A Murder in Time Read online

  Putting on the military goggles and breathing apparatus, Kendra clamped down on her resentment when Vale put her in the flank position, all her team members, including Sheppard—Sheppard, who hadn’t been out in the field for six fucking years—ahead of her.

  Still, there was no time to argue. She fell into formation as they jogged as quietly as possible to take up positions of concealment along the walls and corners of the neighboring buildings, facing the warehouse. The warehouse had no windows, so this was only a precaution in case one of Balakirev’s men decided to step outside.

  The day’s light was beginning to fade. A soft breeze carried the scent of diesel fuel, strong enough to infiltrate the mask Kendra was wearing. She wished for a stronger wind to cool the sweat popping up on her brow. Her face beneath the heavy helmet, goggles, and breathing mask felt greasy, perspiration sliding beneath the black uniform she wore.

  When Vale raised his hand for the signal, everyone’s eyes fastened on his fingers. His voice crackled in their earpieces, counting down.

  Five . . . Four . . . Three . . .

  Kendra’s nerves tightened in anticipation.

  Two . . . One!

  Vale’s hand fisted and in the distance they heard the screech of tires, followed within seconds by a tremendous crash; the high-pitched, almost feminine shriek of twisting metal. A thunderous explosion, courtesy of the explosives packed into the decoy car, shook the ground. Vale’s voice reverberated in her ear.

  “Go. Go. GO!”

  Kendra sprinted toward the front of the warehouse. Already, two men were in position with a battering ram. One quick thrust and the door went flying inward, the SWAT team pouring across the threshold like a dozen black beetles. Kendra followed, taking in the interior in one sweeping glance. It was an enormous, shadowy cavern, filled with row upon row of crates and containers, stacked twelve and fifteen feet high, some almost to the catwalk.

  “It’s a fucking maze,” somebody observed in her earpiece.

  The initial shock of the ambush was already over, swiftly replaced by gunfire as Balakirev’s men engaged in battle. Heart pumping, her breath sounding too loud inside the breathing apparatus, Kendra jogged into one of the corridors formed by the stacks of boxes. Fleetingly, she wondered if the ricin was packed within any of these containers.

  The sound of gunfire was deafening. Her earpiece cracked with a steady stream of orders, invectives, and curses.

  “Fucking Russians!”

  “How many? How many d’ya see?”

  “—took two of the fuckers out!”

  “Got one of the sons of bitches!”

  Kendra rounded a corner, and a heavyset man darted into her path. Spotting her, he swung up his rifle, but Kendra was already firing the SIG Sauer. He crumpled to the ground. She keyed in her voice piece and shouted, “Got one. Four down—”

  “Five! I—” A burst of gunfire was followed by a shriek that sent a shiver through Kendra.

  “O’Brien?” Silence.

  “Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!” Noone was panting like a dog. “My leg. The fuckers got my leg!”

  “Give me your position!”

  “—to your left, Noone! Goddamn it, to the left!”

  More gunfire.

  “Fuck! I see a man to the left. Take him down! Take the fucker down!” Vale’s voice boomed in Kendra’s earpiece.

  She flipped around a protective barrier of crates, and saw a man crouched on top of a container, firing a semi-automatic assault weapon. Her own weapon leapt in her hands as she squeezed the trigger. The man pivoted in her direction, fired off several shots, and jumped down, disappearing behind a tower of crates.

  Breath hitching in her chest, Kendra dove for cover, after one shuddering heartbeat, rolled out into the aisle. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and she swung her gun around. It took less than half a second for her brain to register that the man leaping across the narrow aisle was an enemy before she squeezed the trigger. He gave a startled cry and fell to his knees. As though in slow motion, he brought his weapon up. Kendra got off several more shots. The man fell back and lay unmoving.

  “Another down.” She kept going, working her way toward the stairs that she remembered from the blueprints. “I think—” She broke off as an explosion filled the room, white light followed by brilliant orange, blinding her. “Fuck!” She whipped off the goggles and mask, blinking.

  “Goddamn it to hell!” Vale’s voice sizzled in her ear. “Flash bomb. They’ve got a goddamn flash bomb!”

  “Take cover! They’ll cut us down!”

  The steady stream of pops shifted to her right. Dammit! Kendra tossed aside the goggles and mask, slithering on her stomach around another wall of crates. Blinking the sweat out of her eyes, she spotted Vale and Sheppard. Like her, both had discarded their masks and goggles. From somewhere in front of them, someone was shooting.

  “Where the fuck is Greene?” someone yelled in her ear.

  “Balakirev is on the stairs . . . !”

  “Take him down!” That came from Vale. He sprinted forward, but his body suddenly jerked, spinning around like a top, a dark plume of blood squirting out from his neck. Sheppard, who’d been running behind him, fired his weapon into the dark shadows ahead and then crouched down beside the fallen SWAT leader.

  “Fuck! Fuck!” Kendra heard Sheppard’s ragged voice in her earpiece. “Vale’s been hit! He needs medical attention!”

  Kendra saw the man as he stepped around the corner, hoisting his rifle to his shoulder.

  “Sheppard, get down!” Kendra screamed. She sprinted forward, lifting her own weapon and squeezing the trigger. The man fell behind the wall of crates. She prayed her shot had taken him out.

  She skidded on a patch of oil—no, not oil; Vale’s blood, she realized with a sick jolt—and dropped to her knees. Sheppard had discarded his gloves and was desperately trying to plug up the hole in Vale’s neck with his hands. In the dim light, his fingers gleamed black with blood.

  “I’m trying . . . I’m trying to stop the bleeding. I have to stop the bleeding . . .” he panted.

  Kendra grabbed his arm. “He’s dead,” she said brutally. “There’s nothing you can do for him.”

  Sheppard hesitated, staring at her with horror-filled eyes. “God . . . I’d forgotten . . .”

  “This isn’t the fucking time to talk about it,” she snapped, making another effort to drag him to his feet, to yank him into a more protected area. “Move!”

  “God—I’ve been hit!” someone else screeched in her earpiece. “I’ve been hit!”

  “Got Balakirev and Greene pinned down.”

  Sheppard staggered to his feet. “Okay. Okay. We need—” Suddenly, he stiffened, and a ragged cry burst from his lips. Kendra’s heart lurched in her chest as she saw Sheppard’s features twist in agony.

  “Sheppard? Oh, my God!” Mouth dry with fear, she tried to grab him, but he toppled on her, his heavier weight driving her to the floor. She hurriedly shoved him aside and fired her weapon into the shadows, even as she darted a quick glance at Sheppard. His eyes were open and glazed with pain, she noted with a surge of relief. Not dead.

  Her breath came out in pants as she rolled to her feet. She clamped her fingers around Sheppard’s arms, tugging frantically. “C’mon, Sheppard! Daniel!”

  The horrible artillery fire still echoed; her eardrums felt numb. She’d lost her earpiece when she’d fallen and could no longer hear anything but the volley of gunshots echoing off the warehouse walls.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow take shape. Biting back a cry, she let go of Sheppard and brought up her gun, checking the movement when she recognized Terry Landon.

  “Son of a bitch! Sheppard’s hit?” He ran lightly toward them. “C’mon. The door’s just around that section of crates. Goddamn maze.” He shifted, grabbing the wounded man, hoisting him up. “I’ll get you to safety.” He paused, glancing at Kendra. “Move your ass, Donovan!”

  �
�Sheppard’s the one wounded. Get him out. I’m going back for Balakirev and Greene.”

  “No! We’ve gotta go—”

  “I can do this, Terry. You know I can.” She pivoted toward the staircase.

  “Dammit, stop! That’s a fucking order! I’m team leader!”

  “I’m going to finish the goddamn mission!”

  “No. No, you’re not.”

  Kendra stared in astonishment as he brought up his gun, and pointed it at her. “You’re ordering me back at gunpoint?”

  “I’m sorry, Kendra.” He shifted his hand so the gun was pointed away from her. Despite the craziness around them, she almost wanted to laugh at his sheer chutzpah. Pulling a gun on her to get her to safety, for Christ’s sake! Then everything seemed to freeze when Landon pointed the muzzle at Sheppard, still propped in his other arm.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, now you’re going to threaten Dan—”

  Abruptly Landon let the other man go. Before he hit the ground, Landon was pulling the trigger. In disbelief Kendra watched the horrific burst of blood, bone and brain matter, and Sheppard’s face was gone. Then Landon was snapping his gun around again to point it at her.

  “What . . . Oh, my God! What the fuck have you done?” She stumbled back in shock. Instinctively, she raised her weapon, but Landon was already pulling the trigger. The shot seared across her upper arm, like the hot lash of a whip. Her right hand went numb and her SIG Sauer clattered to the concrete floor.

  “You’re too fucking smart for your own good, Kendra,” he said, advancing on her. He’d also abandoned his mask and goggles. His eyes glittered. Around them, the stink of gunpowder and death seemed to rise up like mist from a graveyard. “You found Balakirev.”

  “My God . . . the last mission . . .” She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. “You’re a fucking traitor!”

  “Sticks and stones. You didn’t think Balakirev got away those other times because he was good, did you?”

  “You son of a bitch!” Her arm felt like it was on fire. Useless.

  “When I said I wanna be drinking somewhere on a beach, I meant it. Uncle Sam is a penny-pinching bastard. Balakirev is a businessman. He understands the value of money. And Greene is the moneyman.”

  Kendra launched herself at Landon, kicking her foot up to knock his weapon to the side. He grunted, staggered back, but didn’t release his grip on the gun.

  “Fucking bitch!”

  With her good hand, she aimed for his throat even as she brought her leg up for another kick. She connected with Landon’s stomach, propelling him backward, but he managed to lift his gun and pull the trigger.

  The blast caught her square in her chest, like an invisible punch, knocking her off her feet and down to the ground. The pain was excruciating, oxygen evaporating from her lungs. The world teetered dizzily around her. She fought off the whirlpool of blackness. The Kevlar vest may have saved her life, but it still hurt like a bitch to be shot.

  Pushing herself to her knees, she crawled crablike around a crate, down one of the maze-like aisles. She blinked as sweat burned her eyes. From behind her, she heard Landon drag himself to his feet, cursing as he did so.

  “I’m gonna tear you apart, you cunt!”

  Through the dingy light, she could see Vale’s prone body ahead of her. Her good hand felt the stickiness of the SWAT team leader’s blood congealing like Jell-O on the concrete floor. Biting down on her lip to keep from gagging, she scuttled toward his body.

  “You’re dead!” Landon came around the corner just as her fingertips grazed Vale’s weapon. She grabbed it by the muzzle, flipping it around in her good hand, even as Landon shot. Kendra’s body jerked, and her leg burned like acid had been thrown on it. She screamed, rolled to the side. Another shot sliced into her abdomen, below the vest. Dizzy with pain, she lifted the SIG Sauer, and fired. In front of her, Landon’s gun flashed in almost the same instant, and she was tossed back, the fiery pain so intense that she thought her head was going to split right in two. The bright, coppery smell of her own blood mingled with Vale’s, filling her nostrils, making her choke. Her vision grew blurry. Then she realized it was the blood dripping into her eyes.

  Weakly, she closed them.

  And let go.

  3

  “How is she?”

  “She’s a fighter, I’ll give her that. She took several hits—right arm and leg, lower abdomen, right temple. We had to remove a section from her large intestine and right fallopian tube. Whether she’ll be able to have children . . .”

  “But she’ll live?”

  “The head wound is the most severe. She’s lucky. A centimeter over and you’d be talking to the medical examiner now.”

  The voices came in gentle waves, rising and falling as Kendra hovered somewhere . . . where the hell was she? She felt . . . nothing. No pain. No emotion. Just a detached fuzziness. The only things anchoring her to reality were those voices. Both male. One soft-spoken and calm. The other a little louder, the timbre of his voice more gravelly.

  “Will she live?” The gravelly voice repeated the question, more insistent.

  A small sound. A sigh, maybe. “I wish I knew.”

  “You’re the doctor, dammit. If you don’t know, who does?”

  “If you would’ve asked me that when she was brought in, I’d have said no—she wouldn’t live the night. But that was a week ago and she’s still alive. And getting stronger. This morning we removed the ventilator, so she’s breathing on her own. But will she live? I don’t know.”

  “Goddamnit. The Director wants to know her prognosis.”

  “Then I hope the Director has a telephone line to God, because He’s the only one who can answer that.”

  “I can’t believe she’s an FBI agent. She looks sixteen, for heaven’s sake. I’ve got a daughter who looks older than her!”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “What?”

  “She’s twenty-six. And your daughter looks older because you let her wear all that makeup. Not to mention that horrible tattoo.”

  “It was supposed to be a butterfly tattoo on her ankle. A small one.” There was a long-suffering sigh. “How was I supposed to know that she’d get a skull and crossbones that takes up most of her back? If her father were around—”

  “You’re too lenient on her.”

  The two new voices penetrated the lovely fuzziness cocooning Kendra. She’d been feeling buoyant, as though she were hovering somewhere outside her body. But the disapproval in the one voice grabbed at her with tiny hooks, pulling her down.

  “You’ve let her run wild since the divorce,” the disapproving voice continued. “I’m not criticizing. Well, maybe I am. But it’s only because we’re friends, Annie. Can you hand me that? Thanks.” There was a moment of silence. Then, “She’s playing you, you know.”

  “She’s just . . . going through a rebellious stage.”

  “Well, she’s lucky to have you. There’re plenty of people in this world who don’t have anybody. Like this poor girl.”

  “What’d’ya mean? I heard that the Director himself was asking about her.” The voice dropped to an almost fearful whisper, as though the woman, Annie, thought the Director—whoever he was—was lurking nearby. “And there’s always someone from the Bureau coming around, checking in on her. Dr. Campbell was given the order to oversee her case himself.”

  “Work people.” The other woman sniffed. Disapproval again. “Doctors. Us. No family. Look at her. Even with her head wrapped up like a mummy, she’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? I’d kill to have lashes like that. You’d think she’d have a boyfriend at least worried about her.”

  “Hmm.”

  “My nephew, Joey, just broke up with his girlfriend—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pamela! The girl hasn’t regained consciousness since she was brought in.” There was a thread of laughter now in the other woman’s voice. “And you’re trying to set her up with your nephew!”

  “Her vital signs are ex
cellent. Now that we’re weaning her off the sedatives . . . I just feel sad for her, that’s all. No family—”

  “Oh, my God! Kendra Donovan.”

  “What?”

  “Kendra Donovan. This girl—the patient. I just realized . . . I’ve heard about her, you know.” The voice dropped back to a whisper. Annie’s voice. For some reason, floating as she was, it was important to Kendra to know who was talking, to be able to identify the voices. “It was on 20/20 or 60 Minutes—one of those news programs. Her parents were part of some movement to bring superbabies into the world.”

  “Superbabies? That’s . . . wait a minute. I think I read about that! Designer babies.” The disapproval was back in the other woman’s—Pamela’s—voice. “Genetically engineered, tinkering around with their genes to make them smarter than normal. Frankenbabies.”

  “I don’t know if they went that far. Not back then. God only knows what they do now. But the scientist who founded . . . I guess you could call it a society—”

  “Cult.”

  “Cult, then,” Annie conceded. “The goal was to bring these superintelligent scientists together to have superintelligent offspring. Crazy, huh?”

  “More like sick.” Pamela’s voice went from disapproving to appalled. “It’s breeding, like cattle. Put the best livestock together to breed a better cow. It’s not normal for people.”

  The fuzziness was dissipating, leaving a dull ache in its place. Kendra didn’t want to listen anymore. She didn’t want to hear the revulsion in the women’s voices.

  Special, or a freak. In the eyes of Pamela and Annie, definitely a freak.

  “So . . . she’s one of those Frankenbabies?”

  “Yeah . . . I think she started college at fourteen or fifteen.”

  “Jeez, that’s young.”

  “I can’t believe she’s here. That this girl is her. Small world, huh?”

  “Crazy world. Where are her parents? Why aren’t they here?”

  “I think they had some sort of falling out—”