In Absentia Page 8

Although, Clive mused, it sounded like Al Sharqi might not be calling the shots. That was worrying on several levels. Concern for Liv flitted through his mind. If her uncles had wrested control of the organization, even temporarily, she could be in danger.

  He couldn’t let himself think about it. Think about something else. Something hopeful. Sasha.

  Could he really have seen Sasha McCandless-Connelly skulking around in the alley? He couldn’t have. It had seemed so real, but there was just no explanation that made sense. Sasha was no doubt hundreds of miles away in Pittsburgh—probably cursing him out for failing to show up for his hearing yesterday.

  Yesterday. It was amazing to think that just one day ago he was locking up the cabin, ready to drive back to Pittsburgh and close a chapter of his life. Twenty-four hours ago, he thought walking into a federal court and agreeing to accept responsibility for a crime was the hardest thing he’d ever have to do. He giggled at his stupidity.

  But Sasha had been a rock. She’d kept him calm, helped him realize that entering into the sentencing agreement wasn’t the end of his life. And she’d fought hard for him and for the company.

  That’s what she was, a fighter. If she were being held hostage, she’d figure out a way to escape. In fact, he was pretty sure she had done just that at least once. Parker, the general counsel at work, had told him a story about Sasha’s wedding being raided by armed mercenaries and how she and her wedding party and guests had fought off the interlopers. So, in a way, it made perfect sense that his overloaded, terrified brain had conjured her up in the alley after Donny was shot. To his brain she was like Spiderman or something.

  Unfortunately, he chided himself as he sagged forward in his chair, his despair weighing him down, real life wasn’t a comic book and there were no superheroes.

  A vicious, feral howl out in the yard shook him out of his depressing musing. He jerked his head up in time to see Omar, a fierce scowl on his face and a gun in his hand, frog-marching someone into the shack—a small, dark-haired woman whose green eyes blazed with anger.

  Clive blinked. It really was Sasha, she was really here. He felt his eyes go wide.

  She shot him a warning look. In his frantic state, he couldn’t decipher what it was she wanted him to do or not do. He tried to make his face blank.

  Too late. Omar was looking at him with an interested expression. He shoved Sasha roughly. She stumbled into the wall and righted herself.

  “Stay there. Don’t move,” Omar ordered.

  She complied, and he moved across the room to stand in front of Clive. He kept both the weapon and his eyes trained on Sasha while he yanked the duct tape off Clive’s mouth.

  “Talk. You know this woman, don’t you?”

  Clive tried to swallow, choked on a clot of blood. “Um, yes.”

  From her spot against the wall, Sasha’s eyes flashed at him.

  “Who is she? Why is she here?” Omar spat the words.

  Clive coughed dryly, trying to come up with the right answer. The howling from the yard hadn’t abated. It was distracting him, making it hard to think.

  “What’s the noise? Is there a hurt animal out there? Oh … no. He didn’t … did your partner track Jamie?” His stomach turned at the inhuman sound. Was Jamie being tortured on the other side of the wall?

  “That noise is Youssef. Your friend here attacked him with a shovel. He’s badly injured. And I’m losing patience. Tell me who she is right now or I’ll just shoot her. I can’t shoot you … yet. I have orders. But nobody knows she’s here, and I doubt very much anyone will care. You’ve got until the count of three. One, tw—”

  “Her name is Sasha. Sasha McCandless-Connelly. She’s my att—”

  “His aunt’s daughter. I’m his cousin,” Sasha interjected.

  “His cousin.” Omar sounded unconvinced.

  “That’s right,” Clive volunteered.

  “I mean, technically, we aren’t cousins because his uncle—his dad’s brother—isn’t my real dad. It was a second marriage for Mom. So I’m Clive’s aunt’s daughter, but, you know, he and I, we’re not blood relations.”

  Clive could barely follow this completely fabricated family tree, so he simply nodded.

  Omar narrowed his eyes and continued to aim the gun at Sasha. “And you came looking for your cousin and just happened to stumble on him in this godforsaken town, how exactly?”

  “Oh. See, I wasn’t looking for Clive, exactly. I was going to take that steam train up through the mountains and do some sightseeing. But then I spotted his Benz in the parking lot, and I know he has a cabin around here somewhere, so I thought, how cool would it be to bump into good old Clive?”

  Omar’s expression was growing increasingly less convinced, but Sasha either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she kept spinning her tale. Clive bit down on his lip nervously.

  “I didn’t see him anywhere on the train platform or in the rail yard, so I figured I’d just take a walk around this cute little town and hope to run into him. But I wandered into this sketchy neighborhood, and there was some sort of altercation in the backyard, as I think you know. So I hid in that shed.”

  She paused, and Clive was stunned to see her lower lip quivering. She’d never struck him as a crier.

  She took a shaky breath and went on. “I’m really sorry I hit your friend, but I was so scared. You did see that dead guy on the ground, right? You know he shot that guy? So, um, anyway, what’s going on with Clive? Did you guys beat him up or something? He looks terrible. Clive, buddy, you look just awful.”

  Omar ignored her rambling and turned to Clive. “She’s not your cousin. Is she your partner? Is she the one who has Al Sharqi’s money? Tell me now, and save yourself. He will get his money back, Clive. One way or another.”

  Omar’s words were an electric current. Clive’s heart pulsed. “I … what money?”

  “Yeah, what money?” Sasha echoed.

  Omar took his time responding. “So, your story is that you’re some random airhead who just wandered into a violent gunfight and just happened to land a perfect liver blow on Youssef.”

  She blinked. “What’s a liver blow?”

  Omar sighed deeply and grabbed the thick roll of duct tape that Jamie and Donny had left on the kitchen counter.

  “Stand still,” he ordered Sasha.

  She did. He patted her down, impersonally and professionally, as if he were a TSA agent. “You didn’t happen to take a gun from the dead guy, did you?”

  She widened her green eyes dramatically. “Nooooo. I don’t even know how to shoot a gun. Swearsies. In fact, when I was a kid, I remember one time—”

  Omar tore off a square of tape and slapped it over her mouth in a hurry, cutting her story short.

  Clive’s initial swell of enthusiasm for her ability to save him fell flat and landed in his stomach like a brick. He had no idea she was so … harmless.

  “Sit,” Omar told her.

  There was only the one chair, and Clive was occupying it. She slid her back down the wall until she was seated on the floor with her back against the wall and her legs stretched out in front of her.

  “Hands.”

  She held her wrists together in front of her and Omar wound two layers of tape around them. He yanked on the tape to test it. Satisfied, he knelt on the floor and repeated the taping around her ankles. She looked over the top of his bent head, caught Clive’s eye, and winked.

  Clive stared at her in mute amazement.

  Amusement flashed in her eyes. But by the time Omar looked up, she was gazing right at their captor with big, scared eyes.

  Omar shook his head and ripped off a fresh piece of tape. He slapped it over Clive’s mouth.

  Sasha considered her bubbleheaded performance a success. She’d fooled Clive at any rate, and he actually knew her. She’d nearly laughed aloud at his reaction.

  She hoped Omar had bought her act, too. It would be a huge, nearly incalculable, advantage if he underestimated her. The more harmless s
he could convince him she was, the greater the element of surprise would be when she made her move.

  She doubted Youssef, however, would ever make the mistake of believing she was a wide-eyed innocent. But unless Omar took Youssef to a hospital or doctor’s office, Youssef was going to be in too much pain to cause her any problems. If he was very lucky, she’d simply broken his ribs and lacerated or torn his liver. He’d pee blood until his liver healed and it would hurt when he breathed until his ribs knit back together, but he’d eventually start to feel human again.

  If he wasn’t lucky, well, the internal bleeding from a ruptured liver might kill him. She was having a hard time scraping up any sympathy, though.

  She slumped against the wall and let her eyelids flutter down over her eyes. Sooner or later, Omar was going to have to deal with his injured partner and the corpse in the yard. And when he did, she’d be ready to make her move.

  For now, rest was the first order of business. She regulated her breathing and closed her eyes, calling up images of Connelly, Fiona, and Finn to keep her company while she bided her time.

  Even with her eyes closed, she could feel Omar’s cool gaze on her. He was watching her, assessing her. She furrowed her forehead and squeezed her eyes more tightly closed. She projected worry and fear.

  Thanks for convincing me to join drama club in high school, Mom. I have a feeling this is going to be the performance of a lifetime.

  After a long moment, she heard him shift his weight. He walked out of the shack with light, almost soundless footfalls. She listened hard to learn the soft sound his feet made against the floorboards.

  He was stealthy. He’d already surprised her once. She didn’t intend to let it happen a second time.

  His footsteps grew fainter and finally faded away entirely as he crossed the room and slipped out into the backyard. Youssef greeted his appearance with an anguished wail.

  She opened her eyes and examined the tape around her wrists and ankles. Omar had done a competent, but not overly thorough, job of binding her. His handiwork looked sufficient to hold a small civilian woman. Unfortunately for him, she was ninety-five pounds of pure fury with a bad attitude.

  Omar wasn’t at all sure what to make of the woman or her story. She had appeared out of nowhere, witnessed the murder of Donny Anderson, and had nearly killed Youssef. And she knew Clive Bloch.

  Omar was sure of only one thing: Whoever or whatever Sasha McCandless-Connelly was, she wasn’t Clive’s aunt’s daughter. And she wasn’t the ditz she pretended to be.

  In addition to her pro-level attack on Youssef, there were a few other pieces of data that suggested the Barbie doll act was a put-on.

  When he’d pulled the gun on her at the shed, she hadn’t panicked. Her response seemed practiced: she’d immediately put her hands above her head; had made no sudden movements; and had sought to diffuse the situation.

  Then when she held out her wrists so he could bind them with the duct tape, she’d pressed her forearms and elbows together and had fisted her hands. He recognized the position as a well-known posture that would make it easier for her to get the leverage she’d need to break the tape later. He had no doubt she’d be making an attempt to break the tape. And he had no doubt she’d succeed.

  Finally, he was certain she’d taken Donny’s weapon. What she’d done with it, he had no clue. But Donny had definitely been carrying, and now there was no gun on his body. She had it squirreled away somewhere. Maybe in the shed.

  But what he kept coming back to was the way she’d planted her feet and swung the shovel directly under Youssef’s lower right ribs, making direct contact with his vulnerable and exposed liver. Omar was willing to bet all his accumulated leave time that she had some sort of combat training. And this was no small bet. He had a lot of time on the books—working undercover in a designated HIDTA didn’t leave a guy a lot of time for taking vacations or celebrating holidays or getting his teeth cleaned.

  Who are you, Sasha McCandless-Connelly? And, more importantly, why are you screwing up my operation?

  He sighed as he stared down at Donny’s lifeless body. Then he shifted his gaze to Youssef, who met his eyes with a pleading look.

  “I’m coming, brother,” he called to Youssef. “The infidel’s body can wait.”

  17

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Saturday, late afternoon

  * * *

  The morning slipped away from Leo in a blur of activity. Twice, it crossed his mind to call the Tactical Diversion Squad. But both times, more pressing four-year-old needs had demanded his attention.

  And, Leo conceded, he didn’t want to overstep by poking around. Sasha was the most competent person he knew; she didn’t need his help. Not to mention, reaching out to the agent-in-charge of a Drug Enforcement Agency could shine a light on Leo and make the wrong people ask questions about his own somewhat unorthodox role within the Department of Homeland Security.

  But then, Sasha didn’t make an appearance at the twins’ soccer game. And she didn’t answer any of his calls or texts. Her phone rolled instantly to voicemail, and the interactive map feature showed her as off-line.

  Leo spent the whole match pacing the sideline, scanning the parking lots and the other fields for a glimpse of her. He kept expecting to see her running toward the Orange Squirts’ bench, her wavy hair streaming behind her as she fixed her green eyes on her family and raced in their direction.

  By the end of the match—at which point neither team had scored a point and Sasha hadn’t shown up—he knew something was wrong. She’d said she’d be there. And Sasha honored her commitments to the kids. It was a thing with her. She didn’t always promise to be there—sometimes she said she’d try or would gently explain that mommy had to work. But when she said she’d be there, she was there. Always. So her absence shook him to his core.

  He absently gathered the twins and their gear, said his goodbyes to the coach and the other families, and herded the kids into the SUV. As soon as Finn and Fiona were safely ensconced at the kitchen table with a lunch of leftover tacos, he slipped into the dining room to call Hank and ask for his blessing to contact the Central West Virginia Drug Task Force headquarters.

  Hank ignored the dull roar of six kids ranging from elementary-school age to young adult in the background of his home to answer Leo’s question. “Of course. Do what you have to do.”

  “We might ping somebody’s radar.”

  “Do I look like I care?”

  “I don’t know, Hank. I don’t have a videophone.”

  “Picture my sourpuss looking supremely unimpressed.”

  “Got it.”

  “So, do I look like I care?”

  “No, I can’t say you do.”

  “Find out what’s going on down there.”

  “Thanks, Hank.”

  “Don’t mention it. And Leo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Sasha we’re talking about. If it turns out you need to go down there in person, drop the kids off at Uncle Hank’s. Any time, day or night. Just know you’ll be getting them back overstimulated and all sugared up.”

  “Fair enough. Thanks, Hank.”

  “Gotta go. I hear glass breaking.”

  Leo popped his head into the kitchen to check on the dynamite duo. After they helped rinse their plates and load them into the dishwasher, he pulled out the big guns, guaranteed to keep them entertained for at least an hour: kinetic sand.

  He spread a plastic tarp on the kitchen floor and dumped the sand and playdough toys in the middle of it. Then he opened the bin filled with kinetic sand in every color of the rainbow, a gift from good old Uncle Hank, and told Finn and Fiona to have at it. He knew he’d be vacuuming up grains of kinetic sand for weeks, and Mocha and Java would both manage to get it stuck in their fur. But he’d just bought himself the quiet he needed to make his call.

  He pulled up the Diversion Control Division’s directory of Tactical Diversion Squad offices and located the numbe
r for the Charleston office. He was transferred around within the office for a while, until he finally lost his patience and demanded to speak to the A-I-C STAT. To his relief and mild surprise, federal alphabet soup accomplished what good manners and patience could not.

  “This is A-I-C Ted Dill.” The deep voice on the other end spoke formally and lacked the drawl that would identify the speaker as a native of West Virginia.

  “Agent Dill, my name is Special Agent Leo Connelly. I’m calling you from Pittsburgh.”

  “Are you attached to an agency, son?”

  Leo knew the question was rhetorical. All special agents were attached to agencies. Except the ones who weren’t.

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  Dill waited.

  “I work with Hank Richardson in the Department of Homeland Security.” Which was true enough, as far as it went.

  “I see.”

  Hank’s name worked its usual magic and Dill got the picture, which was a relief, because Leo didn’t really feel like explaining to an agent-in-charge that if he told him what he did for their government, then he’d have to kill him. And it would be only half in jest.

  “What can I help you with, Agent Connelly?”

  “I need a favor, sir.”

  Leo could just picture the A-I-C’s eyebrows shooting up at the bare request for help without first going through the dance of colleagues, postings, colleges, or favorite sports teams they might have in common. But he had neither the patience nor the time to woo Ted Dill into helping him. Dill would help because most people who knew who Hank Richardson was also knew enough to fear him.

  “Well, son, I’m happy to help if I can. You’re working a case with a drug angle, I take it?”

  “No, sir. My wife’s an attorney here in town, and she had a client go missing yesterday. He didn’t show up for his sentencing hearing in federal court.”

  “Oh?” A-I-C Dill’s expressive voice made clear that he didn’t see how Leo intended to connect his dots, but he fell silent so Leo could go on.