Against All Odds
Paris he’d help her, partially out of his own feeling of guilt surrounding Lee Hendridge’s death, partially out of his own curiosity. But upon further reflection, Blunt realized he had nothing to do with Hendridge’s death. Whatever got the journalist murdered had to do with what he discovered.And Blunt wanted to find out what he was dealing with.
Although Blunt had never been trained as a spy, he’d amassed a few critical skills over the years that enabled him to pick a lock. In most cases, he could get an office door open and sometimes even a deadbolt. But a combination lock, like the ones used in Union Station, presented a much larger challenge.
Blunt took a small device out of his pocket and attempted to slide it along the side of the door, aiming to jimmy it loose. When that didn’t work, he put his ear to the door and attempted an old school method of cracking the combination. After that failed, he turned to his last resort—a small laser cutting tool he’d swiped during one of his visits to the CIA’s lab.
Using his body to shield bystanders from what he was actually doing, he sliced his way through the lock until the latch finally gave way and the door fell open. Blunt glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. The travelers hustled past him, none the wiser to who he was, let alone that he was actually breaking into a locker.
The contents inside didn’t result in any immediate jaw-dropping discoveries. A shoebox stuffed with a few photos and some correspondence, none of which seemed relevant to what Blunt was searching for. There was a coat and some money, including a fake passport and currency from several different countries. After going through the entire locker, Blunt wondered if there was actually anything there or if Rebecca Paris had simply been attempting to catch him in the act of committing a crime. The possibilities seemed vast, especially in light of the fact that the locker was empty.
Blunt was considering that he needed to move on and get out of there when he reached inside, grabbing the shelf with his hand. As he did, Blunt felt an object attached to the bottom with a piece of tape.
Well, would you look at this?
Blunt carefully removed the small envelope, just large enough to place a key or some other small object inside. Loosening the flap, Blunt emptied the contents into his hand. A flash drive landed in the center of Blunt’s hand.
For the first time since he began this quest, his eyes widened and a faint smile flashed across his face.
“What did you find out, Lee Hendridge?” Blunt said aloud.
However, Blunt’s victory was short lived. The sound of a man clearing his throat in an effort to get attention jolted Blunt out of the past and back into the present. He turned around and was standing face to face with a Union Station police officer.
“Can I help you?” Blunt asked, slipping the flash drive into his pocket.
The cop eyed Blunt cautiously before speaking.
“Perhaps you can tell me why you were breaking into a dead man’s locker,” the officer said.
“This locker right here?” Blunt said. “I wasn’t breaking into it. I was simply retrieving something for the next of kin after she was denied access to it.”
“And you knew the combination, given to you by the man who pre-paid for this locker?”
Blunt nodded, attempting to bluff his way past the officer. But the officer wasn’t having any of it.
“So, why is there footage on one of our security cameras of you wielding a small laser cutter and ripping through the lock?” the guard asked.
Blunt shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe someone was trying to plant evidence on me. I am a famous Washington politician, by the way. There’s always someone trying to frame me and get me locked up.”
“Formerpolitician, Mr. Blunt,” the security guard said.
Blunt smiled. “So you do know who I am?”
“Yes, I know you faked your own death and you’ve been instrumental in perpetuating conflicts in the Middle East,” the officer said. “I know exactly who you are.”
“You’re a big fan, I see.”
The officer rolled his eyes. “Turn around, Mr. Blunt, and put your hands behind your back.”
“What for?” Blunt asked.
“I’m placing you under arrest for breaking into and the destruction of private property. I know you know better.”
“There’s an explanation for all of this,” Blunt said. “This isn’t necessary. I haven’t taken a thing.”
Snatching his hands, the officer cuffed Blunt before digging into his pockets.
“Didn’t take a thing?” the officer asked as he held up the memory device.
“I already had that in my pocket.”
“In that case you have nothing to worry about since this entire incident was captured on security footage,” the officer said, pointing to the camera in the corner of the room.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Blunt said.
“Tell it to the judge.”
Blunt sighed and trudged along at the prodding of the arresting officer.
CHAPTER 19
WITHOUT A VEHICLE, Hawk was stranded at the CIA safe house until he could get someone to pick him up. He considered calling the FBI and letting them know what was going on with Senator Thurman, but that would result in hours of interviews, time Hawk didn’t have with four missiles sitting in Cuba. For all he knew, they could be armed and aimed at Miami. Thurman could wait.
Hawk gathered all of Alex’s computers along with her cell phone and crammed it into a backpack. In an effort to protect the location of the house, Hawk walked a half-mile down the road before calling Mallory Kauffman and asking her to pick him up. She told him she would be there in thirty minutes and could give him a lift back to The Phoenix Foundation.
While Hawk was waiting, he considered what Thurman’s end game might be. Was the senator involved in a far more sinister plot? Was he selling secrets to foreign entities? Was he using the excuse of