to lure him here,” Crutchfield agreed, sounding a little smug, like he’d just launched a major salvo in her direction. “Our concern is that SDF may have a different agenda than the State Department.”
No shit, Sherlock. And the piece about Scout was good. Only a handful of people in the world knew where that girl had been for the last eight weeks, and most of them were right here in Denver.
“That’s where you come in, Mrs. Hart.”
“I’m listening,” she said.
“I’d rather you listened in person,” Crutchfield said. “I’m hoping the information I have will convince you to make our interests your highest personal priority, should SDF take Farrel into custody.”
AGREE TO MEET NOW. O’SHAUNESSY’S. Another message from Dylan appeared on her computer screen.
“Then we need to meet now, Mr. Crutchfield. Our team is already moving in on him.”
There was a slight pause.
“You know where he is?”
“We’ve been tracking him all day. If you can meet me at O’Shaunessy’s Bar, just off 16th at Blake, I’ll take a look at what you’ve got, but I doubt if it’ll be worth what you’re asking.” Asking her to put her own interests above the team’s—not very damn likely, no matter what he had.
“Agreed. I need you to come alone. If I see another SDF operator, the deal is off. I’ll head back to D.C. tonight and have charges filed against your husband by noon tomorrow. The more personal information will be available online before I even get to the airport—so tread carefully, Mrs. Hart.”
REDIRECTING KID FROM THE KASHMIR CLUB TO O’SHAUNESSY’S. And that pretty much sealed Mr. Crutchfield’s fate. He wouldn’t see Kid. The boy was a sniper. He had a way of disappearing just by standing still.
“The deal I’m offering is only for you,” the doomed Crutchfield continued. “Come alone. I guarantee it will be worth your time.”
And she could guarantee he was right about that. It was well worth her time to get her hands on Randolph Lancaster’s personal aide.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jane could barely breathe, but she kept running, spurred on by the fear clutching at her chest. Branches slapped at her face and scratched her arms. The stitch in her side threatened to stop her cold—but she didn’t dare stop. Not here in this no-man’s land.
It was dark beyond the fence, the only light coming in flashes from the police cars in the alley behind her and from the streetlamps on the next street over. In between those two places was a rough, paved area backing up to a block of buildings. It was full of dumpsters and junked cars, different kinds of fencing, and lengths of chain marking off parking areas and loading docks, and there was trash—boxes stacked behind the stores, old tires from an automotive shop, and fast-food wrappers trapped in the weeds.
Big mistake—that’s all she could think. She shouldn’t have run into this place just because she’d seen something horrifying. She’d seen a lot of bad stuff on the streets growing up.
Nothing as bad as torn-off body parts, sure, but she still shouldn’t have let shock take over. It was the one clear thought she had, now when it was too late and she’d already jumped out of the damn frying pan and into the fire—I shouldn’t be back here—along with a strong dose of So help me God, Banner’s arm is lying in the alley.
That her first instinct had been to run away from the cops instead of toward them told her exactly how far she’d come from her homeless child roots: not very. Not nearly as far as she’d thought. Not as far as she’d been convincing herself these last few years.
Once a street rat, always a street rat. If she hadn’t been so damned scared, it would have been damned depressing.
And look where it had gotten her.
Breathe, she told herself, feeling the ache in her chest and her side. She slowed to a fast walk, half running when she could, her arms tight around her torso, and she kept moving.
Something rustled in the bushes next to the path, and she whirled in an instant, jerking her Bersa Thunder out of her purse and leveling it at a brambly patch of weeds. She still had five shots left in the .380, and she was most definitely in the mood to use them.
A feral cat skittered across the path, but Jane didn’t feel any relief. She was still in the wrong place, but running back to the restaurant and getting hauled downtown by the police didn’t