Better Off Dead. Meryl SawyerЧитать онлайн книгу.
could check out any call his people made. If he discovered anything—anything—suspicious, he had a listening device installed in their office or assigned an operative to investigate. No one was beyond his reach.
Certainly not Samantha Robbins. It had taken a little longer than he’d expected, but he’d found the bitch. Disappearing was a lot more difficult than people believed. There was always a trail, a way of finding someone.
In this case, the key had been cold, hard cash. Money wasn’t his first love, but without it, he couldn’t indulge his true passion. Money often provided a trail or made a good trap, when he was after someone. He’d patiently waited until Samantha Robbins bought her condo with cash.
Brock gave himself full credit for finding Samantha. He knew that the Witness Protection Program—WITSEC—relocated witnesses in a place where they had no family, no friends, and little chance of running into someone who might recognize them. Contrary to what most people thought, WITSEC did not fabricate credit histories for their witnesses.
WITSEC created new identities, but it was up to each witness to establish credit. Getting a credit card was a no-brainer. So many offers arrived in the mail that it was a joke, but it would take several years and a clean payment record for a witness to parlay a good credit card track record into a home loan.
Samantha was different. She had enough money to buy a place.
He’d made a list of the states where Samantha had connections and eliminated them. His agents tracked homes purchased for cash in the remaining states. Without a credit history, she would have to pay cash for a place to live.
Of course, there was always the possibility that she would rent, but the psychologist he’d consulted insisted Samantha Robbins was the type who liked control. She wanted to run things, own things. The shrink had been right.
As Director of Security at Obelisk Enterprises, it was Brock’s job to make certain the group’s interests were protected—at all times. This woman was a threat. He’d said so from the day he and the Obelisk brass made a secret visit to the CFO at PowerTec. As the CFO’s assistant, she’d asked too many insightful questions.
Samantha Robbins had been suspicious about PowerTec’s dealings and should have been eliminated immediately. His superiors had insisted he allow the dumb-fucks at PowerTec to handle their employee.
What happened? Just what Brock said would happen. The snoopy bitch had notified the FBI, and the Feebies had sent an undercover agent to work at PowerTec. Brock had been forced to have the agent killed.
Even the Federal Marshals who ran the WITSEC program knew security should never be taken lightly. Not with this much at stake. Too many powerful, important people had everything to lose. They relied on Brock to make certain nothing went wrong.
Dominating one wall of his office was a world map on a liquid plasma television screen. The weather satellite displayed the cloud formations and used green Doppler striations to indicate where it was raining. Points of colored light, each the size of a thumb tack, continuously moved to reveal the positions of the satellites orbiting overhead.
Using the EPA satellite nearest to where his operatives had located the Robbins woman, Brock punched a few keys on the computer. From space the super-magnified camera could focus all the way down to a single pine needle, and that lone needle would fill the entire screen. With a few keystrokes, Brock used the satellite’s camera to inspect the area where she was working.
“Yeah, sweet cheeks. You can run, but you can’t hide.”
If Brock wanted to find someone, he would. Then that person would find out the bitter truth.
“You’re better off dead.”
CHAPTER ONE
LINDSEY WALLACE walked across the plaza that was the heart of Santa Fe’s historic district. She pretended to be casually walking her retriever, but she was checking to see if anyone was following her. Only a handful of people strolled on the streets bracketing the square. None of them seemed to notice her.
Things aren’t always what they appear to be.
A good operative wouldn’t be easy to spot. According to what she’d been told, operatives often traveled in pairs. Frequently they seemed to be ordinary couples.
From behind her shades, she scanned the people in the area. Two disappeared into buildings. Another rounded the corner, heading toward La Fonda Hotel. Satisfied no one was interested in her, Lindsey moved on.
There was a thin line between caution and paranoia, she told herself. Maybe, just maybe, she’d crossed over the line.
No, she wasn’t being neurotic.
She’d been safe for almost a year, but she would be foolish to let down her guard. One woman—an experienced FBI agent—had already been murdered.
She reached Palace Avenue, but stayed on the south side of the street with Zach beside her. She could have crossed to walk under the shady adobe portico of the Palace of the Governors, but she didn’t.
Native American women were setting up their wares in front of the building that dated back to missionary days. On well-worn Navajo rugs, they arranged row after row of silver jewelry that had been manufactured in Malaysia. There was a smattering of pottery and rugs to entice tourists. Little of it was made at the pueblos, most of it not even produced in this country. Their once proud heritage was being lost.
In Navajo she greeted an older woman, lugging her goods to the palace. “Yaa’ eh t’ eeh.”
She smiled slightly and responded in Navajo, “Yaa’eh t’eeh.”
Like the women assembled under the portico, the elderly lady wore the traditional velvet blouse with Concho-style silver buttons and a long skirt that swept across her squaw boots. Her pewter-gray hair was pulled back into the traditional figure eight bun worn by women from the reservation.
Seeing Native America’s arts being lost forever bothered Lindsey. Some of her best artists, like Ben Tallchief, came from the reservation. She supposed they were the future of pueblo art—unique, individual pieces, not tribal art passed down from generation to generation.
Most of the people on the reservation had little to do except hawk trinkets to tourists. From what she could tell, their situation bordered on hopeless, and it was a downer. Depression was her enemy, she warned herself. Not her foremost enemy, but an enemy nevertheless.
The hardest part of being in the Witness Protection Program wasn’t knowing someone would do anything to kill you, the way she’d originally thought. It was not seeing your family, your friends.
The love of your life.
It was not knowing if you ever would see any of them again. Even after the trial, it might not be safe to return home.
“Count your blessings,” she said under her breath.
Until they found work, most people in WITSEC had no money and were forced to rely on the monthly stipend doled out by the Federal Marshals who ran the program. Because she’d been a successful executive with considerable savings, her field contact had arranged to have her funds transferred to the Bank of Santa Fe.
With that money, she’d opened the Dreamcatcher Gallery, which specialized in Southwestern jewelry in contemporary settings. She’d been able to buy the small condo where she and Zach lived. She had a pet, someone to talk to, someone to care about.
Still, the past tore at something deep inside her. You never appreciate what you have until you lose it. Those words had seemed trite. Now she knew how true they were. She forced herself to live in the moment, to appreciate what she had—not what she’d lost.
“Good boy, Zach.”
The golden retriever looked up at her, his soulful eyes full of love. His honey-blond tail whipped from side to side. Canine solace, she thought, the best medicine on earth. She had a home, a gallery, a pet—and a friend.