Darkness. He locked the door behind him; it closed with a soft click. He held the gun in one hand. Even if he died now, Vochek would have enough to put pressure on Hector.
But he was not going to wait on juries and lawyers and trials to avenge Emily.
Ben took a shambling step forward in the darkness, hand out. He touched wall, found the hinge and frame of the door. He slid fingers along cool steel and closed them around a doorknob. He stepped into a darkened hallway, where a gleam of light lined the frame of a big set of double doors. He headed for them, his heart pounding loud enough, he thought, to echo against the walls.
He found a light switch, flicked it on. He tried the pilot’s cell phone again—the battery was completely drained. Useless. He closed it and began to explore.
Half the warehouse space was a maze of cubicles, thrown up in apparent haste; the other half held nothing. Most of the cubicles were empty, bare of computer or chair. He went to the largest office, guessing it belonged to a senior manager. He broke the door open with a fire extinguisher.
The laptop inside wasn’t passworded. He began to search the network’s file hierarchy.
Most of MLS’s business seemed tied to contracts for rebuilding government offices in New Orleans and the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Nothing of interest.
He searched for the name “Reynolds.” Found payment spreadsheets financing months of software development. He picked up the desk phone, called the Hotel Marquis de Lafayette, asked to be connected to suite 1201.
“Vochek?”
“My God, Ben, where the hell are you?” She sounded furious.
He gave her the address. “I found Hector’s records of underwriting Reynolds’s research. He funded a lot of stuff through one of these shell companies. You should get over here.” He gave her the address and she hung up.
What else was here? He thought of what he’d found about MLS when he hunted through the business databases back in the Blarney’s bar. Its founding had been close to the time of Emily’s death. He opened the e-mail database, hunted for messages from Hector from the time that the company was founded. He found several, searched through them. One included a spreadsheet from Hector with a note: Here are payments we need made, please do electronically only. He clicked on the file. It opened.
It listed financial transactions for services rendered and services received, for a period of two weeks. One was a transaction marked one day after Emily’s death. Notes read on the transaction were a mishmash: retainer, travel (two connections, DFW), Agency handling bonus, completion bonus.
He blinked. Completion bonus. No. He clicked to see who the payment had been made to.
Bile rose in his throat.
The door opened, slammed. He heard footsteps stumbling across the concrete. “Jackie! Jackie, goddamn it, I’m shot . . . we have to get out of here.”
Ben stood. Hector leaned against the far wall. Easing out of a black leather jacket, his back wet with blood, gasping.
“Jackie’s not here.” Ben aimed Jackie’s gun at Hector. His voice didn’t sound like his own anymore. Cool. Quiet. As though rage had reached a level that did not demand anger or screaming or confusion as to why a tragedy had destroyed his life.
Now there was only what had to be done.
“Ben.” Hector raised his gun and pulled the trigger. Clicked on empty. Hector closed his eyes. “It’s damaged, anyway.” He dropped the gun with a clatter. And with a black smile, like he didn’t need the gun. It made Ben’s skin prickle.
“Even I know to count my bullets now,” Ben said. And he had two left. He’d checked the clip on the drive over to the warehouse.
“Ben. We’re both in trouble. But we don’t have to be . . .”
“You were never the negotiator, I was. You can’t sweet-talk me, Sam, just tell me what I want to know.”
Even with a gun aimed at him, Sam Hector did not care for orders. He couldn’t keep the frown of disdain from his face. “Ben, you listen to me—”
“No. Just tell me where Pilgrim is.”
Hector stayed on the wall. “Full of CIA bullets. Dead. But you don’t have to be. The CIA will want you dead, too, Ben. I can save you. We can come to a deal . . .”
“No, we can’t. I’m turning your sorry, murdering ass over to Homeland Security, and Agent Vochek is going to make her career by bringing you down.”
“Don’t be so sure . . .”
“Jackie missed, asshole. Vochek put him down.”
Ben could almost hear the mental gears shift in Hector’s brain. “Listen, Ben, how many laws have you broken in this insane pursuit? Dozens. You’re going to need serious help, I can help you.” He slowed his speech as though he could double the persuasive power of each word. “We can help each other . . .”