A Shot Worth Taking (Bad Karma Special Ops Book 3) Read online

  He ended the call but stayed put with his back against the warm, rough wall, watching the sunlight fade. Time to go to work.

  God, Angela had to be right about the studio. If not, they were beyond screwed. And so were the people in the proximity of the bomb—wherever the hell it was.

  Tony held his phone to his ear and drummed his fingers on the desktop beside his empty second cup of morning coffee.

  “Hoffman? She is not a patient here,” the hospital receptionist said.

  Sequestered in a quiet office away from the two teams, Tony drew a line through yet another hospital name on the list. Over one hundred and eighty freakin’ hospitals and medical facilities in New York City. He’d already called the ones closest to Hakim’s apartment. Now he ran through the bigger hospitals—ones that had trauma centers.

  This could take all day, and he didn’t have that kind of time—or fortitude. With each “I’m sorry. We don’t have a patient by that name” response he got, his hopes took another hit. He should call the New York FBI office again. Someone there had to know something. Beat making a hundred more calls.

  Ten minutes later, he wanted to punch through a wall. The FBI receptionist didn’t give him any information on Angela, transferring him to another voice mail every time he got routed back to her. He tried Carswell, Weiss, then Calomiris. Who next? Special Agent in Charge Grochowski? That junior agent, Becca-somebody?

  Why was no one at the FBI talking? He could think of one reason. One he didn’t want to accept. Rather than continue this merry-go-round, he hung up.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, which did nothing to relieve the dull throb in his skull. He needed to catch a few hours of sleep while the team had downtime. Be ready to go when they got information or activity.

  Last night, the NEST guys flew a drone over the area around the building that housed the studio. They hadn’t picked up any radiation readings—not that he’d expected it to be that easy.

  The teams had spent hours in the gloom of night scouting the surrounding area and looking at places they might find a bomb. Any busted locks or things out of the ordinary. They’d strategically placed surveillance cameras in the block around the studio to monitor activity around the building and the more likely spots they’d place the bomb—in case they didn’t find it beforehand.

  What if the target wasn’t the studio itself? They were checking on who owned the porn-film company and any prior locations used. Also, the male lead in the video. It’s not like Los Angeles was a small area to cover. The drone picking up a radiation reading was about their only shot.

  They were down to two days now—and everyone was aware of that.

  This morning, they’d used incoming intel to eliminate possible areas targeted by NEST reports.

  “Hey, Vincenti. Lundgren needs everyone for a sitrep.” Rozanski roused him from across the desk.

  Tony picked up his phone and checked for messages as he got to his feet.

  Rozanski stared at the printed list of hospitals. “You find out anything yet?”

  “No.”

  “You’re calling hospitals?”

  He nodded. “The FBI can’t be bothered to return my calls.”

  “Have you, uh, called the morgues? ’Cuz I can do it for you if you want.”

  He’d been putting that off. Paralysis gripped him. “We’ll see.”

  The two joined the group of men gathered around the conference table, some already chowing down on deli sandwiches. Tony perched on the edge of his seat, ready for action while Rozanski grabbed an unclaimed sandwich.

  “Listen up,” Lundgren commanded everyone. “We’ve got a potential location. NEST aerial surveillance picked up higher levels of radiation a couple blocks from Northridge Hospital. They’ve gotten as low as they can with the Van Nuys airport nearby. Alpha team, I want you to do a drive-by and see if we’ll need to do some street recon.”

  About fucking time. The weight on Tony’s chest lightened by a brick or two.

  Tony scowled when Alpha team’s Jeremy Milledge tried to turn Hightower’s black ball cap backward. “No! And give him the belt to hold his damn pants up.”

  “Thank you.” Hightower smacked Milledge’s arm away.

  “Come on. Let him bring out his inner gangsta,” Milledge persisted.

  “I grew up in rural Georgia. I’m not some gangster.” Hightower flipped off Milledge.

  Tony grabbed the belt. He wanted to kick Milledge’s ass for antagonizing them. Or maybe he wanted to because he wanted to go undercover and case the neighborhood, not set Hightower up to do it.

  He chalked up Lundgren’s insistence on using Hightower since he was Dita’s regular handler—and not because Tony was too personally involved. “Trust me.” He clipped the leash onto Dita. “We want him to fit in the neighborhood, not have people watching him or calling the police on him.”

  Milledge gave a resigned sigh under Hightower’s I-told-you-so-asshole look.

  After they dropped Hightower and Dita off two blocks from the suspects’ house, Tony and Lundgren waited in the van in a convenience store parking lot. The cell rang a few minutes later.

  “Closing in on the house. I am seeing evidence of families in the vicinity. Minivan. Toys in the yards. Backyard playset. Whoa, Dita’s picking up on something,” Hightower added a minute later. “Bingo. Come on, boy. Come on.”

  “Families. Great.” Lundgren huffed. “Okay. I’m calling in the NEST team. See what else you can gather about the area without raising suspicions.”

  Tony grimaced. Innocent Americans were not acceptable collateral damage. If—if—they got confirmation from the nuclear experts that this could be the location tangos were assembling a bomb, the teams would require a lot of planning for a tactical strike. Planning time they didn’t have.

  Eighteen

  “We know where the bomb is.” Twenty-three pairs of eyes fixed on Chief Lundgren when he paused.

  Did they ever. The radiation readings picked up by the NEST team’s equipment left no doubt. Tony shifted his weight to his good leg.

  “In a residential neighborhood,” the SEAL leading the NEST team cut off Chief Lundgren in front of the teams gathered to formulate their attack plan.

  Silence settled, amplifying the tension that filled the room.

  “While we have reason to believe the intended target is the film studio,” Lundgren continued, wearing a forced patient expression, “there’s no solid evidence on that. We run the risk of losing them if—”

  “That’s remote with a drone tracking them,” the SEAL interrupted again.

  Lundgren’s jaw clenched. “Remote. Not impossible. Buildings. Parking decks. The target could be someplace with higher population density, too. And ready to be activated then. If—when—we recover the bomb, anyone at the house goes down for it. If we take them down at an alternate site, we might not be able to link the subjects to the bomb. They could land back on the street.”

  This time, no one on the NEST team protested the idea of taking out the terrorist cell at their safe house.

  Tony crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn’t gonna be a safe house anymore. Not with the Bad Karma team in proximity. Though they were only doing surveillance tonight to plan the joint takedown with the Bureau tomorrow night, the team geared up like this was the real thing. He might not be a Boy Scout, but he sure as hell adhered to the “Be Prepared” motto.

  While putting fresh batteries in his night-vision goggles, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He dropped the goggles to grab his phone. The text message was from the 212-area code. New York City. His arm froze mid-movement. He swallowed, then stepped away from the tables serving as the staging area and clicked to open the message.

  Medics revived Hoffman. Crashed again during surgery. No alshehri. Sucks. Find the fucking bomb.

  Crashed again.

  Reading the text that had to be a response from the voicemail he’d left Jarrod, Tony’s throat swelled shut.

  Sucks.

&nb
sp; That was an understatement.

  He stared at the generic art hanging on the office wall until it went blurry. He’d wanted answers, only he hadn’t expected knowing she hadn’t made it to hit him like a runaway truck—one barreling down the side of a mountain.

  His lungs worked to draw in several deep, even breaths.

  He’d seen all that blood. The pallor of her face.

  He wanted to think he’d have been able to tell, though. That he’d feel the loss of their connection. It wasn’t until now that the earth moved underneath his feet. And it wasn’t a California earthquake throwing him off balance.

  Around him, the drone of voices and movements continued as if the world hadn’t changed. His friends prepped to make sure it didn’t change for the residents of Van Nuys and San Fernando. Life wasn’t fair, but these men were determined to keep the playing field level. He couldn’t stop, either. He picked up the empty magazine for his baby Glock and numbly loaded it.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Rozanski said.

  The quiet suddenly blanketing the room captured Tony’s attention more than the words.

  Lundgren stalked over to Rozanski. The two stared at the live feed from the camera the NEST team had planted two doors down from the suspected target house.

  “What the hell …?” Lundgren groused.

  “A pre-fourth of July party?” Rozanski guessed.

  “In the fricking front yard? Shit.” Lundgren’s mouth pursed.

  “Can we not get a single break?” Tony muttered to Mack.

  “If it’s a block party, that could work for us,” Simpson, the perpetually upbeat Alpha Team Leader, said.

  We could only be so lucky.

  “All right. I want every piece of information you can get on the occupants of the party house. Names. Ages. Jobs. Relatives. Anything you can dig up. Then get names of whoever’s living down the street. Let me know if any neighbors are set up to be in on the ‘block party.’” Lundgren’s voice dripped with skepticism. “Either way, we’re going to use this, and somebody is crashing their party. Porter, we’ll need to devise some distractions.”

  Nineteen

  Two hours later, Tony strode past the cars lining the street. All the other vehicles would make the surveillance team less conspicuous.

  There looked like thirty people mingling in the front yard now. He walked straight into the center of the revelry.

  “Can I help you?” a dark-haired guy with a buzz cut and medium-brown skin asked Tony.

  Crap. That didn’t take long. Here goes nothing. “Where should I put the beer?” He raised the two cases he toted.

  “Uh, who are you?”

  “Tony. Mandy invited me,” he mumbled in hopes that, with all the noise, the guy heard a name that clicked with some invited guest. Mandy, Sandy, Brandy, or even Amanda.

  The guy’s head jerked back. His mouth opened, and his gaze dropped, then drifted from Tony’s thighs back to his eyes, telling him that Dominguez’s research on the homeowner’s friends and coworkers scored a hit on the name that he’d suggested. “Really?”

  “Yeah. We’re meeting here. Guess I’m early. Don’t want the beer to get warm.”

  “Um, in the tub over there.”

  “I don’t know anyone else here. You mind introducing me?” He started unloading the first case.

  “Uh, I’m Albert.” Either the need to be a gracious host, curiosity, or the two cases of beer trumped his reservations. Based on the way Albert gave Tony another dubious once-over, he must not be Mandy’s usual type, or the chick was majorly unattractive.

  With the path paved, he mingled for the next half hour. More guests joined the party. Mostly Caucasian and Asian, and they appeared a bit younger than him, but not enough to account for the way a number of them studied him—blatantly. The men were more decked out than the women, but Tony’s jeans and T-shirt blended in for the occasion. He took the initiative to strike up conversations rather than wait to be approached.

  The guests he’d talked to weren’t from the neighborhood, so he hadn’t dug up nothing useful so far. He sipped a beer but kept his mouth shut with the group bitching about politics. Trying to remain inconspicuous, he went and dropped the now lukewarm beer in the trashcan. Scouting the crowd for new faces, he grabbed a fresh, cold beer.

  He turned around and came face-to-face with the man he’d seen talking to Albert. His hair shone from the hair gel or spray that held it in place and the collar on his light-blue polo shirt turned up. Tony took a step back, but cologne filled his nostrils enough to taint his sip of beer.

  “We haven’t met. I’m Jody.” Tony’s new friend—Jody?—checked him out in nearly the same way Albert had earlier. “You can do better than Randall. Randy.” He gave a dismissive chortle.

  Hehkkh. Tony choked on the beer. It suddenly made sense. The homeowners were Albert and Jody—as in two guys. That confirmed the skewed number of what appeared to be same-sex couples. “Um, who’s Randall?”

  He’d told Albert he was a friend of Mandy’s because Dominguez said Jody worked with enough nurses with similar-sounding names that he could bluff. But now he had to decide which route to take.

  Shit. He’d bet twenty bucks that Dominguez and Porter had scrounged up a picture of Jody—his hospital ID badge picture or headshots from his portfolio—and knew what Tony was walking into. It would have been nice to get a heads-up with so much on the line.

  “Albert said you’re a friend of his.”

  “Not Randy. Mandy. She works with the people having the party.” Tony played dumb. “She’s running late. I thought she’d be here by now.”

  “I don’t work with anyone named Mandy.”

  “Amanda. Mandy for short?”

  Jody shook his head, and his eyes narrowed. The way his lips shifted to the side and up sent stabbing pinpricks up Tony’s arms.

  Busted. If he went with Plan B, he could still salvage this or get decent intel. What is Plan B?

  “Shit. I left the address at home. I remembered the street name, and when I saw the party, I just thought this had to be it.” He shook his head and gave a self-deprecating laugh.

  Jody didn’t look convinced.

  “God, Mandy is gonna be pissed thinking I blew her off. And the beer I bought for that party is already half gone. Shit, this is embarrassing.” He stared at the tub of beer like he might reclaim what remained of his contribution. “She said it was a get-together at her friend’s. I think it was Tina or Trina. Hell, I don’t remember. You know someone on the street it might be?”

  “Afraid not. So, you’re not Randall’s friend?” Jody’s head and shoulders did a seductive little dance.

  “Uh, no.” Tony scanned the houses on the street, keeping up the pretense, but with this one spiraling down, he’d better take a more direct approach to gathering intel. “Guess you’d know if it was one of your neighbors. You know the people in the third house down?”

  “Three down? That’s Becky and Judy. They’re older than your mother and not the party-throwing type, but they’re sweet and lived here for a long time. They may know who you’re looking for.”

  Hmm, they might be worth talking to since they’ve had a front-row seat to the comings and goings of the suspects.

  “What about the tan house over there?” He pointed to the target house.

  “I don’t think so. A couple of Middle Eastern-looking guys moved in there. Not very sociable.”

  “Maybe they’re terrorists,” Tony said, adding a snort. Reality made the laugh ring hollow, even to him.

  Jody’s eyes widened momentarily. He leaned closer and kept his voice low. “Well, last week, some kids kicked a soccer ball into the bushes by the front of that house. When they went to get it, one of the guys came out yelling for them to stay out of their yard. I mean, it was over the top. I said the same thing—about them being terrorists—but Albert said they’re students and probably sick of always getting profiled and mistreated. We can relate. I guess he’s right. I have seen them g
oing out with backpacks.” He cast another wary glance at the house.

  Backpacks? Warning bells clanged in Tony’s head. What if instead of building one major dirty bomb, they were splitting nuclear material into a couple of smaller devices? He tried to swallow the lump lodged in his throat. It didn’t budge.

  Finally, he was getting some usable intel. The key now meant not blowing it by being overly inquisitive or needy. “I should text Mandy and get to the right party.”

  Jody shrugged as if agreeing.

  Time to cast his net if he had any chance of a worthwhile haul before he moved off. He took a long pull of beer. “Does anyone around here have a dog? ’Cuz I was in this movie where—”

  “Wait. You’re an actor?”

  Suddenly he had Jody’s total attention. “Yeah, I act.” I’m doing it right now.

  “Anything I would have seen?”

  “Maybe. Mostly bit parts with a few lines. I’ve done some work internationally. South America. Europe.” The Middle East. Africa. Keep it simple like Mrs. Boone taught for improvisation. As appalled as he’d been to have Coach stick him in drama for an easy A, that class saved his butt more than any other class he’d taken. “I’ve got a good shot at a recurring role on this paranormal show.”

  “Which one? I auditioned last week for a part as a zombie.” Jody’s eyes shone, and he invaded Tony’s personal space.

  Despite them not clarifying that Jody was a guy, Tony was going to owe Grant a cold one for digging up his profile. “I can’t say until it’s a done deal.” He lowered his face. “But there are bloodsuckers in it.” Close enough. “Anyway, in this movie I was in, the terrorist had a bomb in his backpack, but this Doberman smelled the explosive stuff and chased him down.”

  “I think I saw that! What character did you play?”

  “I was an FBI agent.” He said the first thing that popped in his head. A chill coursed through him at the reminder of Angela. I should have said a soldier. No matter. Jody apparently bought the overused plotline. “Anyway, I was thinking if you had any vicious dogs on the street, you could have them follow those guys and see what happens. Be kinda cool if it was like in the movie.”