A Murder in Time(6)

It’s a joke. She knew that. Yet her stomach clenched.

“Just keep your ass out of my way, Sheppard,” smirked Allan O’Brien, the youngest man on the task force. He gave Kendra a wink. “I don’t want some newbie screwing this up. Balakirev’s mine.”

“Your fat ass, he is,” Terry Landon shot back. “I’m team leader. Twenty that I’ll be the first to put a bullet in him?”

Sheppard grimaced and shook his head. “You guys are such *s, betting on a man’s life.”

“He’s not a man—he’s a f*cking terrorist,” Bill Noone growled.

“Make that a fifty and you’re on,” grinned O’Brien.

“Just remember, we want Greene alive,” Kendra reminded them.

“Thompson wants him alive,” O’Brien smirked.

“Fuck Thompson,” Noone said, and several of the men snickered. “This isn’t a CIA operation.”

“Fifty that I’ll be the first to put nonlethal bullets into both bastards,” Landon revised.

“Make that fifty and a date with Kendra.” Noone shot her a lopsided, lascivious grin. It didn’t matter that he was, at forty-nine, old enough to be her father, and married, to boot.

She shot him a cool look. “Funny. I don’t remember putting myself on the auction block, Noone.”

“Ah, come on, sweetheart. Everybody needs an incentive.”

Deliberately, Kendra lifted the hand that held the SIG Sauer, weighed it with silky ease. “Just how much incentive do you need?”

Noone laughed, throwing up his hands. “My mama told me never to argue with a woman packing a pistol—or a f*cking machine gun.”

“Wise woman.”

“You realize when this op goes down, we’re done,” Sheppard said suddenly, looking around the circle of faces. “The task force will be disbanded.”

“No more f*cking takeout on Saturday night,” O’Brien said. “No offense—but the only mug I’m gonna miss seeing is Kendra’s.”

“Bet your wife will be glad when this is over then,” said Noone.

Landon stretched and grinned. “After this is over, I’m gonna celebrate on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean. Flirting with hot island babes and drinking rum out of a f*cking coconut.”

“Yeah, what about your wife, Terry?” O’Brien laughed.

“She can stay home.”

The van’s side door rolled open, and Carson heaved himself up into the tight quarters. Like the rest of the team, he wore the military uniform, though he was only supervising the operation from inside the van with the five-member tech team.

“We’ve got Greene talking about the ricin with Balakirev,” he informed them, keeping his voice neutral even though he wanted to rub his hands together. “Twenty-one body signatures have been identified in the warehouse. We’ve ascertained that Balakirev and Greene are two of the four in the room at the top of the stairs. The other two are probably Greene’s bodyguards. SWAT will take the lead, but Washington wants the bastard alive.”

“Which bastard?”

“Greene, dammit. D.C. seems to think the guy with the money is the most dangerous,” he said.

“Washington wants to flip him,” Kendra commented, and then wished she’d kept her mouth shut when Carson scowled at her.

“If I want your expertise on Washington politics, I’ll ask for it, Special Agent Donovan,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah . . . is there any indication if the ricin is in the warehouse?” asked O’Brien.

Carson shook his head. “No. But you’ll be given self-contained breathing masks, which will protect you if it’s released as a mist. We’ve also got HAZMAT and medical units standing by.”

“They want to sell the ricin,” Kendra said, “which means it’s most likely in pellet or powder form. As long as you don’t put anything strange into your mouths, you’ll be fine.”

She’d meant to be reassuring, but O’Brien frowned. “And if you’re wrong?”

“If I’m wrong . . . then get to the HAZMAT team as quickly as possible. Get out of your clothes, wash down . . .” Her voice trailed away. She didn’t have to remind them that there was no antidote to ricin poisoning. If they were unlucky enough to get a dose of the toxin—even an amount so small that it could fit on the head of a pin—they were as good as dead. They’d have four to eight hours before they came down with flu-like symptoms—congestion, respiratory distress before collapsing in muscle pain, fever, nausea—finally ending with a one-way trip to the city morgue.

It wouldn’t be pleasant, but there were worse ways to go, Kendra thought. Like the Ebola virus. Now that was a truly ghastly death. But she didn’t think anyone wanted to hear that, so she kept quiet.

“Shit. My one chance at seeing you naked, Kendra, and I’m not even looking forward to it.” Landon shot her a wicked grin.

She ignored him. “I’m not wrong. Balakirev and Greene aren’t in this for ideological reasons. They are, for wont of a better word, businessmen.”

“Well, f*ck me! Here I’m thinking we’re taking down a couple of terrorists.” Noone gave a derisive snort. “Is he gonna have his Palm Pilot out? Maybe Balakirev’s giving Greene a f*cking PowerPoint presentation in there. Shit, maybe we can all learn something before we blow the f*cker’s kneecaps off.”