Behind the Lies (A Montgomery Justice Novel) Page 2

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Zach urged the bike forward. “I guess not.” Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “So, is the information credible?”

  Theresa didn’t say anything for a moment. Zach knew the truth. She believed that Pendar, his wife, Setara, and their two daughters were dead. Khalid’s group had a reputation for kidnapping for hire—resulting in beheadings, not ransoms. Zach’s assignment had been to discover the group’s location so a smart bomb could take out the man responsible for over one hundred deaths—that they knew of. Pendar had been a godsend.

  Until he’d disappeared.

  “What does this guy really want?” Zach muttered. No one bargained these days without a major favor in mind.

  “He made enemies. He needs asylum.”

  “Can we do the deal?” It wasn’t always possible.

  “The boss wants to take out Khalid any way we can. He’s willing to take the risk.”

  The motorcycle whipped down the brick-covered streets, the uneven ground vibrating his back teeth. He flew past shop after shop, a hint of spice and smoke still in the air from the final hours of life at the street market. Finally, he shifted around a last corner to a part of Istanbul that no tourist should frequent. He turned into the sunset, and the glare blinded him momentarily. Zach blinked and pulled on his sunglasses as the landscape shifted. Fewer buildings, more trees, much more remote.

  “Almost to the rendezvous point.” The area was deserted. Zach eased on the gas, his breathing steady, his hands itching to hold his weapon. “I need to find Pendar, Theresa.”

  She sighed again. “It wasn’t your fault. He got careless.”

  “He wouldn’t have put himself in that position if I hadn’t twisted his arm.”

  A figure stepped into the darkening road.

  He aimed a submachine gun directly at Zach. The bullets would rip through Kevlar like butter and explode inside him. If they landed true.

  “It’s a setup.”

  Theresa spit out an unladylike curse.

  Zach had no choice. He gunned the gas, leaned back, and forced his bike into a skid, his thousand-dollar leather pants taking the brunt of the slide. The motorcycle slid into the guy, undercutting his legs before he could get off a shot. He fell back with a loud roar. Before the bike slid to a stop, Zach shot to his feet, his father’s reliable Kimber 1911 in his palm. He ignored the pain shooting down his right leg. Warm liquid bathed his skin, but he raced toward his assailant. He had more than a few questions.

  A van screeched to a halt. Five men jumped out.

  With a harsh expletive, Zach spun around. His legs pumped hard as he dove for cover in a grove of trees at the side of the road, hidden in the shadows, the black of his clothes blending him into his surroundings.

  The men scattered, their weapons at the ready, shouting in Turkish.

  He didn’t make out all the phrases, except one. Kill Zane Morgan.

  Zach shifted. A woodpecker sounded an indignant call and took to the skies.

  The men whirled toward the sound. One raced at Zach.

  Shit.

  Five against one. Not good odds.

  The barrel of the submachine gun pointed just to his right. The guy let the bullets fly. Zach took one shot. The bullet hit true. His assailant fell to the ground.

  The four men left shouted out and started his way. Zach picked off two more.

  The remaining assailants raced back to the van using curses that definitely weren’t part of his original lessons in Turkish. Nothing like on-the-job-training to expand the vocabulary. The men climbed into the vehicle and screamed away.

  Zach fell onto his back and tapped his earpiece. “Three dead. I need cleanup.”

  His contact sighed. “Can’t you go anywhere without leaving a mess?”

  He didn’t joke back. “How’d they know about the meet, Theresa?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll get back to you.”

  Zach didn’t like the worried tone in her voice, but she’d figure it out. She had his back. She always did.

  He shifted and his leg burned. Zach studied the damage. “Damn it. I’m going to be late for the next take.”

  Chippendale furniture and Waterford crystal didn’t matter if you were dead. Jenna Walters knew she wouldn’t be leaving her house alive. Not if she stayed another hour.

  Standing in the elegant bedroom where her dreams had been created—and shattered—she dialed a well-rehearsed number with shaking fingers, a number she’d believed was her salvation. After the last few months, she didn’t know if she could believe in anything or anyone anymore.

  She tucked the phone under her chin and opened another drawer from the priceless mahogany antique.

  “FBI,” a formless tone answered.

  “Agent Fallon, please.” She cursed her quivering voice. If betrayal could drive away fear, she would’ve been the bravest woman on earth.

  She studied the smashed FBI listening device in her hand. The trembling hadn’t stopped since she’d discovered it. He knew. Brad knew what she’d done. What she’d tried to do. There was no other explanation. He was playing with her, like he had for the seven years she’d known him.

  She shoved aside the truth of what her husband could do to her as quickly as she pushed the drawer closed. The television rumbled on the news channel in the background. She glanced over at the distraction. The breaking announcement at the bottom of the screen made her still. The phone dropped to the floor. She stared at the words, desperately praying they would change, but of course they didn’t. She stared at the phone on the ground, her lifeline. She scooped up the receiver and stuffed two more nondescript shirts in the duffel. If she’d had any doubts before, they were gone now. No regrets. No more designer gowns. She had to disappear.

  She’d give the FBI one last chance.

  “Fallon.” The crisp voice on the other end of the phone didn’t calm her as it had in the past. In fact, he sounded shaken.

  No more out of sorts than she. “He knows.”

  “Jenna?”

  “One of the bugs is in pieces. I’m telling you, he knows. I’ve got to get out of here. Now. I don’t know why he hasn’t already killed me. Probably because he couldn’t find a babysitter on such short notice.” The forced laugh didn’t hide the panic in her voice.

  Who was she kidding? She shoved underwear into the bag and yanked open another drawer.

  “Wait a minute, Jenna. Let’s think this through. We can salvage the operation.” He didn’t sound like himself. Something was wrong. The gut instinct that had abandoned her when Brad had swept her off her feet revved into overdrive.

  For months after her dad had died, she’d survived on the streets, instinct and desperation her only allies. At fourteen she’d kept herself safe by trusting her gut.

  Right now, every fiber in her being told her that the man on the other end of the phone was lying to her.

  She couldn’t afford to doubt. Besides, why should she be surprised that another person she’d trusted was a liar?

  Fallon had blown his last chance.

  Her comfortable existence might be gone, but she would scrape a life together. She had reason to. “You think. I’m out of here. His flight’s already landed. He’s an hour from home.”

  The breaking news flashed on the television screen a second time. The caption scrolling across the bottom said it all. San Francisco. Joseph Romero, primary witness for the prosecution in extortion trial, murdered while in protective custody.

  “Brad was in San Francisco,” she said, her voice wooden and way too calm.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Another lie. “I can hear the wobble in your voice, Fallon. You’re not that good.” With a quick tug, she zipped closed the surplus store duffel. “It just flashed on the news. Brad killed Joseph Romero, didn’t he? He goes to a city. Someone dies. Isn’t that the pattern?”

  A sharp curse exploded through the phone. “Look, Jenna. We believe Brad got to Romero. We don�
��t know how, but it doesn’t change anything. We can still protect you.”

  “Is that what you told Joseph Romero?”

  “Damn it, Jenna. You need us.”

  “I can’t trust you to protect us. I should have known better. I’ll be in touch when we’re safe. Maybe.”

  She slammed the phone against his shouts of protest and hung her head in her hands. What was she going to do? How in God’s name was she going to protect her son?

  “Mommy? Are you all right?” Sam’s tentative voice filtered across the room.

  She pasted on a cheerful smile before she lifted her head. She clasped the locket dangling around her neck, the locket her father had given her, and squeezed it tight. She met her son’s troubled gaze. His green eyes—so like hers. Nothing like his father’s.

  Her five-year-old’s presence stiffened her spine. She was doing this for him. He’d given her the strength to fill out the divorce papers and the courage to call the FBI. He’d give her the strength to protect him and the strength to abandon everything she’d believed she wanted.

  Now she knew the truth. Her dream was based on a lie.

  “Sure, baby.” Moving a shaking hand under the edge of the bed frame, she searched until her fingertips encountered the bundle of cash she’d taped there while Brad had been barricaded in the office on the phone. Arranging one more of his “deals.” Now she knew that “deal” had been murder for hire.

  Sam jumped on her bed and tugged at the duffel. “Are we going on a trip?”

  “A quick one, Sam. Go grab one toy you want to take with you.”

  Oh, that hurt. Her throat thickened, but she swallowed past the regret. She didn’t want to limit Sam. He was giving up everything, too, but they had to travel light until she found a place for them to be safe.

  “But Dad’s coming home today. And he’s taking me to a baseball game soon. He promised.”

  “Change of plans. It’s a surprise.” She forced a big grin. “You’ll love it. I promise.”

  Eventually. Maybe. But at least you’ll be alive, and safe. Not the son of a man who kills people for a living.

  She glanced at the bedside clock. Not enough time to think about any of the memories she had to leave behind. They were false anyway. All except one. She snagged a set of photos of Sam from the dresser. It would have to do.

  One look at his mutinous pout and she sighed. Except for her eyes, he looked so much like his father. “I’m not playing around, Sam. Grab your stuff or leave it here, but we’re in the car in five minutes.”

  Stomping shoes and a slamming door calmed her a bit. He was mad, but he’d do it. Thank God. Her little boy still minded. Most of the time.

  She turned toward the closet filled with boundless clothes, a plethora of shoes, and all the trappings she believed had made her life complete. She’d believed in Brad, her Prince Charming. She’d been wrong.

  Jenna hitched the bag onto her shoulder and hurried down the stairs. She set the duffel by the door to the garage. She and Sam would start over. Everything would be fine. It had to be.

  Her heart pounded and a niggling skittered up her spine. “Let’s go, Sam,” she called up to the second floor, trying to keep her voice steady. She could do this. A few more minutes and they would be free—then she’d have to figure out how to get out of this mess. But she would—for him.

  He sulked down the stairs, his chin dropped, holding a baseball glove and ball in his hand.

  Not subtle at all.

  “Good choice,” she said with a smile. At least she could speak the truth about one thing. Sam could play baseball anywhere. They would find a new life. Somewhere.

  The sound of the automatic garage door opening slammed shut the hope. It couldn’t be. He hadn’t had time to get here from the airport. Unless he’d taken an earlier flight. Stupid, stupid.

  “Sam.”

  His eyes widened. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  She grabbed his shoulders. “I don’t have time to explain. Someone bad is breaking in the house. We’ve got to run. Don’t make a sound.”

  She’d thought he would argue, but the panic in her voice must’ve gotten through to him. She’d scared him, but hell, she was terrified. If Brad found her, she was dead. Then what would happen to Sam?

  She took one last glance toward the hallway leading to the garage. Her duffel sat there waiting. The money. Their future. But she couldn’t risk going for it.

  She clutched Sam’s hand and ran to the back entrance.

  “What about my ball and glove?”

  “There’s no time.” She struggled with the doorknob. She sucked in a deep breath.

  For Sam.

  She opened the French doors leading into their large, elaborate backyard. She twisted the lock and closed the door behind them.

  A waterfall trickled to the side, hiding any noise they made. Maybe…just maybe…she tugged Sam across the grass, behind a grove of trees, into what her son had termed “the jungle.”

  Thank God for the dense pines.

  A door slammed open. “Jenna!” A voice bellowed from the back porch. “Get in this house. Now!”

  Her entire body stilled, resisting the urge to follow his orders. She’d gotten into the habit of obeying to protect her son. No more. This wasn’t how life should be.

  “Daddy?” Her son peeked between the leaves.

  Jenna tugged him back. Anxiety had darkened his expression.

  She swallowed and knelt in front of Sam. “Listen to me, honey. I need you to help me. I’m afraid. Do you believe me?”

  His gaze returned to where his father raged, kicking the patio furniture around, and nodded.

  “For now, can you just trust me?”

  Brad’s fierce scowl didn’t resemble the man who’d swept her off her feet. This man was definitely not Prince Charming. And he wasn’t father of the year, either.

  Her son stared at his father’s expression. “Daddy can be mean sometimes.”

  She kissed his forehead as Brad peered through the darkness. With a violent curse he disappeared into the house.

  She had to move. Now. He’d already seen the duffel by the door. He knew she was on the run. He would search everywhere and use his contacts at the bus station, the airport, the train station. Without the stash of money or clothes, she’d have to be even more creative than she’d imagined.

  Laughter filtered from the party next door. Jenna rubbed her temple. No help there. She couldn’t risk anyone knowing she was leaving. Brad could be very persuasive. She needed to disappear. Somewhere her husband would never guess.

  She had no one to call. No real friends. She’d never been very social, and Brad had plucked her off the streets when she was so young. She was truly and utterly alone, except for her son.

  A searchlight from the house behind theirs flickered on. Eight on the nose. Zach Montgomery’s automated security lights were like clockwork.

  The actor’s house was empty. At least she could get out of sight for a few hours. Figure things out.

  “We have to leave Daddy alone, don’t we?” Sam said, his voice so sad her heart wept.

  “For a little while. Let’s go, baby.”

  She guided her son another twenty feet through the designed chaos of their landscaping to the back wall. It was high, but they could climb the tree and drop into Zach’s backyard.

  “Come on, buddy. Up and over,” she whispered.

  “How long is Daddy going to be mad?”

  He scampered up the wall. She’d answer his questions later. She was just thankful he believed her for now. Because if Brad found them, she was dead, and her son would be raised by an assassin.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  THE GULFSTREAM’S ENGINES were too silent. If only they’d roar so Zach didn’t have to listen. He’d never returned to the set. Theresa had ordered him to the airport, not even giving him time to pack.

  He hunkered down in the private plane’s butter-soft leather seat an
d glared at the communication screen in front of him. His entire body vibrated with fury. His knuckles had turned white. “Do you have any idea of the problems you’ve caused? How are you going to explain my disappearance to the movie’s director?”

  “I’m not,” Theresa said. Even on the video call, he recognized the pained expression on her face—and the guilt.

  Oh man. Zach tilted his head back and groaned. “You ordered me to take that gig. I told you I’m better off taking bit parts. This was an A-list movie, Theresa. You knew that. Going AWOL will tank what’s left of my acting career. I may never get another part. You do realize that if I become too flaky an actor, there’s no more cover, no more entry into sensitive countries? You lose me as an asset.”

  Like he cared about the acting. He did care if he had no more reason to go to Turkey or Iraq or Uzbekistan.

  “We may have lost you anyway,” she whispered, glancing around.

  The crystal glass with two fingers of scotch stopped on the way to Zach’s lips. “Whoa. Wait a minute. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “A classified file about your last mission is missing. After the blown handoff, we’re certain your identity’s been compromised. So are the powers that be. It’s not looking good for you to continue your double life, Zach.”

  He stilled in the seat and his gaze narrowed on the woman who’d been his handler for the last five years. This couldn’t be happening. She’d taught him to kill, to lie, to cheat, to steal…all in the name of justice.

  Funny thing was, he’d discovered he’d been born for deceit. And for this job.

  Zach tossed the rest of his drink back and slammed the crystal glass on the elegant table in the middle of the cabin. “Find a way to get me back into the game, Theresa.”

  He kept the desperation rising within him out of his voice, but he needed the Company. She didn’t know how much. The thought of losing the only value he had to offer—his entire body went cold. He hadn’t felt such a chill since he’d held his dying father in his arms.

  His talent agent had called the day after his father’s funeral offering him a location shoot no one else wanted. In Iraq.