Mr. Jones escorting Ajaya to a secure location.
Voices in her headset competed with the music swelling through the air, played on instruments that were works of art themselves—bamboo flutes, xylophones, kettle and clay pot drums, a kora harp. And those were only the ones she recognized.
Her earpiece filled with the cool logical tones of Mr. Brown. “Heads-up. Suspicious activity in the west corner of the park. Two persons of interest from a student rebel group. Wearing green hats. I repeat, west corner of the park.”
Smith came on the line, barking out orders shifting his security around. Stella angled sideways through the crowd, arching up on her toes for a better view. Damn it, she needed a clearer vantage point. Period.
No one questioned how Brown could remember faces from thousands in a registry of suspicious persons. The man had a photographic memory and a careful attention to detail. And the timing lined up for some kind of move to be made. The vice president’s wife was giving her statement about women’s rights in the region. Gifts were being exchanged, including a doll passed from a local official’s daughter. Beads on the doll’s dress gleamed in the morning sun.
Stella grabbed a light pole and stepped up onto the ridged edge, searching the crowd—until, yes, there were two men walking side by side, both wearing hats that matched agent Brown’s description. But where was he? She searched for his dark suit in the splash of color, careful not to linger on the PJs still creating a wall of strength in front of the dais. She found Smith an instant later, just past the stage.
Jones would have been easy to find with his outback hat, but he was at the airport taking Ajaya into protective custody so he could be moved to the States. So why wasn’t there a dark suit on the west side of the park? Only military uniforms converging for protection as ordered.
Hanging onto the lamppost, she angled around, looking off to the east, which didn’t make sense. Mr. Brown was in the back, watching the west. Except he wasn’t. She saw his dark suit and short ginger hair, spiky on top. Okay, so he wasn’t in his assigned position and he’d called in a report that shifted the bulk of security to the other side of the park. Could be explained away by something as simple as him finding a better vantage point as she had.
No big deal. She was just looking for trouble because of hints of a mole. And there were always rumors and fears of a leak in intelligence.
She glanced back at the rear entrance to see who’d taken Brown’s place…
No one. She slid off the lamppost and back to the ground. Her feet carried her toward the east side of the park, where she’d seen Mr. Brown on the edges of the party.
Brown didn’t make mistakes. He was Mr. Logical, like her. Except right now she wasn’t thinking logically. She was thinking that her every instinct screamed something was wrong about Mr. Brown. That he was the kind who could have cracked codes to get his hands on the list of agents. That he was the kind who would have the aptitude to encrypt the information.
Him and hundreds of other people.
Except he was here and she had questions with very little time to waste waiting for answers. She pushed through the crush of bodies, applause and cheers reverberating over something in the speech. Damn it, she needed to move faster. If she voiced her suspicions over the headset to Mr. Smith, she could divert security in the wrong direction—and Mr. Brown would hear her.
This was a no-win.
Finally, the crowd thinned and she spotted Mr. Brown on the sidelines. Approaching him in the darkened corner didn’t feel right. And when the hell had she started going so much on “feelings”?
Since Jose.
She looked closer. Brown’s spiked ginger-colored hair shone… along with the glint of his gun.
Gun?
Why the hell did he have his weapon drawn? She palmed her 9 mm. Damn, damn, damn, a shoot-out here would be a very bad thing. And maybe his intent was benign. Even so, she couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
She brought her sleeve up to her mouth and spoke into the mic. “Carson here, east side of park. Mr. Brown, why do you have your weapon drawn? Over.”
Mr. Smith hissed over the headset. “Draw down. Now. That’s an order.”
Brown pivoted, fast and sharp on his heels, facing her for an instant. His eyes blared the worst message of all. Desperation.
As if in slow motion, she saw his gun arm swing back toward the stage. Toward the vice president’s wife.
“No!” she shouted, whipping her 9 mm from under the folds of her wrap.
Sprinting, she wished like hell she had Jose’s speed. Her heart leaped in her throat. Her ears roared so loudly she couldn’t have heard a gunshot or screams. She caught a flash of red out of the corner of her eyes. Blood? No. Jose’s hat as he vaulted onto the stage to protect his charge. She ran faster, closing the gap. And thank God the few people in her way dropped to the ground, giving her a clear shot at Agent Brown.
A man she’d worked with for the past six months.
She squeezed off two shots without hesitation, catching him in the shoulder. Ten feet away, Brown spun around from the impact. His fist still gripped his gun.
Pain exploded in her leg. In her head. She stumbled forward toward her target.
Then she smelled it. Blood. Her own. Dripping in her eyes and down the sides of her nose. She fell to her knees and shot Brown again, blasting away his kneecap. Howling, he fell to his side. His gun skittered away. And finally, she let herself sag the rest of the way to the ground.