She rolled over onto her stomach and raised the monocular again. She’d been watching the two civilians. Now they’d been joined by another man, and she realized who they were. Not civilians, no, they were FBI.
Over the past two weeks, she’d memorized files on all the FBI players. The older man was Milo Zachery, head of the Criminal Investigative Division for the New York Field Office. The younger, taller one was that Brit, Nicholas Drummond. Of course she recognized the woman who could double as a biker chick in her black boots and black-framed glasses—Michaela Caine. She’d watched them on the news after they’d helped stop a nuclear attack in Europe. Of course, even without the media flood, Vanessa would recognize Mike Caine. Even back in the day, Vanessa remembered her as a burning light, smart, funny, unforgettable.
Of all the people she didn’t want to see, these two were at the top of the list, but here they were—not more than a hundred meters away, witnesses to the horror that her group had brought about. And here she lay, one of the anonymous deathmongers. And how would she ever learn to live with that?
She remembered the Matthew Spenser she’d met only a little more than four months before. That Matthew hadn’t believed in collateral damage, had abhorred the thought of killing anyone, accidently or on purpose. He’d been gaining more and more attention from the small-scale bombings, as he wanted. And then Darius had come, dumped a million dollars in his lap, and begun manipulating him, changing him. And now this. She knew Darius—or whatever his name was—had a plan, and now he’d sucked Matthew, sucked all of them, into it, made them all murderers, made them all—terrorists. Didn’t Matthew realize he was now no better than the terrorists who’d killed his family?
Matthew had told her so little, and she hadn’t figured out how to get him to open up to her. Sex wasn’t in the cards now, even if he put the moves on her. She simply couldn’t bear to think about his hands on her now, not with the horrible stench of blood and death filling her nostrils. The Matthew she knew was quick to anger, just as quick to laugh, a man who could spend hours concentrating his genius brain on something he was creating. She’d believed he liked her, maybe even coming to trust her, at least until Darius came along. But now she realized he was headed toward something unimaginable, something horrific, and that something involved Darius. She had to find out what it was before it happened, and somehow get her hands on Matthew’s bombs and his formula, or her assignment would be a failure. Now, that was a small order to fill, wasn’t it?
Matthew had almost told her his plans yesterday at their apartment in Brooklyn. They were talking about the logistics of the Bayway bombing, and Matthew, as was his habit, was skillfully weaving a gold coin through his fingers over and over again, like a magician. Wily, no-nonsense Ian had rolled out the blueprints a night supervisor had provided them—Larry Reeves had cost them the rest of their ready cash, though Andy always got his hands on more; it never seemed to be a problem. Matthew and Vanessa ran through the last of the logistics, drinking Bud Light because that’s all Luther from Belfast, one of the boys, had bought at the corner market.
She’d taken a sip from the bottle, eyed him, and thought, Careful, careful.
“Matthew, what’s next? You already have the attention of the world. Every law enforcement organization is looking for us. People are afraid of what you might do next. We’ll have much more destruction at Bayway, a much bigger statement. The FBI will be in an absolute frenzy. What are we going to do to top Bayway?”