by Anna Perrin
Brent’s angry expression was long gone, but a dam had burst inside her and she couldn’t stop. “The Bureau sent him to a counselor who was clueless about the complexity of the job, clueless about the kind of split-second decisions agents have to make and live with for the rest of their lives. My father went to a few appointments, then refused to go again. He blamed himself for that death. Six months later, he took his life.”
Goose bumps rose on her arms at the memory. “You asked me why I changed my mind about becoming a vet. I did it because of my dad. I promised myself at his graveside that I’d learn enough so that one day I might be able to spare another agent’s family the tragedy my mom and I had to endure.”
“Claire—”
“Let me finish.” She lifted her chin. “With the exception of Mickey, none of the agents I’ve treated has appreciated my concern and support. And tonight, you’ve shown me that you’re also too closed-minded and cynical for me to help.”
She swallowed. “It’s hard for me to admit this, but I’ve been wasting my time. Not anymore. I’m leaving the Bureau.”
For a moment, his poker face slipped, and shock took its place. But she didn’t feel satisfaction, only sadness that it had taken her so long to see what should have been obvious all along.
She stood up. “Please don’t mention my plans to Gene. He has enough on his mind.”
“He’ll want to know.”
“I’ll give him sufficient notice.” She headed for the hallway, pausing only when she’d reached it. “The day Forrester is in custody, I’m starting a new life far from here.”
WHEN BRENT AWOKE the next morning, he had a major hangover—without the enjoyment of having partied hard. Pete’s death weighed heavily on him, and he was still reeling from Claire’s revelations about her father and her future plans.
Claire had always seemed overly enthusiastic in her desire to help, but now that he knew her underlying motivation, he wished he hadn’t given her such a rough time. His foul mood last night was no justification for the scathing remarks he’d made to her. But how could he have known she’d endured her own devastating loss?
It took a lot of courage to counsel others on grief and trauma, especially when doing so must dredge up painful memories of her own. However, Claire seemed to be someone who did what needed to be done, no matter how difficult. There were people who would say the same about him.
Much as he hated to admit it, he owed her an apology.
He took his time, washing, shaving and brushing his teeth. He didn’t mind admitting that he was wrong so much as he hated being wrong. In a job like his, mistakes could cost lives.
When he could delay no longer, he left the washroom in search of Claire. Her bedroom door was open when he passed by, but she was nowhere in sight. He checked the main room first, then headed into the kitchen. Both places were empty. His heart rate picked up, but he could see his Mustang from the kitchen window so he knew she hadn’t snagged his keys and taken off.
Before he could check outside, Claire came through the front door, a turquoise beach towel wrapped like a sarong around her. Obviously, she’d been swimming, and her wet hair dripped onto her exposed left shoulder, leaving the bare skin glistening with moisture. He wondered what kind of bathing suit she was wearing—daring bikini? modest one-piece?—but the oversize towel was excellent camouflage.
Of course, he had no business thinking those thoughts after haranguing her last night.
“How was the water?” he asked.
“Refreshing,” was her response.
Well, at least she was speaking to him. Although a one-word answer could hardly be construed as conversation. He decided to see if he could get a full sentence out of her. “Does that mean chilly?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “Yes, but I decided I needed the exercise even if my lips turned blue.”
The word “lips” drew his gaze to her mouth like a magnet. Her smile faltered for a moment, and he realized he ran the risk of doing something utterly asinine—like kissing her—if he didn’t focus on a different part of her anatomy quickly. He chose her left eyebrow.
“About last night…” He hesitated, unsure whether she’d accept what he had to say.
Her eyebrow rose toward her hairline as she waited for him to continue.
“I know you meant well, and I was being a jerk, but the thing is—”
“You’re a very independent person who isn’t used to confiding in anyone.”
“Am I wrong to want some privacy?”
She took a moment to answer. “I believe it’s a lonely way to live. However, that strategy appears to have worked for you.”
Had it worked? Or was he just too hardheaded to try another way? Maybe he was ready for a change. The only problem was the person he felt most comfortable talking to was no longer alive. And Claire…Claire was the woman he wanted to share his bed with, not his problems.
She tugged at her towel, which had begun to slip. “I need to get dressed. I don’t want to make you late for your meeting with Gene.”
He’d assumed some serious groveling would be necessary to clear the air between them, but Claire apparently didn’t believe in holding a grudge.
As she turned to go, he touched her arm. “I didn’t get a chance to say it last night, but I’m sorry about your father.”
“Thanks.” She lowered her gaze. “I wanted you to understand why I can empathize about Pete’s death, but I was wrong to hit you over the head the way I did.”
He grimaced. “That’s usually the fastest way to get my attention.”
A smile tugged the corner of her mouth. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
He knew he should quit while he was ahead, but he needed to know something. “Are you really planning to leave the Bureau?”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, I’ve been offered a position in Minneapolis.”
He thought she’d spoken rashly last night, but evidently the idea of resigning had been on her mind.
“I’ve been undecided,” she added. “It took this situation to make me see things clearly.”
Unfortunately, the situation she referred to was one involving him. Gene was going to string him up by his thumbs.
“Look, I know I’ve been…difficult. And last night, I was way out of line—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Gene knows my decision has nothing to do with you.”
Was he so transparent?
Only to her.
He pushed the unsettling notion away. His concern about Gene’s response had been a knee-jerk reaction. What really bothered him was the thought of Claire leaving town. He’d been telling himself that physical attraction was all he felt for her, but he knew now that was a lie. When Forrester was apprehended and the danger was over, he wanted to spend time with her. Watch movies. Go for walks. Make love with her. Show her with his hands and mouth and body the feelings he had so much trouble expressing in words. But none of that could happen if she moved to another state.
“With all the stress of the past few days, are you sure switching careers is the right decision?”
“I won’t know if it’s a mistake until I do it.”
“By then, it may be too late to change things back the way they were.”
“I have to take that chance.” She captured his gaze, her expression more earnest than he’d ever seen it. “I need to know that my work has a positive impact on my patients’ lives. That isn’t happening at the Bureau.”
He wanted to argue with her, but he didn’t know enough about her experience with her FBI patients to be convincing.
Before he could think of anything to say, the ring of his cell phone intruded.
He expected the call to be from Gene, but it was Jim Sharratt.
“The blackmailer called to tell me the location,” the older man said, anxiety evident in every word.
“His days of making demands are coming to an end,” Brent reassured him.
As he gathered up
his notes for the meeting with Gene, he felt the quick thrill of anticipation. Wherever Forrester arranged to pick up his blackmail money, the FBI would be waiting for him.
Chapter Eleven
The trap was set for four o’clock Thursday afternoon, less than two days away.
Claire watched from the sidelines as Gene and Brent worked feverishly to hammer out a plan to capture Forrester. Everything was complicated by the fact that they were after one of their own. They had to jettison their usual deployment and tactical procedures and come up with new ones, something Brent excelled at.
Forrester had instructed Sharratt to leave the money in the office of the Friedberg Book Manufacturing Company. A call to the company revealed the plant was shut down for the week. Gene wanted to tour the building on Wednesday, but Brent argued Forrester might be watching. They contacted the plant manager at home, who met with them to explain the layout of the building and give the locations of the equipment, shelving units, skids of paper and books in process—anything that might provide cover or a hiding place for the agents needed inside. Once the logistics were sorted out, they held a meeting to brief the dozen agents assigned to the operation.
Claire was to remain with Gene in the surveillance van parked at a neighboring factory. Brent would take cover by the Heidelberg six-color printing press and be the agent closest to the drop-off point.
A new ballistics report indicated that Sanderson had been killed by a weapon previously used in an armed kidnapping by a felon named Hank Totten. The gun had been locked up in evidence storage but was now missing. Forrester had been involved in the initial arrest, making him a likely suspect in the theft. However, the storage facility’s records showed that the agent hadn’t been on the premises for several months. Brent was convinced that Forrester had visited more recently, so he asked the supervisor to double-check and get back to him.
The only break in preparation came on Wednesday when the team and Claire attended Mickey’s funeral. Agents from offices all over the country came to show their respect for Mickey’s sacrifice. Claire noticed that even the most stoic among the attendees shed tears during the deeply moving eulogy, which Mickey’s best friend gave. The image that stayed with her long after the service ended was of Mickey’s fiancée and his mother clinging to each other.
Then it was back to the Bureau to review the plan again.
By late Wednesday night, the last few details of the operation had been finalized. There was nothing left to do but wait.
Claire kept telling herself that every contingency had been anticipated and dealt with, but her nerves were vibrating like a power line in a storm. After a week on the run, Forrester could be so strung out that he’d rather kill than go to prison. And as the agent nearest the blackmail money, Brent would be in the most danger.
“You’re going to wear out the carpet,” Brent said, glancing up from his laptop.
She stopped in midpace, flopped into a chair. “I wish it was over. Doesn’t the waiting get to you?”
“Sometimes.” He stretched his arms above his head, settled deeper into the cushions of the couch. “Pete and I used to trade sports trivia to keep from climbing the walls.”
“Sports trivia, huh? I wish I knew some.”
“I thought psychologists were trained in sophisticated relaxation techniques?”
His voice was slightly mocking, and she finally asked him what she’d wanted to know since they’d met. “What is your problem with psychologists?”
His eyes drilled into hers, but she held his stare and didn’t look away.
“You really want to know?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“You remember asking why I waited so long to join the Bureau?”
She nodded.
He braced his hands on his muscled thighs. “The fact is I applied right after college. Aced every interview. Beat out hundreds of applicants to make it to the final round. Last hurdle was the psych testing….”
Her mouth went dry, but she managed to ask, “It didn’t go well?”
“Dr. Telso made it clear that he wouldn’t recommend hiring me at the Bureau. Ever.”
“Did he explain why?” she murmured.
“He said my temperament was incompatible with being an agent. The word reckless came up in the conversation.”
That didn’t fit with the Brent she knew. He weighed the risks before he took action—even in relationships. But maybe he’d been different back then. “If Dr. Telso was against your being hired, how did it happen?”
“A few years after we met, I was at a convenience store when two thugs armed with shotguns strutted up to the counter and started terrorizing the teenage clerk. If they’d only wanted the money in the till, I wouldn’t have intervened. But one of them grabbed the girl by the hair and started dragging her toward the storage room.”
Claire felt her stomach drop to her feet. “What happened?”
“I grabbed a can of peaches, nailed the bastard in the head, then tackled the other guy before he could get a shot off.”
“That was very brave of you.” And dangerous. What if he had missed with that can of fruit?
He shrugged. “Yeah, the local media called me a hero. When I mentioned my dream was to work for the FBI, pressure mounted until Telso caved, and I was allowed into the training program.”
“I’m guessing you worked harder than the other recruits to prove you belonged there.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I did.”
“Are you still trying to prove something? Is that why you nearly went up in flames to rescue Forrester’s briefcase?”
His grin disappeared. “You worry too much.”
“I’m worried about tomorrow,” she admitted.
He leaned forward, his gaze serious. “Tomorrow should run as smoothly as these things ever do.”
“I don’t like that qualifier,” she said, stiffening.
“Complications happen, but the plan’s solid. It’ll turn out okay.”
She knew he was trying to reassure her, but her imagination kept coming up with scenarios in which he was injured or—God forbid—killed. “Why not arrest Forrester as soon as he shows up?”
“And charge him with what? Trespassing?” Brent crossed his arms over his chest. “We don’t have a single witness who can place him at the scene of the crimes he’s committed this past week. We need to catch him red-handed with Sharratt’s money.”
“You think that will be enough to connect him to Sanderson’s murder?”
“I think we can make the case that Sanderson could have identified Forrester as Sharratt’s blackmailer by what he said to his victim so Forrester killed him to protect a lucrative stream of income. That’s a motive the jury can understand and feel good about convicting on.”
“How far are you willing to go to make that happen?”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Really far. I want to see Forrester in prison.”
She couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Please be careful.”
He nodded, then gave her a sideways glance. “What will you do when we finally lock him up?”
That was easy. “Get on with my life.”
“In Minneapolis?”
She tried to read his body language and tone of voice. Did it matter to him if she stayed or went? Would she let his opinion sway her one way or the other? She gave herself a mental shake. She’d already made her decision.
“Yes,” she said, then, if only to clarify in her own mind, “in Minneapolis.”
His expression gave nothing away, so she asked, “What are the chances that Forrester won’t show?”
“He’ll show,” Brent said firmly. “He wouldn’t have contacted Sharratt if he had any inkling we’ve discovered his blackmail scheme. And he hasn’t used his credit cards since he escaped from Ridsdale so he’s probably running out of cash.”
Cash. The reason he’d murdered Pete Sanderson. The reason he’d threatened Sharratt. Forrester had to be stopped. And no amount of worryi
ng on her part could keep Brent safe.
She had no choice but to trust in tomorrow’s plan.
GRIPPING THE SIDES of the printing press’s control panel, Brent stretched to restore circulation to his cramped legs. Sharratt had made the drop forty-five minutes ago. Outside, several mobile units were watching for Forrester. When he arrived, Gene would relay the news to the agents waiting inside the plant. In the meantime, Brent concentrated on keeping his muscles limber and his nerves steady.
His thoughts wandered to the previous night’s conversation with Claire. He’d never talked to anyone, not even Pete, about his run-in with Telso. The rejection had ripped into him, made him feel weak and stupid and worthless—just like the vicious bullying he’d endured as a kid. He had tried to reason his feelings away, but they had hardened like cement. So he buried them, never anticipating he’d have to deal with a psychologist again.
Then Claire had come into his life.
She was nothing like Telso, but he’d turned his seething animosity for the man on her. She had stood up to him. She had tried to get to know him. She had made repeated attempts to help him.
After everything she’d done, how could he let her walk away?
Screw Minneapolis. She might claim to want a career change, but he knew her decision was motivated by insecurity. And that issue could be dealt with separately from their future. Could he convince her to stay? Maybe. Did he want her to stay? Definitely. But was it fair to ask her to turn down a job offer when he wasn’t sure he wanted—or was even capable of—a long-term relationship?
Claire was the first woman to really interest him since his fiancée had left. He didn’t want to miss out on something terrific with her, but he also didn’t want to have his heart shredded again.
His earpiece suddenly resonated with Gene’s low voice. “Suspect spotted on Elm, driving a light blue Camry sedan, and is headed for the target location. ETA five minutes.”
Finally.
Brent murmured into his mouthpiece, confirming that his colleagues inside the plant were in position and ready for action.
