Gunslinger and I have guns and we have access to the bad guys’ coms, but these aren’t your average terrorists. They appear to have training. And heart.”
“Islamic?”
“Blond hair,” Jonathan said. “Take from that what you wish. We got everything from the dead guys’ pockets, but we haven’t had a chance to go through it all yet. This whole incident isn’t yet two hours old.”
Venice felt the friction in her brain gears reduce. She was waking up, and a task list was beginning to take shape.
“Are you in a safe place?”
“For now, I think so, but they’re gonna come searching for us. Certainly by daybreak, and it would be nice to have some kind of a plan by then. A shadow of a plan will do.”
“I’ll go to work on it,” Venice said. As she rolled fully out of bed, JoeDog was wide-awake and looked uneasy. She seemed to know that her best friend was in trouble. “How do you want to stay in contact?”
“For now,” Jonathan said, “wait for my calls. I don’t know how long this will go on, and I don’t know how much access we’ll have to power. I’m going to keep the phones off when we’re not talking.”
Venice felt like she needed to say something encouraging, but she didn’t know what that might be.
“I’m hanging up now,” Jonathan said. “I know you won’t let us down. You never do.”
After the click, Venice stared at the phone until the dial tone returned, and for a while longer after she’d disconnected. Jonathan’s voice carried a tone that she’d rarely heard in the past. He didn’t sound scared, exactly, but something close to it. Rattled, maybe. He needed a plan. He needed resources.
He needed help. Quickly. At four in the morning.
She dressed quickly. No shower, no makeup. That could all come later. She had to get to work. JoeDog, for her part, seemed delighted to have something to do, and walked circles around Venice’s legs, threatening to trip her.
“Do you know this is about your friend Jonathan?” she asked. She’d heard that dogs had sixth senses about their masters, and it was rare to see this much agitation out of JoeDog.
Venice pulled on a sweater over her jeans and slipped her bare feet into a pair of black flats. It was an outfit that she’d never wear to the office, but that was exactly where she was going, and this was an emergency.
She opened her bedroom door onto the sitting area of the master suite, padded across the inlaid hardwoods and Persian rug, and opened the massive double doors into the expansive second-floor hallway. Every time she walked these halls, she couldn’t shake a sense of guilt that this was where she and Mama had ended up, given where they’d started. But Jonathan wouldn’t have it any other way. When he’d deeded the family manse to Saint Katherine’s Catholic Church for a dollar, his one condition was that Mama and Venice would always have a home there, and that the structure would be used as the headquarters for Rez House.
Early on, the mansion was the entire school, from classrooms to dormitories. Over the years, it had expanded to separate classroom and dorm buildings, leaving the mansion primarily as an administrative building.
JoeDog led the way down the stairs and across the foyer, drawing the attention of Oscar Thompkins, the head of the nighttime security team. After some violence a while back, a permanent security presence had become a necessity. He had one counterpart patrolling the dormitory building and another patrolling the grounds.
“Evening, Ms. Alexander,” Oscar said. “A little late for a stroll, ain’t it?”
“Something came up,” Venice replied, forcing a smile. “Gotta go into the office.”
“Ain’t you gonna take a jacket or nothin’? It’s cold out there.” A native of the Tennessee mountains, Oscar had a good heart and a drawl so thick it sounded fake.
“It’s only a short walk,” Venice said. She never broke stride as she beelined to the massive panels of the double doors. She was still crossing the porch when she made her first phone call.
A familiar but gravelly voice answered after four rings. “Um . . .” He cleared his throat. “Hello?”
“Good Morning, Father,” Venice said. “Sorry to wake you, but this is important.”
“Venice? What time is it?” Father Dom D’Angelo was one of Jonathan’s closest friends, and had been since they’d been roommates all through college at William & Mary.
“A little after four, but this is an emergency. Digger is in trouble.”
“I thought he’s on vacation.”
“Can you think of anyone more apt to find violence in paradise?” She cringed at the callous sound of her words. “I don’t have time to explain now, but can you please place a call to Wolverine and arrange a meeting between her and me ASAP? Then, come to the office?” Wolverine was the moniker for Irene Rivers, director of the FBI, a longtime friend of the Security Solutions team.
“Of course. Does Boxers know?”
“He’s my next call.”
Dom gave a wry chuckle. “Better you than me,” he said. “I’ll be over as soon as I can.” They hung up.
As Venice let JoeDog lead the way down the stairs from the lawn to the sidewalk, she realized that maybe she could have listened to Oscar. There was a definite bite in the air. She moved a little faster to keep warm during the three-block walk to the end of the street to the converted firehouse that doubled as Jonathan Grave’s home and tripled as the headquarters for Security Solutions, the high-end private investigation firm he ran largely as a means to provide cover to the covert side of the company. It was that very covert side that commanded the bulk of Jonathan’s time and attention.
Her ID card and six-digit PIN gained her access to the outside door to the office—a separate entrance from that which led to Jonathan’s home. As she stepped inside and climbed the stairs to the third floor, she waved at the security cameras. When she came to the interior door to the bull pen—the overt office space where nearly a dozen investigators and support people worked every day—it buzzed and she pulled it open.
She turned left, and approached the interior door that led to the Cave.
“Good evening, Ms. Alexander,” said the guard at this interior security point. “Or, good morning, I guess.”
“Good morning,” she replied. In no mood for small talk, she nonetheless could not bring herself to be rude. She felt bad enough that she couldn’t remember the man’s name. Typically, if she was working at this hour, it would be from the other side of the security door. “Father D’Angelo and Mr. Van de Muelebroecke will be joining me soon.”
She touched her card key to the pad and the guard opened the door for her.
Venice headed directly for the War Room, the rectangular teak conference room that housed every techie gadget that a girl could want. She settled into her seat at the end of the table opposite the massive projection screen. As the systems booted up, she lifted the landline receiver and dialed Boxers’ number from memory.
*
