Puzzle, this woman.
Bare-assed naked, he scooped his phone from the bedside table and walked to the hallway, pausing a second as the aroma of brewing coffee brought his senses to high-alert. Thank God for automatic coffeemakers.
Shower first. Then caffeine.
No sooner had he dropped the phone on the bathroom vanity than the screen lit up. Hopefully Micki telling him she’d hacked Ambrose’s e-mail and managed to find his party invitations. As of last night, she hadn’t found anything, but her project for Reid had run long and she needed more time.
He glanced at the screen. Blocked DC number.
Definitely not Micki.
Clay?
In an effort to let Roni sleep, he shut the bathroom door, grabbed his robe from the hook and slipped it on before the call went to voice mail.
“Hello?”
“Waylon Kingston?”
“Speaking.”
“Good morning, sir. This is Special Agent Terrence Holbrath. FBI.”
Feds. On a Sunday. Interesting. Maybe one of Maggie’s contacts. She’d said she’d reached out to a few people, but hadn’t heard back.
“What can I do for you, special agent?”
“I’m calling regarding Clayton Bartles.”
Clay? What the hell was this about now? Roni had told him to keep an open mind about all suspects, even Clay.
Clay?
Really?
But, shit. If this guy told him his old military buddy had been arrested for selling Way’s bullets, he’d lose his goddamned mind.
“What about him?”
“I’m sorry to inform you, but Mr. Bartles was murdered last night.”
Mur…Way shook his head. A sharp burn tore up his spine. Did he say murdered?
Way squeezed his eyes closed, held one hand up. “Hang on. I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”
“Clayton Bartles,” the agent said, his voice steady, direct. “He was found shot in front of his home around nine o’clock last night.”
Shot.
Jesus.
Way blew out a hard breath as the information penetrated his tired mind.
Holbrath, clearly a pro at this, gave him a few seconds to get his shit together.
“Mr. Kingston, are you all right?”
All right? He was far from fucking all right. His buddy was dead. Shot after Way had asked him to look into the CIA’s mishandling of his bullets.
Still holding the phone to his ear, he leaned back against the sink, bent at the waist, and forced himself to breathe. One, two, three. Slow, even exhalations.
Clay dead.
Focus.
“Mr. Kingston?”
“I’m here.” He straightened up, tipped his head back and then to both sides, breaking up the tension. “Clay was my friend. Military buddy. How can I help?”
“We found his phone in his briefcase. There was a voice mail from you and a couple of texts.”
“Yes, sir. We were working together. On a project.”
“I see. And what project was that?”
Sticky business right there. Way had signed a nondisclosure agreement that basically forced him to keep his fucking mouth shut in regard to frangible bullets.
Did his NDA with the CIA cover murders?
“Special agent, since the FBI is handling this rather than the DC police, I’m assuming you’re aware Clay worked for the State Department.”
“Yes, sir,” Holbrath said. “Given Mr. Bartles’s job, his case has been assigned to the FBI.”
Not a shock, since the attorney general or the head of a government agency could request the FBI investigate when an employee was involved in a criminal offense. In this case, a murder.
Upon hearing of Clay’s death, his boss had probably called the FBI.
“Mr. Kingston, is there anything you can tell us that may help?”
“I’m a government contractor. I’ve signed a nondisclosure agreement.”
“This is a murder investigation.”
“I’m aware. But I’m also legally bound by an agreement.”
No matter how much he wanted to help find Clay’s killer, violating that agreement might put him in the crosshairs of the CIA. And no one would convince him Clay’s death wasn’t connected to this mess.
Zero doubt.
If the agency took out Clay, a State Department employee, they sure as shit wouldn’t mind ridding the earth of Waylon Kingston.
“Look,” Way said, “let me talk to my lawyer. See what I can tell you that’s not going to violate the NDA.”
“We can protect you,” Holbrath said. “No one needs to know you violated the agreement. We’ll bring you in quietly.”
Sure. Right. Clay said he’d ask around on the QT and look where it got him? On ice at the morgue.
“I’ll call you back,” Way said. “And Holbrath, you said Clay was shot. I know you can’t give me any details, but I gotta ask about the bullets.”
“What about them?”
“Were they frangible?”
Please say no.
When the only response was silence, Way squatted down, dipped his head, and tried to concentrate through the throb behind his eyes.
God almighty, what the hell was going on?
“Mr. Kingston, I’m urging you to help us out here. We’ll do whatever we can to keep you out of trouble.”
“I’ll talk to my lawyer,” Way said. “And call you back.”
He poked at the screen, rose to his full height, and braced one hand against the sink. He needed a plan here.
Talking to the feds might get him killed. Hell, someone had already tried taking him out. Now with Clay gone, who’d be next? Maggie? And what about Roni? She’d basically told her boss to go fuck himself.
A soft knock brought him from his reeling thoughts. Roni. Awake.
Way looked up, checked his face in the mirror, found nothing but dark circles under spooked eyes. Get it together, man.
He cracked his neck again, let out a long breath to slow the cortisol explosion in his brain, and swung the door open. “Hey.”
Roni stood in the hallway in his T-shirt, her hair a healthy sleep-riddled mess. She studied him for a few long seconds and then reached for him, clasping his forearms. “What happened? You look terrible.”
So much for getting it together. “Clay was murdered last night. In front of his house.”
Her mouth opened partway and her eyes narrowed. “Murdered? How?”
“Shot.” He held up his phone. “I just got a call from the FBI. They found the message I left for Clay last night.”
“They want to question you.”
“They sure do.”
“What’d you say?”
He huffed out a laugh. “What could I say? I told them I was working with Clay on a project. That I’d signed an NDA and would have to consult an attorney. Which is code for me stalling so I can figure out what to do. And, get this, the bullet?”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Frangible.”
“He told you that?”
“Not in so many words. I asked. He didn’t respond.” Way shrugged. “It’s enough confirmation for me.”
“What was the agent’s name?”
“Holbrath. You know him?”
“No. But let me look into this. See what I can dig up.”
She spun away from him, heading back to the bedroom.
“No,” he said.
She scooped her phone from the bedside table. “What are you talking about? No? We have to get ahead of this.”
“I don’t want you asking questions. That’s what Clay did and look where it got him.”
“And what? We sit around and let people continue to die? That’s not okay with me.”
Oh, they’d do something, but she wouldn’t like it.
Not one bit.
22
Roni could not believe what she was hearing.
She held up both hands, pushing them through the air in an attempt to halt
the barrage of insanity coming her way. “Just…stop. I think you’re in shock or something.”
Had to be. The man just told her he intended on calling the CIA to inform them of his intention to violate his nondisclosure agreement. One that kept confidential the details of ammunition capable of horrific results.
Way set his hands on her arms, gently moved her to the side, and walked by her, heading to the bedroom. “I’m not in shock. Pretty much, this is the clearest I’ve been since this started. I call Harding, tell him the FBI is on me, wanting to know why I communicated with a man right before his murder. I’ll say I have no choice. The last thing Harding wants is for this to get out. Ultimately, he was in charge of those bullets. His ass is on the line as much as mine.”
“And if they’re setting you up?”
He took a pair of jeans from the shelf in his closet and tossed them on the bed. If he whipped that robe off, she’d be in big trouble. His body? All that lean, coiled muscle that immediately made her nipples hard would do her in.
Shake it off.
She followed him into the bedroom, keeping her distance. If he touched her again, she might throw him down on that bed and do seriously naughty things with him.
Next he moved to the dresser, pulling a T-shirt from the second drawer. “We already know that’s a possibility,” he said. “I’m done playing. Clay’s dead. Makes me think they’re going after the people I’ve talked to. Who’s next? You, Maggie?”
“You can’t do this. It’s crazy. You’re about to make an enemy of the CIA.”
“Maybe. But I’m not gonna live this way. Constantly worried about the people I care about. I’m done fucking around. I’m going at this guy. They already tried to kill me, how much worse can it get?”
“Um, maybe they’ll succeed?” Roni flapped her arms. “And we have no proof that Don and Karl are behind this.”
He waved her off. “Come on. You’re being naive.”
Naive? Her? Ha. She wanted a day where she felt naive. It’d be a whole lot better than her usual cynicism. “Be careful, Waylon. You’re dangerously close to pissing me off. I’m not above believing Don and Karl are involved, but I’d like proof.”
He locked his eyes on her, the intensity nearly blowing her back a step. Well, too bad. If he wanted to wreck his life, fine, but she wouldn’t let him insult her.
“You know it’s them,” he said. “You know it.”
“I want proof!”
He gawked at her, let out a little huff. “What more do you need? I sent them the only samples I have. Outside of Clay and the CIA’s science and development department, no one else knew about my design. I keep the specs locked in my safe on a laptop I purchased for the sole purpose of storing confidential data. I’ve never even hooked the damned thing up to wi-fi. That’s how fucking paranoid I am. You tell me how anyone besides the CIA is responsible for that design getting leaked.”
When no answer materialized, she went with the only thing she could. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly. Someone at Langley screwed the pooch. You don’t want to face it.”
Of course she didn’t. She worked there—well, maybe not anymore. This assignment, from the beginning, had her teetering on a high wire between loyalty to her friend and loyalty to her job. To her country.
The idea of someone within the agency selling or even reverse engineering that design…
Her stomach pinched and released. Pinch, release, pinch, release.
Betrayed, once again, by people she should have been able to trust.
Trust doesn’t come with a refill.
The Mad Batter bakery sign sure nailed that one.
“If you call Harding,” she said, “it’ll be a mistake. On many levels. You’re way off here.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m asking you to give me time to call my friends at the Bureau. Let me see what I can dig up on Clay’s murder.”
“No.”
Frustration and lack of patience slammed together, pinching her stomach again. Way Kingston. So stubborn. What did she have to do to make him understand?
She lifted her hands and shook her fists at him. “You’re going to screw this whole thing up. If you talk to the FBI, or anyone else for that matter, it’ll get leaked. I know how these things work. Do you know the chaos that will create? The CIA losing track of ammunition designed to leave no evidence? Are you kidding me? They’ll be crucified.”
“As they should be. Civilians are dying. That’s what you should focus on. Take your government employee hat off for one second and think logically.”
Oh, no, he didn’t. She cocked her head. “Think logically? Please, tell me you did not just say that.”
* * *
Hell, yes, he’d said it. He wouldn’t apologize either. Not when she talked nonsense to him.
Jesus.
What was with the people in his life? Everyone wanted to shove themselves straight up his ass and tell him what he should do.
When he didn’t answer, she huffed out a laugh. “I see talking to you will get me nowhere.”
Slowly, Roni turned, picked up her jeans from the floor, and slid them on under the T-shirt she’d worn to bed. His T-shirt.
Too quiet. Her movements too were…calm. Definitive. Defeated. A niggling panic pebbled the skin on his arms.
“Now you’re leaving?”
“Damn right I am.”
“Come on, Roni.”
She breezed by him on her way to the door. “No. You come on. You have no interest in listening to me. You’ll do what you want anyway, so why should I bother trying to reason with you.”
Now it was his fault. Another typical reaction he should be used to. He should take a cue from his Uncle Eddy and hole up in a secluded cabin for years.
Isolating? Sure. But at least no one bugged him.
What a miserable existence, though.
Way stepped into the hallway, following her. He wanted angry Roni back. Sick bastard that he was, angry Roni got him hard. All that fire and energy? Total turn-on.
Quiet Roni? She scared the crap out of him. Headshrinker. Totally screwing with him.
And manipulation wasn’t his bag.
She opened the door and something in his chest twisted.
Bolting.
Maybe permanently.
Did he want that? After what they’d shared? The way she’d crawled inside him and wedged herself there? When she wasn’t driving him crazy, challenging him on so many levels, he’d enjoyed her. And waking up next to her would never get old.
At what cost, though?
Way Kingston would never be marriage material. Not with his need to be on his own. Self-absorbed? Possibly. At least he owned it.
What the hell was the point of pretending it could be different with Roni?
From the threshold, she turned back, staring at him for a few long seconds.
Stop her.
If for no other reason than to keep her safe. He should do it.
Ah, hell. Might as well suck up the damned foolish pride and tell her he was wrong. It’d be so simple. The words were there, pushing their way out, tearing up his throat.
Say it.
But, goddamn, his jaw wouldn’t open. Stubbornness that let him survive ten years in the military kept it locked shut.
It should be so simple. To just…stop her.
“I…can’t believe you’re going to let it just die,” she finally said.
The raw, clipped control of her voice gave him a stab of guilt. His favorite weapon of choice from women.
Say it.
No.
Saying it meant giving in. Giving up on the life he wanted. The one that let him hop on his motorcycle and disappear for weeks.
Because Roni?
High-maintenance.
She needed way more than he could give and the resentment would build.
And build.
And build.
Yeah, better to let her go now than deal with the p
ain-in-the-ass hassle of losing the relationship later.
He shoved his hands in his robe pockets, his gaze locked on hers as he stood there, unmoving, shoulders back, head high.
Let her go.
It might be over between them, but he wasn’t about to let her leave by herself. Not after someone tried running them off the side of a mountain.
“I’ll take you back to town.”
“No. I’ll call a car.”
That wasn’t happening. “You’re pissed at me, but don’t be reckless. Someone tried to kill us. Close that door and don’t move while I throw clothes on.”
* * *
Roni followed Way to his SUV, her gaze focused on the barn doors just beyond the vehicle. The pressure in her head grew and grew and grew. An overfilled tube ready to burst.
Don’t.
She couldn’t do this, couldn’t let him break her heart, absolutely wreck her this way.
She sucked a vicious breath through her nose, held it for a few seconds, then punched it out.
Pressure, pressure, pressure.
Such a fool.
Way Kingston? How did she ever think that man might be right for her?
All he wanted was to be alone and all she wanted was to belong. Two more incompatible people couldn’t be found. But that was her, all the way back to losing her dad, she continually wanted the man she couldn’t have.
“You’ll never learn,” she muttered.
She bit down on her bottom lip, dug her teeth in enough to pull the pain from her collapsing chest, but…no good.
Dammit. She needed a release. A full-blown tantrum, just wailing and crying until exhaustion hit. Until her body emptied itself of anger and hurt.
Not yet. Not here. Definitely not in front of him.
She’d learned a long time ago not to give away her power. Even to Way Kingston. Make no mistake, he had enough power. Somehow, the man had quietly convinced her to partner with him and risk her assignment.
To trust him.
The pressure in her head pounded at her, reminding her of her failures. The minute she’d put eyes on Way Kingston, felt that little pull, she should have run.
And yet, here she was. Pissed off and…heartbroken. Because she wanted him.
Foolish, foolish girl.
Paralyzing pressure clawed at her, filling her throat and...Please, no.
Burning Ache Page 24
