Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(43)

Once she cleared the marina gate, Jessica leaned into a tight turn toward the main road. She righted the bike and assessed her options. Where’d you go in such a hurry, Ricky? Then she saw a sign for the highway, I-595 West. That’s it.

Jessica rocketed up the highway on-ramp. She weaved carefully through traffic, keeping her eyes far ahead. After a few minutes, she spotted the school-bus-yellow Hummer cruising in the far left lane. Jessica eased the Ninja behind a black SUV in the same lane a few vehicles back.

She tailed Ricky at a safe distance for fifteen miles until he followed the highway onto the Everglades Parkway. He was taking Alligator Alley, the flat road that cuts across the vast swamps of southern Florida. Where the hell are you going, Ricky Green?

Jessica dropped farther back as the traffic lightened, just enough to keep Ricky’s taillights in view. Soon, they were deep into the Everglades, an endless horizon of pitch-black nothingness on both sides.

The hypnosis-inducing road left her alone with her thoughts . . . On the orders of the Deputy Director of Operations, Jessica had gone to Marathon in the Florida Keys to figure out what happened to The Big Pig and the four American fishermen. She had traced Ricky Green and the seized fishing boat back to Ruben Sandoval, but then . . . nothing. She hit a dead end. She had Sunday back at Langley still digging. Then, out of the blue, her husband called to ask her to go to the fund-raiser for Brenda Adelman-Zamora to look for any clues linking the congresswoman to Sandoval. And, of all people, Ricky Green turns up at the party! Did that make sense? Was Ricky the connection between Adelman-Zamora and Sandoval?

She should call Judd and tell him what she knew. But Jessica also knew she couldn’t tell her husband what had just happened—that she had almost gotten killed while doing his favor, that she had wrecked a powerboat, that she was now on a racing motorcycle, chasing a man who’d shot at her, into the deepest swamps of South Florida while a total stranger was watching their children. No, she couldn’t tell Judd anything until she knew more. Until she knew where this was all headed. What was she really dealing with? Who was Ricky Green? And what the hell was 2506?





37.


CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

THURSDAY, 8:46 P.M.

Sunday set down his phone and checked the clock on his classified computer screen. His assessment of potential links between Iran and underground Somali banking networks was due by midnight if a summary was going to make it to the Director of National Intelligence’s morning briefing. He had promised his boss that he’d have something for the DNI on time. He had never missed a deadline.

Sunday had been nearly finished and starting to dream about finally climbing into bed when his phone had rung. It was a number he didn’t recognize, but the 305 South Florida area code was enough of a coincidence that he answered. It was Jessica Ryker with an urgent request.

Sunday had listened carefully to the Purple Cell leader. When she was done speaking, he set aside his DNI project, forgot about sleep, and opened a new window on his computer. Figuring out if “2506” meant anything relevant should have been easy. A search of the CIA databases should have turned up the answer in a few minutes. But today . . . nothing. He rubbed his eyes. It was almost as if he were being deliberately blocked from the Agency’s archives. Or were the records stripped?

Sunday logged off of the CIA network and on to a Department of Defense database of covert operations. Again, nothing of use.

“Hey, you still chasing the Ayatollah’s Somali pirates?” boomed a voice from above Sunday’s head.

“Go away, Glen,” Sunday said, shaking his head at his colleague, who was leaning over the cubicle wall.

“Aw, don’t be like that, S-man. If you’re still here digging, that means you haven’t finished your assessment.” Glen waddled around the wall and peered over Sunday’s shoulders at the computer screen. “You need some help?”

“No.” Sunday turned off his screen. “If you want to help me, you can start by going away.”

“You’re no fun anymore, Sunday. I thought Nigerians were supposed to be party animals.”

“I’m American.”

“Whatever.”

“I grew up in California.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. So that’s why you’re no fun?”

“No time for fun. I’ve got to finish this by COB.”

“The CIA doesn’t have a ‘close of business,’ Sunday. Didn’t they tell you that, like, on the first day?”

“Go away.”

“No, sir,” Glen said with a mock salute. “We are twenty-four/seven! We never close! Not the Central f*cking Intelligence Agency. Not even on Christmas.”

Sunday turned his back on Glen.

“Hey, if you’re Muslim, they probably have you working on Christmas, right? Used to call that shift the Jew Crew around here.”

“I’m ignoring you,” Sunday said.

“I guess it’s more Muslims than Jews now, dontcha think?”

“Glen, I’m going to turn my computer back on and finish my work. If I turn around again, I expect to see that you’ve gone away.”

“Okay, okay,” Glen huffed. “Don’t get so damn testy, Sunday. I thought you Nigerians were supposed to be laid-back.”

Sunday waved Glen away over his shoulder. “Shoo.”