Burned (Shenandoah Shadows Novella Book 1) Page 9

  “You go first. I’ll cover your flank.”

  She opened her mouth to respond and an urgent, insistent pounding cut through the cacophony of gunfire and breaking glass. Her eyes widened.

  “Someone’s at the back door.”

  Before he could stop her, she was running in a crouch to the sliding glass door. She jerked it open and reached outside to yank a figure in from the deck. She hustled the woman into the kitchen and pulled her down to the floor.

  “Marielle Moreau, Trent Mann. Trent, meet Marielle,” Olivia’s voice was ragged.

  The petite woman blinked up at him from behind a pair of pale pink horn-rimmed glasses. “Charmed.” Her face was chalk white and her voice shook.

  She turned her head toward Olivia, her long wavy copper-colored hair gleaming in the light. “You should turn off the lights, Liv.”

  She was right. He vaulted over the counter and smashed the light switch with his palm, plunging the open first floor living space into darkness. There was a pause in the noise. The shooters were either reloading or reassessing. He just hoped they weren’t advancing.

  He crouched beside Marielle. “Did you get a look at them?”

  She bit down on her lower lip before answering. “Only from behind. They’re blocking the road up to the house with a big pickup truck. They’re set up in the truck bed with scopes and those stands or whatever snipers use.” She glanced at Olivia for help.

  “Bipods, or tripods, most likely,” Olivia offered.

  “How many? Two?”

  “Yes. Two,” she confirmed.

  “How’d you get past them?”

  “I heard them shooting before I rounded the bend, so I left my car at the turnoff near that little fishing shack and cut through the woods.”

  “In total darkness?” he asked.

  “The house was completely lit up. I just made like a moth and aimed for the light. I only tripped a few times.” She gestured to her dirty pants ruefully.

  Marielle Moreau might be a data geek, but she was made of solid stuff. Trent approved of Olivia’s choice of friends.

  “I need a flashlight,” Trent told Olivia.

  “No. You’re not going out there alone. That’s a suicide mission.”

  “I won’t be alone. Omar can’t be far. I’ll intercept him at the shack Marielle mentioned, and we’ll circle up on the shooters from behind. It’s our best play.”

  Her mouth was a firm, unyielding line.

  “Look,” he went on. “You need to talk to Marielle and find out what the hell’s going on. You can’t do that while we’re army crawling through the woods and—”

  “And,” Marielle interjected, “I’m not going back out there. So why don’t you scare up a flashlight for Captain America and a corkscrew for that Chianti? 1997 was a very good year.”

  Trent snickered, and Olivia shot him a look.

  “She’s probably on the edge of hysterics. Give her the wine,” he whispered.

  She swore under her breath, but nodded and popped to her feet. She rummaged through a drawer, then banged open a cabinet. A moment later she returned to the floor with an LED headlamp, a package of batteries, two wineglasses, and the corkscrew. She tossed the light and batteries at Trent.

  He snagged them out of the air, fitted the light with a battery, and affixed it around his head. The stretchy elastic band was tight, squeezing his temples, but at least it wouldn’t slip down. He thumbed the light off and on to test it. A bright white pulse filled the darkness.

  “There’s also a red light setting,” Olivia told him, “for night vision. And you can toggle between a floodlight and a concentrated beam. That should work for red and white.”

  He adjusted the light on his forehead. “Perfect.”

  “How far is this shack?”

  “Quarter of a mile, maybe a little further,” Olivia estimated.

  Marielle nodded. “That sounds right.”

  He searched his memory. A vague image of a lean-to set near the scrubby shoulder of the road came to mind.

  “How much ammunition do you have?” Olivia fretted. She sounded like a worried mother sending her firstborn off to kindergarten.

  “Plenty. I’ll grab my jacket on my way out. My pockets are full of goodies,” he promised.

  Her eyes shone in the dimly lit kitchen. “Trent—”

  He leaned forward and stilled her mouth with a feather-soft brush of his lips. Inches away, Marielle pretended not to notice as she coaxed the cork out of the neck of the wine bottle, murmuring in French as she did so.

  “Be careful,” Olivia breathed hotly against his lips before pulling back to study his face.

  “You got it.” He drank in one last thirsty look at her exquisite face, then raced to the back door and slipped out into the dark, starless night.

  14

  Olivia pressed a shaking hand against her mouth. Marielle threw her a decidedly French look and eased a wineglass into her other hand.

  “So, you’ve been busy,” she observed mildly.

  Olivia shook her head. She should be busy. Busy gathering weapons, constructing defenses, planning for a renewed attack. But she’d dragged Elle into this nightmare, and now she had two tasks: protect her and get the information she needed.

  Step one, distract her from the danger.

  “My whole world’s upside-down, I’m pinned down under actual gunfire, and I’m flirting with a stranger like I’m some kind of schoolgirl. What’s wrong with me, Elle?”

  Her friend considered the question gravely, then ticked her points off on her fingers.

  “One, there’s been a break in the gunfire. Dieu merci for that! Two, you’re in the crucible right now, subject to high heat and great pressure—of course, you’re going to change. Three, your stranger is of the tall, dark, and decidedly handsome variety. Four, it seems to me you’re doing a bit more than flirting, mon amie.”

  Finding her thumb unused, Marielle sipped her wine thoughtfully and then added, “And, five, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, your husband is a right jackass.”

  Olivia burst into peals of high-pitched, desperate laughter. She laughed until she couldn’t breathe. She laughed until she began to sob.

  That wasn’t part of the plan.

  “Ah, Liv, come here.” Marielle put down her glass and scooted across the floor on the seat of her expensive-looking trousers.

  She pulled Olivia into a hug and rubbed her back in a soothing, circular motion. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  She pulled back and met Elle’s startlingly green eyes. “Is it, though? My career is shit. My marriage is shit. And I’m apparently marked for death.”

  “Bof,” Marielle gave a Gallic shrug, “I meant the hunky stranger. In love, you’ll come out okay. The rest of this,” she waved her arms dramatically, “is above my pay grade, love.”

  This was her segue into step two.

  “Okay, so what in the devil happened, Elle? A burn notice? I mean, really?”

  Marielle shed the dramatic French mannerisms she’d learned at her mémère’s knee, suddenly all digital targeter business. She pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Last week, I got a project from the CIMC.”

  “Really?” Olivia gaped.

  “Yes. Very hush-hush. Officially the project was for the Directorate of Operations. But, trust me, it wasn’t Operations. It was for the Counterintelligence Mission Center.”

  “It’s unusual for counterintelligence to reach out to another division like that,” Olivia mused.

  “Right. It was an odd assignment. And then it got odder still.”

  “How?”

  “This morning, a rumor started going around about a problem on the Western Hemisphere desk.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “The gossip was that one the agents operating out of Mexico City was compromised. But not a double agent, not an asset.”

  Olivia’s heart dropped to her knees. “A NOC. Me.”

  “Oui.” Marielle paused, “And then my
strange little assignment made sense.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d been given a map of cell phone tower ping data in Mexico’s northern states and asked to plot the pings, look for a pattern.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” Olivia thought she might explode.

  “Yes. This is all an elaborate joke.” Marielle gestured around the room. “The shooters, the hot, hunky hero, all part of the prank.”

  “Sorry. Go on.” Olivia wrestled her emotions under control.

  Marielle tapped a manicured finger against her lip. Olivia recognized that look: she was pulling up the program in her mind.

  “So, Mexico City was all in blue on my colorful map. The data points for the towers I cared about were in green, orange, and purple. But, as I watched, the blue data set changed shape.”

  “What does that mean?” Olivia, who was well aware of how smart she was, invariably felt stupid around Elle.

  “I wasn’t sure. So I clicked on it.”

  “And?”

  “CIMC was no longer tracking Mexican cell phone towers. Suddenly the feed switched to a DC Metro map. I proceeded to track the dot—to track you—from the rehabilitation center on Capitol Hill. Ooh, how is your Mémère Julie?”

  Olivia fluttered her hands helplessly. “I don’t know. She’s fine, I guess. Elle, what happened?”

  “What happened? I watched you drive through the Commonwealth of Virginia. Then this green blob materialized on the border of Virginia and West Virginia. I clicked the blob, and it told me you were at a secure unmapped location. So I moved over a mile and saw that you were next door to the Shenandoah Racing Club and Resort.”

  Olivia dug her fingernails into her palms. She couldn’t believe the CI folks were monitoring her—and using her closest friend to do it. “Then what?”

  “Then your dot turned black, someone generated a burn notice, and I messaged you to destroy your covcom before the notice hit the wire.”

  “Elle, if they find out you warned me—”

  “Do you think I care?” She jutted out her chin. “I couldn’t let them get away with this.”

  “Get away with what?”

  “I haven’t worked out the details. But you’ve been double-crossed.”

  “Double-crossed how?”

  Elle shook her head. “I don’t know. I do know that someone on the Subcommittee on Communications, Technology, Innovation, and the Internet—whew, that’s a mouthful—contacted Langley about your so-called unreliable reports, love. At least that’s what I heard through the grapevine.”

  Olivia’s mind reeled. Who? Why?

  “Before you ask, I don’t know who.”

  “How would Telecom have gotten ahold of one of my reports in the first place?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know the Western Hemisphere division chief is in the soup over it.”

  As he should be.

  Before she could press Elle for details, the distant purr and tick of a car engine sounded, a touch too loud through the broken windows. Someone was coming around the lake drive. She crept to the window and peered out into the night, tracking the faint glow of a vehicle’s headlights as it wound around the lake in the dark.

  Trent jogged through the woods, the headlamp throwing a red beam of light that bobbed in time with his footfalls. He maintained a decent pace, fueled by adrenaline and worry, but he didn’t dare sprint—not in the dark, over unfamiliar, uneven terrain.

  He slowed as he passed the part of the forest that ran parallel to the access road where Marielle had seen the pickup truck. All was silent. The gunfire hadn’t resumed. The shooters weren’t talking, or, if they were, they were being quiet about it. He, too, was quiet, taking care not to give away his presence by snapping twigs underfoot or breathing heavily.

  He scanned the expanse of trees ahead, searching for the opening that led to this shack the digital targeter had mentioned. Olivia’s friend was not what he’d expected. She was unlike any data geeks he knew, most of whom would have fallen in the mud somewhere shy of the house.

  He rounded a bend in the rough path and his light arced over a window, reflecting and bouncing back to him. Jackpot. He poured on the speed, sprinting now, until he reached the turnoff. He ducked behind the shack and snorted. Of course, Marielle Moreau drove a BMW i3. And of course it was orange. Maybe she wasn’t so different from her data geek brethren after all.

  His mirth was cut short when a dark-colored sedan shot past him and careened toward the spot where the pickup truck sat.

  Omar? Please don’t let it be Omar.

  There was no reason, other than habit and training, for Omar to approach the lake house with caution. It wasn’t as if Trent had warned him of the possibility of an ambush. He pulled out the burner phone and called Omar’s number, hoping the patchy wireless service would last long enough for the call to connect.

  “I’m ten minutes away,” came the terse response.

  As Omar snapped the words, Trent heard the sedan come to a stop up ahead. He waited for gunfire or shouting, but there was none. After a moment, the sedan’s engine revved. So whoever was in that sedan, the shooters were expecting them.

  “You shouldn’t have called me.” Omar’s reproach pulled Trent back to the call.

  “I know. But what’s that saying about desperate times? Anyway, there’s a fishing shack on the left side of the road about a half-klick shy of the turnoff. Stop there.”

  “Roger that.” Click.

  Omar didn’t protest, didn’t ask why, didn’t press for details. He expressed understanding and ended the call.

  And that was why Trent would call him in a pinch, every time—and not only when he needed to hand off Omar’s sister’s vintage luxury car to someone he trusted not to wreck it. There weren’t many friends like that in this world. Omar was one.

  And so was Jake. Or, at least, he had been. Trent had to leave open the possibility that he’d damaged his relationship with Jake beyond repair. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. He had time to make a call while he waited for Omar—again, assuming the cellular network gods smiled on him.

  He punched in Jake’s number but the digits just pulsed on the tiny screen. After twenty seconds, the words ‘call failed’ scrolled across the display. He growled and shoved the device into his pocket. He’d have to make things right with Jake later. Instead, he passed the time by pacing behind the shack, counting his ammunition, and sketching out how much detail to share with Omar.

  He heard Omar’s engine before he saw the vehicle. He cocked his head to listen. He was driving his Suburban. Good. If it came to it, they could try to ram their way through the roadblock. Please don’t let it come to it.

  He stepped out from the shadows of the shanty and flipped on his headlight, aiming it at the ground so as not to blind Omar. The large SUV rolled to a stop, and Omar buzzed down his window.

  “Nice headgear.”

  “All the cool kids are wearing them these days.”

  “So, you gonna hop in or what?”

  Trent shook his head. “Pull back around behind the shack and park next to the stupid little electric car. There’s been a development.”

  In the meager light cast by Omar’s headlights and Trent’s little headlamp, Trent could make out his friend’s expression—confusion, surprise, a modicum of wariness. But true to form, Omar voiced none of it. He shifted into reverse then turned off the road and bumped over the packed dirt to park where instructed.

  Trent met him beside Marielle’s i3.

  “It’s cute,” Omar smirked. “Not a ride I ever imagined for you, but I’m sure you look adorable behind the wheel.”

  “You’re a laugh riot.” He tossed the Porsche keys at Omar, who reflexively snatched them out of the air.

  Omar examined the leather key tag. “This is Leilah’s logo.”

  “She lent me a set of wheels.”

  “One of her Porsches?” He was still studying the keys.

  “Yeah, the yellow one.”
<
br />   One eyebrow crawled up Omar’s forehead. “She let you borrow Marie?”

  “I must have a trustworthy face.”

  “Or my sister’s an idiot. So what’s going on? Where’s Marie? Whose car is this little thing?” He gestured toward the BMW.

  “It’s a long story. When I texted you, I just wanted to hand off Marie. I figured you could drive it back to Leilah with my thanks, and I’d get your ride back to you.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  “But this is a developing situation. The less you know, the better—from a plausible deniability standpoint. I can’t ask you to walk into a gun battle completely in the dark, though. So here’s the short version: A client of mine is being pursued by the FBI, the CIA, and the CNI. It’s possible there are other entities in the mix.”

  Omar’s face was expressionless. “I assume he’s not guilty of whatever the international intelligence community thinks he did—or he doesn’t know what they think he knows? We’re dealing with an innocent man.”

  “An innocent woman, actually.”

  “A woman.” Omar nodded slowly. “The picture is becoming clear.”

  “It’s not like that,” Trent protested weakly.

  Omar snickered. “Sure.” He grew serious in a hurry. “If this woman is a client, why didn’t Jake send a team to pick up the car?”

  Trent coughed. “This mission is off the books.”

  A long moment passed. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No,” Trent answered honestly. “There’s an excellent chance I’m in over my head. But Olivia—my client—is on the run, currently holed up in a lake house up the road, under siege, with a wee slip of a CIA numbers cruncher for backup and a bottle of wine for comfort.”

  Omar narrowed his eyes. “That orange thing belongs to the data analyst?”

  “Yeah. She’s technically a, um, digital targeter? Something like that.”

  “So she’s smart, but not particularly handy in a battle.”

  “Right. And when I left she was guzzling wine.”

  “Pretty shaken up?”

  “Very shaken up. Hides it well, though.”

  “What about this Olivia?”