Naked Risk (Shatterproof #3) Page 3

  She was so much bolder than I could have imagined myself being just a few months ago. The chance meeting on a train like that was cute. It stood in stark contrast to the way Watts and I had met, which made me think of the only reason we ended up meeting in person. It was that email that I had sent, suggesting that we meet. I had come so far. All because of Watts.

  The rest of the night went much like that—conversation, laughter, and all of it making me think of him. Wondering what he was doing. Worrying about his safety. And the occasional tug of fear reminding me of the very real possibility that something could go wrong and I’d never see him again.

  Tara spoke, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Oh, did I tell you about what they’re starting next week?”

  “At work?”

  “Yeah,” she said, stuffing a napkin into her glass. “Random lie detector tests. Some new beefed up security bullshit.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t have if I wanted to. My arms and legs tingled with a wave of trepidation and my throat went suddenly dry. Watts and I had just discussed this very thing, and now it was happening.

  . . . . .

  I texted Watts later that night after I got home, changed, and slipped into bed: I need to talk to you ASAP. Wish you were here.

  Thirty minutes passed. An hour. Two hours. I called and it went straight to his voicemail. I left him a quick message, asking him to text me back when he had a minute, and that I just wanted to hear from him.

  He didn’t text or call back. I barely got any sleep that night.

  Chapter Six – Watts

  Spencer and I spent all day Wednesday and Thursday running surveillance on the house. We had rented a white van and he had brought along magnets to put on each side of it that read “Bluewave Satellite Installation” complete with a fake phone number. A ladder was fastened to the roof of the van.

  It was the perfect cover. Nobody was going to talk to us because nobody wants to face the onslaught of an independent contractor’s sales pitch regarding television service. They’d go out of their way to avoid us.

  All of the intelligence we’d received was panning out, until we discovered that this cell wasn’t staying in one house, but two. The second one was about two miles away, so we split up.

  Spencer took the second place, I took the first. There was more action at my scene. It was definitely the place where they gathered to meet and plan and bang prostitutes.

  Early on Wednesday morning, Spencer had driven over and covered me while I slipped into the house and placed four microphones around the place, as well as cameras in the den, and in two of the bedrooms.

  We monitored the terrorists’ activities on my laptop in the van.

  “It’s like a goddamn porno,” Spencer had said at one point, referring to the revolving door of prostitutes they were bringing in and out of the place at all hours of the night. “These guys are so devout, huh? So pious and righteously devoted to their God.”

  “Remember the 9/11 hijackers,” I had said. “They spent a lot of time in strip clubs in the days leading up to the attacks. So, yeah, they’re devout…when it suits them.”

  A stakeout can be rather boring most of the time, especially when you’re doing it alone. But this time I had a partner. We spent a good amount of time talking on our pre-paid cell phones. Mostly it was Spencer talking about Stephanie, the woman in his life, which eventually turned once again into a lecture on how I’d been living my own life.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, Watts, let me tell you.”

  I held the phone away from my ear, rolling my eyes. His gushing over his newfound love was starting to sound like platitudes. I knew the guy was sincere, but he was laying it on a bit thick.

  “Don’t you ever wonder what will happen once you’re, say, fifty?” he asked. “You can’t go on your whole life fucking random women. When you’re that old, the hot ones aren’t going to fuck you, Wattsy. You’re going to have to pay them to do it.” He laughed.

  “I’d never pay for it,” I said.

  “That’s what you say now, but when you’re older you won’t have a choice.”

  “Is there a point to this?” I asked, reaching over to the passenger seat and opening a pack of almonds.

  “The point is this: You need to find a woman and start to get your life back.”

  I was getting tired of hearing his take on my life. He had it so wrong, and only because I hadn’t corrected him. He had no idea what was going on with me. I had held off for a couple of days until my suspicion about his being here dwindled down to nothing. There was no way McDowell had sent him here to sabotage my relationship with Catherine.

  So I told him.

  “There is a woman, Spencer.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Then, “Bullshit, mate. You’re telling me that to shut me up. I know you better than—”

  “You don’t know me,” I said, cutting him off. “You know what I’ve wanted you to know.”

  “Ah ha, so it is true. I may not know the details of your life, but I do know that tone. So who is she?”

  I gave him only the basics—how we met, how we finally actually met in person, how much time we’d been spending together, and most importantly, just her first name.

  It was late afternoon, going on toward four o’clock. The neighborhood had been bustling an hour earlier with the arrival of several school buses. Parents waited on street corners. Kids got off the buses and ran, their too-large backpacks weighing them down. A couple of young boys had started tossing a plastic football. All of that had cleared up inside of five or so minutes, as I told him about Catherine, and the neighborhood had quieted down once again.

  “Daniel Watts, you sneaky fuck.”

  “I get paid to be sneaky,” I said. “And let me remind you that you do as well. This stays between us.”

  “No problem. I’m sure our fine Mr. McDowell knows?”

  I was silent for a moment, drifting away in thought. I watched two cars go down the street. One was a real estate agent, the other a minivan with those little white stickers on the rear window indicating how many people were in their family. An exterminator truck rounded the corner, heading my way.

  “You there, Watts?”

  “Yeah, McDowell knows. He knows it all, just like he always does. And he doesn’t approve.”

  “Fuck him.”

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I watched a woman walking a dog down the sidewalk, letting the animal stop and squat in one of her neighbor’s yards. The woman had put her hand into a plastic bag and used it to pick up after the dog. Another woman, a younger one several doors down, walked down her driveway to the mailbox, talking on the phone as she went.

  Just a normal day in suburban America. Nice lawns. People out for a walk and getting some exercise. Others in their cars on the way to the grocery store, perhaps. And a house full of Chechen terrorists right down the block. Jesus, the things people don’t know about their neighbors. Or anyone, really, which brought me back to Catherine.

  “There’s more to this,” I said to Spencer. “She works at the FBI.”

  Now there was silence on his end, but only long enough for him to come up with the question that I knew he would. “Are you using her for inside information?”

  I laughed. “No. I knew you’d ask that, though, which is why I didn’t tell you what she does there.” I explained her job to him.

  “That sounds boring as all hell, but I can see why McDowell’s pressing you. So what’s the plan? What are you going to do?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Hello, hello? Damn cheap phones.”

  I said, “I’m here. Hang on a second.”

  I sank down in my seat, lifting the camera, zooming in to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I was. A Fed-Ex delivery guy rang the doorbell, then knocked, and got no response. He went back to his truck and stacked several boxes on the front porch.

  “What’s going on?” Spencer asked. “Everything okay?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I got out of the van with clipboard in hand, wearing work boots, navy blue pants, matching shirt and jacket and a baseball cap. If anyone tried to talk to me, I was prepared to launch into a sales pitch for satellite TV.

  I had my shoulder holster concealed beneath a blue jacket, my gun ready.

  I walked up the sidewalk to the front porch, got the name of the company off the label and returned to the van. I quickly Googled the company name and confirmed what I’d been thinking on the walk back.

  I knew what was inside the boxes from their shape and the obvious weight of them from watching the Fed-Ex guy lift them.

  “We’re not going to find any bomb-making materials in the house,” I said into the phone.

  “What do you mean?”

  The six boxes contained ammunition. “They’re not going to blow up anything. It’s going to be a mass shooting.”

  “Christ,” Spencer said. “Two houses, and now this method? Your team is going to walk into a virtual ammunition depot. How complicated is this going to get?”

  It didn’t have to get more complicated. Not if we acted faster than we had planned. We had talked about doing the job inside of a week. Now we were going to have to do it in a matter of days.

  . . . . .

  There wasn’t much action at the house, so I left about 3 a.m. and headed back to the hotel to get a few hours of sleep. Spencer said he was staying put outside the house he was watching.

  I slept for about four hours, waking just before 8 a.m., and realized I had been so tired and so focused on the change in our mission that I’d forgotten to check my personal cell phone for messages. An odd thing, having Catherine slip my mind for more than a few minutes.

  I read her texts and listened to her messages. She sounded stressed, and had been vague about why she needed to talk to me ASAP. I dialed her number.

  She answered with: “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. What’s the matter?”

  I heard her let out a deep sigh. “Oh, my God. I was so worried when I didn’t hear back from you. I don’t like that at all.”

  “Catherine, I’m fine. What’s so urgent?”

  She told me about the planned polygraph examinations.

  I was barely awake. My eyelids were heavy, my mouth was dry, and my body ached from the few hours of tense sleep. “When is this happening?”

  “I don’t know. I guess…it could be any time?”

  I sat up on the edge of the bed. “Have you left for work yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to miss another Friday,” I said. “I’ll pick you up shortly.”

  “Shortly? When? Where are you?”

  “Just be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen? You’re nearby?”

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes, Catherine.”

  We hung up and I called Spencer.

  “I’m going to be away for the next day or so.” He was just as experienced as I was, and perfectly capable of watching the place alone for an extended period of time.

  “Okay,” he said. “I got this.”

  Chapter Seven – Catherine

  Watts called fifteen minutes later and said he was waiting outside for me. I went down to meet him.

  He had parked at the entrance to my building, standing there holding the passenger side door for me. He wore jeans and a t-shirt with a light jacket. His clothes were rumpled. He still had bed-head, the kind that was obviously splashed with water in an effort to get it under control, but failing. His eyes looked tired.

  “Are you okay?” I said, throwing my arms around his waist, so glad to see him. I felt something press against my chest. I figured it was a gun, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m fine. Just a little tired.” He kissed my cheek. “You smell so good. It’s waking me up a little. Come on, get in. We’re going to my house.” He pulled away from me and put his hand on the car door.

  It was then that I noticed what he was driving. I’d been so glad to see him that I hadn’t noticed. “Where’s your car?”

  “I’m driving this rental for a few days,” he said, shrugging it off. I figured it had to do with his work, so I didn’t ask any follow-ups.

  During the hour drive, he explained to me what we’d be doing once we got there.

  At one point I asked, “Why were you so close when I called?”

  He kept his eyes straight ahead. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Work stuff?”

  He nodded. “I can’t give you any details. It just puts you in more danger, especially now that you’re going to face a polygraph.”

  “Do you think it’s really that random or….?”

  “I don’t know,” Watts said. “I would think if they suspected anybody for anything, they would go directly to them and not conduct widespread testing like this. But we can’t be too careful.”

  We drove in silence for several minutes and I thought about what he’d told me Tuesday morning—the dangers I faced, the decision I had to make, all of it. I knew he wasn’t making any of it up, but now that I was feeling the pressure it was more real than ever.

  None of the emotions I felt from that realization made me second-guess my wanting to be with Watts. And as I sat there in the passenger seat, watching him drive, I realized that’s exactly where I wanted to be. Not there in the car, specifically. Not anywhere in particular, in fact. The place didn’t matter. Where I wanted to be, now and forever, was next to Watts, no matter where we were.

  . . . . .

  “Good morning, Andrew,” the voice came from his next-door neighbor’s porch. I looked up as I got out of the car and saw an elderly woman sitting in a wooden rocking chair.

  Watts had come around to my side of the car and opened the door for me. He was closing it as he replied, “Morning, Mrs. Woodall.”

  “Nice day not to be working,” she said.

  Watts placed a hand on my elbow, leading me, almost pushing me toward the front steps to his townhouse.

  “Perfect day,” he said. “Enjoy it.”

  “Are you having a daytime date?” she asked. “This is the first time I’ve seen you with a woman. Is that right or have I forgotten?”

  Wow, this woman didn’t hold back at all. As secretive as Watts had always been, it surprised me that he lived next to someone who sat on her front porch blurting out questions about his personal life.

  Watts slipped the key into his front door and turned it. The door swung open.

  I felt kind of bad for the lady. She clearly meant no harm. Still, it was a bit unnerving for me, and probably a hundred times more so for Watts.

  “This is Allison,” he said, surprising me more than a little, my head snapping toward his direction. “You’ll probably be seeing a lot of her in the future.”

  I waved. “Hi.”

  The woman waved back. “Well, that’s good to know. You two enjoy your day.”

  “And you as well, Mrs. Woodall.”

  I waved to her again and smiled as I entered Watts’s house.

  He closed the door and locked up, shaking his head.

  “She seems nice,” I said. “And why the hell am I Allison?”

  He emptied his pockets into a small bowl on a table next to the front door. “She is. She’s just a little too nice sometimes. Trust me, she doesn’t need to know anything about you, and especially about us.”

  “Doesn’t respect the ‘privacy code’?” I said in jest.

  Watts cut his eyes at me. “Doesn’t know about the code.”

  “Then that’s your fault.”

  He smiled for the first time all morning. “I know it’s hard for you to turn it off, but now is not the time to be all cute and flirty with me. We have some work to do.”

  “Hey,” I said, forcing a disappointed and rejected look on my face. “I’m trying to lighten the mood here. Blow off a little steam.”

  “There will be plenty of time for blowing things later.” His crooked smile almost made me drop to my knees right there in his foyer.

  . . . . .

  He led me down to his basement where he told me to take a seat in an uncomfortable, old wooden chair that was next to a desk. Watts went over to a large metal cabinet and pulled out a canvas bag. He placed it on the desk and unzipped it, then looked at me as I looked up from the bag to meet his eyes.

  “Polygraph machine,” he said.

  “I’ve taken one before.”

  He smiled. “Well, now you’re about to do it again.”

  For several minutes, he hooked me up to the machine and explained as he went.

  “I assume you know what this is,” he said, placing a blood pressure cuff around my left bicep.

  “Yes.”

  He took two rubber tubes out of the canvas bag and placed them around my lower chest, just below my breasts. “These measure the rate and depth of your respiration.”

  Then two plastic clips on two fingers. “These measure your skin moisture. When you’re nervous, you sweat, and it conducts electricity.”

  I was silent as he switched on the machine on the desk, until a question struck me. “Why do you have this?”

  Without looking at me, he said, “When I first got here, a lot of what we did—what I did—involved detaining and questioning suspects. I haven’t used this in years, though.”

  “Why not?”

  He sat down. “Intel gathering has changed. At least for us, it has.”

  I was becoming accustomed to his vague answers regarding his work, and was learning fast not to ask any follow-up questions.

  He placed a roll of paper on the prongs and fed it through, under the little needles that scrawled the resulting lines on the paper.