“Is this live?” Rayford asked quietly, realizing it was a view from the drone.
Hillenbrand gave him a hard look and nodded before focusing on the screen once again. “Unfortunately I don’t have audio, but we don’t need it.”
Though it was dark, the dash was clear enough with the night-vision capabilities. Not that it mattered because if this was a view from the drone, it would be controlled remotely and no one would actually be in the aerial device. Which raised the question—who was controlling it? This was the first Hillenbrand had told any of them about this.
“Go ahead,” Hillenbrand murmured quietly, and Rayford realized he must have a small earpiece in.
Annoyance hummed through him at being left in the dark about who this other contact was, but he kept his emotions in check.
A long moment later a bright burst of light illuminated the screen, quickly followed by another. Those were missiles. Who was the target? This was a very dangerous weapon and he wasn’t sure Hillenbrand was the right man to be in control of it. Rayford’s anger and annoyance intensified as he watched a bright orange ball of flame light up the darker screen as the missiles detonated their target. The feed was in black and white, but the infrared showed the heat signature clearly, so he knew it was fire.
Before he could say anything, the ground shook just the slightest bit and his stomach lurched. Hillenbrand had attacked somewhere in Washington, D.C.
The screen went blank and the lights brightened as Hillenbrand smiled broadly. He’d just ordered the killing of Americans here in the capital and didn’t give a damn. “There’s no going back now for any of us. That was just the beginning. Unfortunately we’ll have some hard choices to make in the coming weeks, but I have no doubt we’re all up to the job. And I know you’re wondering who the target was. The Nelson fund-raiser was just hit, eliminating our only real competition for the upcoming primaries.”
Rayford’s mouth filled with cotton as he struggled to find his voice. They’d been talking and planning for so long, but he’d never imagined Hillenbrand would go after someone in their own political party. And never like this. He understood it, the need to eliminate everyone who posed a threat to the candidate they needed in office if change was ever going to take place, but . . . it seemed so violent. So unforgiveable.
Luckily he didn’t have to talk because the room erupted in voices, everyone talking over one another. Some were excited; others were angry he’d made the decision without asking any of them. Now they were all trapped. No matter what happened, they’d all been part of this. Avoiding Hillenbrand’s gaze, he made his way to the minibar and poured himself a scotch, his hand trembling ever so slightly. As he did, he realized where he’d seen the only man in the room he hadn’t recognized when he’d entered. On the news.
The man worked for the DEA. Which meant Hillenbrand had brought him in because of who he worked for. Unless Hillenbrand had no idea who he was. If that was the case, they were going to have more blood on their hands because they couldn’t allow anyone outside this room to know what they’d done.
Chapter 2
Wet work: expression for murdering or assassinating someone (wet alluding to the spilling of blood).
One week later
Tucker Pankov ran a hand over his buzz cut, the dampness from his shower already drying. He’d be glad to grow his hair out again and spend at least a week at his place in solitude. He lived in a three-bedroom home in the Virginia countryside. He’d chosen to have acres and acres of space between him and his neighbors over a larger house in a suburb. He was rarely here and when he did get downtime, he craved the quiet.
For his last undercover job, as a psychopathic thug, he’d shaved his head, making himself look more the part of drug-peddling scum. He’d kept his same alias from the job he’d worked before that one with a true psychopath, Tasev, and it was a relief to shed that persona.
It was also a fucking relief that bastard was dead, even if the DEA hadn’t been the ones to officially bring him down. He was still surprised that his boss, Deputy Director Max Southers, hadn’t been upset when the NSA brought down Tasev and his entire operation instead of his elite undercover DEA team, but in the end, Tucker didn’t care who’d done it. He didn’t care about the accolades, just the result.
As he stepped into his bedroom, he turned on the television. Headlines from last week’s attack on a political fund-raiser dominated everything.
Tucker should probably have been surprised by the attack, but little could shock him anymore. The drone that had carried out the attack should never have been stolen in the first place. Heads were already rolling over that “oversight” in security, and while he cared about the massive loss of life, it had nothing to do with the DEA. At least not at the moment.
On the screen, Clarence Cochran, a politician who’d just announced his intention to seek the next presidential nomination for his party, was talking about the avoidable loss of life of a man who would have been running against him. Acting as if he cared.
Tucker rolled his eyes. For the most part politicians in Washington only cared about themselves. He actually belonged to the same political party as Cochran, but the guy was too much of an extremist. That was dangerous no matter what side of the political aisle a man stood on. For the next election he’d be voting against the party line if that moron made a play for the presidency. Tucker was reaching for the remote to turn it off when a breaking report flashed on the screen.
Max Southers, Deputy Director of the Drug Enforcement Administration, murdered in violent carjacking.
He blinked, ice invading his veins as he stared numbly at the screen, before he turned up the volume. Max was dead? No fucking way. He’d just talked to him a couple of hours ago. Someone would have alerted him.
“You need a break, son, and I’m ordering it. Take a week off and just relax.” The corners of Max’s dark blue eyes had crinkled in concern as he watched Tucker from across his desk.
Max called everyone in their team “son.” It should have annoyed Tucker, since he had a father, but he loved the man. They all did. They’d all spent countless dinners at the man’s house during their off time. Swallowing hard, he sat on the edge of his bed and listened as a somber-looking reporter talked about Max’s murder, basically saying nothing at all. The police had no leads. They didn’t know if this was random or related to one of his cases.
Fuck.
Standing, he grabbed his phone from his nightstand. He needed to call the rest of the team and Mary, Max’s wife. Hell, he needed to verify that this was even true. If they’d reported this without telling her first . . . hell no. He immediately rejected that. The DEA wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. Unless the local PD had fucked it up and there’d been a leak. Because why had no one called the team first?
As he started to call Cole, his phone buzzed, his teammate’s name appearing on-screen. Still numb, he answered, “You see the news?”
“Yeah.” Cole’s voice was grim. “Anyone contact you about it first?”
“No.”
“I tried Mary and she’s not answering.”
Tucker’s throat tightened as he stared blindly at the muted television. “You believe he’s dead?”
“I . . . don’t know. I can’t imagine them running with the story unless they were positive.”
“I’ll call in a bit. We’ll take care of her if it is.” Mary and Max had been together thirty years. She’d been with Max since his Navy days, enduring long deployments and raising their two kids basically by herself for months on end. Max had been ready to retire in the next two years, to travel with his wife the way he deserved. Tucker’s free hand curled into a fist. “And we’re going to find out whoever did this.”