Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(16)

“If you and your boss were workin’ alone,” Uncle John said, “outside CIA channels because you have no idea who the mole is or how high up in the chain he or she or they may be, then how did you coordinate with Guantanamo?”

The question quite effectively ripped Leo’s wandering brain back on track. Thank Christ! He poured himself the last few swigs of coffee from the pot, lifted his mug, and downed the tart brew like it was a shot of cheap whiskey. It burned just about as well and tasted about half as good.

“Morales is old friends with the general there,” Olivia said, her tone all about the easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.

“Ah”—his uncle nodded—“okay, I’m beginnin’ to get it.”

Well, that made one of them.

“So, why the hell didn’t you and Morales have the Gitmo guys apprehend the radicals then and there?” Leo demanded. “Why let ’em load the weapons on a boat and set sail?”

“That was the plan.” She threw her hands in the air. “But a riot broke out in the prison, and the guards around the warehouse were called in to help subdue it. In the mix-up and chaos, the radicals were able to grab the case with the chemicals and escape.”

“You reckon the riot was the mole’s doin’?” his uncle asked. “A distraction?”

“Morales says no.” Olivia shook her head. “He thinks it was just bad friggin’ timing and worse friggin’ luck. A true-blue case of Murphy’s Law.”

Wow. This entire plan was rating a ten out of ten on Leo’s Fucked-Up scale. And something in his demeanor must have told Olivia as much, because she frowned up at him. “I know what you’re thinking,” she grumbled.

“Now, darlin’, don’t you go accusin’ me of thinkin’.”

She ignored his attempt at levity. “You’re already sticking the knife of judgment in me and twisting. But I’m telling you, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Morales covered his bases and his ass. He had the general at Gitmo attach tiny tracking devices to the underside of the chemical capsules in the event that worse came to worst and the radicals were able to escape. Morales was keeping an eye on them, monitoring their every move.

“As soon as it looked like they were going to make landfall, he planned to board their boat in a blaze of glory, seize every last one of them before they had a chance to make a Mayday call or alert the traitor or traitors, and then interrogate them until they gave up the identity of the double agents or told us where we could find the f*ckers.” She winced, glancing surreptitiously over at Leo’s uncle. “Um, excuse my French, sir.”

“Is ‘f*cker’ French?” Uncle John’s eyes widened theatrically. “Well, I’ll be damned. I never knew.”

She grinned, her slightly crooked tooth winking at Leo as surely as a Duval Street hooker. What is it about that tooth, anyway? Why did it do things to his boy parts?

“Well, now I have a question.” Bran spoke up for the first time since they’d retired to the kitchen. He was leaning against the softly humming refrigerator, arms and ankles crossed, his usual jovial expression devoid of any sign of humor. Despite all the years Leo had worked alongside Bran, he’d never gotten over how quickly the man could go from cutup to cutthroat. It was as if he had an internal switch. Right now, that switch was flipped to the Badass Navy SEAL position.

“Considering you and Morales were working alone on this deal, flying completely under the radar, how did you expect to apprehend eight… You did say the warehouse footage showed there were eight radicals, right?” Olivia nodded. “Okay, so how did you guys plan to take on eight men all by yourselves? Are you both pazzo?” He circled a finger around his temple to illustrate the word.

“Not us,” Olivia assured him. “When the radicals escaped on the ship, Morales contacted one of his many civilian sources and enlisted the help of hush-hush private contractors to come in and do the heavy lifting.”

Contractors. Leo knew the type. Former spec-ops guys who’d decided there was more fun to be had—and definitely more money to be made—hiring out as non-military-affiliated operators.

“You aren’t talkin’ about Black Knights Inc., are you?” he asked, referring to the group of guys, some of whom were Navy SEALs from his old platoon, based in Chicago and operating what was supposed to be a custom motorcycle shop. In reality, the big warehouse on Goose Island was just the front for their covert government-defense firm. For chrissakes, it was like Hells Angels meets 007 up there.

“Who?” she asked, frowning.

“Never mind,” he told her. “Forget I asked.” And he should have realized Director Morales would not have tapped Black Knights Inc. for this mission. Morales was avoiding all government channels so as not to alert the mole or moles, and given that BKI reported directly to the president and his Joint Chiefs… Right. Probably not a good idea to get them involved.

“The guys we hired work for Titan Corp.”

“Never heard of ’em.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she continued, waving a dismissive hand through the air. “They were in New Orleans waiting for Morales to give them an approximate heading when the signals on the tracking devices suddenly stopped moving. Ten minutes later, the pressure gauges indicated the capsules were sitting in nearly two hundred feet of water. So either the terrorists chucked the CWs overboard for some reason, which isn’t likely. Or the boat sank, which is what we suspect.”