Chalk shook his head slightly, and Xander tried to rein in his temper. He was boiling mad, he realized suddenly—furious and upset and trying like hell to remember his training and shove the anger down into his boot heel, because he couldn’t let anything ruffle him, not now. He knew it was the aftermath of the morning’s escapades, and frustration at nearly being beaten. It would pass soon enough. Adrenaline did wonky things to your system after a shooting. He knew that from too many rooftops, too many triggers pulled. He took a breath.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’d prepared for every contingency for your protection, went through every checklist, and there was nothing on the street about a contract. The state cop, Grant, told me the man was traveling on a Spanish passport. You piss off someone in Spain?”

Denon nodded. “Probably. I piss people off everywhere, Mr. Whitfield. It’s part of my job. I don’t know who was behind this. But I trust I can keep you and Mr. Worthington—”

“Sir, please. Trey, or Chalk. Mr. Worthington is my father.”

“Trey, then. I’d like to keep you two on. Hopefully you can find out who has it in for me.”

Xander narrowed his eyes at the man. “Not that we don’t appreciate the vote of confidence, but wouldn’t your own security services be better equipped for this kind of investigation, sir?”

Denon shook his head and smiled sadly. He leaned in so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, I’m afraid my instincts tell me this is something best kept out of house. And since you’ve proven your loyalty to me in such a spectacular fashion... Well.”

Xander met Chalk’s eyes. He was right—Denon suspected the attack had come from within.

“All right, sir. We can do that. We’ll get on it right away.”

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Xander grabbed a cocktail napkin and wrote a note to Denon.

Is there someone on the plane you suspect?

He passed it over, and Denon’s eyebrows hiked up to his hairline. But he pulled a fountain pen from his shirt pocket, wrote on the napkin and pushed it back.

No. Never. These three are the ones I’d trust with my life.

Xander showed Chalk the napkin. He nodded, pulled out his laptop, began to type. Xander knew he was backgrounding the people on the plane. Sometimes the people closest to you were the ones you should trust the least.

Xander folded the napkin and put it in his pocket. Denon was eyeing him, whether impressed by his astuteness or something else, he didn’t know.

Keep your enemies close. Denon was either crazy or brave, he wasn’t sure which.

He cast a glance toward the back of the plane. Louis Bebbington, George Everson and Maureen Heedles. Trusted associates. Scared to death. How many people did Denon employ? And did any of them hold a grudge? This wasn’t going to be an easy case, he knew it.

“I need to chill for a minute. Don’t mind me.” Xander tossed back some more Scotch, then settled back into the leather, and shut his eyes for a minute, resetting.

He wasn’t kidding Sean Lawhon. There were going to be repercussions. To the shooting, to protecting Denon. He needed to make a few plans of his own—how to protect himself and Sam, and the fragile world they lived in.

He’d killed a killer. Word would get out.

Chapter 22

State Department

Washington, D.C.

ASHLEIGH CAVORT RETURNED to the conference room with a slim manila folder. “Here’s the file on Agent Souleyret. I’m happy to escort you out now.” At the front doors, she nodded earnestly, ponytail swinging. “Do keep in touch,” she said with a bright, happy smile. Like they were going on a vacation, or moving to another city.

The rain had pushed through, and Sam breathed the sweet, clean air of a just-washed city, relieved to leave the State Department. She didn’t like the idea of participating in a cover-up, there could be a possible terrorist attack in the works, she was worried as hell about Xander. And Fletcher was too quiet, planning and plotting something. All the pressure was getting to her.

The file on Amanda Souleyret was exceptionally thin. Sam paged through it, distressed to see how little information was given. Fletcher pointed the car toward Fourteenth Street. He wanted to go straight to the morgue and get the autopsy out of the way before they started talking to people.

Sam agreed. Better to have all the tangible facts in place, and then they could make the rest come together. She was still quite sure Girabaldi had been lying to them, trying to throw them off the scent of something much, much bigger. Why else would State have stuck their long noses into the case? Why not let the homicide team run down the killer?

And why ask them to start a cover-up?

She had a terrible feeling they weren’t going to want the answer to whom the State Department thought was behind the killing. Something was wrong with Girabaldi’s requests. She just didn’t know what.

She slapped the file closed. “Souleyret’s file is embarrassingly incomplete. Everything about her life before she joined the FBI is redacted, and the current information is barely enough to do a background on her. Her permanent address is up on Capitol Hill, but she rents out her house. She has one sister, Robin, but there is no information about her. Her father is dead, her mother gone since the girls were young. The only useful thing in here—she was decorated, two years ago, with the FBI Shield of Bravery.”

“For what?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? There are no details about what she did to deserve it, or even what case she’d been involved in.”

When Ashleigh Cavort had handed Sam the file, she’d done so with a shrug of knowledge—there was nothing here that was going to help. She told Fletcher as much.

“This is a waste of our time. All we have here is basically her height, weight and social. There’s nothing we can use, outside of tracking down why she was awarded the medal. Why’d they even bother?”

“Sam, I rarely question the intentions of our government. God knows why they do anything. The woman was an FBI agent. I’m sure there are files on her that you can access.”

“Well, if I can’t, Baldwin certainly can.” She glanced at her watch, the silver-and-gold Tag Heuer her parents had given her when she graduated from high school. “I wonder what’s taking him so long to call me back? He should be on the ground by now.”

“Couldn’t you call down to the Hoover Building and ask?”

She glanced at her watch again. “Let me just try him one more time.”

But Baldwin’s phone went directly to voice mail. She left a message, asked him to call as soon as he could and rang off. His plane must have been delayed.

A moment later, a text message came in. It was from Baldwin.

Tied up for the foreseeable future on this case, but I think I know what you’re looking for. Contact Charlaine Shultz in my office, tell her what you need.

Amazing how he could anticipate. It had always unnerved her, his ability to sense what people needed. It was what made him a great investigator, being able to see past the obvious. But it could be off-putting at times.

She dialed the main number at Quantico and asked the operator to put her through to Dr. Charlaine Shultz in the BAU II.

A few moments later, Charlaine’s soft Southern voice came on the line.

“Charlaine, it’s Samantha Owens. How are you?”

“Sam! It’s good to hear from you. Everything okay up there in D.C.?”

“Not perfect, but okay. Did Baldwin tell you I’d be calling?”

“He just texted me. You need info on our girl?”

Sam noticed everyone was being careful not to openly use Souleyret’s name. “I do. I have the basics, but it’s telling me nothing. Can you help?”

“I’ll pull together everything you might need and get a courier on his way to you immediately. Where should I send him?”