A friend who’d worked with her in the forensic accounting department of the U.N. had risked his life to get photocopies of certain ledgers. Ledgers Kate had worked on in Kosovo that had given her the first inkling that all was not as it should have been.
She and Branislav had been part of the U.N.’s international war crimes tribunal, investigating ex-Yugoslav President Slobodan Milosevic and the ethnic war that had raged in the Balkans since 1986. Their specific task was to examine the hand-written ledgers from the offices of the Kosovo Liberation Army who had been accused of stealing NATO funds to pay for black market weapons.
Those ledgers had started it all. She’d found payments from the KLA to a U.S. bank. She’d assumed the KLA had found an American arms dealer, but then she’d discovered that the money had shown up in some suspicious accounts. She’d been told to leave it alone. That it wasn’t important. But she’d continued to dig. The money led her to a slush fund, which made a roundabout circuit right back to the Balkans. To a laboratory run by what she now knew was a corrupt organization somehow connected to the CIA. They called themselves Omicron, and to the outside world, they were military consultants, meeting with presidents and generals from every allied nation. In reality, they were dealers of death, willing to kill countless civilians for the right price. Justifying their actions by using the tainted money to fund missions and objectives that weren’t exactly kosher. Approved by someone high up in the government. Someone who needed to be exposed if Omicron was to be stopped.
She’d had to leave the ledgers when she’d escaped from the country. It had been Nate’s team who’d gotten them out. His Delta unit, the best of the best, had been hand-picked to go to Kosovo. They’d had one mission—to destroy a lab in Serbia where terrorists were making a chemical weapon. They would have done it, too, if she and Harper and Tam hadn’t told them the truth. God, she’d never forget Nate’s face when he realized his country had betrayed him. They’d gone to the lab on recon, and confirmed that it wasn’t terrorists making the gas, it was scientists, mostly young, bright graduate students, all working separately on their own unique task, none aware that when all the pieces were put together, they would have created the deadliest chemical agent known to man. They also didn’t know that once the project was complete, none of them would live to spend the money they’d earned, or to write up their findings in the scientific journals. They’d been duped, just like Nate’s unit had been duped. All by the men behind Omicron. Almost six months later, she’d gotten in touch with Branislav. It had taken another six months till he’d agreed to get the copies.
Unfortunately, they were a mess. It was going to take Kate weeks to put them in order, then to create the paper trail that could be used in court. If the papers were all there. If Omicron, the CIA covert operation that was out to kill her, kill them all, didn’t find her first.
The reminder got her moving. She stepped out of the car, then decided not to make any phone calls from the street. Even though her cell couldn’t be traced, she knew enough about microphones that she didn’t dare talk in public. Hell, after what had happened to Christie, she knew talking in private wasn’t safe, either.
She thought about Christie, and how Omicron had tormented her. One of the agents had dated her, then stalked her for months. She’d lost her job, her money, almost her sanity. All because she was Nate Pratchett’s sister. Nate, who’d been Kate’s go-to guy in Kosovo, had been in hiding. Everyone, including his sister, including Kate, had thought he was dead. But he’d been spending his time finding out who was involved in the Kosovo killings.
She wished Nate were here now. Nate, Seth, Boone and Cade, her Delta Force soldiers, all were in hiding. Nate and Seth were in Los Angeles, Boone was in Wyoming with Christie, and Cade was in Colorado, living in a safe house where they could all hide if they had to and listening in on the operations of a small Omicron office outside of Colorado Springs.
Kate headed inside to the ugly efficiency apartment she’d rented under yet another assumed name. The smell of unwashed bodies and weed filled the dim hall, and for once, she didn’t mind.
VINCE WAITED IN the manager’s office, shifting on the too-small chair, willing himself to chill. The guy, name of Tyson, was prissy and nervous and Vince needed his help. It turned out he wasn’t sure who had been assigned to stock Tim’s bar, and he had to go find the paperwork.
The office gave him no easy distractions—it was as prim as the man who occupied it. The chairs were like something out of a Victorian sitting room, too delicate for a man Vince’s size. The art was all landscapes, the lamps had little beads on the shades and the whole office smelled like his grandmother’s bedroom.
He tried to regret smashing Baker in the face but couldn’t. Then he tried to figure out which gang was most likely to have wanted Tim dead, but that just made him fidget more.
Finally, he stood. At least he wouldn’t break the chair. He walked over to the window and looked out. It was gloomy, a typical November day for Los Angeles. At least there was no snow. He’d grown up in South Dakota, and he’d seen enough snow there to last two lifetimes.
He was on the third floor, and from this corner window he could see a couple of patrol cars. More interesting was the vendor, selling fish tacos and horchata, standing by the front entrance. He’d probably witnessed the gunmen enter the hotel, although he’d probably be too scared to be of any help.
“Detective Yarrow.”
Vince turned. Tyson walked in with two manila folders.
“The woman taking care of the fourteenth floor is Kate Rydell. I’ve asked her supervisor to bring her here.”
“Great.” He nodded at the folders. “May I take a look?”
The man handed them over, and Vince turned slightly, giving the manager more of his back, hoping he’d catch the hint.
In the folder, he found Rydell’s work application along with a very blurry copy of her driver’s license. Shit, he couldn’t get anything from the picture at all. It was even hard to make out the license number or the salient facts. Squinting, he saw that she was five-eight, one hundred eighteen pounds, and had brown hair and eyes. That wouldn’t get him far. “I’ll need copies,” he said, not bothering to turn. He checked her license address against the application information. They were the same. Her work history was just about what he expected. Hotel service, waitress. High school education.
He heard the manager behind him and handed him the first folder. “Do you have surveillance cameras?”
“In the lobby and in the garage.”
“I’ll need them.”
“Why don’t you come with me. You can watch the tapes while I get the photocopies. We can wait for Ms. Rydell in the security office.”
Luckily, the woman who was in charge of security for the hotel thought on her feet. She’d already taken out the tapes from this morning and queued them for duplication. Her name was Phyllis Samms, and from what he could see she was a regular on the weight machines. He’d hate to run into her in a dark alley.
Even her handshake was muscular. “I’ve got them ready,” she said, pointing to a chair. He sat down. “I couldn’t find your shooter in the lobby. Maybe your people will have more luck. However, there are some interesting shots in the garage.”
She sat next to him and pressed the remote. The camera angle wasn’t good—it was aimed more for identifying cars than people. Someone would have to look up in order for him to get a good face shot. Phyllis was right, there were some interesting shots. Two guys in big coats with hoods ran out at eleven-seventeen. He couldn’t see who they were, not even tats, but he’d take the tape and let the lab boys go to town. They’d find something.
The bangers didn’t get in a car. Instead they ran out of camera range.
As Phyllis went to stop the tape, Vince shook his head. He kept watching. A couple of businessmen came out, got into their cars. A hotel employee, a male, came out