No Woman Left Behind: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery, Book Six Read online

  “And from this chat, we should be able to isolate his location?”

  I lifted my shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe. It depends on what he does and what precautions he has in place. There are no guarantees. But what choice do we have?”

  Woodward looked around the table at the somber faces. “Apparently none. Okay, let’s do it.”

  * * *

  While the team prepared, Grayson Reese gave me more details on Broodryk. I liked the analytical bent of her mind. Two hours and four cups of coffee later, I felt like I knew Broodryk better than I ever wanted. All the information was useful, but I had a stomachache and a serious case of the jitters.

  Minutes were ticking past. How could I be certain whether the Dostoyevsky chat room was Broodryk’s true plan, whether he would even show, or if he’d just kill Elvis to spite me?

  Broodryk would never make it easy.

  I stood and started walking around the room, trying to burn off some of the nervous energy. Grayson watched me thoughtfully.

  “It sucks to be you right now.” She took a sip of her coffee. “On the other hand, it’s a stroke of good luck for us that Broodryk has this crazy obsession with you. It’s the most activity at one time we’ve ever seen out of him. You’ve helped generate more material on him in a few weeks than we’ve been able to accumulate for the past four years. You really pissed him off.”

  “Hooray for me. How is it that you got stuck following his every move?”

  “Wrong place and the wrong time, I guess. His file got dumped on my desk. Who knew he’d turn out to be such a major threat to the world?”

  “It’s funny how things like that work.”

  “Well, it turned out I was a good choice. No husband, kids or social life to speak of, so I have the time to devote to tracking his every move.”

  “That’s a break for me. I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  She smiled. “Look, Lexi, I know you’re worried, but we’re going to catch him. Eventually. Everyone said Osama bin Laden would be impossible to find and we nailed him. If we really want him—and we do—we’ll get him. Broodryk is now the number-one priority of the American government, not to mention most of our allies. His days are numbered.”

  I put my hands on the back of one of the chairs. “The real question is time. Will we be able to find him in time to save Elvis?”

  I knew her answer when she wouldn’t meet my gaze. “That’s what I thought. But I’m not giving up.”

  “You shouldn’t. I’m going to do everything I can to help you. Trust me, weirder things have happened.”

  I nodded. “Let’s just hope this is one of them.”

  * * *

  “Are we ready?” I asked, my stomach clenching.

  The room was packed. We’d moved to a bigger conference room to accommodate more people and equipment. Someone had decided it was necessary to film the proceedings. There were cameras pointed at me from all four corners of the room. Slash sat to my left and Grayson to my right. Woodward paced behind me and acted like the conductor of the operation.

  I wanted to throw up, but I swallowed hard and kept my game face on. In minutes I would know whether I’d properly unraveled the clues or if Elvis would die because I’d screwed up.

  I felt a trickle of sweat bead on my temple. All these people and the pressure were making me physically ill. Slash reached under the table and patted my thigh.

  “You’ve got this, cara,” he murmured.

  I pressed my lips together and poised my fingers over the keyboard. “Am I good to go?”

  Mark checked something on his screen and flashed me a thumbs-up. “You’re ready, Lexi. I count four active accounts in the room right now. We’ve already started a trace on all of them. Good luck. Team, stand by.”

  It was as if the entire room held its collective breath as I started typing. No pressure there...

  I popped into the chat room using my personal account and typed.

  Hello. I’m new here. I’m a big fan of Dostoyevsky, especially his novel The Idiot. Anyone else like this book?

  I waited and watched the blinking cursor.

  Grayson leaned over and asked, “What’s your call name again?”

  “The Idiot,” I replied. “Nothing like a little overkill, just in case.”

  “Good plan.”

  It took exactly three minutes and four seconds to elicit a reply.

  Hey! Nice to have you here. I enjoyed The Idiot, too. I felt like this was Dostoyevsky’s best work in terms of depicting actual Russian life rather than just providing an aloof intellectual commentary disguised as a literary novel.

  “I’m on it,” Mark said. “Appears to be the registered moderator. Running the trace now. Looks straight and clean so far. Narrowing it to New England. To Rhode Island. To a residence in the city of Cranston. No evidence of evasion or unusual protection.”

  Slash shook his head. “It’s not him.”

  “Put someone in Rhode Island on stand-by anyway,” Woodward ordered.

  Mark nodded. “Check.”

  “Okay, I’m responding,” I said, and started typing.

  I agree. My favorite part is when Myshkin tells Rogozhin that a man’s faith could be ruined by looking at Hans Holbein’s painting of the Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb.

  “Come on, come on,” I murmured. “I’m here.”

  Wow. That’s kind of an odd part of the novel to be your favorite. What prompted you to pick that?

  “It’s the same guy responding,” I reported. “Are there still three other people in the room?”

  Mark typed some commands. “Yes. But they are different than those who were logged in just minutes ago. We are running traces on all of them. The most recent activity in the room, other than the chat you are having right now, was eleven minutes ago. It surprises me that it’s a pretty active group for such an archaic topic.”

  “Go figure,” I muttered. “Okay. I’m responding.”

  I guess it’s because I struggle with the concept of faith myself. Is God real? Can we better ourselves through his teachings? Is death the end for us or is there life beyond our existence as we know it?

  Slash glanced sideways at me, his fingers pausing over the keyboard. I shrugged, then focused my screen as the moderator typed something else.

  Ah, now I see your reasoning. There are some critics who say that Prince Myshkin is a Christlike figure and represents all that which is pure and noble in the human spirit. But Rogozhin is struggling with his faith, too.

  Mark straightened in his chair. “Hello. We’ve got a sudden influx of chatters. Sixteen so far.”

  My heart started pounding. “It’s Broodryk. He’s flooding the room on purpose.”

  “Stay calm,” Slash warned. “Pick them off, one by one. He’s got to choose at least one identity to chat with her.”

  “He’ll mix it up,” Mark said, his voice containing a trace of panic. “He’ll hop from one to the next. God, he’s added more. We’re up to thirty-four chatters now.”

  “Steady,” Slash said. “Take them in order. We’re still in control.”

  Well, hello, new member. It took you long enough. I didn’t think you’d show, but I’m impressed you did. Well done.

  “It’s Broodryk,” I said, the calmness of my voice contrasting the way my hands trembled. “We have contact.”

  Woodward peered over my shoulder. “Someone find me that son of a bitch.”

  I inhaled a steadying breath and typed my response.

  I’m usually late to parties, if I come at all.

  Grayson nodded approvingly. “Good. Casual, a bit uncaring. Challenge his superiority, his manhood. Don’t let him know how scared you are. You must be a worthy opponent.”

  Broodryk’s response was immediat
e.

  You passed the first test. Congratulations. Your friend is glad you came, too. He can’t wait to see you. Neither can I for that matter. Ready for a rocking good time? A threesome perhaps?

  Slash stiffened beside me.

  “Ignore the sexual overtones and go straight to the heart of the matter,” Grayson advised. “He’s trying to intimidate you. Ask about Elvis.”

  I pushed aside my revulsion and typed.

  How’s Elvis?

  There was a pause, then a message popped up.

  Hey, are you guys talking about Dostoyevsky or setting up a date? Take it offline if you are getting hot and heavy.

  “It’s the moderator. He’s pissed. How are we doing on the trace?” I asked.

  “Broodryk has help,” Slash said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “No way he’s doing this himself. Too many moving pieces. But that’s good news. Could be whoever is helping him isn’t as well protected. We’re tracing both him and his accomplice or accomplices. But he’s throwing up a lot of smoke screens.”

  “He is switching identities,” Mark said. “He’s all over the place.”

  A message popped up.

  Elvis is fine and ready to dance in his blue suede shoes. Waiting to see if you will come through for him or let him expire in a most unfortunate way.

  Grayson heard the catch in my breath. “Keep him talking. Remain aloof. Cool.”

  I’m not much for games. What do you want, Broodryk?

  I already knew the answer, but I watched the letters appear on my screen anyway.

  You, of course.

  “Keep him going,” Slash said. “He’s exhausting his time. We’re closing in.”

  “Tell him you want to make sure Elvis is still alive before you’ll play his game,” Grayson advised.

  I’m not playing your game until I know Elvis is okay. Prove it to me.

  I lifted my fingers from the keyboard. Sweat trickled down my temples. Words popped up on the screen.

  Okay that’s it. I’m terminating you guys. This is getting too creepy.

  “It’s the moderator.” My voice shook. “He’s throwing us out.”

  “Damn,” Mark said. “We’re making progress here.”

  “Can’t you stop him?” Woodward asked. “Someone stop that moderator.”

  “Wait, Broodryk uploaded a file,” I said, staring at the screen. Grayson leaned in to look, practically lying on me.

  Come to these coordinates. You have four days and not a minute more to obtain the next clue. Ask for the elder, as he has it. However, he requires the current location of the Kwabano in exchange for his cooperation. I suggest you bring that information with you. You may bring whomever else you want with you, as long as it includes Hands. Pentz wants to play, too. You must come in person, Lexi Carmichael. If you send someone else, it’s game end. I will know. Your next clue is there. Here is proof of condition. See you soon.

  I tried to type something, but nothing happened. “I’ve been blocked. Damn.”

  “Broodryk’s gone, too,” Mark reported. “Vanished.”

  “Did we get him?” Woodward asked. “Someone explain to me what the hell is happening.”

  Mark rubbed his forehead. “We didn’t get him exactly, but we’ve got a boatload of data to examine. He’s in there somewhere.”

  “I didn’t get to see what he left.” Panic made my voice shrill. “What proof did he leave? Where are the coordinates? Did anyone get it?”

  Slash put a hand on my arm. “It’s okay, cara. I’m still in the chat room. We’re good. I’ve got it.”

  “Oh, jeez. Thank goodness. What is it? What did he leave?”

  Slash turned his laptop towards me. He opened a file and a picture of Elvis appeared. He was bruised and gagged, but clearly alive. A newspaper in a foreign language, Arabic perhaps, had been propped on his lap. Slash enlarged the photo and I saw it had today’s date on it. On the bottom of the photo were a set of coordinates, clearly marked as longitude and latitude.

  “Where is it?” I asked. “Did you have time to plug it in? Where does he want me to go?”

  Slash ran his fingers through his hair. “The Central African Republic.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What?” Woodward exclaimed. “What the hell? That guy is completely certifiable.”

  My heart was pounding. I needed to calm down or I’d pass out.

  Grayson frowned. “Forget Africa for a moment. What did he mean about Hands? Is that a person? Why did he reference Abri Pentz?”

  Slash pushed back from the table, stood up. “We don’t know. We’ll have to analyze that, too. But first, we need to strike while the iron is hot. We’re moving this operation to the NSA, where we can plug all the data into the big-boy equipment.”

  “I’ll obtain current satellite imaging of the new coordinates,” another man offered.

  “Wait. Who’s the Kwabano?” I asked.

  Grayson answered. “It’s a violent extremist group that operates in the Central African Republic. It has a history of raiding villages and kidnapping children as young as ten in order to force them into slavery.”

  My stomach turned over. “Do we know the Kwabano’s location?”

  Woodward put a hand on the back of my chair. “We will.”

  “Okay, team. I’ll report back as soon as I know something.” Mark closed up his laptop and stood.

  Everyone started packing up equipment.

  I closed my laptop and rose. “I’m coming with you to the NSA, Slash.”

  Woodward put a hand on my shoulder. “No. I need you here. The bigwigs are waiting for a report and I don’t know what the hell to tell them.”

  “There are a dozen other people in the room right now who have a better idea. Have them tell you what’s going on.”

  Woodward lowered his voice. “You want to keep government resources invested in rescuing Elvis Zimmerman? Then I suggest you sit here and tell me what is going on.”

  It pissed me off, his not-so-subtle suggestion of what would happen to Elvis if I didn’t cooperate. I exchanged a glance with Slash and he nodded slightly.

  I frowned, but sat back down. “Fine.”

  Everyone filed out except for Woodward and Grayson Reese. I brought them up to speed on the tech side of what had happened, although it was a sheer waste of time. Neither of them were tech heads, so any discussion of techniques, style or smoke screens wasn’t helpful. I tried not to be impatient, but time was ticking. I felt trapped babysitting Woodward, instead of working on what I knew best.

  I stopped myself from incessantly tapping my pen and tried to look interested in what they were saying.

  “I’m puzzled by why he’s chosen the Central African Republic,” Grayson said, flipping through some papers in her file. “As far as I can tell, he’s never had a residence there. He’s definitely funneled money through the banks and had occasional dealings on a low level with a few local warlords, but honestly it doesn’t fit his modus operandi.”

  “Isn’t it clear why he wants her to go there?” Woodward said, picking up his coffee mug and taking a drink of what had to be stone-cold coffee. “Death, kidnapping, rape, torture—or all of the above.”

  “He doesn’t want me dead,” I said absently. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Woodward said.

  “I do. He could have had Pentz shoot me at any given time. But that would have taken the fun out of it. The entire shoot-out was calculated. He shot at me in front of my parents and boyfriend to let me know that no one I love is safe.”

  “Agreed,” said Grayson. “That was pretty dramatic. He’d love that.”

  I shrugged. “Only Broodryk didn’t do his homework very well. He didn’t know anything about Slash. Couldn’t find
anything, I’ll bet. Probably figured he was just a tech head. He had no idea Slash would fire back. Surprised the heck out of Pentz for sure.”

  “Yes,” Grayson agreed. “But it didn’t stop the plan.”

  “No. Broodryk wanted a big show and instructed Pentz to leave the thumb drive, so that’s what he did. It wasn’t pretty, though, and that probably pissed both of them off. Now Pentz probably feels like I’m unfinished business as well, which is why he wants in on the so-called fun.”

  Grayson frowned. “So, who is this Hands that Broodryk referenced? He said he doesn’t care who comes with you as long as you include Hands.”

  I lifted my hands. “I have no clue.”

  “I know who he’s referring to.”

  We looked up and saw a lean middle-aged man dressed in a military uniform in the doorway. His wiry black hair had silver streaks and his jacket had an impressive load of medals.

  Woodward rose. “Jack. Glad you could make it.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it.” Jack stepped forward and shook hands with Woodward. “I was next door when word came down that you might need my assistance.”

  “Yes, indeed. This is Lexi Carmichael, the target of the operation, and Grayson Reese, an analyst and political profiler at the CIA. Ladies, meet Naval Rear Admiral Jack Spearman. I assume you’ve been read in, Jack?”

  “Very briefly. Interesting turn of events.”

  “To say the least.”

  Grayson and I shook his hand. I wondered why word had come down that we needed the Navy’s help, but it looked like I was about to find out.

  “Sit down,” Woodward urged. “We were just talking about someone named Hands.”

  “So I heard.”

  We all sat back down and I leaned forward. “So, do you know who this Hands is?”

  “I do. He’s one of my men.”

  “Your men?”

  “The Navy SEALs.”

  I blinked. “Hands is a Navy SEAL?”

  “Not just any Navy SEAL. Hands—which obviously isn’t his real name—is one of the Navy’s best snipers.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “A sniper?” I repeated in surprise.