didn’t blink, didn’t move, carefully hiding his surprise. How had Foster gotten that information? Crash could count the number of people who knew he’d been working with Jake Robinson on one hand. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“You don’t have to say. We know you worked with Robinson as part of the so-called Gray Group.”
Crash chose his words carefully. “I don’t see how that has any real relevance to your investigation, sir.”
“This is information FInCOM has received from naval intelligence,” Foster told him. “You’re not giving away anything we don’t already know.”
“FInCOM takes part in its share of covert operations,” Crash said, trying to sound reasonable. “You’ll understand that whether I am or am not a part of the Gray Group is not something I’m able to talk freely about.”
Reasonable wasn’t on the list of adjectives Tom Foster was working with today. His voice rose and he took a threatening step forward. “An admiral has been shot. This is not the time to conceal any information whatsoever.”
Crash held his ground. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve already given you and the other investigators all the information I’m able to provide. The names of the deceased, as I knew them. An account of my conversation with Captain Lovett that afternoon. An account of the events that led to one of the men in the team opening fire upon the admiral—”
“What exactly is your reason for concealing information, Lieutenant?” Foster’s neck was turning purple.
“I’m concealing nothing.” Except for the shocking information Jake had sent him in a top-secret, high-level security-clearance file.
If Crash wanted to get to the bottom of this—and he did—it wouldn’t help to go public with all that Jake had told him. Besides, Crash had to treat the information in that file with exactly the same care and secrecy as he treated every other file Jake had ever sent him. And that meant that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t talk about it with anyone—except his Commander-in-Chief, the President of the United States.
“We know that Jake Robinson sent you some kind of information file on the morning of the shooting,” Foster informed him tightly. “I will need you to turn that file over to me as soon as possible.”
Crash met the man’s gaze steadily. “I’m sorry, sir. You know as well as I do that even if I did have access to this alleged file from Admiral Robinson, I wouldn’t be able to reveal its contents to you. The status of all of the work I did for the admiral was ‘need to know.’ My orders were to report back to Jake and to Jake only.”
“I order you to hand over that file, Lieutenant.”
“I’m sorry, Commander Foster. Even if I had such a file, I’m afraid you don’t have the clearance rating necessary to make such a demand.” He stepped dangerously close to the shorter man and lowered his voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see how Jake’s doing.”
Foster stepped aside, pushing open the door with one hand. “Your concern for Robinson is heartwarming. At least, it would be if we didn’t have indisputable evidence that proves you were the man who fired those first shots into Admiral Robinson’s chest.”
Crash heard the words Foster said, but they didn’t make sense. The crowd of men standing outside the bathroom door didn’t make sense, either. There were uniformed cops, both local and state police, as well as dark-suited FInCOM agents, and several officers from the shore patrol.
They were obviously waiting for someone.
Him.
Crash looked at Foster, the meaning of his words becoming clear. “You think I’m—”
“We don’t think it, we know it.” Foster smiled tightly.
“Ballistic reports are in.”
“Are you Lt. William R. Hawken, sir?” The shore-patrol officer who stepped forward was tall and young and humorlessly earnest.
“Yes,” Crash replied. “I’m Hawken.”
“By the way, the bullet taken from your arm was fired from Captain Lovett’s weapon,” Foster told him.
Crash felt sick, but he didn’t let his reaction show. His captain had tried to kill him. His captain had been a part of the conspiracy.
“Lt. William R. Hawken, sir,” the shore-patrol officer droned, “you are under arrest.”
Crash stood very, very still.
“The ballistic report also shows that your weapon fired the bullets that were found in four of the five other dead men, as well as those removed from the admiral,” Foster told him tightly. “Does that information by any chance clear up your foggy memory of who fired the first shots?”
“You have the right to remain silent,” the shore-patrol officer chanted. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—”
This was impossible. Bullets from his weapon…? That wasn’t the way it had happened. He looked into the blandly serious eyes of the young officer. “What exactly am I being charged with?”
The young officer cleared his throat. “Sir. You have been charged with conspiracy, treason, and the murder of a United States Navy Admiral.”
Murder?
Crash’s entire world tilted.
“Admiral Robinson’s wounds proved fatal one hour ago,” Tom Foster announced. “The admiral is dead.”
Crash closed his eyes. Jake was dead.
Disassociate. Detach. Separate.
The shore-patrol officer slipped handcuffs onto Crash’s wrists, but Crash didn’t feel a thing.
“Aren’t you going to say anything to defend yourself?” Foster asked.
Crash didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Jake was dead.
He was completely numb as they led him from the hospital, out to a waiting car. There were news cameras everywhere, aimed at him. Crash didn’t even try to hide his face.
He was helped into the car, someone pushing down his head to keep him from hitting it on the frame. Jake was dead. Jake was dead, and Crash should have been able to prevent it. He should have been faster. He should have been smarter. He should have paid attention to the feeling he’d had that something wasn’t right.
Crash stared out through the rain-speckled window of the car as the driver pulled out into the wet December night. He tried to get his brain to work, tried to start picking apart the information Jake had sent him in that file—the information that was recorded just as completely and precisely in his head.
Crash was no longer simply going to find the man responsible for shooting and killing Jake Robinson. He was going to find him, hunt him down and destroy him.
He had no doubt he’d succeed—or die trying.
Dear, sweet Mary. And he’d thought last Christmas had been the absolute pits.
Chapter 1
One year earlier
It was only two days after Thanksgiving, but the city streets were already decked with wreaths and bows and Christmas lights.
The cheery colors and festive sparkle seemed to mock Nell Burns as she drove through the city. She’d come into Washington, D.C. that morning to do a number of errands. Get a new supply of watercolor paper and paint for Daisy. Stop at the health food store and get more of that nasty seaweed stuff. Pick up the admiral’s dress uniform from the dry cleaners near the Pentagon. It had been a week since Jake had been in to town, and it looked as if it would be a while before he returned.
Nell had saved the hardest, most unpleasant task for last. But now there was no