Free Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) by Monette Michaels Page B

rescuer, eliminate them, and try and salvage this goat rope. If we don’t…” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid. Let them fill in the blanks however they wanted.
    Crocker was already going over his emergency exit strategy in his head. He didn’t trust his employer, Captain Syd-fucking-MacLean, not to throw him under the bus even if he succeeded in killing the nosy librarian.
    “Shit, man. The bitch made us from the beginning.” Mike Dillman had hired out as a mercenary/assassin since he’d left the Marines via a dishonorable discharge. Crocker had used him on several other missions, and the man was usually good at not being seen and securing his objective.
    Crocker took a long gulp of beer. “Maybe she’s observant. Don’t underestimate her again.” He turned an eye on Ed Peavey, another former Marine, though his discharge had been honorable. “Same goes for you, Ed. Our employer’s getting us the tracker code for the Hummer and any intel on the driver he can.”
    Peavey’s lips twisted into a smirk. “You should’ve asked. I could’ve saved y’all the aggravation of talking to the fat-ass son of a bitch.” Peavey tossed back his whiskey; his slitted, amber-eyed stare fixed on Crocker.
    Crocker repressed the urge to draw his weapon. Peavey had always unnerved him. The lanky Marine was smart—scary smart. Crocker would die before letting the man know his uneasiness.
    “I got the plates on that Hummer.” Peavey tapped his empty glass on the bar; the bartender brought a bottle of Rebel Yell over and poured two finger’s worth into the glass. Peavey took a slow sip of the potent brew and waited until the bartender had gone back to the other end of the bar.
    “And what good does that do us, Ed?” Dillman asked.
    “Tracked them.” Peavey tossed back his whiskey. “Know exactly where they are.” He indicated the monitor on his mini-iPad. “As for the driver, well, can’t tell y’all about him. With some time, I might be able to hack deeper into the rental agency’s files, but since he’s a dead man walking, who in the hell cares?”
    “Good work, Ed.” Crocker peered at the small screen. “They’re heading into Virginia on I-66.”
    “Yeah. They’re still movin’,” Peavey said in his slow Georgia drawl. “But I suspect they’ll have to stop sooner or later to care for the lady. I hit her. Right side. We’ll get them then.”
    Crocker chugged the rest of his beer and then slapped the bar top with the flat of his hand. “Then what the fuck are we sitting here for? Let’s move out.”
    * * * *
    Saturday, December 3rd, 3:00 P.M. (EST), DIA Headquarters
    Captain Syd MacLean, aide to the Director for the Counterintelligence and HUMINT Center of the DIA, or DX for short, was sweating big time when he finally closed his office door after an emergency briefing with the heads of the various DX sections on last night’s shootings at the Georgetown University library and today’s shootings on the Mall. The two incidents were being treated by the intelligence community as acts of terrorism because of the connection to the government contractor, SSI.
    The good news was, no one knew he was the traitor among them…yet.
    The bad news was—something big was going on and Syd was out of the loop. He didn’t like being out of the loop, especially when his ass could get fried as a traitor. His boss, Major General Joe Higgins, had been called to attend an emergency meeting with the DIA Director and all the DIA department heads, leaving Syd to run the emergency briefing for their particular department.
    With a growing mixture of anger and dread, Syd turned and watched CNN’s ongoing rehash of this morning’s Mall shootings on his muted flat screen.
    Goddammit, Crocker! You stupid, fucking-son-of-a-bitch asswipe.
    After Syd had read the morning intelligence briefing reports on the Friday night library shootings, he’d then called Crocker, informed him who the witness was, where she could be found,