn’t happy with me. I’ve got a big dressing-down coming and I deserve it. I’ll probably be reassigned.”

Olivia said, “Gay, I’ll speak to him, explain it wasn’t your fault, that I insisted since it was only a short drive.” She glanced over at the intersection. “My poor RAV, it really came through for me, gave itself up. Now I’ll have to get another one. Hey, maybe the pizza’s still okay, just needs to be heated up—”

Savich nodded. “Yes, to all those things. First, though, I’d like you both to come with me to the Hoover. Agent Hildebrandt, I’m going to make sure you’re never lost to me again.”