sense. She would’ve done just that, but Hans was back on his feet. “Excuse me, Agent Villanueva, but could you please play it one more time?”
The room stilled as Beau restarted the video. Hans stepped within the flickering images and pointed at the tall, brown-haired gentleman in a crisp, black tux. “This is who brought the explosive. Do any of you recognize him?”
“No,” Alex clipped. “Never seen him before.”
But damn. If Persia didn’t know better, she’d swear that dapper gentleman was Walker’s twin. Same proud bearing. Same short hair and clean-shaven chin. Same dark glasses. Just as handsome. Dressed like the other men at the wedding, this guy strolled into the wedding tent and set an elegantly wrapped gift between the bride’s and groom’s place settings. Then he turned and chatted with the Jordanian couple at his left. Smiling. Congenial. Just like any invited guest.
“Freeze that frame, please,” Hans ordered.
Beau did as asked, then enlarged the view.
“Now look closely,” Hans murmured. “Please. See what I see.”
“I see a murderer,” Alex growled. Man, once he made up his mind, there was no dealing with him.
“Yes, sir. You are right. But look at this—” Stretching his arm into the image, Hans ran his index finger along the stranger’s nose— “now please compare with the accused.”
Every head turned toward Walker, but he had the good sense to look directly at Alex. Smart move. Never blinked, just stared at the man who could hurt him the worst—or help him the most.
“As you can see, Mr. Stewart, Lieutenant Walker’s nose is as straight and unbroken as yours. But this man” —Hans tapped the image on the wall— “his has been broken before. It is slightly crooked. See the small knot and scar? See how it ends at rather red, bulbous nostrils, instead of nostrils that are finely crafted. And here” —Hans directed everyone’s attention to the man’s chest— “compare again.”
Persia couldn’t help herself. “That’s not Walker Judge.”
“No, it isn’t. That jackass is barrel-chested. This jackass” —Alex stuck his chin at Walker— “is trim and fit. He works out, and it shows. That jackass eats too damned much.”
“And that shows,” Adam added. “He’s got a beer gut.”
“And that belly band didn’t hide it,” Izza added.
The barest smile creased Walker’s handsome mouth. Persia bit her tongue. It was either that or run to the only man in the room she was beginning to love—yes, love—and kiss the hell out of him. Make sure he knew he’d never be alone again.
“One more item. Please, may I have your undivided attention?” Hans asked above the murmurs and grunts.
Again, Beau forwarded the clip to the point where the stranger had removed his sunglasses and wiped his wrist over his eyes. By then, sirens blared in the background. Dozens more men and women were now on the scene, running to help, or carrying charred, bleeding victims from the disaster zone.
“This is all we need to prove Lieutenant Walker’s innocence,” Hans told everyone. “This… right… here....”
Beau enhanced the image until—
“Walker’s eyes are blue,” Persia declared adamantly. “That liar’s are amber.”
“But the prosecutor will insist I wore contacts,” Walker added.
“Doesn’t matter,” Alex declared. “That bastard is not you.”
“Watch this.” Beau reversed the clip, then forwarded it back to the frontal shot of the bomber looking directly at the cameraman. He’d known he was being filmed, and he knew the guy filming. The corner of his mouth twisted into a sardonic smirk. He nodded, as if saying, “Job well done, now let’s get outta here.”
“Enlarge that son-of-a-bitch,” Alex snapped. He’d tilted forward, his elbows on his knees and fire in his eyes. “There. Stop it right there.”
Sure enough. In the reflective lens of the murderer’s Ray-Bans, Beau had caught the image of a tall, blond male in a waiter’s uniform, holding a palm-sized video camera.
“And he has a tattoo,” Hans proudly announced. “Show them, Agent Villanueva.”
With several deft keystrokes, Beau magnified the black-inked number seven over the man’s left eyebrow and three equally black teardrops beneath the same eye.
“Run him through Ember’s facial rec program,” Alex ordered.
“Already did, Boss,” Beau replied. “Name’s Butch Costa.”
“Track him down.”
Beau actually smiled. “Already did that, too. He works for a security outfit out of Canada that handles search and rescues, hot target grabs, like missing wives or children who’ve been taken out of the country. All former military. FBI Director Chase is holding him for you in DC. He’d appreciate a call before he and his guys, ahem, interrogate Costa to get the bomber’s name.”
“Tell Tuck to do