Code of Honor

Chapter Sixteen

“I hope you had better luck than I did,” Cam said to Wes after they’d cleared security and settled at a small table at one of the airport chain restaurants to wait for their flight.

A waitress flew by, barely pausing long enough to say, “Need menus?”

“Coffee and a turkey club would be fine,” Cam said.

“Same.” Wes draped her black topcoat over an adjacent chair.

Like Cam, Wes wore a tailored dark suit and white shirt, and she carried herself with the authoritative attitude and direct gaze of the naval officer she was. Cam had wanted someone with that cool, commanding demeanor to take on a group of what had to be defensive scientists and litigation-phobic corporate directors. No one at Eugen Corp had been briefed on exactly what had happened to the stolen viral agent. All they’d been told was that it had been used in a criminal undertaking. Cam had dealt with the security director—cop to cop—and she’d gotten nothing she hadn’t known before the flight down.

“I reviewed the security tapes for the two days before and up to the night the virus went missing,” Cam said. “There’s nothing on them out of the ordinary. Angela Jones is the best suspect we have, since she’s the only one missing, and she can be seen coming and going from the facility and the lab at her usual times. If she spirited that vial out, she was very good at it.”

“She’d had plenty of time to plan,” Wes said, sipping the coffee the waitress had deposited on another fly-by. “And if someone really wants to get something out, it’s not that difficult. Almost all the security at research centers like this is directed at keeping would-be terrorists from getting in or creating physical barriers to prevent the agent itself from escaping via airborne contamination. Precautions against someone carrying it out are less rigorous. In private centers like Eugen, security isn’t even federally regulated. Unless every person going in and out is scanned—thermally, radiographically, and radioactively—detecting a small quantity of an agent in a sealed vial is pretty impossible. And the cost of that kind of security is prohibitive.”

“Did anyone strike you as being involved?” Cam asked.

Wes shook her head. “I talked to the lead investigator, and he seems solid. I know him by reputation, and he’s devastated by the breach in security. This kind of exposure can call into question all the results of the team’s work. If someone can spirit something out of the lab, someone can introduce foreign agents or sabotage the results in some other way. Basically, they’re looking at repeating months if not years of work to validate what they’ve already proven.”

“So what you’re telling me is this guy would have no motive to be behind this, unless his sole focus is sabotage.”

“Exactly, and I can’t see that that’s the case. He has a well-established career. He left academia when the funding dried up. A lot of the cutting-edge researchers did. They simply couldn’t continue to support their work without federal funding, and that was one of the first things to disappear when the economy took a dive.” Wes shook her head. “Unless you turn up something in the background checks on the other team members that points to an extremist connection or some kind of blackmail leverage, I don’t see the leak being one of the primary investigators.”

“We haven’t, but I wanted your face-to-face assessment,” Cam said. “How many people were in on the planning stages of the project?”

Wes sat back as the waitress slid club sandwiches in front of them. Once she’d left, Wes picked hers up and took a bite. After swallowing some coffee, she said, “The lead investigator, the co-investigator, and several research associates drafted the original plans for the project, but once it got under way, there were probably a dozen people who had at least some working knowledge of the project goals.”

“So how hard would it be for someone interested in stealing one of the specimens to get themselves into a position to manage that?”

“Not that easy,” Wes said. “Like I said, the project wasn’t exactly top-secret, but it was pretty small. On the other hand, the nature of the work necessitated a Level Four environment, and lots of projects are going on in there. Someone working on a different project would have access, theoretically at least, to everything in that lab.”

Cam frowned. “So we’re back to looking at everyone who had clearance for that lab.”

Wes nodded. “Anyone on the main project would just be too obvious. What about Jones? Anything more on her?”

“We knew Angela Jones was an alias,” Cam said, “but I was hoping we could find out more about her—or turn up some other possible suspects. Her file here is as clean as the background I already ran. Strong credentials, been here almost two years.” Cam paused. “Do you have to register this kind of project or something?”

“Ordinarily, yes, investigative projects of this nature are registered with the FDA. They receive a DIN—a drug investigation number—even if no drugs are expected to be produced.”

“And there would’ve been a record, somewhere.”

“Sure. Probably multiple places, especially if the PIs—the principal investigators—went outside Eugen Corp for funding.”

“So let’s say someone’s looking for exactly this kind of project, discovers this place, maybe other places that do something similar, and applies for positions at all of them,” Cam said. “Someone with Jones’s credentials is likely to get one of those jobs, right?”

“Absolutely. I reviewed the copy of her CV you sent me. Stellar training, good previous experience, and apparently willing to relocate. That would make her an excellent potential candidate.”

“So we dig deeper into her background. She’s still the number one candidate,” Cam said. “Eventually we’ll find the place where her falsified identity breaks down.” She thought she might already know where the truth stopped and the lies began. Some things couldn’t be erased or repurposed. Angela Jones’s birth certificate might be fake, her name, her driver’s license, her social security number—all fabricated. But at some point she had come from somewhere, had to point to a trail that could be checked. Somewhere she had stopped being who she was and had become Angela Jones, and Cam was betting it was the day she’d left home and started college. The day she entered the system, she became Angela Jones. Before then, she and Jennifer Pattee had known one another—Cam was certain of that. An operation this long-range wasn’t orchestrated by people who didn’t know and trust each other completely. Who didn’t have history. What she needed to do was follow them both back in time until their paths intersected, and then she’d find the ones who had trained them. Were very likely still training others just like them.

“We did catch one break,” Wes said.

“Tell me nothing else is missing.”

“The vial we confiscated is the only thing they’ve come up with that’s not accounted for. Their inventory has been thorough. If there’s another attack, it’s not going to be viral. At least, not with this agent.”

“No,” Cam said slowly. “Next time, I think the focus is going to be much more directed. They were hoping for a big splash by releasing the virus at a public function with the president and high-ranking officials in attendance—they’ve lost the element of surprise now, and they know we’ll be doubling security on those kinds of events. Having failed to create the kind of chaos that produces multiple casualties and throws confidence in the government into question, they’ll want to make a strong statement of some other kind. The way to do that is to single out a well-known target of critical importance to as many people as possible.”

Wes put her sandwich down, suddenly not hungry. “POTUS?”

“Or someone close to him—someone whose death could stand in for his, who represents the same kind of public symbol.” Cam didn’t need to name names. Wes knew. And so would whoever followed in Jennifer’s wake—and she knew someone would. She needed to find them or draw them out first. But before that, she needed something else. She checked her watch and stood up. “Listen, I’m going to change flights. Sorry.”

“No problem,” Wes said. “What’s up? Are you going to take a later flight?”

“No,” Cam said, putting money on the table. “I’m going to change my destination.”

*

The late-morning sun finally burned off the gray clouds, and a trickle of warmth struck Sky’s face as they walked out of the Rooster. She blinked in the thin sunlight. She’d been inside the windowless bar for twelve hours. Twelve hours that felt like twelve years, surrounded by clouds of smoke, testosterone, and barely concealed suspicion. She took a deep breath and hoped the cold, clean air would purge the smoke from her lungs and the taste of violence from the back of her throat. “God, I almost feel like climbing on the back of your bike just to blow the grime off me.”

“We don’t have that far to go,” Loren said. She still had her arm around Sky’s waist and steered toward her Harley in the line outside the bar. “I’m up for it.”

“Not exactly dressed for it,” Sky said, indicating her short jacket and skimpy top. “If I lean over on the back of that bike, my ass is going to freeze.”

Loren laughed, but her voice held an edge. “Can’t have that, although the way you risk it, I’m surprised you’re that worried about it.”

“Come on.” Sky grabbed Loren’s hand and dragged her past the bikes toward her car. They were alone, but anyone could walk out of the bar, and she didn’t want to have this conversation outside. Besides, the look in Loren’s eyes said she was pissed, and since they were supposed to be one step from jumping into bed, she didn’t want to spoil the illusion. She yanked open the car door and climbed behind the wheel. Loren cut around the front and dropped into the seat beside her. Sky started the engine and said, “What are you talking about?”

The car was small and Loren seemed very close as she leaned toward Sky. “What the hell were you trying to prove in there? Pushing Ramsey about the audit, then getting chummy with Trish.”

“Ramsey would have expected me to say something,” Sky pointed out.

“And Trish? You do know she could chew you up and spit you out if she gets a wild hair. And, trust me, she gets a wild hair frequently.”

“Listen, McElroy,” Sky said, backing toward the road, “I came here to get inside, and that’s what I’m going to do. Tricia is the perfect avenue.”

“Tricia is smart and tough and more than a little crazy.” Loren was so close, her breath streamed like a hot caress across Sky’s cheek.

A ripple of sensation, shockingly swift and sweet, ran down her body and exploded in her center. Loren’s heat overpowered the pathetic wheeze coming from the vents, or maybe it was just her own temperature spiking. Sky shivered. “If I wanted to be anything more than a faceless pair of tits you diddled for a night, I needed to be seen. Really seen. Being noticed by Tricia helps my cover.”

“Well, now she’s seen you. For better or worse. And you’ve managed to wrangle yourself an invitation to the New Year’s run.”

Sky cut Loren a look. Her eyes still flashed with temper. “Well, only if you offer me the bitch seat.”

Loren grunted. “Do I have a choice?”

“Plenty, I’m sure.” Sky imagined Loren had no trouble finding women to keep her company on the back of her bike whenever she wanted it. The idea left a sour note in her stomach. “Look, I might be able to get a look at things you can’t. And women talk to other women the way they won’t to you—not when you’re a member first, a woman second.”

“Is that how you see me?” Loren asked. “Or do you only see an operative you intend to handle?”

Sky watched the road, and for the first time in her memory, didn’t know how to form her answer. She couldn’t read Loren the way she could other people, couldn’t discern what answer would produce the outcome she wanted. She didn’t know what she wanted. Her feelings, or whatever it was Loren caused to swirl around inside her, throwing her off, confusing her, were getting in her way. “Can we agree to focus on the job?”

“Sure.” Loren pulled back and the heat dissipated, leaving Sky cold even though the interior had warmed up.

“We’re on the same side, Loren,” she said softly.

“You’ll get plenty of opportunity for a firsthand look on the run to Reno—all the chapters will be there, and so will the national officers,” Loren went on as if they hadn’t nearly crossed some unspoken line between the personal and the professional. “But I suggest you go through the books as quickly as possible and give them a clean bill of health. You don’t want Ramsey getting nervous about what you might find, and you don’t want him watching you any more than he already is.”

“Okay, that makes sense. I’ll go back this afternoon and make quick work of it.” Sky ought to have been happy they were back on neutral professional ground, but instead a nagging emptiness spread through her. “If I close out the books, you and I will have to be seen together to maintain my cover. Frequently.”

“I’ve got my own agenda—I can’t spend all my time feeling you up for the benefit of the club members who might be watching.”

“Darn, and I was so hoping you would.”

Loren laughed and some of the weight lifted from Sky’s chest. “Okay, it’s not a hardship, true. But I may be out of town for a while, probably tomorrow.”

“Doing what?” Sky asked.

Loren was silent.

“I thought we were past this, McElroy.” Sky took the turn toward Loren’s shop. “There’s no reason for me to be here except the ones I gave you. If I’d come here to expose you, I’ve already got enough on you to do that.”

“We’d still both be better off if you handled things from a distance.”

“So what—you can take on this gun exchange with the militia with no backup of any kind?” Sky shook her head. “That’s not happening. You get me, or you get the county sheriffs dogging your steps.”

Loren snorted. “Well, that’s guaranteed to get me dead. They’ve got more leaks than a faucet. Plus, I know two of them who work on the Renegades’ payroll.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ve been looking at them. So I’m as good as you get.”

Loren blew out a breath. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep feeling you up for the benefit of the boys, then.”

“I’ll try not to make it too much of a chore,” Sky said dryly.

“The problem,” Loren murmured, “is that it isn’t.”

Sky knew exactly what she should say. She should have put Loren off, put distance between them—safe, comfortable, anonymous distance. Her silence was as telling as a confession.