you went spy versus spy on me? Keeping secrets? Breaking into my place without a warrant? Or attempting to? I’m pragmatic enough to realize if one plays with a scorpion, expect to get stung. I also know if the roles were reversed, and it was my case, we’d be having this conversation in your kitchen, not mine.” He took another sip of his beer, then set the bottle on the counter, his expression turning dark. “And before you go blaming Fitzpatrick, because she smuggled the numbers from Mexico, I’m the one who made the copy, not her. So I have to bear the guilt of this kid’s death.”
“It’s not your fault,” Tex said.
And then Carillo looked right at him. “My conscience tells me otherwise. I also know there’s enough guilt to go around. Which is why I’m cutting you some slack, so drink your goddamned beer. But a word of advice. When Griffin finally gets around to telling her about your and his involvement? I’d highly recommend he wears body armor. I can almost guarantee she’s going to go ballistic.”
7
Washington, D.C.
T renton Stiles sat back in his seat, listening to the strains of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty , while his driver maneuvered the streets of Washington, D.C., then pulled up in front of the offices of Wingman and Wingman, the law firm where he’d worked as a lobbyist ever since he’d left Congress more than twenty years ago.
Even though the firm was currently being investigated by the Department of Justice, Stiles wasn’t worried. They’d weathered the storm in the past, and they would again. Once he got his hands on the remaining copy of the Devil’s Key that was stolen more than twenty years ago, the entire DOJ investigation would take a new turn—one of his choosing.
This time, however, it was going to take a little more finesse, especially now that this latest threat had popped up in California, he thought as his phone rang. He looked at the number on the caller ID. Finally. He answered it. “Mr. B. This better be good news.”
“Depends. The hard drive we recovered from Bo Brewer was erased. But we found out where the information originated. A copy machine taken from the FBI’s office in San Francisco.”
“How did the FBI get it?”
“We think from Orozco.”
“Orozco?” he said, stepping out of the car, as the driver opened the door. Robert Orozco had been a former army black ops man, who had brazenly orchestrated the theft of the Devil’s Key from a safe at Wingman and Wingman more than twenty years ago. Their mistake had been hiring Orozco and his men to steal the thing from the government to begin with. Orozco must have guessed that his knowledge of the key’s existence meant his days were numbered, and so after Orozco turned it over to Stiles, he stole it a second time, then simply disappeared off the face of the earth.
Stiles had been searching for him and the key for the last twenty years with little luck.
Until now.
The morning was cold, crisp, with a clear blue sky overhead. He could see his breath as he talked. “How did you find him?”
“Surprisingly easy, which makes me wonder at the timing. We tapped into the military database. He decided to finally start withdrawing his pension. The only reason we can assume is because, one, he figured statute of limitations. Two, he no longer had the key. Three, maybe he was never aware of the kill order for possession of the thing, or now that he didn’t have it, no one would care.”
Stiles waved off his driver, but didn’t move from the sidewalk. There was more privacy out here. With the DOJ nosing around all the time, hoping to tie Wingman and Wingman into the theft of the key code, one was never sure if there were any bugs inside, even though Stiles made sure his men continually swept the offices. “And the FBI? Why would they have it?”
“Remember that FBI agent asking about W2 a few weeks ago?”
“Of course.” According to several sources, someone named Sydney Fitzpatrick had been
“It’s not your fault,” Tex said.
And then Carillo looked right at him. “My conscience tells me otherwise. I also know there’s enough guilt to go around. Which is why I’m cutting you some slack, so drink your goddamned beer. But a word of advice. When Griffin finally gets around to telling her about your and his involvement? I’d highly recommend he wears body armor. I can almost guarantee she’s going to go ballistic.”
7
Washington, D.C.
T renton Stiles sat back in his seat, listening to the strains of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty , while his driver maneuvered the streets of Washington, D.C., then pulled up in front of the offices of Wingman and Wingman, the law firm where he’d worked as a lobbyist ever since he’d left Congress more than twenty years ago.
Even though the firm was currently being investigated by the Department of Justice, Stiles wasn’t worried. They’d weathered the storm in the past, and they would again. Once he got his hands on the remaining copy of the Devil’s Key that was stolen more than twenty years ago, the entire DOJ investigation would take a new turn—one of his choosing.
This time, however, it was going to take a little more finesse, especially now that this latest threat had popped up in California, he thought as his phone rang. He looked at the number on the caller ID. Finally. He answered it. “Mr. B. This better be good news.”
“Depends. The hard drive we recovered from Bo Brewer was erased. But we found out where the information originated. A copy machine taken from the FBI’s office in San Francisco.”
“How did the FBI get it?”
“We think from Orozco.”
“Orozco?” he said, stepping out of the car, as the driver opened the door. Robert Orozco had been a former army black ops man, who had brazenly orchestrated the theft of the Devil’s Key from a safe at Wingman and Wingman more than twenty years ago. Their mistake had been hiring Orozco and his men to steal the thing from the government to begin with. Orozco must have guessed that his knowledge of the key’s existence meant his days were numbered, and so after Orozco turned it over to Stiles, he stole it a second time, then simply disappeared off the face of the earth.
Stiles had been searching for him and the key for the last twenty years with little luck.
Until now.
The morning was cold, crisp, with a clear blue sky overhead. He could see his breath as he talked. “How did you find him?”
“Surprisingly easy, which makes me wonder at the timing. We tapped into the military database. He decided to finally start withdrawing his pension. The only reason we can assume is because, one, he figured statute of limitations. Two, he no longer had the key. Three, maybe he was never aware of the kill order for possession of the thing, or now that he didn’t have it, no one would care.”
Stiles waved off his driver, but didn’t move from the sidewalk. There was more privacy out here. With the DOJ nosing around all the time, hoping to tie Wingman and Wingman into the theft of the key code, one was never sure if there were any bugs inside, even though Stiles made sure his men continually swept the offices. “And the FBI? Why would they have it?”
“Remember that FBI agent asking about W2 a few weeks ago?”
“Of course.” According to several sources, someone named Sydney Fitzpatrick had been
Similar Books
