by Evans, Misty
Irritation burned in her chest. He’d been testing her. “If we’re going to be partners…”
“If we’re going to be partners, we have to trust each other. You don’t trust me—yet—and I don’t know how deep your PTSD runs.”
Ronni signaled, left the flow of traffic, and slid into the first parking spot she could find. The fog had lifted and the sun glowed yellow in the sky. The cool morning air made her snug her small sweater closer. She really should have put the top up on the car. “I don’t have post-traumatic stress disorder. I don’t have a disorder of any kind.”
“The shrinks cleared you for field duty. Big deal. You and I both know that doesn’t mean jack shit when you’re inside a criminal organization and facing down life or death stakes.”
True. Didn’t mean she had to like the fact or his condescending attitude. “I thought you wanted to go inside The Church with me.”
“I do.”
“You’re not winning Brownie points with this lecture.”
“But you know I’m right.”
“You think I’m going to break when push comes to shove.”
“Will you?”
She honestly didn’t know. The anxiety attacks worried her. But that was her issue and she would deal with it. “I’ve beaten some pretty high odds in my lifetime. Survived Wrightsville and Daniel Karsni’s fanatical teachings. Survived a psychotic killer. Now I’m here, and regardless of my issues, if you’re my partner, I’ll give a hundred and ten percent. That’s all you need to know.”
The faintest of smiles crossed his lips. “Then let’s go get that breakfast. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Chapter Six
When Thomas emerged from his bathroom, Ronni was in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee and munching on a piece of toast. The coffee and toast smells permeated the air as Ronni read a tablet computer.
The breakfast aromas were nothing new in this apartment—toast and coffee were diet staples, often the only things he had time to make before jetting out the door. But this morning, with Ronni seated at his tiny kitchenette by the window and the sun on her face, the room felt different.
Comfortable.
Inviting.
Snap out of it. It wasn’t as if he never had a beautiful woman sitting at his kitchen table…
Actually, he hadn’t. Not in a long time. A very long time. Being an undercover DEA agent didn’t allow for a lot of personal time. The baggage of putting anyone he cared about in danger was too great. He’d seen it with Cooper and Celina.
And keeping secrets put too much pressure on a relationship. He didn’t bring women home. It had become an unwritten rule. He didn’t like them getting in his business or seeing the real Thomas Mann.
He paused in the doorway, ran a hand over his freshly shaved jaw. Ronni had kicked off her fuck-me shoes and propped her feet on the chair across from her.
Make yourself at home, partner. “Couldn’t wait for breakfast?” Couldn’t wait for me?
She glanced up, startled, eyes wide and body tense. That look…he’d seen a similar one in his own eyes when he’d come back from Afghanistan.
Fear.
In the span of a heartbeat, however, a veil fell over Ronni’s face, shutting down the emotion. Not a veil—a wall. Slammed down and locked tight. Her eyes did that thing that made him feel like he was on display…they glided over his frame, inventorying him from top to bottom, before settling on his face. The tension in her shoulders eased. “You took so long, I nearly keeled over with hunger. Is that your plan to get out of being my partner? Starve me to death?”
The kitchen was small like the rest of the apartment, and painted a pale yellow—his landlady called it “buttercream”. White appliances and yellow and white checked curtains added a ridiculous cottage feel to it. Ronni’s big hair, dark skin, loud dress, and even louder makeup flashed like a neon sign. An exotic bird completely out of its environment.
Amazing how she could rock the conservative FBI agent and the Miami Vice hooker look. “How about we hit the pancake place up the block? They have a smart-ass special you’d probably like.”
She ignored his remark, came back with a snarky one of her own. “You can’t cook a simple meal of eggs and bacon, Mann?”
“I haven’t been home much in a while.” And never bring a woman here. “I’m low on supplies.”
Those dark brown eyes of hers held his, calculating, probing. She’d looked in his fridge, knew he had more than bread and coffee. “I’d rather stay here. We have a lot to do to get you ready for tonight, and I’d prefer not to discuss this stuff in public.”
He retrieved a clean cup from the dish drainer and poured himself some coffee. So much for getting her out of his place. “What’s tonight?”
“Open Door Saturday Services.” She held up the tablet, zoomed in so he could read the headline of the website page. The Church that love is building…”iChurch opens its doors to the public on the first Saturday night of each month for an evening of praise and worship. That’s Church-speak for recruiting.”
“Will Adam be there?”
She laid down the tablet. “He gives the call to action speech at the end.”
Thomas sipped the coffee, hot and strong. She was discreetly doing that eye thing again, skimming his body as if searching for something. Everything below his waist tightened. “Will he recognize you?”
Her attention refocused on the tablet screen. “Would you recognize someone you hadn’t seen since you were three?”
No. “So what’s the plan?”
Standing, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. Thomas forced his attention away from the tight dress revealing waaay too much of her stunning thighs and soft curvy cleavage, all on display when she moved like that. “First, I want to wash my face and change clothes. Then I’ll indoctrinate you.”
“Sounds dirty.”
“You wish.” A leather bag sat on the floor by the back door. She scooped it up, hugged it to her chest. Without the heels, she was considerably shorter than him, even with her afro. Her father was black, mother white. A combo that produced an exotic-looking daughter. “Where can I change?”
Losing the dress. Too bad. He could only hope she’d put on that tight skirt from the previous day. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Don’t snoop.”
“Snoop?” Chuckling, she headed out of the kitchen. “Like I care about your porn collection under the sink.”
Who had time for porn? He barely had time to brush his teeth most days on the taskforce. “Just keep your hands off my stuff, and don’t leave your clothes all over the floor.”
The bathroom door slammed. Thomas smiled to himself. He’d bet money she would leave the hooker dress on the floor just to annoy him. Talk about porn. All he’d have to do was imagine her slipping off that dress and his cock would go haywire.
Which was exactly what it was doing now.
Fuck. Just what he needed…a hard-on for his new partner.
Setting down the coffee, he adjusted his pants and chuckled under his breath. Guilt, my man. That’s all this is. He felt protective of her and she was a beautiful woman. Perfectly normal for his Cro-Magnon side to feel attracted to her.
But that’s as far as it could go. They had to work together, at least in the short-term, and he would not blow this. He had to get rid of the guilt and do his job. Guilt was a useless emotion. You couldn’t fix your mistakes. He’d learned that from his old man. All you could do was move on and not screw the fuck up again. He had to forget Ronnie was six kinds of sexy and stop letting his past failure at protecting her drive his actions now.
Opening the fridge, he pulled out eggs, bacon, cheese and tabasco sauce. He would make her breakfast, get through the “indoctrination”—whatever the hell that is—and go to this gig tonight.
Finding the evidence needed to arrest Adam Karsni would take a week. Two, tops. Cooper had assured him it was a get-in and get-out assignment. All Thomas had to do was help Ronni obtain that e
vidence—which would make up for his past failure with her—and she’d be on her merry way back to Des Moines or somewhere else in the blink of an eye. He could get her out of his system and move on to his next assignment free of the guilt.
Whatever he did, he could not let their relationship or this case turn into a major goatfuck. No more mistakes.
Whistling to himself, he broke eggs in a frying pan…and, potential goatfucks aside, prayed Ronni left her dress on his bathroom floor.
Chapter Seven
“Better to live one day as a lion, than a hundred as a lamb,” Ronni recited. “One of Daniel’s philosophies. According to the iChurch website, Adam has embraced it as well. These philosophies and mottos are part of ‘thought reform’—brainwashing—and what experts call ‘loading the language’. The leader uses them to constrict the thoughts of his followers and control their minds.”
They sat in the kitchen at the tiny table. It was entirely too small for Thomas’s hulking upper body, forcing him close to her, but Ronni held her tongue. He didn’t seem comfortable with her in his apartment—the cheery yellow in direct opposition to his damaged jeans, and bristling attitude—but moving into the living room with its single couch would force them to sit next to each other and make things even more awkward.
Like that was possible. The Mr. Perfect Boy Scout thought she was a messy, crazy, fucked-up agent. Which she was. He might tease and joke around with her, but she figured that was his way of coping with his dislike of her “untidy” past.
Thomas kicked back, his knee bumping hers under the table. “Hate to say it, but I agree with that philosophy.”
Such bravado. “Most people do, at least in theory. The difference is that Adam believes he’s the lion. The one who leads and protects his followers. They exist for his benefit…to serve him, and he is their only way into heaven. He’s the Chosen One.”
“Like Harry Potter.”
Thomas grinned and Ronni gritted her back teeth. Was everything a twist on a movie to him? “Watch this video and tell me what you see.”
She touched the play button on the tablet and handed it to him. The home movie was a little dark and not flashy by today’s music video standards, but Daniel Karsni’s voice was rich and gentle. Inviting. She’d already watched the video a dozen times. The 7th Angels message. She remembered the day he preached that sermon at the molehill.
After a couple of minutes, Thomas straightened, his brows pinching together. Another minute and he sat forward in the seat, running a thumb over the edge of the tablet. “He’s pretty damn convincing. He doesn’t sound crazy, just…”
“Persuasive?”
He glanced at her. “Yeah.”
Ronni stopped the video, switched to one of Adam. “Now watch this.”
The flash and glam missing in the first video were evident in this modern adaptation. Adam appeared to be talking directly to the camera. Directly to her and Thomas. The message was the same, as if Adam had memorized his father’s sermon, but there were cut-aways to horrific scenes from news channels showing the aftermaths of bombs, war, shootings.
“I am the way,” Adam said to the camera. “I will lead God’s Chosen through the End of Days and into an eternity of peace and love with our Heavenly Father. There is no need for worry. No need to be alone. I will protect those who come to me. There is hope. There is peace at Heaven’s Gate.”
Thomas paused the video. “Okay, he’s definitely smoking the crazy weed.”
“It’s faith, not drugs. He believes everything he says.”
“People really fall for this? I mean, I get that he’s more persuasive than his father, but come on.”
“He’s appealing to the vulnerable. Those who are scared and alone. They see him as a savior. Someone who makes them believe they’re special. That he’s special. The lion, in other words. He convinces them that he’ll keep them safe and deliver them into a world of”—she made air quotes—“everlasting peace and love. Loading the language.”
“Narcissistic personality disorder or dysfunctional religious leader?”
“Both, according to the Bureau’s Behavioral Science Unit, but neither in my mind. Like I said, he believes he’s Chosen.” How could she make him understand? “It’s cute when it’s Harry Potter—good versus evil, Harry against Voldemort, etc., etc. Not so much when it’s a real life man.”
“Not even close to the same.”
“Isn’t it? Hogwarts is a cult of special kids. Voldemort wants to take over the world. Harry is the only one who can save everyone from Voldemort and his followers. Blah, blah, blah.”
“That’s fiction.”
She tapped the tablet. “And this isn’t.”
Thomas watched more of Adam’s video, then went back to the one of Daniel. After a minute, he asked, “So why were you at Wrightsville? Your mom and dad lived there?”
It was natural to change the subject when one felt uncomfortable, but she was not going to talk about her family.
Except, she saw the look in Thomas’s eyes. He wouldn’t back off. Why he cared, she didn’t know, but she’d throw him a bone and then get him back on track. “I was there with my mom. She and my dad never…”
She swallowed, shifted gears. “My dad lives in Arizona now. Wife, four kids, one dog. The kids are grown and married or off to college. He’s two months from retirement. Vacation home in the Bahamas. And they all lived happily ever after. The End.”
He snickered. “And your mom?”
He just had to go there. Ronni glanced out the window. “Didn’t make it out of the compound.”
Thomas paused the video. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” She fiddled with some papers on the table, not seeing the words on the brightly colored sticky notes. What would momma think of what I’m about to do?
Adam’s guardian angel. About to betray him and send him to jail.
Thomas opened his mouth to say something else, but she interrupted. “Look, I know you grew up normal. Idyllic Mayberry and all that shit. Great childhood, loving parents, quarterback of the football team. Rah, rah, rah, all hail, Mr. Boy Scout. Understanding people like my mother is a big undertaking for you, but not everyone had your kind of life.”
He tensed. “Hold up. It was Beverly Hills, not Mayberry, and how do you know about my childhood?”
“I work for the damn FBI. Do you really think I didn’t look up your file? Files? I know everything about you from the day you were born until you worked for the DoD. From there the information is sketchy, but I’m a paranoid agent as well as a highly trained one. I figured out you did undercover work for some top secret military ops group. All classified, and no, I don’t need to know details, but they aren’t hard to imagine.”
He sat speechless for a moment. “I think I feel violated.”
“You don’t feel anything. That’s why you joke and goof around so much—it keeps people under your charming Thomas Mann spell without you having to become emotionally invested.”
His brows shot to his hairline. “You profiled me?”
“I don’t really give a damn about your emotional hang-ups, Mann, or how many bad guys you killed while working for the DoD, or the fact you’re anal retentive about everything from your silverware drawer to your medicine cabinet.”
“You went through my medicine cabinet? I definitely feel violated.”
So smug. “What I care about is that you get off your damn high horse and remember we’re dealing with real people here. Living, breathing, human beings. They are normal people who want to worship their own way. They believe in a guy who believes he’s the next savior. They love him like children love their father. They want to belong to something bigger than themselves, and they believe in right and wrong just like you and I do.”
“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I get it.”
“I don’t think you do. It’s important you understand why my mother and so many others like her fall prey to cults. The cult becomes their family. They
feel loved, part of a community who appreciates them and thinks they’re special. Once they’re indoctrinated, they’ll do anything for the leader…kind of like you’d do anything for Cooper and the members of the SCVC taskforce.”
He dropped his hands, tensed. “Cooper is not anything like Adam or Daniel.”
Tread carefully. “Does he inspire you? Motivate you to follow him and give your job a hundred and ten percent?”
No response, just a grim set to his lips.
“Cooper sets the rules for the team and expects you to follow them, right?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Drive it home. “He influences the way you work, and even, at times, the way you live.”
“It’s not the same and you know it.”
“It’s not the same, but every group with a leader—whether the group is religious, social, or job-oriented—has similar characteristics.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Authoritarian leader. Exclusivism. Isolationism. Groupthink rather than individual thinking. While Cooper may not use excessive control over you, you and the others on the taskforce are deeply loyal to him and…”—she made air quotes again—“the cause. The SCVC is an exclusive group—only a few handpicked agents are allowed in. You’re isolated from normal society because you work undercover and you can’t share information about your assignments or endanger the people you care about because of your job. It’s crucial as a taskforce working violent crimes that you have a certain level of groupthink. You’re a well-oiled machine, in other words, and you have to be in order to pull off successful sting operations.”
“We’re not a cult.”
“Not in the negative sense of the word. All I’m saying is that nearly any group you look at shares some of the same characteristics as a cult. The cult leader just takes them to an extreme, and the followers don’t see his actions as wrong.”
He blew out an incensed breath, stretched out his legs under the table as he once more leaned back in his chair.
“You exude independence and self-confidence,” Ronni continued. “You practically bleed alpha male. If you go to the farm tonight with that kind of attitude and body language, Adam will reject both of us.”
