by Juno Rushdan
Her heart hurt as if he’d dragged it across sandpaper. She was lost on how to fake her way through this. How was she going to bear two days on the boat with him?
Her fingers throbbed with restlessness and her mind spun. She pulled on a T-shirt and the sumptuous sweater. Climbing on the bed, she hugged her knees to her chest and rocked, wanting to shrink into herself. Being trapped in this box of a room for hours would drive her stir-crazy. If only she had her computer and the internet—an electronic lifeline to cling to.
With nothing familiar to buoy her, she had to figure out how to stay afloat and not drown.
24
Arlington, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 7:55 p.m. EDT
Sanborn strode into Rocky’s, gritting his teeth at being reduced to skulking around in a bar because his multimillion-dollar, state-of-the-art Gray Box facility had been compromised.
Not just by the mole conspiring in their midst. He suspected the walls had eyes and ears. Sybil Parker was gunning for Willow by any means necessary, including trying to twist any conversation or correspondence into a way to save her own hide. Not even the conference room was safe after the stunt Gideon had pulled.
Sanborn nodded his thanks to Rocky for arranging to shut down the bar under the guise of training to give him the place for a clandestine powwow with his tactical team. She waved and locked the door on her way out, leaving them alone. As the sister-in-law of a black ops member, Jagger—currently deployed to the sandbox—Rocky was family and could be trusted.
The team looked out for her and patronized her bar so frequently, they should have stools engraved with their names.
Sanborn’s divorce had been finalized shortly after he stood up the Gray Box. His wife of twenty-three years closed that chapter on his life, putting an end to the dinner parties and barbecues they used to hold for his team at their lavish home when he was with the Agency.
Now, he preferred to keep a little distance, except for his second-in-command, Knox, who already knew him far too well and was also deployed. Sanborn guided and protected all his people, would sacrifice for them if necessary, but he couldn’t let them in as he once had. Still, every now and again, he needed to bring them together in a social setting. Remind them that they were more than coworkers, tight as family, and the team would be stronger for it. And when he held one of his gatherings, he did it at Rocky’s.
Today, however, he’d brought them here for a darker reason.
“Is everyone clean?” he asked.
Heads nodded around the table.
Cell phones should’ve been turned off in the parking lot of the Gray Box, so it’d show as their last known location. Removing the battery prevented them from being tracked. Cutting the power supply was the only way to temporarily disable a roving bug or any other potential malware on their phones capable of spoofing an authentic shutdown while keeping the phone very much on, traceable, and vulnerable to eavesdropping. Then they were to run a surveillance detection route to the bar, ensuring they weren’t followed.
Sanborn sat at the head of the table. “The evidence on Willow Harper is convenient and tidy. It reeks. I don’t believe she’s guilty.” He’d plucked that brilliant ingenue as an NSA newbie, and in all the time he’d known her, she’d never been one who’d prevaricate. “I suspect neither does Reaper. If anyone here isn’t on the same page, you should leave now.”
Heads bobbed in agreement and butts stayed planted.
“Has Reaper contacted anyone?” Sanborn asked the group but stared at Maddox.
If Reaper had reached out to anyone, it would’ve been her. The two were close. Very close. Sanborn had once worried something romantic might’ve started between them after Gideon’s wife died and the grieving widower started sleeping at Maddox’s place. Office hookups that went badly inevitably spelled trouble, as he’d learned from experience.
But office romances that took a wrong turn careened into disasters.
Fortunately, Reaper had only crashed at her place for a few weeks. Eventually, he had started making his rounds at Rocky’s, and Maddox hadn’t seemed to care.
Maddox sat silent, holding Sanborn’s gaze. The deliberation in her eyes was subtle, but the fact that it was there at all stuck in his craw.
“He called me,” she said finally.
“I’m happy to see you’re being forthright and no longer consider me a possible suspect.”
“Whoever the leak is wants Harper dead. If you were the mole, she already would be.”
“Thank you.” Maddox didn’t mean it as a compliment, but he’d take it as such.
“Gideon thinks her brakes were sabotaged,” she said. “Forensics is examining her car.”
Sanborn shrugged. “Even if her brakes were tampered with, it doesn’t prove anything. There’s damning circumstantial evidence against her. What’s Reaper’s plan?”
“Follow the money.”
“Good.” It had to be done with boots on the ground, since the bank couldn’t be hacked into from the outside.
“He’s too smart to fly,” Alistair said, “but going by boat will be dicey.”
“Why?” Sanborn asked.
Alistair took a long pull on his tap beer. “The tropical storm in the Atlantic was upgraded to a hurricane. It’s been erratic, fast-moving, and was supposed to swing up the Gulf. But it just turned toward the Eastern Seaboard, putting itself smack-dab in their path.”
Wonderful. Reaper better have been resourceful enough to get more than a gosh-darned dinghy, or those two were going to be fish food. “Is there a protective detail on Willow’s father?”
“You bet,” said Reece. “Local law enforcement’s there around the clock. In the first 911 call that came in about the fire, someone mentioned that they saw Willow arguing with her father and overheard her threaten to kill him. Our surveillance of the house was jammed at the time the fire was set.”
This tumbleweed kept rolling and growing uglier by the minute. “Get a copy of the call. Whoever made it is our mole.”
“Problem,” Castle said. “Willow is our best hacker and the only one in that department we can trust.”
“We have another option.” Ares looked around the table like he was reluctant to share it.
From the corner of his eye, Sanborn glimpsed Castle shake his head.
“Spill it,” Sanborn said. “I don’t have energy to waste ripping anyone a new one over a transgression.”
“Well then, bless us, father, for we have sinned.” Ares cracked a dark smile. The look was downright menacing. “A private security and risk management firm has been helping us go through the electronic data we’ve been gathering on all the suspects.”
The artery throbbing in Sanborn’s temple nearly burst as his blood pressure spiked through the roof. Were they trying to give him a stroke?
He folded his hands on the table. “You served civilians the personal data of the director of the most covert unit in the country on a silver platter? My personal data?”
Ares’s eyebrows rose. “Well, not your data, sir. You haven’t had any transmissions from your apartment for us to intercept since this mess started.”
Relief feathered through him, ever so lightly. He’d only been home long enough to pick up fresh suits and workout gear. “So instead, you handed civilians the identities of the support personnel for the most covert unit in the country?”
“When you phrase it like that, sir, you make it sound far worse. Eyes and ears on the information have been limited. It was a calculated risk, yes, but our backs are against the wall on this one.”
They had no idea. It wasn’t their backs against the wall but rather their heads on the chopping block, with a whitewash as a possibility.
“It’s the company where Cole works,” Maddox said, referring to her fiancé. “His boss, Donovan Carmichael, said based on your history and our situa
tion, you’d agree he was the best option.”
Donovan was prior Agency, knew the ropes, knew Sanborn, and was the epitome of discretion. “Better than turning to someone in the NSA or CIA.” Unfortunate, but true. “Going to Donovan was a smart move. See if he can get us the 911 call.”
25
Atlantic Ocean
Saturday, July 6, 10:35 a.m. EDT
The cruiser slashed through the choppy blue waves. Gideon had pushed the throttle hard all night, foregoing sleep. Thanks to the impressive pickup of the twin engines—he estimated three hundred horsepower—they topped out at thirty knots.
They were far enough out in the ocean not to see land. A cool, salty breeze blew in from the open doors to the rear.
He checked the time.
Willow had stopped moving around in the bedroom shortly after sunrise and was finally resting. Every minute without her dragged. Giddy anticipation wound him up, and he itched to see her, talk to her. At the same damn time, he dreaded being physically near her, wanting her in a way that would only lead to disaster.
The toilet flushed in the bathroom and water ran. He white-knuckled the wheel. Damn, he hadn’t even seen her yet and he was grinning like a fool on the inside.
She sauntered into the kitchen, wearing his T-shirt and her dirty skirt.
“Good morning. How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Why didn’t you put on one of the dresses I bought?”
“The synthetic material will irritate me, but I’ll put it on when we get to Grand Cayman so I don’t draw attention.”
He’d considered numerous factors, except that one. “I’m sorry I got the wrong thing.”
“You couldn’t have known.” She turned toward him. Her eyes normally sparkled every fleck of brown, green, and gold in the light, but they were dim and swollen as if she’d spent most of the night crying. She looked drained and her face was drawn. “I’m starving. How about I make breakfast?”
“Sounds great, if you don’t mind.” Something in his chest dipped at giving her the cold shoulder last night, when she probably needed a little comfort.
He hadn’t been equipped to handle it with her wrapped in a towel, but he’d make more of an effort today.
She arranged food in an orderly line on the tiny counter, whipped out pans, and got to work, throwing slabs of bacon in a sizzling skillet, cracking eggs, and chopping fruit. A sense of peace settled over him as he watched her.
Strange. Quiet mundanity usually keyed him up, setting him so much on edge, it was impossible to enjoy it. As if he should be prepping in some way—his body with a workout, guarding his mind against a question he needed to evade, cleaning his weapons, steeling his soul for some new horrific task.
But right now, there was only Willow and the smell of bacon.
“Food is ready.” She carried two plates up the steps past him to the L-shaped dining unit.
He killed the engine and joined her.
They each took a side of the L-shaped settee. He dug into the scrambled eggs. Perfectly cooked, light and creamy. The bacon was crisp with a hint of chewy texture, the way he preferred. She’d even made a fruit salad and toast smeared with smashed avocado and a sprinkle of salt.
“This is a kick-ass breakfast.”
She nibbled a piece of bacon and bit into the toast. “Breakfast is my specialty. Before my mom died, we would cook breakfast together from scratch. Waffles, pancakes, frittatas, buttermilk biscuits with gravy. And I make a mean hollandaise sauce.”
The mouthwatering rundown had him anxious to have her whip up more food, pronto.
“Those scones you made were amazing.” He wiped crumbs from the corner of her mouth with his thumb, thinking about her dad’s reaction to her frozen meals. “You never helped your mother with dinner?”
“My dad always made dinner.” Her gaze drifted, a shadow of sadness falling over her. “He said cooking alone, listening to music, relaxed him. He’d play Frank Sinatra or Coltrane.”
When she didn’t go back to eating, he took her hand in his.
“His Hodgkin’s got bad three years ago. The fatigue and pain have been hard on him, and my cooking hasn’t helped.” She gave a woeful look. “He always wants me to make breakfast for dinner—waffles, home fries with sausage and eggs—but the doctor said to watch his diet. Low cholesterol. Low sodium. Low fat. I’ve tried seasoning things with broth and herbs, but he’s not happy.”
The closeness and bond of affection she shared with her father was beautiful. Special. They were lucky to have that.
“What happened to your mom?”
“Breast cancer. She died when I was eleven.” Her voice was solemn, like someone reading an obituary out loud.
To lose her mother at that age must’ve been tough. He wanted to scoot closer and comfort her in his arms, but asking these types of personal questions already erased and redrew the professional chalk line closer to the point of no return.
“Did your sisters take over around the house?”
She tucked hair behind her ears. “Laurel is ten years older than me, and Ivy’s eight. When my mom passed, they were at college, busy in their own lives. Ivy checked on me, took me shopping, got me fitted for my first bra.” She shrugged. “That sort of thing. Until she moved to Paris.”
As an only child, Gideon was used to fending for himself. After his dad left, it was like his mother had resented being a parent. It used to eat away at him. He’d been desperate for her to want him, to have the normalcy other kids took for granted.
Then someone had come along who reformed how he saw the world, changing him forever.
“I hope my dad is going to be okay.” She stroked her bare throat. No pearls.
Before he could stop himself, he took her hand from her neck into his. “I’m sure the doctors are going to do everything they can to help him.”
The Gray Box would know about her dad by now. Hopefully, they’d connected the dots and assigned a protective detail to watch over him. Whoever hurt her father to bait Willow to come out of hiding would want to tie up any loose ends eventually.
“Try to focus on something else. Any distraction is good.”
She nodded with a brave smile, and he let her hand go.
While they ate, she told him stories about her childhood. Little things she missed about her mom, embarrassing slipups with boys, how hard it had been to make friends in school. She was like a spout turned on, pouring herself out to him. No filters. No shyness.
He took it in, not stopping her. It wasn’t as though they could spend two days together in confined quarters and not speak at all. Idle chatter usually grated on him, but her openness was surprisingly relaxing.
She picked up their empty plates when they were done and went to the galley.
In the kitchen, she turned on the radio. An upbeat pop song filled the cabin. Finishing his black coffee, he strode to the helm. She washed dishes, bobbing her head at first and slowly working up to shimmying her hips to the beat of the music, drawing a smile to his face.
Talking must’ve helped her. He admired how free and open she could be in some circumstances. The vulnerability to put yourself out there the way she did took great courage and strength. She was far braver and stronger than him in that regard.
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and sauntered closer, hips swaying to the beat of the music, a slight jiggle to her breasts. Her lightness was infectious. He was almost weightless, like he’d swallowed a balloon, but he couldn’t let his common sense drift away as well.
She was on the run and under immense pressure to clear her name. He couldn’t take advantage of her. They had to talk about boundaries, for both their sakes.
“Dance with me,” she said.
“I don’t dance.” And he didn’t, which was a good thing. Where Willow was concerned, he was a we
ak man. A little cha-cha could easily lead to the horizontal mambo.
“Come on.” She tried to tug him from his seat to no avail. “It’ll keep me from thinking. You said any distraction is good.”
“I never dance.” He sharpened his tone, needing some emotional and physical distance from her. “Besides, I’m steering the boat. I need to keep us on track.” In more ways than one.
Willow looked deflated, that renewed spot of light in her eyes going back out.
Guilt ate away at him. He was the most conflicted bastard on the planet at that moment. Comforting her and not getting sucked down the emotional rabbit hole were two needs at war.
She retreated outside to the deck with the notebook and box of drawing pencils he’d picked up for her from the store.
He kept his back turned to her, smothering the desire to stare at her. She was so beautiful.
Proximity and physical contact had always been occupational hazards as a government assassin. Now it seemed they had become personal ones too.
26
Saint Margaret’s Hospital, Vienna, Virginia
Saturday, July 6, 2:45 p.m. EDT
The air in the parking garage was thick with unrelenting heat and sticky humidity.
Omega sat in the passenger’s side of the van with the window lowered, sucking down a disgusting wheatgrass protein smoothie. His taste buds revolted with every gag-worthy swallow.
The protein was essential for him, and the wheatgrass was a treat for Daedalus.
Seven years ago, Daedalus had remarked how the nutrient-rich sprout enhanced Omega’s essence, making the taste addictive. What lover wouldn’t endure the putrid flavor of liquefied lawn clippings after receiving such an endorsement? He’d been slinging back the sickening green stuff ever since. Now that was love, or some twisted version of it.
But he was going to sever the spinal cord of the next motherfucker who got his order wrong and had the wheatgrass added to his smoothie instead of getting a double shot on the side.
