“She’ll be fine.” Vincent patted Millie’s back, unsure of how to soothe a ten-year-old. Sirens grew louder outside. He glanced at the door. “Who’s rounding up the guards?”
Deming stepped to his side, wiping blood off her hands with a linen handkerchief. “They’re in the wind.” She grimaced at her handkerchief, crumbled it, and stuffed it into her pocket. “We had to choose. Save your ass, or arrest them.”
He nodded, turning back to Avery, worrying. “For shit’s sake, Benton. You split her lip.”
Deming crouched next to them, rubbing Millie’s back. “She going to be okay?”
Vincent glanced at her, thinking she was referring to Avery, but Deming was looking at Millie. “Avery’s The Stinger,” he said. She was the one they needed to be worried about.
Deming nodded. “I listened to the recordings. She didn’t kill those men, Vincent. Coppola forced her to fight them, she won each battle, but didn’t kill anyone. He executed them afterward.”
Vincent closed his eyes, overwhelmed with relief. Avery wasn’t a killer. “Where the hell is the ambulance?”
“I hit her too hard,” Benton said, guilt personified.
Deming pursed her lips. “You shouldn’t have hit her at all.”
EMTs wheeled a gurney in the room, and Vincent lay Avery on it, and then watched as the personnel strapped her on it. He followed, close by, as they wheeled her out of the house. The first ambulance had already driven off, presumably with Coppola and other injured syndicate men. When Vincent made moves to enter the ambulance with Avery, needing to ride with her to the hospital, Benton pressed his palm to Vincent’s chest, stopping him.
“If you want a career after today, walk away.” Benton’s expression revealed more empathy than he’d expected, but he was adamant. “You disobeyed a direct order from Special Agent in Charge. I can fix it, but it means walking away now.” Benton’s phone rang, and after retrieving it from his pocket, soon narrowed his eyes, seeming unnerved by the caller’s identity. “I have to take this.” He turned his back on them.
Millie stepped into the ambulance after the gurney was secured. Avery, still unconscious, would wake upset. He wanted to be there. “What’s going to happen to them?”
Deming rested a hand on his shoulder. “Leave, Modena. She’s in good hands. I promise. It’s not forever, it’s just until Benton can smooth things over. Please. Go.” She nudged him toward a cruiser. “One of the uniformed officers will drive you to the airport. We’ll meet you there. Me and Gilroy have a few loose ends to tie up first.” The ambulance drove away, and Vincent’s opportunity to trash his career by stepping inside was gone. He regretted it immediately.
Local law enforcement had arrived a while ago, but more were still streaming onto the property, rounding up security guards, and leading them into cruisers. It was too much. He didn’t care. He just wanted to follow Avery to the hospital, but no one here could take him and still keep their jobs, so he walked away, thinking to hitch a ride there on his own. To Avery.
He walked out the front gate, past the security booth and down the private road, thinking about the lies she’d told him. He thought about how they’d made love, how he’d thought it was special, life altering even. She’d made him want a future with her. Vincent wondered if she’d played him, and if that even mattered. He loved her. Yeah, his head was messed up, and he didn’t know what to believe anymore. All he knew was how he felt, and how it didn’t match up with the facts.
Avery Toner Coppola aka Patty Whitman was The Stinger. She’d lied as easily as she took a breath, and he didn’t know how this would shake out, but this operation had left its mark on him, and it went deep, like a knife to his heart.
He loved The Stinger.
After a while, having already walked miles down the road, the task force van drove toward him. It was the first vehicle he’d seen since he began walking, so he stepped out of their way, hoping they’d pass because he still wanted to hitch a ride to the hospital. But the van pulled over, and its side door slid opened. First thing he saw was Deming’s worried expression. Gilroy was driving, and Benton was seated in the passenger side, rolling down his window.
“Get in,” Benton said. “We don’t have time for this.” Deming held out her hand, but Vincent shook his head.
“Don’t be stupid,” she whispered. Vincent grimaced, feeling hemmed in. With a sigh, he climbed inside. Moments later, Gilroy had the van moving again.
“They’re expecting us in Boston,” Deming said, sitting on the cooler, her forearms resting on her knees. She glanced at the team leader up front. “We’ve been reassigned. It happened quickly. I guess they have a serial killer, and Benton pulled some serious strings to acquire the case.” She bit her lip. “I’m thinking it’s personal.”
Another case? Vincent felt as if he couldn’t string two words together, and he was supposed to jump into a whole new case? He leaned back against the van’s interior, his palms pressed to the floor to secure himself against the van’s swerves.
It was all so depressing. His new normal. Other than his job, what did he have? Nothing. “Boston is as good a place as any.”
“For what?” Deming studied his face, adjusting herself on the cooler as Gilroy took a turn fast.
“To hear Avery’s killed herself. It’s happening. We both know that.” They’d stopped her at the mansion, but he’d seen her eyes. She’d wanted to die, and he feared next time she’d succeed.
Deming shook her head. “She has Millie. She’ll be okay.”
“Avery will never be okay.” And neither would he. She’d gutted him, and he couldn’t see a way back to normal.
Deming compressed her lips. “She’s indestructible. She had a weak moment. It will pass.”
Vincent didn’t have it in him to argue. Instead, he brooded the whole drive to the airport, shutting everyone out. When the van parked, Vincent jumped out, and left them there without a word. Then he rented a car, and drove back to Saddle River, intent on seeing Avery in the hospital, because he couldn’t stop himself. He needed to be with her, but the Federal Marshalls had arrived and blocked him. From Benton’s many voice mails, Vincent knew the team was on a plane, headed to Boston, so he left a voice mail of his own. He’d meet them there. He didn’t trust where his head was at. Hell, he didn’t trust himself. He needed to be around his team.
Chapter 24
The next morning, just after sunrise in a downtown Boston diner, the team worked the problem of their new case. Gilroy took up a whole side of the booth, forcing Vincent to sit on the end in a chair, while Deming and Benton were squeezed into the other side. Vincent felt like the winner in the seating arrangement. Sipping his ice water, he saw Deming nudge a piece of paper in front of him. It was an obituary form for the New York Times. He glanced at it, and then her.
“Who’s dead?” Vincent peered closer. Avery Toner Coppola. There was an attached photograph. She was seventeen, in her wedding gown. Even then Avery had a look about her that said she’d suffered too much.
“The Federal Marshalls are pulling strings,” Benton said, “asking that they put it in this weekend’s paper. They want the news to spread near and far that she’s dead.”
Deming compressed her lips, glancing between him and the form. “She’s changed her name, but refused WITSEC.”
“She made a deal with the Bureau,” Gilroy said, rubbing his head, squinting, avoiding Vincent’s gaze. Everyone was treating him with kid gloves, and it was getting annoying.
Benton shifted on the bench, almost jostling Deming to the floor. “The Bureau took into consideration her history with Coppola, the audio of her fighting the contract killers, Coppola clearly telling her they’d killed her family, his ultimatum. The audio absolves her.”
“That’s the FBI’s official position?” Vincent arched a brow, finding that hard to believe. Like Coppola, they tended to want their pound of
flesh. Benton nodded, so he figured it had to be true.
“So,” Deming said. “Between her PTSD, and the evidence we have against Coppola, and the kidnapping of Millie, Avery’s actions are being ruled self-defense.”
Gilroy shrugged, leaning his elbows on the table. “No law against divorcing a psychopathic murderer.”
Or marrying one, Vincent thought. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a waitress approach. He turned, and froze. It was Avery. His heart raced as he studied her, worried about the bruises, her obvious exhaustion. If her eyelid hadn’t twitched, he would have thought she didn’t recognize him. How could she pretend that way? It was a skill, that’s for sure, and it irritated the hell out of him.
“Can I take your order?” she said. His mind went blank. Why hadn’t he been warned? He glanced at his team, but no one was looking at him, except Deming. She sported a grin.
Shifting in his seat, he faced Avery, and saw sunlight reflect off her auburn hair. It was pulled back into a ponytail, making her look like Patty again, especially since this brown uniform was stained, too, and she was back to wearing those funky, functional white shoes. Her pencil hovered over her order pad as she waited for a response, her eye still twitching. He felt stupid.
Say something, he thought. But he didn’t. His mind was on how much damage she could do with that pencil’s sharpened end. She was a trained killer, masquerading as a waitress.
“Do you know what you want?” Avery swallowed hard, and now her bruised, abraded chin was quivering. Her eyes widened, and bled with vulnerability. Vincent got the impression that she was poised to run as she waited for his answer. Did he know what he wanted?
Damn, yeah. He did.
“Charlotte,” Deming said, making a big deal about saying her name. “What’s good on the menu?”
Avery’s name tag, pinned above her heart, read Charlotte. So, Avery had moved to Boston, his hometown.
He exchanged glances with his team, and thought, hot damn, they’d all known she’d be here and kept it from him. Why? Then it hit him. He’d kept his feelings to himself. He hadn’t come out and confirmed that he loved her, not even to Avery. Why would anyone have any idea what he felt or wanted? He’d just assumed they knew.
* * * *
Deming said something, but Avery didn’t hear. It was like someone put a conch shell to her ear, and all she heard was ocean waves. This must be what it feels like to die, she thought.
He was looking at her, giving nothing away, and she supposed that made sense. He’d probably written her off already. Last time he saw her she was crazed, a blood-covered fiend wielding a knife, why wouldn’t he feel well rid of her? It was nice to see him again, though. She hadn’t thought that would ever happen.
Vincent turned to the others, looking them in the eye. “You should have told me she was here.”
This was a mistake. She didn’t even notice she was walking away until Deming ran to her side and pulled her back to the table. “Vincent,” Deming said, scowling at him, “we want to introduce you to Charlotte. Charlotte? This is our stubborn, judgmental, scared of love friend, Special Agent Vincent Modena. Say hi to the woman, Vincent.” Deming made a big show of pinching his arm, before sitting back down. Vincent acted as if he didn’t feel it.
“Charlotte, huh?” Vincent grimaced.
Avery nodded so many times her ponytail wobbled loose. “I’ve applied to U/Mass. I want to major in mechanical engineering.”
Vincent glanced at his coworkers. “What are you looking at? Stop staring.”
“Vincent!” Deming snapped.
He narrowed his eyes at the profiler. “Are you waiting for us to exchange our sun signs?” He swung back to Avery, his smile forced and over bright. “Hi, Charlotte. I’m a Libra.”
“I thought you were Taurus, the bull.” Deming drummed her nails on the table.
Gilroy slipped out of the booth. “This is too intense. I’ll meet you guys back at the precinct house.” Benton looked longingly after the Fed, but Deming was sitting on the outside of the booth, and she wasn’t moving, so Benton wasn’t escaping anytime soon. Everyone was uncomfortable, Avery included, so she decided to make this quick. There was something Vincent deserved to hear, and from the looks of him, this would be her last chance to say it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Vincent…I’m sorry…about everything.”
Deming looked between her and Vincent, as if she were attending a high stakes tennis match. Vincent, however, seemed angrier upon hearing Avery’s apology. So, she gave up. She dropped her pad and pencil on the table, untied her apron, and caught the other waitress’s eye.
“Ethel, I’m sorry. I have to go.” The middle-aged women nodded, walking her rounds, filling up coffee cups. Avery wiped a tear as soon as she stepped outside and struggled not to sob.
The air was warmer in the city, even this early in the morning. The traffic was loud, and her view outside the diner was of aging brownstones and beat-up cars. Not knowing where to go, she took a left and started walking, no destination in mind. It was hard to think when she was feeling so much, so she shut down, and told herself things could only get better. She’d hit bottom, so the sky was the limit.
Then Vincent was walking beside her. She didn’t have the courage to stop or turn her head to see his expression. She continued walking, wiping tears, trying not to humiliate herself more than she already had. She’d spent an hour getting ready this morning, trying to make her hair look presentable in the ponytail. With all her tears, her eye makeup had to be smeared on her cheeks, and odds were she’d nervously bitten her lipstick off. He continued to walk next to her in silence, keeping pace, his hands in his pockets, making Avery wonder how this would end. She hadn’t a clue.
When they got to a corner and were forced to stop for the light, she turned to him, ready to say the words again. He deserved to hear I’m sorry a million times, but the look on his face stopped her. She didn’t see accusation, or horror, as she’d seen in her dreams last night. He was looking at her like she was Charlotte, who wanted to go to U/Mass Boston. Like she was a clean slate.
He took her right hand, studied every angry bruise and cut, and then pressed his lips to her knuckles. When the light changed, he kept hold of her hand as the crowd carried them across the street. Avery was so dazed by Vincent’s behavior she could barely see, never mind think. They continued to walk until they reached Charles River, and once again, she wished she was wearing a heel, maybe a red pump, and maybe something other than her waitress uniform. Vincent’s smile made her think he didn’t care.
“I like the name Charlotte,” he said. “What’s your sister’s name?”
“Brittany. She’d always wanted to be a Brittany, but I feared a name change would confuse a two-year-old.” Avery licked her lips.
He nodded, and walked them to a bench overlooking the water. When they sat, it was in silence, still holding hands. She wondered if he noticed that her fingers were bare for the first time in his presence. No pinkie rings from murdered killers, no dazzling jewels from her psychopath ex.
Vincent opened her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her palm, his eyes closed, his head bowed. She could feel him trembling, and it humbled her. When he brought her hand to his lap, cupped it with both of his, he looked out over the water.
“I killed forty-three people when I was a sniper.” He glanced at her. “I killed four more during my career as a FBI Special Agent. I did that. Not you. Of the two of us, only one has taken life.”
She knew what he was doing, and she appreciated the sentiment, but it didn’t change anything. “I made it possible for Dante to kill those men, Vincent. I carry some of the blame.”
“I heard the audio. You survived that.” He turned, holding her gaze. “Not many could.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she wasn’t sure if she could speak without crying, but she felt
like she should try. “I’m sorry I lied.”
He kissed her knuckles again, holding them against his lips. “Can you forgive me?” His lips moved against her bruised skin.
Did he say forgive? “For what?”
He pulled her close, touching his forehead to hers. It created a precious intimacy, sectioning them off from the rest of the world. “For not trusting you more,” he whispered. “For not telling you....” Vincent’s forehead was warm against hers, and he suddenly seemed nervous. “So, ah, I love you.”
Getting what you want shouldn’t make a girl cry, but Avery found herself sobbing with happiness. Vincent laughed, and pulled her to him, lifting her onto his lap. “I… I love you,” she sobbed. “I love you, too.”
“Good.” He wiped her tears. “That’s good.” He hugged her tightly. “So, yeah. You love me. Good. Even though I’m an idiot?”
She laughed, feeling crazed. “Yeah. I do! And if you’re an idiot, I am, too!”
He laughed. “Okay. Good. We’ll be idiots together.”
“Okay.” She nodded, pressing her face to his chest, not even hiding that she was smelling him. She’d missed his scent…missed everything about him.
“When does your shift end?” His eyes twinkled with happiness, and Avery got all tingly inside, because she remembered when she’d wanted to be just a girl, being picked up by just a guy, who wanted to be with her at the end of her shift. Had that only been a week ago? “Four o’clock. I pick Millie up from summer camp at six. I mean, Brittany.”
He nodded, keeping his gaze on the river. “I’ll pick you up at four. You and me, we’re going on a date.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly, as if he were trying to calm down. “And tomorrow, and the next day. It’s you and me.” He caught her gaze, his eyes intense. “Got it?”
She nodded, seeing the possibilities of a future with Vincent. Yeah, she got it. And couldn’t wait. Everything was clear now. After she’d lost her family, she’d feared love, feared losing one more person she held dear, but now she knew better. Love was a risk, sure, but it was also what mattered the most. Maybe it was the only thing that mattered. True or not, it’s what they’d got, and they were happy.
Caught by You Page 24
