Bring It Page 2

  Like a tiger.

  What struck Patterson most was the intensity in her eyes. Gray-green, they focused on him with unrelenting precision. She was measuring him, taking in the way he marched, the way he swung his arms, the way he shifted his weight with each step. She was calculating the length of his stride, the balance of his heel, the amount of bend in his knee.

  Like a tiger.

  Patterson took a deep breath and steeled himself. He twisted his neck, working out any kinks. Everything was going to be fine. He had decades of military experience, years of command, years of success. She was nothing more than an orphan fortunate enough to have been adopted by a grad student who became a billionaire. Anyone could succeed with that kind of luck.

  She wore a snug, gray Under Armour tank top and tight yoga pants with running shoes. That surprised him. He’d expected a business suit—something more professional, something that indicated she was the owner of Sabel Security, not some kid on her way to the gym, even if her father had given her the company for a birthday present.

  Patterson lifted his chin and marched straight toward her. He had a job to do. He’d planned his conversation from start to finish. He’d practiced it too. He was ready. He rewound the script to the beginning. First, he would establish dominance by placing himself directly in front of her, in her space. He grabbed the wire chair at her table and tugged it.

  CHAPTER 3

  Pia Sabel turned slightly to her right, giving her leg room to work. Patterson yanked the chair four inches off the ground, swung it through the air, and repositioned it closer to her. It was a power trip—an aggressive and presumptive placement away from the table so that nothing would stand between them. The man dropped the chair as dramatically as possible and stepped around it to sit down. He never broke eye contact. Neither did she.

  All those years in soccer had taught her how to aim a powerful kick without ever looking down. Her body knew exactly where her leg and foot were—and where they needed to be in three milliseconds.

  She kicked hard and fast. Her foot moved between his knees so quickly he had no time for defense. The sole of her running shoe connected with the leg of his chair. The chair skittered backward until one of the legs found a crack in the sidewalk, caught it, and flipped end over end with a series of loud clanks. In the same instant, she grabbed his tie. His butt was behind him, halfway to the now-missing chair. His backbone was forty-five degrees from standing.

  For a split second they stared into each other’s eyes.

  Pia said, “You have a mother?”

  “Of course I have—”

  “Did she raise you to sit at a woman’s table without asking permission?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “No … what?”

  “No, ma’am.” He turned red and missed a beat. “May I join you? Ma’am?”

  Pia let go of his tie. “Were you going to ask me out on a date?”

  His chin snapped back an inch. “No. Certainly—”

  She pointed to the far side of her table, directly across from her. “Then put the chair back where it was. Now show me your identification.”

  Patterson picked up the chair, glanced at Marty and Tania, and brought it back to the table. He fit the chair in the narrow space between the table and the curb. She watched him make the calculations she’d already worked out. If he scooted back an inch, one leg of the chair would drop off the curb and send him tumbling backward into the street. He glanced her way like a condemned man and sat. He put a business card on the table between them.

  “Did I ask for a business card?” she said.

  He fumbled into his jacket, retrieved his State Department ID badge, and carefully placed it in her outstretched hand. He said, “I need to see your identification as well.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Pia examined his three-by-five badge. Donald F. Patterson, Assistant Secretary of State, Bureau of Political-Military Affairs. His title barely fit on the card and was followed by a departmental heading and division code. Instead of returning it, she placed the badge on the table between them.

  “The President has a Secretary of State,” Pia said, “who has two Deputy Secretaries and six Under Secretaries. You are the Assistant Secretary to the Under Secretary, four levels below the Secretary. Did it strike you as odd when they asked you to deal with me?”

  “I asked to see your identification.”

  She tapped her fingernail on his badge. “Did you ask yourself why?”

  Patterson said, “It is illegal for an American citizen to break the laws of a foreign government. That reciprocating concept exists between all civilized governments, forming the basis for extradition. You have been—”

  “Did they make you feel special when they sent you, Patterson? Like you were on a high-profile mission that would change things?”

  A flicker in his eyes, a pause in his verbal assault for a fraction of a second.

  Then he tipped his head forward and forged ahead. He said, “The government of the United States of America will not stand idly by while a citizen acts as a self-appointed vigilante and executes an official of a foreign government. The State Department has restricted your passport and will—”

  “Your handling of the naval standoff in Somalia was brilliant. You brought home American citizens and sent several pirate boats to the bottom of the sea without killing anyone. That’s the career of a hero. Then, back when Obama was president, there was a four-year blank in your service record: no commendations, no command, no reprimands, no assignments. Usually that means, CIA duty. Now you’re the Assistant Secretary, lackey to a political appointee. What happened, Patterson?”

  Another pause in his verbal march.

  He said, “You are required to turn you passport over to me—”

  Pia slammed her palm on the table. “Get real. I have attorneys on call. I checked with them. Political-Military Affairs doesn’t handle passports. There’s a legal process involved, and you’re not part of it. Now quit bluffing, and talk like an adult.”

  “You’re right,” Patterson said with a smirk, “normally I’m not part of that loop. But since I am meeting with you and I represent the State Department, I will be confiscating it. You will have a chance to exhaust your legal process later.”

  “While you search your pockets for the court order authorizing your confiscation, Patterson, tell me what your boss expects to happen.”

  His gaze stayed locked on her. “We can and will have the Justice Department issue a warrant to have you brought in. The charges in Sri Lanka are not something you can—”

  “Let’s pretend you get some kind of warrant. What happens next?”

  “You come with me to answer charges,” Patterson said. “After some court proceedings, you will be sent to Sri Lanka to stand trial. The government of Sri Lanka demands that you answer for the death of Colonel Nakdali, not to mention the village riots, the orphanage arson, and the destruction of the military compound. I have been assigned to ensure that you answer those charges.”

  Patterson punctuated his statement by leaning back.

  “Extradition is a law enforcement matter,” Pia said. “Why is the State Department involved?”

  Patterson blinked and leaned forward. “We’re trying to spare you any embarrassing headlines.”

  “Wrong.”

  He frowned. “Like it or not, that’s what we’re doing.”

  “Why you, Patterson? You moved from navy to State a couple months ago? Why did they pick a former navy captain with no legal or law enforcement experience to bring me in?”

  “Your arrogance is overwhelming.” Patterson stared hard as he spoke. “I’m as ranking an official as you deserve. We could have sent out a police officer. You’re not that special.”

  “My father has a political philosophy,” Pia said. “He believes Republicans cost twice as much as Democrats but stay bought twice as long. In the end, they cost the same. Last year, he was the largest contributor to both parties.”

/>   “Cynicism won’t save you.”

  “I’m not my father. I don’t give anything to either party. But that doesn’t mean they don’t want my money. Take a look at this picture.” She pointed to her phone and slid it across the table. “Recognize the guy next to me waving the Fourth of July flags? Right—Secretary of State Highsmith after a few beers. He was hitting me up for Super PAC money.”

  Patterson glanced at the phone. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Your problems have nothing to do with campaign donations. Your insinuation makes me sick.”

  “They are who they are, and they do what they do. Beats a monarchy any day. But, you know what makes me sick?”

  “That you’re going to answer for criminal charges in a foreign country?”

  “They picked you because you execute orders without question—just as you did in the navy. They know you want to be a great Assistant Secretary so you can move up to Under Secretary—and they’re pushing that button.”

  Pia leaned back in her seat and glanced across the street and back at Patterson. She said, “My team blew up a wall and incapacitated twelve guards, but Colonel Nakdali was alive when I left. And the orphanage—was not an orphanage.”

  “Tell that to the authorities in Sri Lanka.”

  “I did. I told them before I went to Mullaitivu. I had a conference call with some bureaucrats who kept telling me I was wrong about the Colonel—even after they admitted they’d never heard of him. I wasn’t wrong.”

  “You’ll get your day in court.”

  “I keep asking myself,” she said, “why would a decorated navy captain move to the State Department?”

  “This isn’t about me. You have to answer for the crimes—”

  “Wrong. It is about you, Patterson. When you ask yourself why they picked you, you’ll understand that.” Pia let her words sink in. “Let me guess why you made the move to State. You wanted to make a difference in the world, so you joined the navy. But our enemy is a bunch of rats hiding in the mountains of Afghanistan and Pakistan, five hundred miles from the sea. Terrorists don’t have navies. There will never be a battle like Leyte Gulf in your future—not even a Falklands War on the horizon. You moved because you wanted to make a difference.”

  Patterson’s eye twitched.

  It could have twitched because she nailed him. But he might have been impressed that she knew Leyte Gulf was the largest sea battle in history based on the tonnage of ships sunk. It was the kind of trivia she looked for in her pre-meeting research.

  “We’re not so different,” Pia said. “I want to make a difference too. It’s easier than you’d think. You just have to keep your eyes open and look for the right opportunities.”

  She pointed across the street, where the two men in trench coats were emerging from the dollar store. Patterson’s gaze followed her finger. The men were yelling obscenities over their shoulders into the open door. A woman inside was yelling back. The obscenities were in a language Pia couldn’t identify, but the inflection required no translation. The man in the gray trench coat stabbed a finger at someone deeper in the store and yelled even louder.

  “Tell me,” Pia asked, “why did you choose this neighborhood? So no one from Capitol Hill would see you? It’s either here or Anacostia, right?”

  Patterson nodded.

  “Did you know that was going on?” she asked and pointed across the street.

  “What do you mean? What’s going on?” He turned to look.

  Pia recounted the trench coats’ movements and their arguments with the shopkeepers. She pointed them out again as they went inside the dry cleaner’s. She asked, “What do you think they’re doing?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “I do. It’s easy to see when you think about it. It’s the trench coats on a hot summer day. That’s not right.” Pia shoved her chair back, nodded at Assistant Secretary Donald F. Patterson, and walked away.

  CHAPTER 4

  Patterson clenched his fist and almost pounded the table with it. Instead he checked himself and ended up looking like an epileptic having a seizure. He wanted to grab her, yank her back, sit her down, and give her a stern talking to. Never had he seen such impudence, such wanton disregard for authority, such plain rudeness. Being raised by a single dad who was focused on his business had certainly left a vacuum in Pia Sabel’s manners.

  What bothered him most was the picture of the secretary with Pia. Patterson hadn’t considered that kind of connection. He should have. He needed to mitigate his risk, create another way to shift blame if something went wrong. Since the Under Secretary believed himself to be in control of the operation, Ms. Sabel’s connections would be the Under Secretary’s problem. All Patterson had to worry about was whether he should report now or later that she’d left the negotiations.

  He pulled out his phone, looked at it, and turned it over in his palm. How much did the Under Secretary need to know?

  As he unlocked his phone to dial, he felt a firm hand squeeze his shoulder. At the same time, Agent Tania Cooper stepped into his line of sight. The hand would be from Marty, standing behind him. Tania would deliver the message while Marty took control without presenting a target. These guys were good.

  “No calls, Mr. Patterson,” Tania said.

  “What are you talking about? I can call anyone—” Patterson felt the hand on his shoulder dig into his muscle precisely where a bundle of nerves wound through the collarbone. His arm went numb. The padding in his suit’s shoulder offered no defense against Marty’s grip. He winced.

  Marty reached over and grabbed Patterson’s phone while maintaining painful pressure on his shoulder. Patterson had no choice but to let go and watch it disappear behind him. The fingers digging into him relaxed. While his anger raged beneath the surface, he knew that only a cool head would prevail.

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” Tania said.

  “Where did your boss go?”

  Tania turned and looked across the street. “She hates witnessing crimes. Probably over there kicking some ass. That’s her thing.”

  “Oh, I see,” Patterson said, nodding his head. “It’s some kind of setup or you two would be over there, keeping her safe.”

  “No setup. Check it out if you want. I’m not going over there because she’d be pissed if I got knifed or something. Nothing she can’t handle on her own. But go on, see for yourself.”

  “If there’s a crime in progress, why not call the police?”

  “In this neighborhood?”

  Patterson said, “You’re in a lot of trouble. You know that, right?”

  “I’m not. Those guys in the trench coats are.”

  “I don’t mean here. I mean in Sri Lanka. We know you were there. If you come in and make a statement, I’m sure the prosecutors will cut you a deal.”

  “You hear that, Marty?” she said. “He must not know what went down in Mullaitivu.”

  “I know Colonel Nakdali is dead.”

  “If you’d been with us, you’d have killed him yourself.”

  “So you admit it then. You killed him.”

  “Nope. Ms. Sabel wouldn’t let us. She’s kinda anti-killing—a goodie-goodie type. But you expect that from a civilian who never served in the wars. Still believes in peace and love. If she’d been a veteran, she’d a killed him right off.”

  “I read your service record,” Patterson said. “You were the victim of an IED, weren’t you? Burned the flesh off your legs. Did that bother you? Did it set you off on a rampage? Murdering Muslims like Nakdali wherever you find them? Is that why you killed the only authority in Mullaitivu?”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “I told you, Ms. Sabel wouldn’t let us kill anybody. But if you’d seen what Nakdali was—”

  Her eyes flicked up and behind him. Marty had given her the sign to stop talking. She straightened up and said nothing more.

  CHAPTER 5

  Leaving her bag behind, Pia crossed the street, her long legs taking it in a few strides. She had o
nly one focus: cleaning up the neighborhood. She would deal with Patterson later. She passed a beat-up motorcycle leaning against a bike rack and pulled open the dry cleaner’s door. A cowbell hanging from the crossbar banged on the glass. She stepped into a small, dim space that smelled of laundry, warm and soft. Decades earlier the walls had been painted pale blue. The scuffs and scratches of customers carrying their loads covered every surface, dating the place in wear and tear. Even the calendar on the wall was on last March.

  Two men in trench coats stood at a warped counter, their backs to her. Pia was taller than the average American male, and these two were shorter. The gray trench coat was barely five-nine, his darker associate an inch shorter. She labeled them Graycoat and Darkman.

  A short, plump woman stood behind the counter. Her half glasses dangled from a chain onto her ample bosom. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears, her posture weary. Three paces behind her, a man stood between the rows of plastic-covered clothes on wire hangers. His thin arms hung at his side while the sleeves of his T-shirt trembled.

  Darkman glanced over his shoulder while Graycoat turned halfway to face her. The woman behind the counter gave her a startled look.

  “May I help you?” the woman said.

  “Oh, no, please,” Pia said and gestured to the trench coats. “They were here first.”

  Graycoat stepped back, smiled a thin smile, and waved a hand toward the counter. Go ahead. Pia smiled politely back at him and stepped behind Darkman. She stopped in an awkward position. Her left leg was directly behind Darkman’s right side, uncomfortably close. Darkman craned over his shoulder for a glance but quickly resumed staring at the plump woman.

  “I forgot my ticket, but I remember the number,” Pia said. She kept her eyes locked on the woman. The woman picked up a pad and pen. “It’s C-A-1-1-9, um, eleven.”