“NIGHT AFTER TOMORROW at the Blue Pepper,” Gage said, making a note on his calendar. “I’ll wait for the fax.”
Replacing the phone, Gage Sinclair leaned back in his chair and stretched out his good leg. The little hum of excitement that had begun zinging through his blood the moment he’d heard Jed Calhoun’s voice was something that he’d missed.
Gage had cut the conversation very short. No details, he’d warned. And no name. Jed was sending the info in a fax.
Gage Sinclair didn’t trust phones—neither the cellular nor land varieties. He didn’t much like e-mail, either. He was more aware than most of how difficult it was to eliminate all traces of those little missives once they were sent. In the kind of work he did, he knew full well how vulnerable every form of communication was to eavesdropping. George Orwell had gotten it right in 1984. Big Brother was watching. And listening.
His lips curved in a smile. Hell, he made a living watching and listening. And he’d still be doing it for the CIA if he hadn’t lost his leg.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Part of his reason for resigning from the CIA was that if he’d stayed, he’d have eventually had to work under Hadley Richards. And he just didn’t like the man.
He’d spent too many years in the field, he supposed. In that kind of work, you learned to size up anyone you worked with quickly and you either trusted them or you didn’t. He’d worked with some of the best agents around—Jed Calhoun, Frank Medici. They were men he’d trusted with his life.
Hadley Richards was a paper-pushing politician who, because he played all the right games and had influential connections, would be the next director of the CIA. Politicians were necessary, Gage supposed. But they were hard to trust. He’d seen the writing on the wall concerning Richards and he’d gotten out early. He was too independent to work for someone he couldn’t respect.
Shifting his gaze to his right, he glanced out at a world-class view. All in all, it had been a good move for him. From his fifth-floor office, he could see the Washington Mall, and in the distance, the Washington Monument. Private consulting work paid very well. He was his own boss, the view was better than the one he’d had in his office at CIA headquarters, and best of all, he got to pick and choose his cases. If he had any regrets it was that he was still alone. Not that a single man “batching” it in D.C. had to be lonely. But he’d always thought that once he retired from the field, he’d find the perfect woman and settle down.
Maybe the perfect woman didn’t exist. He’d thought he’d found one once, but it had been the wrong time and the wrong place.
He turned back to his desk. A man shouldn’t complain when he was lucky enough to enjoy his work and be good at it. And now he had a challenging case.
He hadn’t had to think twice about taking Jed Calhoun’s. Nor had he needed any of the information Jed was currently faxing him to make his decision. Jed Calhoun was a trusted friend as well as the man who’d saved his life. He’d never believed that Jed had killed Frank Medici. And Jed hadn’t been taken out, as had been the word. That was the good news.
The bad news—and Gage had discovered there was always a downside to every piece of news he received—was that Jed had been framed for the murder of Frank Medici. And by appearing again in D.C., he ran the risk of being taken out for real this time.
Another reason he’d taken the case was that he would have a chance, working with Jed, to find out what had really happened to Frank Medici. He’d admired Frank nearly as much as he admired Jed. When he’d thought that they were both dead, he’d not only been saddened, but he’d thought it was a sad day for the CIA.
There was nothing that fascinated Gage more than a good mystery. And from the moment he’d heard about Frank Medici’s death, he’d suspected that it was just that—a classic whodunit waiting to be solved. What had happened to Jed Calhoun had stunk to high heaven of a frame.
Oh, Jed might have been assigned to take Frank out if that had been deemed necessary by the higher-ups and he might have even carried out the hit. But not for money and certainly not for some drug cartel.
Jed Calhoun was a straight arrow, a Boy Scout almost.
The story had just never fit, which had led Gage to wonder who was behind Frank Medici’s death and why. The war on drugs was a dirty business. It was being waged in many cases by people who didn’t really want to win because the profits in the illegal trade of drugs were huge—to everyone involved.
Rising, Gage went to his window. Some of those involved in reaping the profits held high government positions, and they would do a lot to keep their involvement a secret.