by Tracy Brody
“Units above and below are empty as are the ones across the hall and next door. There is someone in the downstairs kitty-corner unit, but they won’t be impacted. Well, maybe shook up a bit.” Tony’s fingers slipped over hers, anchoring her to the present, not what could have happened.
“To make it look real, we’re going to need to add a few personal effects to the blast debris.” Grant swept aside the plastic sheeting and led her toward the bedroom.
Nothing appeared out of order when she gave the room a quick perusal. Her gaze settled on the nightstand where a framed picture of her and Stephan sat. It had been taken at his college graduation. It seemed a lifetime ago. Without meeting Grant’s eyes, she knew he and Porter had seen the picture, and Grant was asking her about keeping it safe during the blast.
Was there anything she needed? She had a duplicate of the photo in her scrapbook. Her scrapbook.
Her limbs dragged like she wore weights as she crossed to the bookshelf in the corner of her room. She pulled out her lone scrapbook.
Inside were baby photos, pictures from birthdays and holidays over the years. A few obligatory school pictures—her mother had always been happy when Angela had gone back to school. There’d been fewer photos the older she got. She’d added some from her time in Germany. More from her student exchange year in France. Then college. Pictures with Stephan. Maybe she could get a picture of Tony to add to the book later.
“Can you take this?” She handed the book to him since she’d be staying with him while she continued to recuperate. She sure wouldn’t be able to stay here.
“Of course.”
“We’re ready once we get the all clear. Kitchen is the safe zone. Afterward, we’ll have to stay out of sight of the windows and wait for the first responders. If anyone needs to use the latrine, now’s the time.” Porter got down to business.
“Give me a minute.” Angela ducked into the bathroom. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a few moments. She ran her fingers over the cool white quartz countertop she’d selected. The gray flecks in the quartz coordinated with the brushed nickel fixtures. The pale aqua walls made the windowless room light, peaceful, and cheery.
She opened the cabinets, checking for anything she might have left behind before going to New York. A light knock on the door announced Tony before he cracked it open.
“You okay?” He stepped inside.
“We need to stop meeting in bathrooms,” she quipped, trying to buy another moment to control her emotions.
“I don’t know. I’ve got some good memories of us in bathrooms.” A smile played across his mouth. He took hold of her hips. Waiting, he stared into her eyes.
“It’s harder than I thought. This is the first place that was mine.” It’d been more of a home than any place she’d lived the past two decades.
“If you want, we can ship your furniture and stuff to my place.”
Man, leaving him was going to be worse than losing her home. So much worse. She drew in what should have been a calming breath.
“It’s not the furniture. That’s just stuff. It’s knowing where everything is in the local grocery. Knowing where to get the best pizza and sesame chicken in the area. Having a stylist who cuts your hair the way you like it. Seeing familiar faces.” Ones that weren’t a threat. Good Lord, please don’t let me cry. “You know how it is when you’re constantly moving.”
“Yeah. The ‘see the world’ novelty wore off pretty quickly. A benefit of being in Special Operations is less moving. More stability for having a … a family.”
Family. That word slammed into her like an iceberg.
Kathryn had assured her the Bureau would let her choose where she went next. Anywhere. She tried not to think about it yet. She was accustomed to the larger field offices, but smaller would work. Her preference would be for someplace warm. Miami, maybe. But did Vasquez have too many ties there? Charlotte was a decent-sized office. Good climate. Only a few hours from Fayetteville …
She needed to do what was best for both of them. Not give Tony false hope. Charlotte was probably not the best idea. Too much temptation.
“Let’s get this done,” Angela said with all the bravado she could muster.
In the kitchen, Tony briefed Bailer on his expectations once they detonated the explosive. She had to give Bailer credit for not giving Tony attitude about telling him what to do. Then it was Porter’s show.
He gave them a brief rundown before radioing the men outside to signal when all was clear.
Despite her nagging fears about what could go wrong, she held onto the tiny seed of hope that she could put this threat behind her for good. That was her best option. When the radio squawked after only a minute, she let go of her concerns.
As a precaution, the group took cover along the kitchen wall. Tony pulled her into his arms, shielding her with his body. She melted, looking into his eyes. His face lowered, and she turned hers up. Their mouths met, and tongues engaged.
One of the men gave a throaty chuckle, probably at their timing for making out. Tony kept her steady when the blast rocked the building. The brief muffled sound wasn’t as loud as she’d expected. The shattering of glass served as a backdrop to the tender kiss.
Porter and Grant rushed to check their handiwork, and three beeps told her Bailer placed the 9-1-1 call.
Though she didn’t see any dust when she opened her eyes, a burnt smell similar to cordite permeated the air.
Bailer identified himself as FBI and started in on an Academy Award-worthy performance when speaking to the emergency operator. His voice faded as he moved out of the kitchen, then elevated with panic.
All was silent for a few seconds before he passed along the news of an intentional explosion and warned of the possibility of more devices. Even Tony’s body heat couldn’t ward off the ice that formed in her veins when Special Agent Bailer reported her death.
Porter and Grant slipped back, all smiles, and gave a thumbs-up. The group stayed out of sight of the windows. Bailer stuck to the plan, transitioning control of the incident from local authorities to the FBI. Minutes later, sirens pierced the air until the fire trucks roared to a stop outside. Bailer nodded to her and Tony, then exited the condo.
Angela envisioned the scene on the street below. More sirens announced the medic unit’s arrival. She held her breath, hoping the plan worked, while Bailer kept them out until the Bureau sent in their team to secure the premises.
“Want us to deal you in? It could be a while.” Porter shuffled the deck of cards.
“Would we be playing for money?” Tony asked.
“I don’t play for money against Grant.” Porter laughed. Tony nodded in agreement.
The tension eased, and she joined them at the table. Might as well have something to take my mind off things while we wait.
“Five-card draw,” Porter announced. “Deuces are wild.”
She waited until Porter dealt the cards before picking up her hand. She studied each of the men’s faces and postures while they sorted their cards. They also studied each other and her.
By their fifth hand, she’d guessed Porter and Grant’s tells. But Grant seemed to remember every card played, which explained why the guys didn’t like to play him for money. She’d thrown Tony with a fake tell in the third hand, but he was on to her now, and she hadn’t pinned down any tells for him, either.
They locked gazes as Grant shuffled. Whether Tony’s intense scrutiny related to unearthing her tell or mentally undressing her, she couldn’t ascertain. It sent heat radiating through her and blew her concentration for the hand.
Loud footsteps in the hall warned of someone’s arrival. The door opened, and a figure in a bomb-disposal suit waddled in. After closing the door, the man pulled off the suit’s headpiece and grinned at them.
“Hey, Hoffman. Good to see you.”
“How are things outside?” Angela asked the FBI bomb-disposal tech, Morris.
“Explosion looks convincing.”
<
br /> “Of course,” Porter stated.
“I had something to do with that.” Morris spread his hands, palms up. “And defusing an unknown explosive is riskier than putting one together.” The men didn’t refute his statement, which appeased Morris enough to continue, “There’s a good-sized crowd on the street. Bailer is holding off fire and medics. They’re treating one of your team for—”
“Someone’s hurt?” Her stomach dropped to the floor.
“Some minor cuts from the glass. They’re bandaging him up to keep the medics busy. Think they were antsy to get up here and see if they could do anything for you.”
Angela laid her cards down on the table and breathed only slightly easier.
“There’s a news crew out there already. I’d better get busy and do a visible sweep so the media can get a shot for the news.” He mugged as if posing for a picture, then put the helmet back on before heading down the hall.
She lost the next few poker hands. How long would this take? She tried to focus. Morris had to make clearing the scene and checking for additional explosives look real.
Tony cut his eyes to her when he dealt the next hand. She shifted in her seat due to his intense stare. If she stared at him too long, she might start thinking about what had to come. She could do this.
A shiver coursed through her when Morris called down to send up the forensics team—and a body bag. The table shook a bit because Tony’s arms flinched, too.
It’s okay, he mouthed.
She swallowed, not able to dislodge the lump in the back of her throat but nodded anyway.
Morris re-entered the kitchen carrying his helmet and hand shields. He wore a relaxed smile, though sweat matted his hair.
“That didn’t take long,” Porter commented.
“Took longer the first time. That was the real deal. Don’t want the gawkers to get bored. You aren’t going to be hanging out here after all this, I guess,” Morris said.
“It’d undo all this for me to show up at the office next week.” It’d take longer than that to make repairs to her condo.
The forensics team traipsed in and headed straight to the blast zone that had been her bedroom. Their voices carried to the kitchen while they went through the motions for any observer with a view inside.
Maybe if this went perfectly, she could come back someday. For now, she operated under the worst-case scenario. Well, not the absolute worst-case—that would involve cutting ties to the Bureau and everyone and everything in her life to completely start over. A definite possibility that cast a distinct shadow of grief.
The card game continued, more as a distraction. It didn’t distract her enough to ignore when they brought up the gurney. Last hand: Showtime—with her in the starring role.
The furtive glances of two men in navy windbreakers emblazoned with FBI in yellow letters made her stand rather than wait for them to call for her. The open body bag covered the gurney’s surface.
“It’s not too late. We can get Dominguez or put Grant in there,” Tony offered.
“No. Stick with the plan.” She fingered the heavy black plastic. “Ready?” she asked the two agents.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She perched on the gurney and lifted her legs onto the surface. “Remember, better to know I’m going out in a body bag than not be aware of it,” she told Tony—and herself.
He kissed her again.
“I’ll see you on the other side.” She laid back.
He winced. “Yeah. You’ll see me soon,” he stated emphatically. Then he stepped back to let the agents zip the bag.
“It’s important that you don’t move, so we will strap you down. Normal procedures. Okay?” the forensics agent informed her.
The straps holding her to the gurney immobilized her. She closed her eyes as they zipped the bag closed. Darkness engulfed her, and she forced out a breath, willing her body to remain calm.
The gurney jolted over the threshold. Being carried out like a corpse hit her as symbolic. She’d changed her name after leaving the CIA. Angela was close enough to Angelique that she responded naturally. In a nostalgic moment, she’d chosen Stephan’s last name for her new identity. Hmm, Angie Vincent popped into her mind as a potential name. Oh, like that wouldn’t give Tony any ideas. Or make her think of him every day.
She gritted her teeth to keep quiet while they bumped down the stairs. Each step took her further from her old life. Further from Tony.
Thirty-Five
Seeing Angela in the body bag nearly made Tony retch. He watched the two agents wheel her down the hall. This time she was conscious as they took her away—her heart beating strong—yet it still dredged up memories of when he thought Hakim had killed her.
She’d survived, only now another threat shadowed her. Not a spontaneous threat like Hakim. A deliberate, intentional menace motivated by revenge and greed. Not a good combination.
When the men and gurney disappeared, he prayed the assassin saw the publicity and bought this. It wouldn’t surprise him if, on top of the news coverage and obituary, they had to hold a memorial service. The plan was for a cremation, so he wouldn’t have to endure a public graveside service.
He wanted to get her back home—soon. The past few days, she hadn’t been herself. He couldn’t read her, and she’d glossed over it when he probed. He hoped once this ended, she’d relax, and they could take steps toward the future. What the bomb tech said about her leaving D.C. conjured mixed feelings. Please have her want to stay with me.
He rallied his strength and made his legs carry him back inside. Until they had a clear opportunity to get out of her condo, he, Grant, and Porter were forced to wait it out. Angela’s photo album sat on the entryway table. Curiosity won out.
The early pictures were mostly of her with her mother. He could have mistaken her mother for Angela from a few years ago. Both had the same high cheekbones, delicate nose, narrow chin, and full lips. Similar brown-black hair fell in soft waves.
Only her mother’s dark eyes radiated coldness versus the warmth Angela’s held. Flipping through the pages reinforced that impression. A few pages in, he found a close-up of Angela with her father. She didn’t have his eyes, either. In fact, she bore no resemblance to him. At all.
He kept turning pages, watching Angela grow. The backdrops changed, too. From her Louisiana home to the lush foliage of South America to the starkness of the Middle East. She became more alluring with age, though the sadness in her eyes grew. Occasionally there would be a picture of her with friends. The number of photos of her father dwindled to nothing.
With the move back to the States, her mother’s beauty began to fade. Tony attributed it to hard living and drugs. It was a miracle Angela escaped that life.
He studied a picture of her standing next to a young man on a Harley. Brock? His muscles tensed as he recalled her story of Brock saving her from the biker’s attack. Pictures from Paris marked her time in France and the return of the smile absent in the previous pages.
Circumstances forced Angela to mature early, but it took getting away from her dysfunctional family for her to be happy. Based on the pictures of her during college, she thrived being on her own. Or maybe it had to do with being in love. There were pages filled with photos of her with her late fiancé. Then Tony got to the page with clippings of 9/11. An obituary, then no more pictures.
He needed to get some pictures of him and Angela together in hopes she’d add them to her book.
He flipped back a few pages, and it hit him. He already guessed she might have trust issues, but it likely went deeper than that. Every significant male in her life had vanished after a life-changing incident. First, her parents’ divorce, and then she had to move halfway across the world from her father. Tony would bet a month’s pay her “dad” wasn’t her biological father, and both she and her dad figured that out at some point.
Did Angela blame herself for her mother’s deception and the divorce? He’d also bet money her stepfather hadn’t done jack sh
it in her life—at least not in a good way. Brock paid the price for sticking up for her. That may have pushed Angela toward law school and a career pursuing justice. Then her fiancé dying in the terrorists’ attacks—after he came to see her—that had to suck.
So, on top of trust, add abandonment and survivor’s guilt to the list of issues in her life. It was a lot even for someone as strong as Angela. Jarrod screwing her over didn’t help, either.
“Vincenti, we dealing you in, or you sneaking down to do surveillance duty?” Porter called out.
“Coming.” He closed the album. It might take a while for him to overcome all the issues in Angela’s past, but this kind of challenge was worth risking his life—and his heart—for.
Thirty-Six
“I’ll get the dishes,” Tony said when Angela moved to clear the table.
“I’m not really dead. I can manage to load the dishwasher.”
The hint of defensiveness in her tone made him stand down. They hadn’t gotten any leads after faking the explosion in D.C. yesterday, and both were on edge.
“I can see that. Maybe I want you to save your strength for other lively activities.” He held out his plate but didn’t release his hold on it, and with his other hand, brought her body against his.
“Sorry.” She turned her face up to meet his mouth.
“Damn,” he grumbled when the phone rang, and she broke the kiss. He wanted to ignore it and continue the present course that would take their mind off the waiting. He had a few fantasies that worked in the kitchen.
“Go ahead and get it.”
Her hand trailed over his chest, which certainly didn’t motivate him to stop for a phone call. That’s what voice mail was for. It was likely his folks making their weekly call, and he could call them back later. Or tomorrow.
When she took a step back, his hand moved from cupping her butt to her hip.
Great. Nothing like a call from Mom to kill a romantic mood. It’s like she had video surveillance to know when to interrupt and save him from breaking a few commandments. His eyes scanned the kitchen for any hidden camera before he moved to answer the call.
