Nothing to Fear

by Juno Rushdan

  “Emily. Please.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but—”

  “I get it. It’s unlike me to be so forward. I’m not the put-yourself-out-there type of girl.” She eased back, running a hand through her copper-blond hair. “When I’m around you, I find myself saying whatever pops into my head. I can’t shut my mouth—like right now. I should really stop talking. Let you get back to work.” She spun as if ready to bolt.

  “Wait.” He hated the noticeable edge in his voice and erased it. She tossed a glance at him over her shoulder. “Once this situation is done, let’s talk.”

  She smiled, rousing something long forgotten inside him. “I’d like that.”

  * * *

  Inside the conference room, Gideon cursed the lingering smell of Sybil Parker. Her overpowering perfume infested the air, expensive and fussy with a dizzying mix of scents. Trapped in a room with any fragrance, especially one so potent, would give him a headache before too long.

  Setting the container of scones on the table, he sat beside Maddox, grateful she knew him well enough not to wear any perfume, much less something that horrendous.

  From the conversation he’d overheard in the hall, they’d caught a break in finding the mole, but for some reason, the chief was locking horns with Parker over the new evidence. It was rare to hear the term whitewash used, and even more rare for such an order to be issued. He only knew what it meant in such excruciating detail because people with his training were the ones who did the cleansing.

  Tension hung in the conference room like a noose. Ares sat across the table eyeing him, arms folded. Reece sighed and tipped the bill of his “Beaver Lover” cap down. Castle and Alistair swiped through pages on their touchscreens, reading something with furrowed brows while the forensic accountants whispered among themselves.

  “What’s up?” he asked Maddox.

  “See for yourself.” She tapped the built-in screen in front of him and brought up a forensic report.

  The chief strode into the room and sat at the head of the table. To his right and left were the forensic accountants. Brainiacs in brown and black suits respectively, who lived and breathed to cull data and follow monetary trails.

  “I still find this hard to believe,” Sanborn said.

  Gideon scanned the digital documents. An offshore account. Grand Cayman Island, Nova World Bank. One-million-dollar balance.

  Account holder: Willow Harper.

  He went dead still, eyes locked on her name.

  “We have enough for you to hold her for interrogation,” the heavier-set accountant in the brown suit said. “This type of account had to be opened in person. We’ll request copies of all supporting documentation, but these banks are notorious for not cooperating. We can’t wait for additional proof that may never turn up.”

  Sanborn ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Let’s start with verifying the date the account was opened and cross-check her whereabouts. If she was here at work, that’s reasonable doubt, and we can take a step back.”

  “Not necessarily,” the lanky accountant in black said. “If she was out from work anytime within the month prior to the account being opened, that would be enough. Account holders can submit documentation at least thirty days in advance and specify a future date for activation. With the short flight time, she’d only need to be out one day. And if she planned it correctly, flying in the night before, theoretically she could’ve made it back early enough, only missing half a day.”

  Gideon’s teeth ached for a piece of gum, but he held a neutral expression as he read the rest of the information. Dates. Amounts of deposits.

  The account had been opened with a four-hundred-thousand-dollar initial deposit right after Kelli died. A fist of ice punched his heart.

  Sanborn had given everyone the day off when they received news about the accident, and all personnel had been excused from work for the funeral. Ample time for anyone to have flown out, opened the account, and returned without missing an unexcused work day, but the documentation painted a flaming bull’s-eye on Willow.

  This was bad. His pulse hammered at his temples and he fought to stay focused, to think, for Willow’s sake.

  Gideon never went against protocol, never acted against evidence, but his gut was churning with certainty that this was a setup. Someone had gone to tremendous effort and trouble to frame Willow.

  “I’ll check the TSA data logs for a specific date,” Maddox said. “Her passport would’ve been scanned departing and reentering the country. But I’m with you, this doesn’t feel right.”

  “According to ITM Parker, Ms. Harper didn’t pass the polygraph last week.” The lanky accountant looked at Sanborn, his gaze stern.

  Every muscle in Gideon’s body tightened. Willow was the worst at deception. When he’d asked about the cut on her face, she’d gotten choked up, but she hadn’t lied.

  “The first was inconclusive.” Sanborn leaned back in his chair. “Harper has a condition the examiner didn’t understand. Nothing that prevents her from doing her job, but it skewed the results. She passed the second polygraph without any doubt.”

  The information Gideon had read last night on ASD substantiated the fact that Willow might have difficulty passing a high-stress examination administered by a stranger. For someone with her extraordinary talent and verifiable condition, a covert agency such as theirs would allow accommodations. They’d given her multiple opportunities to pass, but it also made her the perfect choice to take the fall for someone else. During an interrogation under pressure, her answers could be read as evasive, sealing her supposed guilt.

  “Are you okay?” Maddox whispered to Gideon.

  He met her gaze, raking his mind over what had given away his concern. “I ate something bad last night.” He grimaced and held his stomach. “Probably the sushi.”

  Nodding, Maddox refocused on the main discussion.

  Willow was no mole. Gideon would stake his career on it. But things might get even worse. More falsified evidence incriminating her could surface. And if she was held in custody while they tried to prove her innocence, the real traitor would find a way to get to her like they had gotten to Novak. Whoever was setting her up must be confident that either the evidence would crucify her, or they could kill her.

  “You should pull her clearance. Begin interrogation,” the guy in the brown suit said. “Even ITM Parker agrees with that course of action.”

  Gideon repeated the offshore account number in his mind, memorizing it. “The last person to enter our holding cell was murdered.”

  “I presume you have a safe house somewhere in the city. You could hold her there,” the black suit suggested.

  Sure, they had a safe house but wouldn’t disclose the location. Not to the suits or even the director of national intelligence.

  “We have to entertain the possibility,” Castle said, “that someone could reach out and touch her there. We don’t know how deep this problem goes.”

  The traitor worked for a mysterious information broker. They knew that much. Novak, the psychopath who had been murdered under their noses, insisted the broker had spies all over the damn place, from government agencies to high-value corporations.

  “We should turn her over to a different agency,” Gideon said deadpan, feigning ignorance that he’d just pulled the pin from a live grenade with the suggestion.

  Sanborn’s jaw tightened, a vein in his temple bulging. The brown suit nodded, bright-eyed with enthusiasm. The black suit launched into a list of pros and cons.

  The idea would never leave the room. The Gray Box couldn’t call attention to itself. Besides, no agency wanted to admit they had an in-house problem they couldn’t handle. Not to mention that red tape required time. And Parker had the authority to take this over Sanborn’s head to the DNI and all the way up to the president if Willow wasn’t detained
today.

  Protocol dictated that Sanborn interrogate her and hold her in custody. She had an inconclusive polygraph and supposedly one million dollars sitting in a bank on Grand Cayman Island. Sanborn wasn’t in a position to refuse.

  Gideon stood, holding his stomach. “Excuse me. Bad sushi last night. I’m going to see if Doc has anything to help.”

  Sanborn waved at him to leave as if relieved to be rid of him, but Maddox stared at Gideon with her hawk-eyed gaze. He strolled out of the room and headed to his cubicle, a rough plan full of holes forming in his mind.

  If he miscalculated in the slightest in the next five minutes, he could end up with a bullet in his head, and Willow would be left to whatever fate the mole had in store for her.

  He hustled to his desk. The gut-reaction idea forming in his head was insane. It was madness to go against the evidence and behind Sanborn’s back no less, but there wasn’t any other way to keep her safe. He had to get Willow out of the Gray Box now.

  Yesterday, someone possibly tampered with her brake line. Today, there was an offshore account in her name. What would happen tomorrow? The traitor had managed to kill Aleksander Novak, an experienced assassin with combat training. Taking out someone like Willow would be easy if given the opportunity.

  This investigation would drag on, the team’s attention divided between protecting Willow in custody while trying to prove her innocence. Opportunities would be plentiful, and the mole was clever.

  Opening a drawer, he spotted the lightweight bulletproof vest he’d acquired while working with the special operations unit of the Mossad—the Israeli intelligence service. True badasses. The Israeli-designed vest hugged the body like a glove, the best he’d ever seen. He stuffed it inside the empty rucksack he kept for weighted jogs—a training routine he’d picked up from Reece—then scribbled a note telling Maddox to have Willow’s car inspected by someone in forensics she trusted, along with the address of the garage. He put it on her desk, where only she’d see it. Telling the chief what’d happened to Willow’s car wouldn’t clear her. The mechanic’s assessment proved nothing, but maybe Maddox could dig up something concrete the chief could use.

  Walking as quickly as possible without drawing attention, he took the long way to Intelligence to pass by the break room. As he darted in, a woman from Parker’s department, Nicole Tully, threw him a high-beam smile.

  He flashed a superficial grin in return.

  Once Nicole left with a cup of coffee, he unhooked the ABC fire extinguisher from the wall and threw it into the rucksack. Duct tape on the counter caught his eye, and he swiped the roll. Fastening the bag loosely, he pressed on to find Willow.

  There wasn’t a minute to spare. The second the shit hit the fan, Willow and Gideon would both be in the crosshairs of his own team.

  11

  Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia

  Friday, July 5, 9:25 a.m. EDT

  Willow glimpsed Gideon’s imposing frame stalking up behind her in the reflection of her computer monitor. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her insides squeezed. Hadn’t he humiliated her enough?

  He wanted nothing to do with her, message received. No need to repeat it.

  Sweeping up beside her, he snatched her purse.

  “What are you doing?” She yanked out her earbuds, gawking up at him.

  “Don’t ask questions. You’re in danger. Get up and walk with me.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Now, Willow.” His low tone had a deadly edge, driving her to spring to her feet.

  She reached for her identification card stuck in the log-in unit connected to her computer.

  “Leave it.” The harshness of the order made her flinch. His body, tone, eyes—all of it was hard and cold as an iceberg about to capsize her world. “Walk with me.”

  Her heart started racing, but her legs were frozen in place.

  “Please, Willow. There’s no time. Walk with me.”

  She nodded. The slight movement fired the rest of her body into action. She slipped on her shoes, spun the binary globe on her desk and hurried alongside him.

  “I’m sure you’re flagged.” His voice sounded so calm, it was eerie. “Someone in ITM is probably monitoring your computer activity. If you log off, they’ll ask security to stop you.”

  “Why would I be flagged?” She scanned the Intel section to see if anyone noticed them.

  “Don’t glance around like you’re scared. Look straight ahead. Trust me, please.”

  Straightening, she trained her gaze on their path. The hallway was clear. Trotting to keep pace with him, she couldn’t process everything, like her brain was short-circuiting.

  They rounded the corner. The elevator was within sight.

  Panic started creeping in. Why did she have to leave the building? Why would the ITM department have security stop her? “What’s going on?”

  “Hit the button for the elevator.” He darted down the hallway without waiting for her to acknowledge him and unhooked a fire extinguisher from the wall.

  She did as he asked, her breath backing up in her lungs.

  Coming up beside her, he stuffed the red cylinder inside a huge tan backpack.

  “What are we doing?” she asked, trying to keep from spiraling into a tizzy.

  The heavy doors opened, and they dashed inside.

  He slapped L for the lobby and tossed her his car keys and her purse. “If security stops us, use me as cover. Stay behind me. Run to the car.”

  Her queasy belly pitched and rolled. She fastened her gaze to the lit numbers on the elevator display. “What are you talking about? Cover from what?”

  Out the corner of her eye, she saw him pull off his shirt and strap on a bulletproof vest. The realization was a slap in the face. A bulletproof vest meant he expected gunfire.

  Did she need a vest? “Who’s going to shoot at us?”

  He threw his shirt back on. “The sniper hidden in the lobby. Possibly.”

  Oh my God. Oh my God. She’d heard rumors about the last-resort security measure but hadn’t believed it. Sometimes people said things to mess with her, but this was no joke.

  Her gaze fixed to the illuminated five on the elevator panel. “How possible? What are the odds we’ll get shot at?”

  “Sixty-forty. In our favor.”

  “Forty percent chance of getting shot at by snipers?” Was he serious?

  The unmistakable harsh click of a gun chambering a round echoed inside the elevator and Willow’s chest. The situation was getting worse by the second, and Gideon hadn’t explained anything.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, watching the numbers on the display change from four to three. Bile burned up her throat.

  He pulled two fire extinguishers from his pack and shoved both into her arms. “They think you’re the mole.”

  She gasped, recoiling from the ludicrous idea. Ludicrous and horrifying.

  “They found an offshore account with a million bucks. Had your name on it.”

  It was like the floor dropped from under her. She shook her head, fingers tightening around the steel canisters. Impossible. There had to be a mistake.

  Two lit up on the panel. Her saliva dried up completely and she couldn’t swallow.

  Wrapping duct tape around both red cylinders, binding them together, he said, “I know you’re innocent. No time to discuss it. We need to get out of the building. When those doors open, go to the car. Do. Not. Stop.”

  They passed the first sublevel. He stuffed the extinguishers into the deep bag, leaving the flap on top open, then took the strap of her purse and slipped it over her head across her body.

  L illuminated and the elevator pinged. The steel doors slid open. Nausea rippled through her, and she feared she’d puke.

  He ushered her into the lobby, his bag on his shoulder. “If we get sep
arated, don’t go home. Stay away from family, anything familiar.”

  Separated. Where was she supposed to go? Familiarity and family were the glue holding together her carefully orchestrated life.

  She floated through the lobby, unable to process how her legs were moving. Nothing seemed real. Not Gideon at her side, not his locked and loaded weapon, not the allegation she was the mole. And certainly not a sniper hidden in the lobby. The ballooning lump in her throat threatened to choke her.

  Her heart drummed, her whole body growing weaker with each step. Gripping the car keys in a fist, metal digging into her palms, the fingers of her other hand tapped wildly on her purse as she strained to focus on breathing and walking.

  The phone at the security desk rang. One of the guards picked up the receiver. “Topside.”

  “Hurry,” Gideon whispered. “Our odds just dropped. Thirty-seventy. Against us.”

  She quickened her step. Her heels clicked in a machine-gun staccato matching her pulse. They closed in on the turnstile as the guard’s gaze flickered up to them, and she realized she didn’t have her badge to swipe through.

  “Officer Stone, Officer Harper,” the guard said. “I need you two to stop.”

  “Run through the metal detectors.” Gideon stopped, hands raised, providing cover for her with his body.

  She bolted through the steel frame of the sensor. The clacking of her heels flattened in her ears. Sprinting, she ran so fast, her feet barely touched the concrete floor.

  The outer front steps loomed. A few more feet. Not far, but the space stretched in her mind, escape receding from her grasp. Her heart pounded under the rush of adrenaline. She reached for the door, and the security alarm blared.

  The deafening noise pierced her eardrums, and dizzying bursts of white light flashed in the lobby. Willow covered her ears, her senses shredded, and dropped to her knees.

  12

  Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia

  Friday, July 5, 9:32 a.m. EDT

  The harsh wail of the security alarm blared in the lobby. Gideon stared down at the red laser dot painted center mass on his chest.