Lopez knew that it wouldn’t take Axel Cain long to find out from Larry Pitt where she was, and when he did he’d bring half of the Bureau’s manpower down here with him.
“Axel Cain’s leading a boarding team,” she lied. “Just waiting on the paperwork. He’s been in contact with you about this?”
Powell nodded slowly, still not looking at her. Alarm bells rang like claxons in Lopez’s head, and she edged slightly farther away from Powell. Powell turned, jabbing a leather-gloved finger at her.
“If you two are so sure that there’s something in all of this, then where’s Tyrell now?”
For a moment, Lopez thought that she’d gotten it all terribly wrong, and that Powell really was trying to get to the bottom of the case. She opened her mouth to speak, and then her heart stopped beating in her chest. Beneath the soft black leather of Powell’s glove, the cuffs of his shirt were thickly stained with blood.
Powell’s expression wavered with concern as he caught the direction of her gaze. Lopez jerked her pistol up to point at the captain, but Powell’s arm smashed her weapon aside. A chunky fist slammed into her stomach and she gagged and folded over the blow, the strength leaving her legs as Powell hurled her against the steel wall of a shipping container.
A crack reverberated through her head as it struck the hard metal, her vision blurring as Powell tore her pistol from her grip. She felt the barrel jammed against her face, saw Powell’s features loom before her as the sound of the approaching jet reached deafening proportions.
“Move!” Powell shouted.
Lopez was shoved toward the Gulfstream V550 that had parked within twenty meters of them.
“You’ll never get away with this shit,” Lopez shouted above the engine noise.
Powell didn’t respond as he manhandled her alongside the Gulfstream. As the engines wound down, she saw the fuselage entrance door open and a set of steps unfold with a mechanical buzz. As soon as it touched the tarmac Powell propelled her up the steps, the pistol still wedged against her head.
As she reached the doorway, a tall man blocked her way. A pair of clear, cold eyes locked onto hers, narrow irises floating in gray discs. They took in the pistol at her neck and Powell holding her before the man stepped back and out of the way.
“We’ve been compromised,” Powell snapped as he shoved Lopez into the aircraft. “Get the consignment off but leave the crate on.”
“That wasn’t part of the plan,” the man said, Lopez detecting a hint of a Chicago accent.
“The plan’s over!” Powell boomed, and shoved Lopez toward the man. “Empty the crate and get those remains out of here. When you’re done, put her inside the crate.”
Lopez was caught in the man’s iron grip as he looked at Powell.
“What are you going to do to her?”
Captain Powell looked down at Lopez. “You’re the last remaining link, Nicola. Once you’re out of the picture everything goes back to normal. I’ll make it quick, but I’m afraid you’re going out to sea.”
Lopez felt acid seething through her veins as an image of Lucas Tyrell lying dead in the apartment filled her mind.
“Just as gutless as I thought you were.”
Powell’s eyes flared and he struck out at her with the back of his hand.
Lopez flinched, but was surprised to see the hand of the man holding her flick out and block Powell’s blow easily. Even before she had registered what was happening, she felt herself being spun away as the man with the cold gray eyes rushed forward, gripping Powell’s gun hand in his own while driving the points of his fingers into Powell’s eyes. Powell growled and stumbled back, trying to swipe the hand away. In an instant, Lopez’s savior stomped on the inside of Powell’s left leg while twisting his gun arm up and away from his torso.
Powell’s gag became a brief scream as his shoulder dislocated, and Lopez heard a popping sound as the tendons snapped in his wrist, the pistol dropping onto the Gulfstream’s carpeted floor.
Lopez scrambled to her feet as the man grabbed the pistol and stood back from Powell’s crumpled form.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
“Ethan Warner,” the man replied, keeping the weapon trained on Powell. “You?”
“Nicola Lopez, MPD. What the hell’s going on?”
“You need to call Doug Jarvis at the DIA and tell him that—”
“I spoke to him an hour ago, he’s the one that got me into this,” Lopez said briskly. “You came here from