Right. Ethan.
She pushed herself up and out of bed, rooting for her clothes. He propped up on his elbow, watching her.
"You're really something, Angel."
"I've been told," she said wryly, glancing over her shoulder. She gave him a little shake of her ass before sliding her underwear back on.
"You sure you've got to leave now?"
"Very." She zipped her jeans and turned around to face him as she pulled her shirt on, pocketing her bra instead of putting it on.
She wanted to get back into bed with this rough man instead but she didn't show it. She'd taught countless witnesses how to hide everything, from their identities to their feelings. It stood to reason she'd be a pro at it herself.
He was obviously practiced as well, proving so when, instead of attempting to get her phone number, he simply said, "I'm taking you out. Tomorrow night."
"You're lucky I like bossy guys."
He gave a slow, lazy smile—king of the jungle who could afford to pretend he had patience. "You know Henry's? A couple of blocks from the bar."
"I'm familiar with it."
"I'd pick you up, but I'm betting you'd rather meet me there. Nine o'clock."
"You'd win that bet." She paused. "I am looking forward to a ride on your bike."
He laughed, a throaty growl that hit between her legs. "Anytime, Angel. See you tomorrow."
Chapter Four
Rolling in at odd hours of the morning wasn't anything new for her, but by ten that morning, Abby was exhausted. Hung over. Even so, her body managed to hum with the vibrancy that only good sex could bring. The pleasant twinge of soreness between her legs served to remind her that nothing beat orgasms for stress relief.
She'd stopped by the office briefly, then checked in with Mary, who'd started her new job that day. For eight blissful hours or more, Mary would be someone else's problem. Unless she got fired, which was entirely possible. Abby'd had witnesses in the past who hadn't been able to make it through their first real hour of honest-to-goodness employment.
By the time Abby got home around noon, she was stripping, toeing off her shoes and heading for bed. She juggled her coffee, which was apparently useless for its intended purpose of fueling her body (you had one job, coffee), and the mail she'd collected from the overflowing box.
She dumped the latter on the kitchen table, prepared to leave it. But the familiar handwriting caught her eye and for a long moment she froze, not wanting to touch the innocuous brown envelope with her name scrawled across it.
During another time, she'd be excited to open it. Now, she was reluctant to touch the damned thing. She moved closer, edging it out from under the electric bill to check the postmark and noted that there was none. As per usual for Ethan.
Yet, it arrived within twenty-four hours of Ethan's first phone call to her in months. This perfect confluence of events was no coincidence.
She put the coffee down and began to page through the papers in front of her, not wanting to believe what she was seeing, but unable to look away.
The first thing she saw were the photographs—graphic, bloody, full-color photos of murdered men. Crime scene photos, except these were obviously pre-police involvement. These were pictures taken by a voyeur.
Pictures taken by a killer. They were slanted, done that way to throw the viewer as off-balance as possible.
As if the images within the frames weren't enough to do that.
She paged through, noting that Ethan had made sure she knew which photographs belonged together by paper-clipping everything neatly, almost obsessively so. The backgrounds were different though—she would've known these were different places, different men.
When she got to the very last picture, only then did she put the rest of the packet down, still unread as of yet.
I love killing as much as I love you.
The sick bastard. She barely made it to the bathroom before she vomited, unsure if it was because she'd thought of the gentle man she'd loved as a sick bastard…or because she truly believed he was one.
She imagined that what she'd viewed was merely the tip of the iceberg.
"What do you want from me, Ethan?" she muttered, wiping her mouth with a washcloth and balancing herself in order to brush her teeth.
Then she went back to the table and she looked at the rest of the paperwork. There were missing persons reports, six of them to match with the six murdered men she had pictures of. She looked through each report, noting the dates were over a year's period—this year. His most recent killings…or his only killings?
God, did it matter?
She shoved the papers back into the envelope and stared at it as her brain buzzed the possibilities. About what to do next.
If she ran reports on the missing persons, there'd be a permanent record of her possible involvement. If she involved Teige or Jacoby, same. As an officer of the court, it was her job to report this, but the best she could do was memorize the names, destroy the papers and then plan to Google the names when she was on a public computer.
Or you could forget this ever happened and save yourself. Because these missing persons didn't trigger sympathy from her. Six men between thirty and forty, and none of them looked like angels. Maybe it had something to do with the mug shots on the missing persons fliers.
She burned the papers and the envelope. Deleting the phone call record would just seem suspicious, and she hadn't done anything she needed to hide.
Then why do you feel guilty? Why do you feel like you're being watched?
Chapter Five
She showed at Henry's. If she didn't, she'd be laying all of this crap on Teige's doorstep and she'd already put him in a precarious enough position. Wait and see, she told herself. Wait and see.
She'd learned nothing if not patience from her job.
Henry's was another local favorite with amazing food, one of those places that most people not in the know would drive by without a second glance. She threaded her way through the crowds that congregated by the front door in hopes of securing a table. Most were people she didn't recognize, but there were a few regulars from the bar. There were also bikers who nodded at Ace when he came up from behind her and ushered her toward a waiting back booth.
"You made a reservation. I feel special," she told him as she slid along a padded vinyl seat, clean despite being cracked with age.
"Anyone who doesn't make you feel that way doesn't deserve to spend time with you, Angel." He settled his big, heavily booted feet around hers under the table in a way that might've made her feel trapped in another situation. Tonight, she didn't mind his overprotectiveness, didn't mind that he ordered from the waitress for both of them. Thinking wasn't on the agenda.
And damn, it felt good. She took a sip from the draft Killian's as the plates of chicken wings were set down. They were messy and delicious.
In between eating and drinking, he didn't ask much about her work. In return, she steered clear of his MC involvement, not because she could do anything to hurt his club, but because he wouldn't tell her anything she didn't already know.
Really, if they could eat in silence and then get to the after-dinner part, she'd be fine with that. But she reined it in and they ended up talking about his bike. His most recent trips—California, Nevada, Mexico—all done on the bike "just to see the world."
"Sounds like quite an adventure."
"What about you, Angel? What do you do for adventure?"
"Hustle motorcycle men for their hard-earned money," she teased, found herself running her fingers over his ace of spades tattoo. She still didn't know his real name. She still told herself she didn't care. "You know, if you were in Russia…"
"This tattoo would hail me a thief." He pointed to a tiger on his biceps. "And this?"
"Enforcer."
"You're definitely law enforcement."
"Maybe I'm a criminal. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference." She'd meant it as lighthearted banter, but it didn't come out as even
ly as she'd hoped.
"As long as you know the difference, you should be just fine."
Abby had a moral code, a line she wouldn't cross no matter what. For her family, she'd cross them all. Whether she knew the difference or not wasn't the issue. It was whether or not she cared. "Do you?"
"Know the difference for myself?" He sat back and considered it. "I don't think there needs to be one."
Of course he didn't. Most MCs straddled the line, and not well. It was a rough life. He slung a heavy arm around her and steered her toward the back door as she told him, "My car's out front."
"You wanted a ride on the bike," he reminded her. "Perfect night for it."
She didn't protest any further, followed him out into the cool night air and toward his massive Harley Fatboy. He handed her a helmet and moved closer to help her secure it under her chin and then he leaned down and kissed her.
She wound her arms around his shoulders, leaned against him as his arms engulfed her against his chest.
He murmured her name, over and over, but she was floating.
Finally, she blinked and realized she was flat on her back, looking at a ceiling, not Ace. She sat up, cold, head pounding, with no idea where she was. She felt sick to her stomach, hung over, even, which seemed impossible after two draft beers.
Last she remembered, she was supposed to take a ride on Ace's bike. Had they gotten into an accident? "Am I in a hospital?" she managed, her voice a croak into the semi-darkness.
"You're fine, Abby."
She whirled to see Ace, sitting ten feet from her, watching her every move. She cleared her throat, and even so, her voice still came out a rasp. "Do you have to drug all your dates to get them to fuck you?"
"We didn't fuck." His tone was calm. Measured.
She glanced around. Despite her chills, she was fully dressed, shoes, and all appeared to be well despite the oddly disconnected feeling in her brain.
I haven't been touched.
But what the hell was Ace doing with her, then? "Where am I?" And when Ace didn't answer, she charged for the door.
It was, of course, locked, made of steel, with a narrow window she had to stand on tiptoe to look out of. The hallway beyond was semi-dark and devoid of people to help her…or hurt her.
Which of those was part of his plan?
Get it together, she ordered herself. At least fake being in charge.
She turned back to Ace and straightened her shoulders. "Tell me what's going on. You obviously need me for something." It had to be work related, but there were better ways to get her to help than kidnapping…like simply asking. Was this related to a witness, past or present? How much danger was she in?
He watched her as she ran through possibility after possibility in her mind, a hint of smug amusement on his face that she wanted to slap off. In fact, she got so tired of looking at it she strode forward, partially convinced of the effectiveness of doing just that, but at the last minute, he stood to tower over her.
"I suggest you rethink your plan, Angel," he told her.
"Abby," she practically snarked. "I've never had the pleasure of knowing your name."
"You never asked, Angel. It's Vance. But you can call me Special Agent."
"Over my dead body."
"Could be arranged," he said blithely.
'Special Agent' rolled through her head—it could be FBI or CIA, but if they were asking about Ethan…she'd guess CIA. But why in the hell come to her? "Where am I?" she repeated. "Because if you don't start answering questions, you'll be the one spending a lot of time in a cell like this in the near future."
"You're in no position to be threatening me. Sit, Marshal Abigail Daniels. Sit, and tell me what you know about Ethan Graves."
"What you know about him?" she shot back, refusing to change her tone or expression in any way that would belie her fear that she was now in the hands of the CIA. "Because I'm betting it's more than I do."
Vance's face remained impassive. "Since I'm the one not aiding and abetting a criminal, I get to ask all the questions. Start answering, Abby, because your connections won't help you."
The CIA could effectively bury her, keep her away from Teige, who would spend all his time and resources looking for her. She'd just gotten rid of her guilt. "I'm not aiding and abetting anyone. I haven't seen or spoken to him in months. I haven't seen him in person for over a year."
"You were his girlfriend."
"We dated for five years," was all Abby would agree to.
"Sounds serious."
"I saw him maybe twice a year during all that time."
"Why all the time apart? What did he do that necessitated that?"
"The CIA doesn't operate here," she said suddenly. Evade and escape. Bob and weave.
"Don't tell me you're that naive."
"You're either rogue or unsanctioned."
He leaned in closer. "You're either harboring a murderer or you are one yourself."
"I want to see my sup."
"Nope. Try again." Vance stretched. "You know how this goes. Keep answering questions and let's see how far we get. Nice distraction technique though. Again, why all the time apart? What did Ethan do that necessitated that?"
Were they really doing this? Goddammit, Ethan, what the hell have you done? "Ethan was in the military when we first met."
"Where was he stationed?"
"He was Special Forces. I wasn't privy to that information."
"He never told you where he was?"
"It would put him and his team at risk, Special Agent. Or do you need to brush up on military protocol?"
Vance's smile didn't reach his eyes. Even without the leather jacket and all the tattoos, because the majority of them were magically gone, he was still a big, scary guy when he was angry. And Abby could feel the anger radiating off him when he said, "Keep digging your grave, Angel. The more room, the better."
"I don't know what you want from me."
"More than you're giving. What did Ethan tell you he did for a living?"
"He was in the military. And then he finally told me after some time that he'd been recruited by the CIA."
"And you believed that?" Vance asked.
She thought briefly about Teige and the fact that he was digging into all of this. "I grew up with covert, so yes, it made sense. He told me about his new job to explain the growing gaps between our visits and calls."
"So he shared intel with you?"
"Personal information. We were dating. We didn't discuss our ongoing cases."
"But you did discuss closed ones?"
She pondered briefly how much of her own life Vance already knew about. "I discussed my personal case, which was long finished. I didn't work it—I lived it."
"The case involving a serial killer and your father."
"Yes."
"So you shared classified information."
"You're kidding me, right? That case has been written about in newspapers and magazines. There've been books devoted to the subject. There's nothing classified about my personal memories of almost dying. Of watching my father die, you motherfucker."
Vance's smile was almost feral now. "And the most recent case you almost died during?"
She forced herself to calm down. "Ethan knew I'd been hurt on a case. But I couldn't tell him more about it because it was ongoing. I think I've been more than cooperative. Why don't you tell me what all this questioning surrounding Ethan Graves is really about?"
"Your ex, Ethan Graves, is responsible for a hell of a lot of dead bodies," he told her calmly.
She knew the old adage of 'don't ask a question you don't want to know the answer to,' but the problem was, she already knew the answer.
It still made her sick to hear it.
Vance pointed to a steel-topped table on the other side of the room, specifically the thick folder sitting on it, all of which she noticed for the first time. "Look through it. I'll be back."
He strode past her. The door opened miraculously for h
im and closed fast with a heavy snap. She didn't bother trying to open it again. She heard the lock click into place as the rest of the pieces began to click together inside her mind.
She was in a CIA facility, all because of Ethan. Vance or Ace or whoever the hell he was hadn't had any interest in dating her. He must've known she might not have come in for questioning on her own accord. At the very least, she'd have brought Teige along.
She put on her best show and went to look at the folder, prepared to see the same types of missing persons reports Ethan already sent her. If the CIA knew about the phone call and those letters, Vance was playing that close to the best.
If she gave away all her intel, they'd have zero use for her. She'd be entirely disposable. It was the same position many of the witnesses she'd protected found themselves in. In order to save herself, she had to keep her information to herself. Telling could easily get her killed, not protected.
She approached the table, all business, as though this was a case she had no personal interest in. If she acted like she was in charge of the case, half the battle was won.
The dispassion lasted until she opened the folder and saw the photo that had to have been purposely positioned on top, designed to get a reaction.
It did. No "acting surprised" necessary. She shoved her first against her mouth, bile rising in her throat at the image of the dead woman in the crime scene picture. She'd been staked into the ground, spread-eagled, naked…and she looked just like Abby.
Vance watched Abby through the one-way mirror, his entire body strung tight as fuck with tension. She'd begun to page through the rest of the file photos with an attempt at a dispassionate eye. The only dead woman had been the first picture. The rest were dismembered males of all ages, mainly Caucasian. The file contained a write-up on Ethan Graves, name and rank kind of shit.
Now was the time to let Abby fill in the missing intel.
Vance was only partially hoping she could.
He strode back inside the room where Abby was being held and threw a water bottle and a towel in her direction. She'd vomited in the garbage pail after the first photo, which was exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for. To her credit, she'd pulled herself together quickly, but he'd given her strong shit to get her passed out and back to the facility. Combined with the photos, he'd known the effects both would have on her.
Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel Page 3
