Spy Games (Tarnished Heroes #1)(77)

Carol Sark.

The woman was a brilliant analyst focusing on the Asian region. She’d seen the same problems Irene had, but with a macro view of the overall problem. They’d begun working together in secret, certain they could identify their mole.

Irene knocked again. She’d call, but her phone had gotten lost in the mix of being admitted to the hospital, and she hadn’t wanted to wait to track it down. What time they had was running out.

The porch light flipped on.

“Carol, it’s Irene. Open up, please?”

The lock scraped and the door swung open. A young, blonde woman blinked at her.

“Irene? What are you—okay. Come right in.” Carol stepped back. “Are you…wearing a hospital gown?”

“Carol, we’re in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Carol followed Irene into the living room, scrubbing her face with her other hand.

Irene sat on the sofa, her very bones weary. Carol perched on the coffee table facing her. The oddest things stuck out to Irene, like how Carol’s cartoon pajama pants matched her shirt. It was the drugs still addling Irene’s thoughts. She had to focus.

“Did you ever look into a field agent named Charlie Peterson?”

“He was on my list, but he was marked deceased this week.”

“He’s not dead.” Irene leaned forward, but that was a mistake. It hurt. But damn, they were in trouble.

“W-what?” Carol blinked.

“Charlie’s not dead. Mitch said the body in the morgue is not Charlie Peterson. He thinks…he thinks it’s Charlie’s brother.”

“Oh…oh my God, then…”

“Then who has been coordinating the delivery of Charlie Peterson’s remains if it hasn’t been his brother?”

“You think Charlie is the mole.”

“Or one of them. How far back have you been able to go?”

“Four years, but only on the top level of the list.” Carol pushed to her feet and crossed to a desk occupying the corner of the living room. She unlocked a drawer and pulled out a folder and notebook.

“We need to go deeper. Charlie has to have been working with someone.”

Because if Charlie was alive, he couldn’t have gotten this far without someone feeding him current information, and that meant there was another traitor in their midst.

…

Sarah was going to be sick. The bump on her head throbbed. She hurt all over. And this was only the beginning. It was going to get a whole lot worse.

Was Rand okay?

She’d heard the single shot. A person could be killed by one bullet.

God, she hoped he was okay, and that he stayed put.

This was all on her now, and she knew the chances of her coming out of this alive were slim to none. The best-case scenario she could think of was destroying the codes. Yes, it would mean losing assets in Asia forever, but at least no one else would die.

Just her.

She doubted they’d let her live to tell the tale about how she foiled their plans. This wasn’t a movie, and they weren’t cartoon villains.

The car eased to a stop.

She could smell—brine. The ocean? But that was miles away. The Potomac, maybe? They’d have to be on the east side of the city, then.

The car door opened and hands pulled her upright, then out of the vehicle. Her rubbery legs refused to support her and the man guiding her had to mostly carry her.

She could try harder, but she wasn’t.

There wasn’t much left in her, she couldn’t put up a huge fight. She wasn’t stronger than they were, but she could be smarter. Let them believe she was weak, about to collapse. The more they underestimated her, the more opportunity she might have to destroy the protocols. She’d sworn an oath to protect her country at all costs, including her life. There was nothing more important than ensuring the safety of the agents and assets in the field.

Sarah tripped over her own feet and the man’s feet and panted for breath. It wasn’t all an act. They’d hit her pretty hard in the garage, and she hadn’t entirely recovered. A concussion wouldn’t kill her, but it was screwing with her.

The cloth bag over her head made it hard to hear the muttered voices. She caught a few words, but nothing informative. Least not until they’d passed through a few doors. With each clang of metal on metal, the smell of the water grew fainter and less distinct.

How many people were there?

The one holding onto her hadn’t let go, so there must be a second person opening and closing the doors. And yet, they were talking to someone every so often that didn’t sound like them.

Three people? More?

“Sit,” the man holding onto her said.

He shoved her into a cold, metal chair. She leaned to the left, against some sort of sturdy table.

Wow, was that her head swimming—or was the ground moving?

A hand grasped the bag and stray strands of her hair. He pulled, and she gasped as her scalp prickled with pain.

Shit. If she couldn’t handle a few pulled hairs, how in the world was she going to withstand the tooth-pulling, nail-prying questioning she dreaded?

A few lights illuminated a bare room. The metal showed the years of use, how cruel salt water could be.

A ship of some sort, then. They were on the Potomac at least, and it had to be a large boat if she wasn’t feeling the regular roll of waves.