Page 137 of Missile Strike

He pocketed the phone and unholstered his weapon.

Agent Anderson had disappeared somewhere among the long line of tankers. Danny bent low and ran across the open space between the perimeter wall and the first track. He peered through the gap between two of the railcars.

Shit. There were multiple parallel tracks.

Talk about finding a needle in a haystack. Especially with poor lighting. Not only was he concealed, so were Agent Anderson and her contact. A drone would have made finding them easier during daylight, but this close to Sky Harbor, it wasn’t worth the risk. Too many restrictions, and at night, the drone’s anti-collision lights might give them away even if its propeller noise didn’t.

His mouth tightened. He should be on a plane back to Charlotte. Not chasing ghosts in the dark.

He moved in the direction he’d last seen Agent Anderson, staying light on his feet and alert for any sounds that would alert him to another presence.

He and Tavari had been waiting to see what she did with the information Lucas gave her. A canary trap designed to see where the information ended up.

Or didn’t end up.

Caldwell didn’t want her arrested. He wanted to ID her accomplice and follow the trail.

See how high the corruption went.

A beam of light aimed toward the ground appeared next to a railcar on the third track. Danny climbed over the coupler connecting two cars and crept forward, staying low, weapon in hand.

The air carried the faint murmur of voices in his direction. One, the high-pitched voice of Agent Anderson. The other, a lower register. Male—Danny could tell that much—but he wasn’t close enough to ID the voice, or even the accent.

A muted pop echoed. Then another.

Fuck.

A suppressed firearm.

Unless she’d pulled a suppressor out of her jacket and screwed it onto her service weapon after she disappeared into the maze of railcars, that wasn’t Agent Anderson’s pistol.

Danny took off running toward the sound, his gaze and gun sweeping the area. He jumped over another coupler, bringing him to where he’d spotted the light.

Now, there were only shadows. Feet crunched over packed sand and gravel, the sound growing fainter as someone fled. A body lay prone on the ground.

Agent Anderson.

He tapped the flashlight on his phone for a closer look, his mouth twisting in a grimace as the beam fell across the agent’s face.

Too late.

The wine bar was all stainless steel and warm wood. Voices bounced off the high industrial ceiling, filling the tightly packed room. Colorful chandeliers bathed the dining area in an amber light that made the large crimson rug hanging on the wall an even richer shade of red.

It was crowded for midweek.

Isabella cradled her red wine and tried to focus on what Talia was saying. In the background, a lone guitarist crooned into his microphone, his voice mingling with the murmur of conversations and the clink of glassware.

“I can’t believe that reporter tried to call you,” Talia huffed. “After the article she wrote, and what your bodyguard exposed about her history?” Her fingers tapped a steady rhythm that grated on Isabella’s nerves.

“He’s not my bodyguard. He’s my—”

Isabella lifted the glass to her lips and watched the musician perform. What was Danny to her, exactly?

A cork popped somewhere behind the bar, sharp enough to sound like a gunshot.

They’d never defined it. Still, irritation flared at the way Talia reduced him to a job.

“That’s what you heard? Not the part about that woman having the nerve to contact you?” Talia speared a piece of crispy cauliflower like it had personally offended her.