control of the cartel. He had saved his own skin, but, heavily in debt, and with rival cartels circling, Lopez had been forced to go, cap in hand, to the cabal in order to survive.
The cost of survival had been servitude, something Lopez had never had a talent for. As lethal as an asp, approximately eighteen months previously, he had manipulated his cabal “keepers,” threatening exposure of their secretive and politically powerful organization if they didn’t allow him entrance into their upper echelon. The cabal had acted swiftly, executing their own people in order to neutralize the threat and setting a trap to take down Lopez. But with federal agencies—including Interpol, MI6 and Mossad—now locked onto both Lopez and the cabal, the damage control was too late.
A missile blast in Colombia had vaporized the Chavez fortress, located in Macaro, hundreds of miles east from Bogotá. Unfortunately, the cabal had missed killing Lopez and his right-hand man, former FBI agent Edward Dennison, by seconds. A further attempt to take Lopez out at a meeting in El Paso had also failed, and resulted in a state of war between the two organizations. Lopez had escaped, taking a wounded Dennison and his leverage with him—a book that exposed the cabal members. He had also left behind an interesting array of corpses—one of them Senator Radcliff, a bona fide, paid up member of the cabal’s upper echelon.
Lopez had gone underground, only to surface months later as the lead suspect in a series of clever murders, which had systematically decimated the upper echelon of the cabal, leaving one lone member—the powerful but elusive Helene Reichmann, daughter of Heinrich Reichmann, the original architect of the cabal.
The series of murders had been chilling and effective, demonstrating Lopez’s power and destroying a number of leads in Bayard’s investigation. Ultimately, the murders had proved to be a godsend, throwing the workings of the cabal wide and providing a huge investigative platform that meant Marc had been able to systematically take down both the cabal and Lopez’s networks.
The rich scent of coffee filled the office, overlaying the faint, lingering scents of the morgue that still clung to his clothes and skin. He hadn’t eaten—neither of them had—so while he waited for the coffee he called in some takeout.
Despite the caffeine, Bridges was a health nut. He rarely ate red meat and almost keeled over at the sight of fat, so Marc limited the selection to salads and sandwiches. In any case, after seeing Jim and the hollow emptiness in Jennifer’s eyes, he didn’t particularly care what he ate.
Bridges handed him a cup. “Willard’s in Florida. Rossi’s home sick.”
Otherwise Rossi would have been with Corcoran, and the hit might not have taken place. Supposition, maybe, but Marc doubted Lopez would have risked taking on two federal agents.
The fact that Lopez had known Corcoran was on his own could have been the result of inside information, but that didn’t necessarily follow. If his surveillance was good enough, and it probably was, he would simply have recognized the opportunity and acted on it. “Willard’s on his way back. They’re both on leave until further notice.”
Bayard studied the view from his office window while he drank his coffee. Ever since he had seen Corcoran, the back of his neck had been crawling. He had run through possible motivations, but the only one that linked both Powdrell and Corcoran was the investigation into Lopez. It was also a fact that the murders uncannily mirrored Lopez’s assault on the cabal.
Two kills, both running with clocklike precision and no concrete leads. It took time, planning and good information to carry out a hit.
Aside from the fact that his men were being hunted, he was also certain that someone within his own organization was leaking information.
Lissa, his personal assistant, tapped on the door, breezed in, set a box on his desk and dangled an invoice. Marc peeled some bills out of his wallet and added a generous tip. The gourmet restaurant that regularly supplied the building made a point of extending deliveries into the early evening specifically for them, and the service was always prompt.
Lissa flicked open the box on her way out and checked on the contents. “Looks like chick food to me.”
Bridges looked faintly outraged. “What’s wrong with healthy food?”
Lissa lifted her brows and sauntered out to pay the delivery boy.
Smothering the first gleam of amusement he’d felt in a week, Marc examined the sandwiches, took the beef and mustard and left Bridges with the chicken. “She likes you.”
Bridges started on his food. Lissa had been a reluctant focus for Bridges ever since he had moved into the office next to Marc’s. The combination of personalities was decidedly offbeat; Bridges the warrior monk, his principles as sharp-edged as a blade, and Lissa, divorced, sweetly cynical and with a city girl’s love of all things shopping. If anything ever happened it would be explosive. “You know you’re driving her crazy.”
Bridges checked out his suit sleeve. “No markdown ticket from Saks. It’s not ever going to happen.”
Just after five, Rear Admiral Saunders, Director of Special Projects and Marc’s boss, stepped into Marc’s office. “Any progress?”
Marc sat back in his chair. “Nothing concrete yet. I’ve pulled Willard and Rossi off the task force. We’re tightening security.”
He had closed down surveillance options around the building, but blocking every known camera wasn’t a cure-all. It was easy enough to install a hidden camera, and satellite coverage was a wild card he couldn’t control. If Lopez, or whoever it was who was targeting his team, wanted to watch them, there wasn’t much he could do to prevent that.
He’d also put a team on running traffic cameras and collecting security tapes from every business within a four-block radius of the café where Corcoran had been shot. It was painstaking work and the results might not be conclusive, but his gut instinct said that Lopez had been the shooter and that he’d had to park a vehicle somewhere. If they could score a license plate, they would be closer than they had ever been to finally capturing him. “I’ve moved Jennifer and her daughter into a hotel until the funeral’s over.”
He had also posted security around the house and issued a gag order for the press. If the fact that Corcoran had been an agent investigating Lopez were released, they had an even bigger problem. It was a remote possibility that Jennifer and her daughter could become targets themselves, and a given that if the media spilled the full story, every weirdo and head case in the country would crawl out of the woodwork to confuse an investigation that was already in trouble.
Saunders’s expression was impassive as he listened to the details. “I talked to the director half an hour ago. He’s asked me to keep him briefed.”
The remainder of the conversation was to-the-point and predictable. Saunders had a reputation for cleaning up messes and cutting through red tape with a facile skill that, over a career that had spanned decades, had won him more friends than enemies. That political savvy had shot him through the naval ranks and into the upper echelons of the intelligence sector. He was sharp and efficient, and it was no secret that he was standing in line for the job of Director of National Intelligence and a seat on the National Security Council. He needed a media circus now about as badly as he needed a heart attack.
The inference was clear. Any shit, and he would pin it to Marc’s ass.
Saunders exited with a crisp, “Keep me informed.”
Lissa stepped into Marc’s office bare seconds after Saunders
