Unstable Target: Six Assassins Book 3 Read online

  “I do. I think he’ll be a great addition to the Boulder Branch. Whatever test we give him, I don’t think he’ll have any trouble.”

  "Don't say anything to him yet. We need to iron out some details, get the records, and the whole shebang ready. Sometime in the next couple of weeks, maybe not until after your trial by combat is over."

  “No problem, boss lady. He’s going to be happier than a pig in shit when we tell him.” Ember stood and ran hands down her thighs to smooth her pants. “I should get ready for tonight.”

  Fagan wagged a gnarled finger. “Don’t take this lightly, or think that you will walk in there and have an easy time. Quinn is unstable. He could do anything.”

  “Believe me, Fagan, I know. I got that impression when I talked to him on the phone. This guy gets the kid gloves from me.”

  “As long as you know what you’re getting yourself into by agreeing to meet with him. Be ready for the unexpected when you walk into that building.”

  Ember zipped up her jacket. “I don’t have any clue what this sick freak is planning, but I’ll be ready. I’m always ready.”

  Chapter Three

  ISABEL

  Agent Isabel Yang ducked underneath a low-hanging doorway in the break room on the fourth floor. She wasn't gargantuanly tall, and the door wasn't that short, but it was shorter than average. She escorted her mug of tea down the hall since she'd seen her target walk past. While he hadn't literally been avoiding her, it felt like it.

  “Marcus,” she said, trying to make her voice carry without shouting. He didn’t turn around. He continued walking, briefcase in hand. His head was down, probably looking at his phone, as per usual.

  “Mr. Lonsdale,” she said again, quickening her pace. She passed by open conference rooms and offices where employees of the FBI conducted business. Her heels clacked on the floor, and she ignored the pain as it shot up through her ankles. These shoes were not made for chasing her boss through the halls of the J. Edgar Hoover building.

  Isabel tried to keep the mug aloft and flat as she hustled so that the tea wouldn't spill over the side. This proved to be a challenge.

  Marcus came to the end of the hall, and he turned, but he must have finally caught Isabel out of the corner of his eyes because he smiled and stopped. He was as handsome as ever today in a clean gray suit with a blue tie. The light clothes colors highlighted the tan on his skin, leftover from a vacation to Florida in September.

  “Agent Yang. How are you on this fine today?”

  She tried to hide the anger on her face. “I need a minute of your time. We have to talk.”

  “Uh-oh,” he said, with feigned shock on his face, “someone’s got her serious pants on this morning.”

  She scowled and angled her head toward a tiny meeting room behind him, barely big enough for a desk and two chairs. He shrugged and took a step backward into the room. He dropped his briefcase on the floor, then spread his suit coat as his hands slipped into his pockets. His tie pointed like an arrow at his crotch, which wasn’t necessarily accidental on his part.

  Isabel followed him, set her tea down on the desk, and pulled the door closed behind her. She took a breath to calm her thumping heart after the power-walking along the hall to reach him. “I need answers.”

  Marcus laughed. “Looks like you’ll scorch the earth to get them, too. I’ve never seen you out of breath before. What’s up?”

  “Two days ago, the DEA raided a drug deal in Parker, Colorado, where the Belcamino crime family was meeting with a local prescription drug dealer.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve seen reports.”

  “Did you know beforehand?”

  Marcus held up his hands. “Hold your horses, Yang. Let’s check our magazines before we start pulling triggers. I know what you’re getting at, and it’s not like that.”

  “Tell me: what am I getting at?”

  “No one had any idea that your rogue agent Allison Campbell would be there. It was a total coincidence. Freak occurrence. No one knew anything or even saw it coming.”

  “I find that unlikely.”

  “However you find it, it’s the truth. Your feelings are not facts, which is something I’ve had to explain to you before. Sure, normally, we have interagency comm protocols to keep something like that from happening. But when you’re as deep undercover as she’s been...”

  Isabel stabbed a finger into the desk to drive home her point. "I'm busting my ass trying to understand and manage Ember Clarke, while you and the DEA are playing cops and robbers. When one hand doesn't know what the other is doing, that's how serious mistakes happen, and the wrong people die."

  "Okay, hold up. Three things: first, I like this fire in you. I don't think I've seen it before, because you're usually too busy kissing the ass of everyone around you to say how you really feel. Second: let's not forget the power dynamic in our relationship. I'm still your boss so you can belay that tone with me. And, third: have you noticed that you now refer to Agent Campbell by her undercover name almost exclusively?"

  Isabel caught herself and sucked in a breath. She pulled back and crossed her arms over her chest. She hadn't realized it. But dealing with one person with two names was a strange assignment, so it was easier to think of Allison Campbell as Ember Clarke since that's the name she went by.

  Isabel had inherited this rogue agent and became her handler after the passing of her previous one. Everything about this scenario was unusual and new.

  Marcus took a step closer and met her eyes. "The DEA report mentioned a white woman, dressed in black, with long black hair and pale skin. She was at the meeting, but no evidence she was a part of it. This woman had killed the prescription drug dealer Lydia Beauchamp and then escaped before the DEA could apprehend her. Or, that was what the report did say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had them scrub the record of her involvement. I told them there was an unregistered undercover asset in an ongoing local investigation, and it would jeopardize blah, blah, blah. Jim Kirkland is an old friend of mine, so it wasn’t a hard sell to persuade him to make a few edits. It’s all about greasing the right wheels, which is a skill you could do well to learn more about.”

  “Oh,” Isabel said, feeling flushed. “I didn’t know you talked to them.”

  "I did because these are the cards we were dealt. Off the books, ultra-covert, dark… however you want to call it. An asset in the field we're bound to keep secret and have to manage without official operational support. That's the one thing we can't change. But, let's have a conversation about your tone with me."

  Her head dipped, and her shortish bob hair fell in front of her face. Isabel knew this was a typical reaction for her. Therapy had taught her she'd done this as a young girl in response to her father's anger. He would rage, and she would withdraw instead of facing it head-on. Isabel was well aware of this pattern in her own behavior, yet, her self-knowledge had not stopped it from happening. Maybe if her insurance had covered more sessions, they could have advanced to the Fixing What Was Wrong With Her stage.

  “I’m sorry, Marcus. I’ve been frustrated with the Denver… thing. It all feels like one step forward and two steps back.”

  “Yes, it certainly has. It’s been two weeks since your slide presentation about crime in Denver. Two weeks you’ve been dicking around with the Denver Assassins Club and our rogue agent.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’ve been dicking around. I don’t think that’s accurate.”

  “Semantics. This is it, though.”

  “Sir?”

  “Your leeway has run its course. I know you flew out to San Diego to play profiler with her parents. That’s fine. But now, you’re going to get on a plane to Denver. You’re going talk to Campbell one last time, and you’re going to make it count.”

  “And then what? What if it doesn’t change things?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Then, we’re going to have a very unpleasant conversation. A conversation about moving this from the investiga
tion phase into the drastic action phase. Next time you call me, you better be in Denver, getting something useful done.”

  Chapter Four

  EMBER

  The Night Owl bar was a two-story structure nestled behind the gas station off the highway. Faded blue paint covered what appeared to be cinder block walls. The windows were nailed shut with stray lumber, and the front door wore a big chain with a padlock. Ember could hear the highway from here, but not see it.

  Quinn had chosen a cozy spot to set up this meet. Easy in and out, but secluded enough no one would notice it.

  Ember pulled into a parking spot at the Starbucks across the street. She took a few seconds to scope out their position. The Night Owl’s interior was impossible to see due to its lack of open windows, and most of the building was obstructed from the Starbucks’ view.

  It was a good location for a secret meeting—an excellent spot for a murder.

  Her recruit Gabe leaned forward in the passenger seat. “Back door?”

  Ember nodded. “Has to be. I don’t see any way into the front, and the windows on both floors are all boarded up.”

  “I don’t like that he wants to bottleneck us into a single way of entering the building.”

  “Yeah, that’s smart. But as long as we keep our heads up and stay ready for anything, we’ll be okay. He can only surprise us if we’re not expecting a surprise.”

  "That building, though. I'm already creeped out, and it's a thousand feet away."

  “Bar’s been closed for two years. Just wait ‘til we see all the spiders inside. They probably won’t like us disturbing their home.”

  Gabe shifted in his seat, a grimace on his face.

  Ember turned toward him, grinning. “Don’t like spiders, huh?”

  “Do you?”

  “Well, no, but I’m not going to be a sissy about it.”

  Gabe blew out a sigh and retrieved his backpack from the back seat. “I know you’re messing with me, but I actually don’t like spiders. I’m an adult. I can admit that, and I feel no shame.”

  He was barely an adult, but Ember knew better than to keep picking on him. Gabe had had a rough go lately, mostly because of a near-death experience due to poisoned potato salad seven days ago. “I promise you: if a spider goes for your throat, I’ll take the little bastard out before he can leave a single mark.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  She lifted her guns from under the front seat, inserted them into her armpit holsters, and zipped up her jacket.

  “Why armpit holsters?” Gabe asked. “Aren’t they slower than hip holsters?”

  She nodded. “In most circumstances, yes. But, the hem of this jacket sits at waist-level, and I don’t want to wrestle with it if I’m in a hurry.”

  “That makes sense. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

  “Okay, you ready? If he hasn’t seen us already, he sure will once we step out of this car.”

  Gabe opened the door, and Ember followed. Between the Starbucks and the dormant bar was a small side street, leading to an industrial area full of factories and warehouses. After the conclusion of a regular workday, there wasn't significant vehicle or pedestrian traffic, only a few cars congregating around the coffee shop and the nearby gas station. No lights shined on the bar—a perfect spot to conduct business, or set a trap.

  Ember didn’t know what they were walking into.

  She and Gabe crossed the street, keeping their eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. In her line of work, having common sense and general situational awareness were the two best ways to stay alive. It wasn’t all knife fights and espionage — much of what she did was simply being aware of her surroundings at all times.

  No one seemed to be watching. No eyes peeked out between the boards on the windows. There were two cameras near the building’s corners, but Ember doubted they worked anymore, if they ever had.

  An establishment such as Night Owl didn’t seem like it would’ve had high standards for perimeter security.

  They rounded the back of the bar and found a door, not boarded up, not currently chained. There was a broken chain, sitting on the paved backlot, with another heavy padlock. Except, unlike the front, this one had been split into multiple pieces.

  “Should we scout around to make sure this is our only way in?” Gabe asked.

  Ember looked up to the second floor. The second-floor windows were also boarded up, and there was no direct entrance to that floor. “Not unless you brought an axe to chop through that wood. I know how you feel about the bottleneck, but this looks like what we’ve got.”

  “It is what it is.”

  "Okay, then we go in the way Quinn wants us to. Remember your corners. I'm going in first, and I will move left. You're in next, and you take the right. Sweep your eyes from top to bottom. Finger on the trigger, but keep it loose. You don't need to go all action-hero if a raccoon crosses your path. Got it?"

  Gabe nodded and drew his revolver; then he held up a flashlight with his other hand. "Ready."

  Ember kicked in the door and jumped inside, shifting her arms to the left. Gabe followed a split second later.

  Ember peered into the darkness, waiting for Gabe to swing the light around. But, she didn't see anyone. No gunshots. No fists were flying at her. No eyes were hovering.

  She holstered one of her guns and took out her flashlight, then cast its glow around the main room of the bar. They were standing to the side of the bar, with cobweb-topped bottles and beer tap handles. Occupying the central area of the room were a dozen small tables, each with chairs stacked on top. A dusty jukebox sat still along one wall, as well as a raised wooden stage at one end. A narrow set of stairs by the stage led up.

  No one was here. She checked behind the bar and in every dark corner, inside both bathrooms, plus the office in the back. Each room was as empty now as it probably had been the day after they closed this place up two years before. There wasn't enough dust on the floor to detect tracks if any had been made recently.

  “Everything looks clear to me.”

  “Did you expect Quinn to be here?” Gabe asked.

  “I don’t know what I expected. I can’t say I’m surprised, though.”

  Gabe opened his mouth to respond, but Ember held up a hand when she heard a noise. From somewhere nearby, a muffled cry. She turned her head toward the stairs.

  “It’s coming from up there,” Gabe said.

  Ember raised one Enforcer. “Be ready.”

  She dashed off toward the stairs. They creaked on her way up, and she launched onto the second floor to find a room very similar to the one downstairs: tables and chairs, a couch, but no bar.

  But there was one primary thing that caught her attention — it was impossible to miss: a bound and gagged woman in the middle of the room. She was young, maybe twenty, and white, with blonde hair. She was on her feet, standing still inside a steel cage contraption that looked like a telephone booth with open sides instead of glass. Her legs and feet were secured inside metal boots, welded to the bottom of the cage. Her arms were out wide, bound in cuff restraints that looked like the plastic arm links from a grocery store blood pressure monitor.

  A larger metal circle around her waist held her in place, and it too was attached to the sides of the cage. Hands and legs and torso trapped by metal fittings, she could only stand at attention and stare forward. She couldn’t duck or turn more than an inch in any direction.

  As Ember got closer, she saw that the elaborate contraption featured another unexpected complication. A gun was attached to the front of the cage’s interior, a long-barreled revolver that was pointed directly at her head. The gun was about a foot away, lined up to put a bullet in the middle of her temple, a point-blank shot. The gun’s metal grip had also been welded to the cage’s frame.

  A hook and rod acted as a mechanical finger, looping through the trigger guard and resting on the trigger itself. She couldn't see any mechanism that would cause the robotic finger to move, but she ha
d to assume Quinn had hidden it.

  There didn’t seem to be any way to remove the gun. Also, there was no way to pry the hook away from the trigger.

  The woman flicked her eyes toward them, wide and bloodshot and pleading. She tried to scream, but it came out muffled through the duct tape over her mouth. Someone had wrapped it around her head at least a dozen times.

  “Oh my God,” Gabe said, putting a hand over his mouth.

  Ember didn’t doubt Gabe had never seen anything like this. She hadn’t, either. She holstered her pistol and raced over toward the woman. Hands at her sides, she peered into the contraption. “I know you can’t talk because of the duct tape. My name is Ember. I’m going to get you out of there, so I need you to stay as calm as possible while we figure this out.”

  The woman tried to speak, but Ember didn’t understand a word of it.

  “Is Quinn here?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Is there a timer on this device?”

  The woman shrugged, moving as much of her shoulders as the arm restraints would allow.

  Ember studied the area around the woman’s head. There were small cameras pointed at her face, and Ember guessed if she tried to put something between the barrel of the gun and the woman, it would trigger the bullet to fire immediately.

  Also, there was a small control box near the woman's feet attached to the bottom of the cage. Ember ducked down to examine it. She ran her hands over the sides and top but found no buttons she could press, only a bank of lights along the top blinking in a pattern that didn't mean anything to her.

  The box beeped, and it started humming. The pistol vibrated. The woman let out a muffled scream as the fabric cuffs around her wrists began to tighten to force her into standing absolutely still.

  Ember searched the side of the cage for a second electronic panel. Something with buttons. There had to be a way to shut it off, to unplug it from the power. But the sides of the cage were completely smooth and free of hinges or anything that looked like a locking mechanism. No power cable ran out from the bottom.