Tracking Shadows (Shadows of Justice 4)

by Black, Regan

  Good Lord, he'd shot Trina.

  Dressed like Walker, she'd staged the scene to Montalbano's expectations. Confused, Micky looked back to where he thought she'd been. Only now, from his vantage point below the table he could see the holograph projector on the chair.

  An elaborate illusion.

  He was shoved roughly as the medical team worked to stop the bleeding. "We have to transport," they said, loading her up as they hyposprayed meds and hooked up an oxygen mask.

  Gideon seized him. "You have to get out of here."

  "Yes. With her."

  "No!" Gideon hauled him up and spun him around like he was applying cuffs. "You wearing the suit under here?"

  Micky gave a jerky nod.

  Gideon hauled him out of the conference room. Montalbano and the real Walker were just a blur of noise and chaos as Gideon's team dealt with them.

  Micky struggled to stay upright when Gideon shoved him against a wall. "Stay put," he said loud enough for the sentry near the elevator to hear him. Leaning close so only Micky could hear, he said, "When you get the chance, disappear. You nearly blew the whole damned operation."

  Micky didn't give a damn about anything but Trina. "Will she live?"

  Gideon gave him a hard glare and walked away, shaking his head. Micky watched as they hauled the defeated Montalbano to the elevators. In the conference room, he could hear them interrogating Walker about Dakota's systems.

  Micky inched toward the corner and into the next hallway, slipping out of the restraints and his clothing. Popping the stealth disc into place, he raced for the hospital.

  He couldn't have killed her. No. She had to survive. She'd been too warm, too real in his arms.

  He told himself he'd aimed to maim, not kill, but he wasn't believing it. He'd taken the shot from his knees, full of impatience and desperation. Never smart.

  Micky reached the nearest hospital only to learn no one matching Trina's description or injuries had arrived. Getting the same story at every facility, Micky realized Gideon had pulled strings. Strings that were beyond even Micky's reputation or reach.

  Lost to everything but his terrible grief, Micky made his way back to the warehouse, hoping one of Jim's computer guys could find where Gideon stashed her.

  * * *

  Trina opened her eyes to a stark white ceiling and groaned. They'd tranqued her again and put her back in that stupid room. Sitting up, the wave of pain lanced through her chest, bringing it all back with frightening clarity. Not a tranquilizer. Not the warehouse.

  "It's too soon to move right now."

  She turned her head carefully. The man sitting by her bed was only familiar because of the military record she'd researched. Gideon Callahan and his career in black ops had received her incriminating email and agreed to help. "Thanks for the back up." God, she could hardly breathe around that one sentence.

  "Thank you for delivering Montalbano. We've got him cold on enough charges so he'll die in prison. The senator's thrilled. I told him how you helped save his daughter."

  She cringed, over the news or the pain, she couldn't decide. It didn't matter. "Micky?"

  "Well, that depends on if you intend to press charges."

  She struggled again, but lost her breath, setting off alarms on the medical sensors.

  "You're distressing my patient," the nurse complained. "She needs rest." She scowled at Gideon, then smiled down at Trina. "I'm Mira. Take it easy, now." Her gentle touch on Trina's forehead brought instant relief.

  "No charges," she managed after a few minutes.

  Gideon snorted. "No surprise." He waited while the nurse finished her business. "Now, what do you want?"

  Micky. His face was a beacon. But he'd told her to stay away. She might have done the right thing as far as the government was concerned, but she'd lost everything that mattered before she had time to enjoy it.

  "He threatened me you know. Over you." Gideon came to his feet, studying her. "I asked him to bring you in. Told him I'd crash the warehouse if necessary."

  Hope bloomed. Had Micky ordered her away just to keep her safe?

  "Yeah. That pissed him off," Gideon said with a rueful expression. "He's big on loyalty and protection."

  She tried to summon enough strength to hide her reactions, but it was impossible.

  "He looked for you long and hard. Eventually he found the report I planted about your death."

  Tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. Death. A fresh start far away from here. Hadn't that been her plan? "Go away," she begged. It was better this way, safer. She'd go on and Micky would go on and they'd both be all right. Someday.

  "Did you hear me? You're officially dead. Just like Joel Mickleson."

  Trina closed her eyes, wishing she were dead, wishing it all away. The pain from the bullet wound was nothing compared to the agony of her crumbling heart.

  "Mira's right. You do need rest. I'll be back later."

  When Trina woke again, the nurse was back, puttering with the equipment near the bed. "Ah, there you are. You have such lovely eyes."

  Trina rolled the eyes in question and braced for the pain of conversation. "Am I alone?"

  "Mr. Serious is gone, yes."

  Boosted by how good she felt, she tried to sit up. "Where am I?"

  "Chicago General. In a secure ward, which is why the window is fake."

  Trina followed her gesture to a lovely view of the city at night. "When will they release me?"

  The nurse didn't answer, just helped her sit up a bit more while she examined the wound that marked the bullet's path. "Relax," she instructed.

  A warm sensation flowed over Trina, filling her, surrounding her. Offering an amazing sense of peace and wellbeing. She glanced at her IV bag. "Wow. What did you give me?"

  "The last treatment." The nurse looked a bit pale, but her smile was kind. "Since you're not officially here, not even officially alive, I think you can go anytime."

  Trina wondered. It was easier to think without the pain, but it didn't make it easier to know what to do. Where did a retired assassin go? What sort of life could she make with her strange skills now? She had options and alternate identities, yet...

  Micky. Only that one word, only his face came to mind. She knew no matter what step she took next, she had one stop to make before she could leave Chicago.

  * * *

  Micky rubbed his gritty eyes, wanting to believe that this time the woman he watched was really Trina. He'd been seeing her in his dreams and this terrible reality of waking nightmares every day since he'd shot her.

  Jim was in full protective mode, keeping the business going while he thought Micky grieved alone in his apartment. But Micky couldn't stay cooped up where the memories and missed opportunities lashed at him. Getting out gave him a different view, even if he didn't know what to do with it. In his stealth suit, he'd wandered through Chicago, listening for any word, jumping at the sight of every red head. Not once had the glint of vivid red hair been her, only his lost hopes torturing him.

  He leaned against the side of the grungy building and waited for his broken heart to yield so he could see whoever was returning to the warehouse with clear eyes.

  But the woman strolled directly toward his position rather than the nearest warehouse entrance, still bearing a striking resemblance to Trina. The hair, the eyes, even the tentative smile. The clothes were different, but he knew the curves concealed under the down coat and baggy hospital scrubs.

  Good grief. He had to resign, turn over the title. His team deserved to have someone whole and sane lead them.

  Trina – the woman – stopped a few paces away, looking at a spot just above his shoulder. "Hello, Micky."

  God, that voice. Her voice. He wanted it to be her so badly. "Trina?"

  She stepped closer. It had to be a dream, maybe a nervous breakdown, because he was in the stealth suit and she was dead.

  "Yes." Her smile brightened. "It's me."

  "But you…you're dead."


  "Officially yes. And you're invisible. Officially." She closed the distance, reaching for him.

  He popped the disk out, catching her hands in his. Warm hands, soft skin. Not a ghost, thank God. The relief washed over him, was reflected in her eyes. He dragged her closer and her uncertain smile turned brilliant as he laid claim to her lush mouth.

  When he pulled back he saw the worry etched on her face and her hands fluttered restlessly on his shoulders. "Am I really welcome here? With your family?"

  "Only if you're not an illusion."

  She relaxed, leaning into him. "I'll show you my scar," she replied with a wink and a wicked gleam in those amazing blue eyes.

  He laughed until she kissed him, breathless with happiness. Finally his world felt steady again. When he led her back into the warehouse, he took her the back way, straight to his apartment, giving her the last of his secrets and keeping her all to himself for just a little longer.

  The End

  Bonus Short Story

  A Gala Extraction

  Chicago: November, 2096

  Jameson reported to HQ, stealth suit on, ready for a night shift on the rooftop. Night after night it was the same thing: quiet, cold, and still. It was enough to make him grateful he didn't give the orders. It had to be maddening to keep reporting all this 'nothing' up the chain of command.

  Normally the circumstances and environment wouldn't be an issue. Location, weather, none of it mattered to him when there was a job to be done. But since his brief stint as a prison guard, when he'd met her... Well, the ongoing silence and hours with no distraction made it difficult to forget her.

  Knowing he could never see her again, he really needed to forget her.

  He swiped his badge and stepped into the communications center.

  "CO wants to see you," the communications tech on duty told him.

  Toying with the stealth suit disk in his pocket, Jameson made his way to the commanding officer's office and knocked on the open door.

  Gideon Callahan, CO for this op, waved him in. "Close the door."

  Jameson's instincts went on full alert. A meeting was one thing, making it private another. He took a seat and waited.

  "I've been asked to extract another operative working undercover in the city." He slid a compact e-notepad across the desk. "Read it over."

  Gala event at the Shedd Aquarium, black tie, starting in two hours. He scrolled down, memorized the confirmation phrase the operative had chosen. He nodded once, slid the notepad back. "She's expecting me?"

  "She's expecting someone." Callahan jerked his thumb to a garment bag hanging on the coat rack. "Your tuxedo. Should fit over the stealth suit."

  The idea that the suit might be necessary caught Jameson's attention. "Do you believe her intel is connected to our case here?"

  Callahan leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against the edge of the desk. For a second Jameson thought he'd overstepped. He'd worked with Callahan before, but something about this op had the CO brooding. Probably the inactivity. Callahan's reputation was all about getting the job done.

  "I don't have to tell you the risks involved if Dr. Luther is working for Montalbano in that lab," Callahan said at last, referring to the building they'd been assigned to observe. The most boring building on the planet at the moment.

  "Of course not." While Dr. Luther was responsible for advancements like the stealth suit, Montalbano was known more for developing things for the highest military bidder, which was rarely America.

  "With the recent upheaval and betrayal between Dr. Kristoff, his health initiatives, and the current concerns of the Defense Department, that mob bastard is surely looking to make a move. He may be at the gala tonight."

  Jameson nodded.

  "I've got a team trying to find Montalbano's leverage over Dr. Luther, but so far we've got nothing."

  Quite possibly, this woman undercover had the piece of the puzzle they needed. "When I get her out, where do I take her?"

  "She'll tell you."

  "Fine."

  "There's an invite and a tag in the inside pocket of the monkey suit. If you get a chance, put it on Montalbano. Even a few hours of tracking his moves could pay off. God knows we're overdue on a break."

  Jameson nodded. Clearly the CO was just as frustrated with the extended boredom as the rest of the team.

  "All right. Take the tux and get the hell out of here. Don't forget your limo will be waiting a block away in an hour. Have fun Cinderella."

  Jameson did as ordered and met the car on time. The driver confirmed his destination and then drove to the gala without another word.

  Jameson had been to a few fundraisers and more than one military ball, but this group had elevated the experience to a new level. White lights twinkled in topiaries lining the entrance and into the lobby. Waiters in white jackets circulated with shining silver trays of champagne. Gowns of every color and cut sparkled on women, a dynamic rainbow against the backdrop of men in black tuxedos.

  He didn't gawk, but it was a close thing as he made his first circuit. When no one approached him, he moved into the silent auction display of services and items available for bidding. All of the bids were way out of his price range, but he made a show of looking, as he examined the registers for familiar names.

  Montalbano's mother had bid outrageously on a week-long holiday trip by rail through Canada, and Jameson wondered if she intended to get her son out of the city. Still no one approached him as he nursed his champagne, smiling and making eye contact with everyone.

  A couple of blitzed businessmen shook his hand and offered the standard bullshit and Jameson knew why he'd been tagged for this extraction. Callahan knew he could hold his own, that he understood the verbal and non-verbal clues in this sort of arena.

  And having a history with the operative was a plus too.

  The cell card Callahan provided hummed inside his breast pocket and he excused himself to take the call. It was a simple text message to get to the otter exhibit. Smart girl, the otters were infinitely more interesting than most of the guests. He smiled, made the right noises and casually worked his way downstairs.

  Ah, very smart operative, he thought, seeing the curved couches placed around the otter tank. They could pretend to be any of the couples on a date this evening. A perfect cover and natural pattern of extraction. He wouldn't even need the stealth suit.

  He took an open seat on the couch and waited, watching the otters, wondering what they thought of this late night interruption of their routine.

  To her credit, his target didn't make him wait long.

  She strutted in on sky-high heels, her sparkling, emerald green dress slit to the hip. The heads turning in her wake couldn't have been more coordinated if they'd rehearsed it. He wondered where she'd managed to hide her gun. This gala thing was becoming more interesting by the moment. He was ashamed that it took him a moment of admiration before his gaze registered the racy red lipstick and the smoky eyes. A champagne flute in one hand, she saw him and gifted him with an amazing, seductive smile.

  His stomach clutched and a cold chill ran down his back, but he forced his face into the expected expression of male appreciation for a sexy, inviting woman.

  She paused just a pace away and they did the agreed verbal exchange. Not that he needed it, and he knew she didn't either. He took her hand and drew her toward the couch, but she twisted at the last moment and landed in lap with a cheeky grin.

  "I didn't even spill." She took a dainty sip of her champagne, leaving an imprint of red lipstick on the crystal.

  Feeling the envy of every man in the vicinity kept him in character when he wanted to dump her on her fine ass. "Lay off. This is weird enough already."

  "I've gotta make it look good, sugar," she whispered at his ear. "They're watching me too closely."

  He fought gallantly against the ick factor and won. Barely. Julia was one of the best in their elite division. He hadn't seen her in over a year, but he'd recognize the eyes a
nd the courage no matter what she wore, what role she played. He wouldn't blow her cover now. "What's your name?"

  "What do you want it to be?"

  Mira. Jameson paused. No, he had to put her out of his mind. He couldn't afford to be distracted from the job by wishing the woman in his lap was Mira, the one woman he hadn't been able to forget. They'd only had a few minutes in a prison infirmary during another undercover liberation op. A single thought swept him back into that moment when her lips soft under his and her eyes sparkled with an emotion he couldn’t define. Would he never get her out of his mind?

  "Oh, dear. I must be losing my touch." She placed his hand on her thigh.

  "Jane is fine with me," he muttered.

  She beamed at him. "Jane it is." She whispered in his ear. "You're pretty grumpy for a guy with a woman like me in your lap."

  He toyed with her long, glittering earring, dragged his finger over her bared shoulder. It was tough to act like lovers when he thought of her as a sister. "I can't believe they comped you an outfit like this."

  "Let's just say I earned it."

  "Good grief. Don't tell me that crap."

  "I'm hardly the only hooker here."

  And this was hardly the point of their meeting. "You're the only one for me."

  "Aww," she ran her fake fingernail around the curve of his ear. "It's been that long?"

  He smiled. She was close enough to see the threat in his eyes, but still he jumped when she put his hands on an item just under the edge of that revealing slit. "What the-"

  "Relax," she hissed. "Never knew you were such a prude." She tugged the edge of a cell card from a secret pocket along the edge of that slit in her skirt. To any cameras or curious onlookers in the area, it looked like she'd flashed a condom. Julia slithered out of his lap and drew him up to his feet as well. "I know just the spot."

  His hand on the small of her back, he matched her pace. They were the picture of elegance, in no rush, but oozing obvious attraction and intent. They paused to dance, both scanning the room for trouble. She might have broken up a couple relationships with the long, hungry gazes sent her way when she leaned up and nipped his jaw. Pretending to focus on her, he followed her subtle hand signals to the man glaring at her from the other side of the dance floor.