Fatal Fallout. Lara Lacombe
pocket and pressed on the accelerator to beat a yellow light.
It sounded like Harper had a new case for him, an idea that had his pulse quickening with anticipation. Forget music—work was the best distraction.
* * *
Harper’s door was partially open, so Thomas gave it a perfunctory rap with his knuckles as he walked into the office. The older man looked up from his computer and gestured for Thomas to take a seat. He did, glancing about the room as Harper finished typing.
While Carmichael, his former boss, had been a bit of a pack rat, keeping papers and other bits of miscellany piled high on every flat surface, Harper was practically a monk by comparison. His desk was clear of everything but his computer, a cup of pens and pencils, a desk calendar and a single piece of paper. The filing cabinets were a new addition to the space, the neatly labeled drawers a testament to Harper’s organizational prowess. Thomas thought briefly of his own desk, which fell somewhere in the middle of the two extremes. Even though he wasn’t terribly messy, he had the fleeting thought that Harper would not approve of his filing system. Good thing the man stayed in his office most of the time.
“I have an assignment for you.”
Thomas returned his focus to the man in front of him, belatedly realizing Harper had stopped typing and was staring at him.
“What’s up?”
The older man winced slightly at his choice of words, and Thomas bit his lip to keep from smiling. He knew his casual speech bothered the buttoned-up man, and the small, rebellious part of him liked to poke the bear. One of these days it was going to come back and bite him in the ass, but he didn’t care.
“Dr. Claire Fleming received a death threat this morning,” Harper informed him, pushing the paper across the desk toward him.
Thomas picked it up and glanced over the dossier. Claire Fleming. Thirty-two years old. Scientist with the Nuclear Safety Group. The grainy black-and-white photo didn’t do her any favors, but he could see she was pretty enough, with her light hair piled atop her head and slightly plump lips under a straight nose. She didn’t look like the kind of person to inspire death threats, but there were a lot of unhinged people in the world.
“Why do we get the case?” Death threats usually stayed at the level of the local police, so there must be something more to the story.
“This particular threat came from Russia. Dr. Fleming’s contact, Ivan Novikoff, was killed yesterday, and she received a picture of his body with the threat.” Harper pressed a few keys, then flipped the monitor around so Thomas could see the gruesome photo.
“Has this been verified?” Ivan Novikoff lay sprawled in a puddle of blood, his open mouth an echo of the gaping wound in his neck. “You’re next” was written on the man’s white shirt, the reddish-brown of the letters a stark contrast to his pale skin.
“Yes. It’s legitimate.”
Thomas frowned. “Is State involved?”
Harper pressed his lips together, a sure sign of agitation. “They are...facilitating discussions with the Russians,” he said delicately, leaving no doubt as to his opinion of their involvement. “We’re hoping to hear more from our counterparts regarding the circumstances surrounding Dr. Novikoff’s death.”
“Well, it wasn’t accidental, that much is clear.”
“Quite.”
Thomas set the paper back on Harper’s desk and stretched out his legs. “What are we doing?”
The older man regarded him with a level gaze. “There is no ‘we’ at this point. There is ‘you.’ And you will act as our contact with Dr. Fleming. I want you to stick by her side and keep her safe until we figure out what is really going on here.”
“You want me to act as her bodyguard?” Disbelief made the words come out a bit sharper than he intended, but Thomas didn’t bother to apologize. No way was he going to take a babysitting job when he had other cases to work, other responsibilities that needed his attention.
“Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, there kind of is. I’ve got other cases—I can’t just drop everything to hang out with this woman on the off chance someone tries to pull something.”
Harper narrowed his gray eyes, the atmosphere in the office growing decidedly chilly. “Agent Kincannon,” he began icily, “lest you forget, you are in a precarious position. After the debacle that was the Collins investigation, the suits upstairs want nothing more than to fire this entire unit. I am all that stands between you and the brass. You will go where I tell you, do what I tell you and take the assignments I give you without question, or you will find yourself without a job. Are we clear?”
Thomas felt his face heat but kept his mouth shut. Now was not the time to protest that they had all done the best they could with the limited information they’d had at the time. It wasn’t their fault a crazy man had blown up part of the Smithsonian. Besides, the injuries had been minor and the group had brought in not one but two suspects. It really should have counted as a win, but the guys upstairs had no tolerance for deviations from the plan. In the end, Carmichael had fallen on his sword to protect the rest of the team, but it sounded like the big boys wanted more blood.
“Yes, sir,” he bit out, trying to keep his voice level.
Harper leaned back with a nod. “Very good. Dr. Fleming is still at her office, along with the local police and someone from computer crimes. I suggest you meet her there and introduce yourself. You’ll be spending a lot of time together in the coming days, so do try to be nice.”
Recognizing a dismissal when he heard it, Thomas stood and turned to leave. His fingers itched to fire off a mocking salute, but he resisted the impulse, knowing it would likely send Harper over the edge.
He paused at the threshold. “You’ll let me know as soon as you hear from the Russians?”
Harper nodded, already turning back to his computer. “Of course.”
Thomas frowned. He knew in his gut that something else was going on but had no idea what. He left the office, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck to massage away the tingling sensation dancing across his skin. Was it any wonder his alarm bells were ringing? Russians, nuclear scientists and death threats. All the makings of a disaster.
Pausing to grab a notebook from his desk, he headed back out to the car, softly whistling the James Bond theme music as he went.
* * *
“So it’s done?”
Victor rubbed the blade of his knife with a soft cloth, buffing the metal to a gleaming shine. “He’s dead.”
“Did you have any trouble?”
He held back the snort of laughter. Trouble? Of course not. Ivan Novikoff had been an easy mark, a soft, careless man. He hadn’t known he was being followed, hadn’t suspected a thing when Victor had appeared in his office. The man had even offered him coffee, for God’s sake. He shook his head. A stupid mistake, and the last one Novikoff had made.
“No trouble. It was quick and easy.”
“Not too quick, I hope.” The man’s voice took on a slight edge. Victor’s lip curled up in disgust. He didn’t torture people without reason. He prided himself on making a clean kill—to do anything else was a waste of time and talent. The only reason he’d written on the scientist’s shirt was because his employer had demanded it, and he was being paid very well for his efforts.
“The message was delivered as you requested,” he said, hoping to change the subject. The man on the other end of the line could be a bit stubborn, grabbing on to topics like a dog with a bone, and Victor wasn’t in the mood to relate the precise details of the job. He was paid to kill, not to give a play-by-play after the work was done.
“Good. And the papers?”
He