Covenant

88

Lopez drove into the airport’s industrial park, her path smoothed by calls from Larry Pitt at the First District Office to the airport’s administration facility. She could see the blinking lights of an aircraft taking off into the night sky, the airstrip marked by a seemingly endless line of glowing orange lights. The sound of jet engines on the hot night air reverberated through the chassis of her car as she cruised between valleys of steel shipping containers and pulled in near the edge of a large servicing pan, extinguishing her lights.

The servicing area was separate from the main terminals fielding domestic and international flights. Industrial units and hangars surrounding her were mostly darkened, long since closed for business. Lopez climbed out of the car, looking at a curved row of blue lights in the tarmac marking the boundaries of a taxiway. The jet would come in from there, and she would be in place to intercept it.

She placed a hand on her service pistol beneath her jacket.

“That’s far enough.” Lopez froze as the voice spoke to her from the darkness. “Show me the piece, slowly.”

Lopez obeyed, slowly drawing her weapon and holding it between thumb and forefinger as she turned around. Captain Louis Powell loomed from between two shipping containers, his pistol pointed at her. Lopez felt a sickening apprehension compress her stomach. The captain stared at her for a moment and then lowered his weapon.

“Lopez? What the hell are you doing here?”

Lopez swallowed. “Following some leads.”

Powell holstered his weapon and moved across to her. Lopez realized that she’d never before noticed how powerfully built he was.

“What part of being off duty are you failing to understand?” Powell asked.

“If the case is closed, then what the hell are you doing here?”

Lopez saw the captain’s larynx rise and fall as he swallowed, and above his voice the sound of two turbofan jet engines whined as a jet taxied toward them.

“You did the right thing telling me about Tyrell and the senator, but now’s not the time to get all smart-ass. Are the FBI on their way?”

Lopez knew that it wouldn’t take Axel Cain long to find out from Larry Pitt where she was, and when he did he’d bring half of the Bureau’s manpower down here with him.

“Axel Cain’s leading a boarding team,” she lied. “Just waiting on the paperwork. He’s been in contact with you about this?”

Powell nodded slowly, still not looking at her. Alarm bells rang like claxons in Lopez’s head, and she edged slightly farther away from Powell. Powell turned, jabbing a leather-gloved finger at her.

“If you two are so sure that there’s something in all of this, then where’s Tyrell now?”

For a moment, Lopez thought that she’d gotten it all terribly wrong, and that Powell really was trying to get to the bottom of the case. She opened her mouth to speak, and then her heart stopped beating in her chest. Beneath the soft black leather of Powell’s glove, the cuffs of his shirt were thickly stained with blood.

Powell’s expression wavered with concern as he caught the direction of her gaze. Lopez jerked her pistol up to point at the captain, but Powell’s arm smashed her weapon aside. A chunky fist slammed into her stomach and she gagged and folded over the blow, the strength leaving her legs as Powell hurled her against the steel wall of a shipping container.

A crack reverberated through her head as it struck the hard metal, her vision blurring as Powell tore her pistol from her grip. She felt the barrel jammed against her face, saw Powell’s features loom before her as the sound of the approaching jet reached deafening proportions.

“Move!” Powell shouted.

Lopez was shoved toward the Gulfstream V550 that had parked within twenty meters of them.

“You’ll never get away with this shit,” Lopez shouted above the engine noise.

Powell didn’t respond as he manhandled her alongside the Gulfstream. As the engines wound down, she saw the fuselage entrance door open and a set of steps unfold with a mechanical buzz. As soon as it touched the tarmac Powell propelled her up the steps, the pistol still wedged against her head.

As she reached the doorway, a tall man blocked her way. A pair of clear, cold eyes locked onto hers, narrow irises floating in gray discs. They took in the pistol at her neck and Powell holding her before the man stepped back and out of the way.

“We’ve been compromised,” Powell snapped as he shoved Lopez into the aircraft. “Get the consignment off but leave the crate on.”

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” the man said, Lopez detecting a hint of a Chicago accent.

“The plan’s over!” Powell boomed, and shoved Lopez toward the man. “Empty the crate and get those remains out of here. When you’re done, put her inside the crate.”

Lopez was caught in the man’s iron grip as he looked at Powell.

“What are you going to do to her?”

Captain Powell looked down at Lopez. “You’re the last remaining link, Nicola. Once you’re out of the picture everything goes back to normal. I’ll make it quick, but I’m afraid you’re going out to sea.”

Lopez felt acid seething through her veins as an image of Lucas Tyrell lying dead in the apartment filled her mind.

“Just as gutless as I thought you were.”

Powell’s eyes flared and he struck out at her with the back of his hand.

Lopez flinched, but was surprised to see the hand of the man holding her flick out and block Powell’s blow easily. Even before she had registered what was happening, she felt herself being spun away as the man with the cold gray eyes rushed forward, gripping Powell’s gun hand in his own while driving the points of his fingers into Powell’s eyes. Powell growled and stumbled back, trying to swipe the hand away. In an instant, Lopez’s savior stomped on the inside of Powell’s left leg while twisting his gun arm up and away from his torso.

Powell’s gag became a brief scream as his shoulder dislocated, and Lopez heard a popping sound as the tendons snapped in his wrist, the pistol dropping onto the Gulfstream’s carpeted floor.

Lopez scrambled to her feet as the man grabbed the pistol and stood back from Powell’s crumpled form.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

“Ethan Warner,” the man replied, keeping the weapon trained on Powell. “You?”

“Nicola Lopez, MPD. What the hell’s going on?”

“You need to call Doug Jarvis at the DIA and tell him that—”

“I spoke to him an hour ago, he’s the one that got me into this,” Lopez said briskly. “You came here from Israel?”

“Direct,” Ethan confirmed. “Who’s this?” he asked, gesturing to Powell.

“Your worst nightmare,” Powell snarled, struggling to his feet. “You’ve no jurisdiction and have entered the country illegally. I’ll have the both of you in a cell within—”

Lopez stepped forward and swung a roundhouse punch that connected to Powell’s jaw with a crack that seemed to echo through the aircraft. Powell’s two-hundred-pound frame spun 180 degrees and plunged facefirst onto one of the couches.

Ethan Warner looked at her in surprise as he lowered the pistol.

“Bad day at the office?”

“You have no idea,” Lopez said bitterly, massaging her knuckles. “Now, I need you to tell me everything that’s happened in Israel.”