“On Avery?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
Bree smiled. “You finally found the woman who made you want to come out of the shadows.”
“I did. And I’m not sure I want to go back under.”
“There are jobs you can do that don’t require that.”
“I’m looking into all that. By the way, I still don’t know who set me up. I’ve gone through the players involved, and no one seems to be a good choice for Joanna’s anonymous source.”
“Well, it looks like my instincts about Vincent Rowland were wrong.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked sharply.
“Because I found out from Joanna that Vincent was the one who made calls on your behalf to the top people in the bureau. He basically saved your ass.”
He thought about that, wondering why Vincent had gone to the trouble. “It would be an interesting play to throw me into the fire and then save me.”
She gave him a doubtful look. “Now you sound like the one who’s paranoid about Vincent.”
“It just doesn’t quite add up. And I trust your instincts, Bree.”
“We should have a group chat one day soon—get Damon, Parisa, and Diego in on a call.”
“We should definitely warn them to watch their backs, especially Parisa and Diego. If Vincent was part of what happened in New York, then he already messed with Damon. But we don’t need to talk about that now.” His gaze wandered to Avery, who was talking to her mother.
“Is that Avery’s mom?” Bree asked.
“I think so. I’ve only seen her picture until now.”
“So, you’re going to meet her today,” Bree said with a gleam in her eyes. “I know you can blend into any group, any situation, but how good are you with mothers?”
“I’ve never met one before now,” he admitted. “Never got close to anyone to meet their family, to be my real self.”
“She’s going to love you, Wyatt.”
“For saving her daughter?”
“And for loving her daughter. You do love Avery, don’t you?”
“More than I thought possible. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut and I can’t quite catch my breath.”
“Yep, that’s love,” she said with a laugh.
“Speaking of love, where’s your significant other?”
“Nathan is coming back to town tonight. Maybe we can double date one day next week.”
“That sounds almost…normal,” he said with a laugh.
“Well, I wouldn’t get used to it. Our lives don’t stay normal for long. You think Avery is up for it?”
“Most definitely,” he said, as Avery joined them.
“Am I up for what?” she asked, having heard Bree’s question.
“Loving an FBI agent,” Bree said.
Avery’s gaze met his. “Most definitely,” she said, echoing his answer.
Bree laughed. “You two are too much. I’m going to get some food.”
“I hope Bree didn’t bring bad news,” Avery said, linking her hands with his as she faced him.
“All good. I have a clean slate. I can do whatever I want to do next.”
“What’s that going to be?”
“I have no idea,” he said with a laugh. “We’ll figure it out together. As long as you’re in my life, I honestly could do anything.”
“I feel the same way. We make a good team.”
“We do.” He gazed deep into her eyes. “I love you, Avery. You have my heart. It’s a little battered, but it’s all yours.”
Her gaze softened with tenderness. “And you have mine.”
Want more romantic suspense from #1 New York Times Bestselling Author Barbara Freethy?
When tragedy strikes an engagement party, Special Agent Parisa Maxwell becomes the sole survivor and the only witness to a kidnapping and the theft of a legendary diamond. With her friend now missing, Parisa makes a promise to save the other woman, no matter the cost.
Jared MacIntyre’s entire life is a carefully cultivated set of lies. He wasn’t looking for the beautiful brunette when he ventured into the private rooms at the consulate, but he couldn’t ignore the woman fighting for her life. Now their lives are inexplicably intertwined. The kidnapping and theft may be part of a bigger, deadlier plot—one that he’s on a mission to stop before someone else he loves ends up dead.
Two strangers, each with their own secrets. Two strangers who never expected to find love amidst the danger. Two strangers who will have to take the ultimate risk: trust each other—or lose everything.
Don’t miss ELUSIVE PROMISE, the next book in the OFF THE GRID: FBI SERIES!
Check out all Barbara’s books on her website (www.barbarafreethy.com)
Endgame
by Dee Davis
Endgame
They both know the games killers play…
FBI criminal profiler Madison Harper understands dangerous minds. Tough, tenacious, with nerves of steel, she’s the best of the best. So is her new partner, Gabriel Roarke, a crack CIA operative who likes to do things his way. When the two are forced to jointly head up a task force investigating murder in high places – it’s no surprise that sparks begin to fly.
As they race through a shadow world of power, politics and deadly secrets, the passion that simmers between Madison and Gabriel soon ignites. But a clever killer at the top of his game has challenged Madison to play to the very end. Now all she can trust is her instincts—and Gabriel, the one man reckless enough to keep her alive…
Table of Contents
Title Page
Description
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Want More?
Prologue
New York City
Bingham Smith was late. Which wasn’t all that unusual, but given the fact that his driver hadn’t shown up, and that he was due to close a deal in less than an hour, it held the potential for disaster.
Cursing softly under his breath, he closed his umbrella, eyed the surging crowd and stepped onto the staircase leading into the bowels of the city. Subways disgusted him. Humanity pressed together, pushing and shoving, all decorum lost.
But he was pragmatic if nothing else, and given the downpour, there was no chance of catching a taxi, so the subway it was. An older, balding man stumbled against him, the spoke of an umbrella jabbing forcefully into Bing’s side, the pain oddly localized, sharper than he would have expected.
With a curt nod, the man disappeared, swallowed by the crowd, and Bing turned the corner, stepping out onto the train’s platform. An empty platform. It seemed he couldn’t catch a break.
Turning his wrist, he consulted the face of his Piaget, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
A quarter of an hour wasted and no train. He debated making his way back to the stairs, and the relative sanctity of the street, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. Best to wait.
Nothing ever came from overreacting, and besides, his head was beginning to ache a
nd the prospect of climbing stairs did not appeal. The people on the platform surged forward as a unit, a sure sign the train was coming.
Bing tightened his hand on his briefcase, and blinked as the lights seemed to brighten and then dim, a wave of dizziness making him stumble. Sucking in a breath, he let the crowd move him forward, fighting for composure, a dull ache radiating through his chest cavity and along his arm.
He ruthlessly pushed the thought of pain aside, twisting past a tweed-clad grandmother so that he stood poised on the yellow line just as the rumble of the oncoming train became audible. There was no time for illness. There was simply too much at stake. He’d worked long and hard to reach this point, and nothing—not his driver, not a rainstorm, and certainly not a stitch in his side—was going to interfere with his success.
The number six train roared into the station, sparks flying on the steel below. The pain in his chest had intensified, making it hard to breathe, and the single light at the head of the train mesmerized him, the rhythmic sound of the wheels seeming to mimic the frantic beat of his heart.
He closed his eyes, fighting for breath, and started to take a step backward, but before he could accomplish the movement, the crowd moved again, each person intent on claiming a spot in front of the doors of the incoming train.
One minute there was concrete beneath his feet and the next—nothing. He knew he was falling, even tried to throw out his hands to break the fall, but the pain was too strong, his heart pumping with an almost syncopated rhythm, the effort robbing him of all strength—robbing him of life. Which was probably just as well, because two seconds later the number six train smashed through Bingham Smith’s body as if it were made of straw.
Six down, three to go.
Chapter One
New York City
Interrogation rooms ranked only slightly above gas station restrooms in the stench and filth department. Which was too bad, considering the amount of time Madison Harper spent in them. Sucking in a final breath of semi-clean air, she opened the door and walked into the room, immediately commanding the attention of the detective in the corner and the unsub at the table.
The latter looked to be at odds with his surroundings, although he was showing some signs of wear and tear. His white button-down was starting to wilt, and the creases in his khakis weren’t as pristine as they’d once been. With a little luck, she’d soon be responsible for adding some sweat to the ensemble.
With a subtle nod at the detective, she lifted the bag she held onto the table, making a show of pulling out a blood-spattered pipe. Still without breaking the silence, she carefully laid the pipe on a battered bookshelf, and then, just as carefully, turned her back on it.
“Mr. Jackson.” She held her hand out to the man at the table, ignoring the flash of surprise in the detective’s eyes. It was always the same. Derision, surprise, skepticism, and then ultimately resentful admiration. Profiler’s lot in life.
“Who the hell are you?” Paul Jackson glared up at her through bloodshot eyes. She waited a beat, and then another, delighted to see him shooting a sideways glance at the pipe. So far so good.
“My name is Madison Harper.” They shook hands as if they were at a business meeting, and then she sat across from him at the table. Detective Barton shifted, leaning back against the windowsill, eyes narrowed, arms crossed.
Skepticism.
Madison bit back a smile.
“You another detective?” Jackson was studying her now, trying to figure out who the hell she was, and more importantly if he could use her to his advantage. It was there in the tilt of his head, and the twist of his brows.
“No.” She shook her head, pulling a stack of files out of the case and dropping them onto the table. “FBI. We’ve been working with the police. Trying to solve Connie Weston’s murder.”
Murder was a kind word for the act. A vivacious fifth grader, Connie had disappeared on a walk to the corner grocery, only to be discovered dead in an abandoned warehouse five days later. The child had been raped, sodomized, and then beaten in the head with the pipe on the bookshelf. There were no fingerprints, and no trace elements to tie Jackson to the murder, but Madison was nevertheless certain of his guilt.
The trick was to get him to admit as much.
“I already told Barney Fife there,” Jackson inclined his head toward Barton, but his gaze was back on the pipe, “I didn’t do it.”
Barton shifted again, looking a lot like he wanted to tear into Jackson, but he had his orders, and to his credit, despite his obvious disapproval he didn’t attempt to interfere. They’d been round and round their approach, and only when his lieutenant had insisted had Barton agreed to play it her way. But apparently he lived by his word.
“Maybe not on purpose,” she said, noting that Jackson had indeed started to sweat, his hands clenched in an attempt to hold on to control.
Jackson worked for the local cable company and had been in the area the day Connie disappeared. He was newly divorced, and recently discharged from the army. His sheet included a suspected rape and a couple of arson charges from his youth. And he’d been the primary suspect in a New Jersey rape a couple of years back, a hooker named Belinda Markham.
Until today he’d been the picture of helpful, cocky and confident. Even volunteered to take a lie detector test. He was definitely the kind of man who could have approached Connie without scaring her. The eleven-year-old would never have seen it coming. Not when she was so close to home. Even in New York there was a comfort zone.
“We know you did it, you sick bastard. Just tell us how.” Barton evidently had lost whatever willpower he’d summoned, and he stepped menacingly toward Jackson, his face twisted in anger.
Jackson immediately regained some of his former bravado, glaring up at the detective through narrowed eyes. “I didn’t do nothing.”
Madison swallowed a rebuke, settling instead for a visual one, and then smiled at Jackson, reaching out to touch his hand, her skin crawling with the action, her body held in tight control so that her revulsion was not apparent. “We’re not blaming you, Paul. I’ve seen the pictures.” She made a play of pulling them out of an envelope.
She let her gaze sweep over the tiny form clad only in the plaid skirt of her school uniform, focusing instead on Jackson, who stared at the photograph as though in a hypnotic trance. It was as if he simply couldn’t pull his eyes away.
“The man who killed her obviously felt remorse, Paul. See how he laid her jacket over her face? It’s a protective move, meant to shield her from harm. Whoever did this obviously had a heart.”
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, and looked up to meet Detective Barton’s eyes. His skepticism was fading.
“She was a pretty little girl.” Jackson’s voice was soft now, all traces of contentiousness gone. “Really sweet.”
Madison grabbed onto the adjective. To call someone sweet you had to know them. Or at least have met them. She felt a flash of triumph. She was getting close. “Not so sweet, surely?” She looked up to meet Jackson’s eyes, only to find he was again staring at the pipe, his breathing uneven.
“I mean girls that age—they don’t know what they’ve got, do they?” She waited a moment, making sure she had his full attention. “Wearing their skirts so short. Their legs all tanned and bare. They hardly leave anything to the imagination. And girls like that hardly ever wear bras. It’s enough to drive a man crazy, isn’t it?”
Jackson nodded slightly, his gaze now alternating between the pipe and the photograph. There were circles of sweat under his arms now, and beads of it on his forehead. With a slight nod, Madison indicated that it was time for the final act.
Barton pushed off of the windowsill and walked over to pull out the chair beside Jackson. “Did you know that when a person is bludgeoned to death, like Connie here—” he poked a finger at the photograph “—blood flies everywhere?”
Unconsciously, Jackson looked down at his hands.
“All we have to do,
Paul, is test you for trace.” It was far too late for that, but the man had no way of knowing. Besides, he’d turned the corner, found his out. He’d never meant to kill Connie. He’d only wanted to seduce her. In his mind, her friendlessness had meant she wanted him. It was only afterward, when he realized the reality was nothing like the fantasy—that Connie was frightened and hurt—that he knew he had to kill her. To cover up what he’d done.
Madison knew it all. She could see it. Feel his impotence. His building rage. She could smell Connie’s fear as it filled the room, surrounding him, robbing him of his fantasy—of his triumph. She could feel his hand as it closed around the steel of the pipe. All he wanted was to erase his mistake. Stop the crying. Make it go away. He’d been wrong. She wasn’t the one. And for that she had to pay. Remorse and anger twisted in his gut, until there was nothing left to do but hit her, and hit her, and hit her….
“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”
Madison jerked back to the present, her breath coming in gasps. Jackson was looking at her, his eyes begging her to understand.
“Of course not,” she whispered, her hand still on his, not daring to break eye contact.
“It’s just that she kept coming on to me.” The words came out on a sigh.
Again Madison swallowed bile. “It’s not your fault, Paul. How could you have known she’d fight you?”
“She did.” He was earnest now, intent on explaining. “She screamed and she screamed, and she kicked me. I didn’t know what to do. Then she tried to run away.”
“And so you killed her.” Madison kept her voice soft, non-condemning, almost as if she were consoling a friend.
He shot a look at the pipe again, and then buried his head in his hands. “I only meant to make her stop screaming.” He looked up, nothing left of the confident man. “I just wanted to touch her. To show her what it was like to be with a man. I just wanted to make her feel good.”
Madison refrained from voicing her real thoughts.
Dangerous To Love Page 66
