Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(10)
Maitland gave him a big grin. “From what Captain Ramirez told me, your only problem is with Mayer. He’s not too happy with you, thinks you made him look like an idiot. Maybe it’s best to keep your distance from him for a while.”
“No problem, if I can keep Sherlock from taking him down in a dark alley, locking her knees around his neck, and reminding him of the importance of good manners. She isn’t happy with him right now.”
Maitland laughed. “What a visual. You’re going to see Moody and the baby?”
Savich nodded. “Yes, and Mayer’s got no say in that.”
“Do you know if Metro has identified the guy?”
“It’s Detective Mayer’s case, sir; it’s not my business.”
Maitland arched a brow, said nothing. He rose. “Whatever you say, Savich. Keep me in the loop, all right?”
“I have no plans to get involved.”
“Right.” Maitland gave him a salute and left his office, heading over to speak to Shirley.
Savich watched Maitland weave his way out of the unit, speaking to each agent, asking questions, nodding, and he wondered again, Why was that young man so desperate to take Kara Moody away from that house? Why did he call himself an enigma?
5
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE
CAMP SPRINGS, MARYLAND
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Special Agent Jack Cabot finished his preflight inspection by walking around the white FBI Skylane 182 with its distinctive blue stripe. He patted the fuselage, stood back a moment, and admired the shine. The Skylane was as clean as his dog, Cropper, after Jack washed him along with his SUV. He walked to the top of the airstairs and slid on his aviator sunglasses. It was a bright, hot afternoon, with only a slight breeze. The humidity was the killer. He wished he had a garden hose to spray himself down.
He looked out over the busy airfield. Andrews was always hopping, the noise at times just short of mandatory-earplug levels. He looked down at his watch thinking Agent Wittier was now officially late when he noticed a long-legged woman striding purposefully toward him, a banged-up backpack slung over her arm, a fleece sweatshirt tied around her neck. She wore lightweight dark green Polartec pants, a green-checked Polartec long-sleeve shirt, and well-worn hiking boots. So this was Agent Wittier, his partner on the assignment. At least she knew how to dress for their mission.
He wondered why he’d been assigned a female agent, truth be told, rather than an ex–special forces type like himself. There was nothing like field experience in holiday destination spots like Kabul to train for locating and bringing in dangerous hostiles hunkered down in the desolate hills. Maybe she was ex-military, or maybe she was as wily and mean as his ex-mother-in-law.
He had to admit Agent Wittier’s straight-on, take-no-prisoners stride as she walked toward him fit her hard-ass camping clothes and the Glock on her belt clip. But his image of her changed when he saw her short blond wavy hair tangling around her face in the hot breeze. He could tell from twenty yards away she was pretty. He’d bet her eyes were laser-sharp on him behind her aviator sunglasses.
Cam stopped at the bottom of the airstairs and looked up at the man staring down at her with his arms crossed easily over his chest. She’d wondered what an ex–special forces cowboy from New York would look like, and he fit the bill. Special Agent Jack Cabot looked tough and chiseled and military, no beard scruff on his tanned face. His dark hair was cut short. He was taller than she was, which put him over six feet, and younger than she’d expected, maybe early thirties. He was wearing a dark Polartec shirt and had his Glock clipped on his belt, as she did. His boots looked like they’d clomped over a great many gnarly miles. He was buff, but not a muscle-bound yahoo who liked to pretend he sprinkled nails in his Cheerios instead of blueberries. He didn’t look like he snarled very often. She could deal with him.
Then Cam looked past him at the tiny single-engine airplane, shocked at how small the propeller was, small enough to stir her guacamole with the blade. She was surprised to feel her stomach churn like a greasy ball. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought much about the flight. Of course she’d flown noncommercial before, with only the occasional butterfly flitting in her belly. But this white-winged miniature box, this big toy, was going to transport them to Kentucky? A stray bird could knock it out of the sky. She’d grill the pilot, make sure he knew what he was doing, maybe ask him if he had any Valium.
Jack was aware of her scrutiny, both of him and the plane, and gave her a wave. “Welcome aboard. I’m Jack Cabot and you’re Agent Wittier.”
She nodded, licked her lips. “Yes, Cam Wittier. Nice to meet you. Where’s the pilot?”
“You’re looking at him. I guess that makes you the copilot.”
The greasy ball in her stomach took a bounce nearly to her throat, this time with a dash of nausea. “You’re flying us to Daniel Boone National Forest?”
Jack wasn’t deaf—he heard the touch of panic in her voice and he’d seen that look before from soldiers who could walk through gunfire without hesitation but turned white when they boarded a helicopter. He’d talk her down, let her see how competent he was. He nodded to her, checked his watch. “I’ve finished my preflight inspection. We’re good to go. Two hours unless we hit a lot of bumps. There’ll be some, since we’ll be over the Appalachians. Nothing to be concerned about.”