Last Chance to Die, Noah Boyd [most read book in the world TXT] 📗

have to tell your people and the Waltons not to say anything about his involvement. He’s been working a major municipal corruption case undercover in Chicago as a bricklayer. His name or face in the news will blow two years of hard work. Just tell the media what I told you: An undercover agent found them and is involved in an ongoing investigation. Except lie about Chicago. Since Edward was taken in Maryland, tell them it was Baltimore. That’ll keep them running around in circles until this calms down. And don’t be too modest—you are the one who called us.”

“Kate, I may have worked applicants my whole career, but I was in the same FBI as you. Plus, I know what a terrible liar you are. I don’t understand why Steve wants to duck this, but I’m too indebted to you both to question it. I’ll just assume it’s necessary.” He gingerly shook Vail’s hand, just interlocking fingertips to avoid the wound. “Whether you’re an agent or not, Steve, I am most grateful.” Mallon hugged Kate. Then he walked back into his office and said to the Stanton boy, “Edward, what do you say we go call your parents?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy answered, his voice starting to gain some enthusiasm.

Kate unwrapped Vail’s hand, revealing the grazing wound. Fortunately, the round had hit only the fleshy edge. “You’re going to need some stitches.”

Vail tightened the handkerchief back around his hand. “I’ve been here less than four hours and you’ve already gotten me shot.”

“Me? You’re the one going off on your own. Again. How is this my fault?”

“I don’t know. Every time I get near you, something like this happens. It’s like you’re crime’s version of Typhoid Mary.”

On their way out, Vail remembered something and detoured back through the detective bureau. He picked up the note he’d left on the desk and handed it to her. “Before we have an argument, I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t cutting you out. When I left here, I was cursing myself for not going with you, because your lead looked so much better.”

Kate glanced at the note. “You’re getting a lot better at covering your tracks.”

“From your tone, apparently not good enough. Just remember who unleashed the hounds. I am a simple mason who was looking forward to free liquor and unsuspecting maidens.” Vail checked the clock on the wall. “Happy New Year, Deputy Assistant Director Bannon.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, trying to determine if they were back on a date. Her response was disappointingly neutral. “Pace yourself, woman, we’ve got the whole night in front of us.”

This was how it was with Vail, she thought. If there was a mystery in front of them, he was amazing, but once it was over, difficulties between them were inevitable. “Just because you rescued a couple of kids and got a little shot up, don’t think that I’m waving you in for a landing, Vail.”

When she called him “Vail,” it was a good sign. She used it only when she wasn’t mad. As they walked out into the parking lot, she took his arm, her touch sending electricity through him.

By the time they left the emergency room less than an hour later, dawn was coming up. Vail had taken four stitches in his hand, and the doctor had told him there shouldn’t be any permanent problems.

“Well, what’s your poison?” Kate asked. “I guess I owe you some sack time—on the couch. I can get you to the airport later.”

“Why don’t you just drop me there now.”

“If you’ll let me buy you breakfast first.”

Then Kate noticed a familiar black Lincoln Town Car idling in the parking lot, its white-gray exhaust disappearing into the icy air. It belonged to the director of the FBI. As they approached the vehicle, the driver got out.

Kate said, “Hello, Mike. What’s up?”

“The director sent me to get you.”

Kate looked at Vail with a mixture of apology and apprehension.

One corner of his mouth lifted sardonically. “Ever notice how seldom the really good dates start out in the emergency room?”

The driver turned to Vail. “He sent me to get both of you.”

2

The black Town Car pulled up to the curb in the 1100 block of Sixteenth Street in northwest D.C. They parked in front of an old mansion that had a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding it. “Where are we, Mike?” Kate asked the driver.

Vail pointed across the street to a large tan and gray four-story residence. “That’s the old Russian embassy over there.”

“They’re waiting inside for you,” the driver said, ignoring Kate’s question and Vail’s observation.

As they got out, Vail pointed at the building they were about to enter and said, “This is the old observation post where the Bureau used to monitor who came and went across the street, but then the Russians built that big compound up on Tunlaw Road, so this place was no longer necessary. Apparently they’ve found some new use for it.”

When Kate and Vail walked up to the entrance of the huge old dwelling, an agent who was not wearing his suit coat opened one of its heavy, ten-foot-tall oak doors. Along with his sidearm, two magazine pouches were clipped to his belt. He studied both of their faces briefly and then, in a voice that was neither welcoming nor overly official, said, “The director is waiting for you upstairs.”

They followed a curved staircase to the second floor, and Vail took a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship of the elegant structure, which he estimated to be at least seventy-five years old. The staircase was constructed of Spanish black marble that was almost without any impurities to distort its ebony gloss. A large but delicate glass chandelier hung down through the helix of stairs. “Okay, I’ll ask first,” he said to Kate. “What’s going on?”

“Not a clue,” she said. “But considering that today’s a holiday, the smart money is that it’s not going to be good news.”

“Next time I’m planning the date. Someplace