by Tee O'Fallon
Hearing the true reason for her clearance revocation made her feel slightly better, although all she wanted to do now was to go after Karakurt that much more.
“We now believe,” Wayne continued, “that someone is trying to kill Trista for her intrusion into that black net chat room.”
“If this program is so covert,” Matt interjected, “how did they identify her, and how did they do it so quickly?”
“That’s something we’re not clear on,” Genevieve said. “But we’re working on that to prevent it from happening again.”
“Kevin?” Trista asked, knowing her friend was the agency’s go-to guy for troubleshooting all things online. Then she gasped. “I know what happened. There was a brief blip in power. It disrupted my program for a few seconds, but it could have been enough to enable a trace. Kevin’s computer experienced a power glitch at the same time.”
“We know.” Genevieve nodded. “And we’re implementing additional safeguards. Our backup power sources now have two additional reinforcements. Unfortunately, it looks as if that brief power shutdown was enough for them to trace your location and ID you.”
“Who are they?” Matt asked. “And how could they have ID’d a specific person inside Langley?”
Again, Wayne and Genevieve exchanged meaningful looks that Trista easily recognized. Her supervisors were engaging in a silent debate about how much information to reveal.
“To answer your first question, the Russians,” Wayne said. “As for the second, we don’t know yet.”
Matt moved closer to the bed. “Who exactly were you listening to?”
“I don’t think that’s—” Wayne argued, but Matt’s harsh tone cut him off.
“I don’t give a shit what you think. The time for spy games is over.” When he looked down at her, his voice softened. “Tell me exactly who was in this chat room and what they said. Don’t leave anything out.”
Despite Matt’s commanding, no-nonsense tone, ultimately she worked for Wayne. And he was the one who called the shots regarding the dissemination of classified intel, although she appreciated Matt’s to-hell-with-protocol attitude when it came to her safety. His fierce protectiveness made her feel cared for. Or maybe that was merely wishful thinking on her part.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Wayne shot her a look of warning. “Ms. Gold is a CIA analyst and, as such, is privy to some of the most classified intelligence on the planet. To be fully read into this would take months of background checks and security clearances. We’ve already provided you with more information than you’re entitled to know.”
“You’ve given us jack shit.” Matt advanced on Wayne, who took a step back, nearly tripping over a chair. “We know Solonik tried to kill her, but we still don’t know who gave him the order. If you don’t tell us who’s really after her, it’s clear as rain they’ll keep trying until they get the job done.”
“No, he won’t.” All eyes turned to Chief McIntyre, who, until now, had remained silent. “Because you are now officially assigned to protect Ms. Gold until further notice.”
“What?” Matt barked.
“No,” Trista said at the same time. So great was her own shock that her hold on the Styrofoam cup loosened, and it fell to the floor.
“It’s already been worked out,” Chief McIntyre continued. “As of this moment, your tours at Langley are being covered by other officers. Your only assignment is to get Ms. Gold someplace safe and keep her that way until the Intelligence directorate gives us the all clear.”
“No, I won’t do it.” She shook her head so vigorously the blanket fell off her shoulders. “You have no idea how long that will be.”
“Actually,” Genevieve piped in, “we feel certain this will all be cleared up within the next thirty days.”
“How do you know that?” Matt crossed his arms. The scowl on his face was the deepest she’d ever seen. Obviously, he didn’t care for the idea of being saddled with her even for a month.
Neither Wayne nor Genevieve responded to Matt’s question, but they did exchange another irritating, clandestine look that spoke volumes. They knew precisely what was going on but weren’t about to say so.
“My life is at stake.” She glared at her supervisors, still in disbelief. “Don’t you think I need to know what’s going on? I realize my clearance was revoked, but someone’s trying to kill me, for Pete’s sake.”
Wayne shook his head. “Your only assignment, until you hear from either myself or Genevieve, is to keep your head down and do whatever Sgt. Connors tells you to do to stay safe.”
“But—”
“That’s an order.” He pointed a finger at her. “The Intelligence directorate has operatives in the field who will follow up on the chat room, so you are not to do a damn thing. The only thing you should be logging on to a computer for over the next thirty days, is to look up your horoscope.”
“Fine.” She crossed her arms, feeling like a small child punished by her father. “I’ll stay with my friend Bonnie for a few days, then maybe at Kevin’s place after that. He’s got a bigger apartment than Bonnie does.”
Matt gave a snort. “You’ll stay where I tell you, and it sure as hell won’t be at Kevin’s place.”
“Why not?” She gave him her best angry glare, only to find he looked even angrier. His dark brows had drawn together and the skin over his nose etched into a deep V.
“Because Kevin can’t protect you like I can,” he snapped. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to put your friends in danger, would you?”
Well, shoot. What did he have to be angry about? But he was right. She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to her friends because of her. Looking down at her hands, she gave a reluctant sigh. “Okay.”
Beside her, Matt, too, exhaled a breath, as if he hadn’t expected her to capitulate so easily.
Detective Sorensen pocketed his notebook and pen. “Fire marshals will investigate the remains of your house for evidence. We’ll check for prints on the doors and inside the house, but assuming this was Solonik again, chances are he wore gloves and any prints would have been obliterated by the fire. We’ll also check for boot prints around the house, although with all the firemen and the two of us tromping around, it’s doubtful that will yield anything conclusive.” He nodded to Matt. “As soon as I get the report, I’ll send it over.”
“Thanks, Jake.” The two men shook hands.
Detective Sorensen paused. “Need me to tail you out of here?”
“Nah, I got this,” Matt said, then Detective Sorensen turned and left, the ER curtains flapping in his wake.
A tall, young doctor wearing wire-rimmed glasses and scrubs entered the room and pulled a stethoscope from around his neck. “Folks, we need a few minutes here, then I think Ms. Gold can go home.”
At the word “home,” Trista winced, again reminded that she no longer had one. Her only remaining possessions were her cat and her car. Given how close to the house she’d parked her car, even that was questionable.
“Stay safe, Trista.” Genevieve leaned over and squeezed her arm.
“Take care of her, Sergeant,” Wayne said to Matt.
“Count on it.”
Matt’s tone held a discernible note of conviction, leaving Trista completely confused. Only moments ago, he’d seemed completely opposed to being her bodyguard.
Ah, yes. Must be that ingrained sense of cop duty. Given an assignment, he’d fulfill his duties and obligations. It had nothing to do with her personally, and she experienced a stab of disappointment. Get real, Trista. A guy like that must have a hot girlfriend waiting for him at home.
Both supervisors left the room, leaving her alone with Matt. Dark-brown eyes scrutinized her, making her feel like the proverbial bug under a microscope. It was unnerving. Plus, wearing nothing but her nightclothes made her self-conscious, and she tugged the blanket tighter around her, but it slipped off her shoulder. Matt tugged it back up, his knuckles grazing her bare shoulders.
�
�I’ll get you something to wear over that…shirt.” He frowned, clearly having no idea how to label her plain garment.
She wanted to die of embarrassment. He was probably used to sexy, exotic women wearing silk and satin, not boring cotton. “It’s a camisole,” she practically groaned.
“Yeah. Camisole. Whatever. I’ll be back.” He disappeared through the curtains.
“I’ll be back,” she muttered. Is that his Terminator line?
The doctor pressed the stethoscope against her chest, and she flinched as the cool metal touched her skin.
“Breathe normally,” he said, moving the instrument around to different locations on her chest, then to her back.
She breathed several times until he said, “Excellent. Other than some smoke inhalation, your X-rays are clear and your breathing is good. No carbon monoxide poisoning, and your abrasions are minor. We just need you to fill out a few forms, and you’ll be all set.”
He picked up her chart to jot something down, then opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a pair of slippers and surgical pants that he set beside her on the bed. “I understand you lost everything in a fire. These will at least give you something to wear tonight.”
Fear and a sense of isolation crashed down on her. She wanted to cry, or scream, or throw something. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. Her home was burned. Probably her car, too. She’d been banned from her job, and her parents were on the other side of the world.
“Get some rest,” the doctor said. “Drink plenty of fluids, and if you have any trouble breathing during the night, don’t hesitate to come back to the hospital.”
“Thank you,” she said before he left the room.
The AC kicked on again, and she tucked her legs closer against her body and began rocking back and forth. Someone was trying to kill her. Viktor Solonik. A Russian thug who wanted her dead for reasons unknown. To her, anyway. Wayne and Genevieve knew, and the more she thought about it, the faster she rocked.
Sitting around doing nothing to save her own ass wasn’t working for her. They might have banned her from Langley, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do a little discreet investigating on her own. Under the radar.
The question was how to do it without a computer, and while under the watchful, sexy eye of Sgt. Matt Connors.
…
Somewhere outside Washington, D.C.
Present day
Forty years ago, she’d been young, naive, and married to a horrible man who’d beaten her to within an inch of her life. Somehow, she and her son had survived and escaped a virtual hell. She had no regrets about what she’d done, except for what little Billy had been forced to endure.
Despite the tears trickling down her aging face, she smiled. Against all odds, her son had grown up to be a good man, honest and kind. Now, he had everything she could have wished for him. A beautiful wife, three adorable children, and an incredible future.
Who could have guessed that he would rise from the swamp of horrors in which he was born and become what he was today? I’m so, so proud of him.
She reached for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Sadly, their past had finally caught up to them. She didn’t fear for herself, but for her son. She didn’t know how, but after four decades of hiding, they’d been discovered.
The Russians had stumbled onto the truth. And it could ruin everything.
Chapter Twelve
Matt sat in the truck next to Trista and started the engine. When he gripped the wheel, his hands stung in protest from several shallow cuts dotting his skin, but he didn’t give a shit. Trista was alive, and that was all that mattered.
She still wore that sexy cotton camisole that was slowly but surely driving him insane, a pair of scrub pants she’d rolled up to just below her knees, and one of his CIA windbreakers. On her lap was the not-so-fluffy-now Angora.
Until five minutes ago, he hadn’t known where he’d be taking Trista, squirreling her away someplace safe. Now that he’d made the decision, he didn’t relish breaking the bad news. But her eyes were closed, and the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath his windbreaker told him she was out like a light. It was just as well. When she realized where she’d be spending the next thirty days or so, she’d have a conniption. So would Poofy. Understatement. But by his reckoning, it was the safest option.
As he pulled out of the ER parking lot, he continually checked his rearview mirror for a tail. He hadn’t even wanted Jake or the uniforms following him. The agency would eventually figure out where he was stashing Trista, but since they insisted on keeping him in the dark, let ’em work for it.
Stifling a yawn, he headed onto the road, thankful for the darkness enshrouding them.
He couldn’t decipher the twisted mix of emotions messing with his head. When Buck had given him his assignment—protecting Trista twenty-four seven—he’d nearly blown a gasket. The last thing he wanted was to be a bodyguard. But the more he learned about her predicament, the more he realized just how vulnerable she was. He wanted to be the one to keep her safe. Not because she looked hot as hell in that camisole, and definitely not because he’d caught every man in the room—including his friend, Jake—staring at her breasts. Fuck, no.
Something about her stirred the most basic, primal instincts within him. Even though she’d exhibited more guts than most women he knew, and her IQ probably topped the charts, she was so small and seemed so alone. Yeah, that’s why he wanted to keep her safe. After the situation was resolved, they’d go their separate ways and things would return to normal.
I’ll go back to living my solitary life.
Turning onto the highway, he yawned again. He was beat. It was nearly four a.m., and the sun hadn’t quite begun to peek out over the horizon. Everyone else would probably be bunked out for the night. Good thing. All he wanted was to get Trista and Poofy settled, then fall into bed himself.
Thirty minutes later, after making several countersurveillance turns, he rolled into his driveway, past his friends’ vehicles, and parked near the front door. Trista was still asleep, with her head lolled against the window and one arm tucked around her soot-stained, formerly white cat. He shut the engine off and the cat stared at him, as if he was suspicious already. Matt had no idea how he’d get through the next month. How any of them would survive.
Quietly, he stepped out of the truck and nudged the door shut. The air was cooler than it had been earlier in the week, a sign that fall would soon arrive. He went around to get Trista, but with her head leaning against the window, he didn’t dare open the door or risk her falling onto the pavement. Gently, he tapped twice on the window. She didn’t move. He tapped again, with more force this time, and her body jerked upright.
He opened the door and waited a few seconds for her to wake fully. “Home sweet home.”
She looked up at his house, her eyes groggy. “Where are we?”
“Like I said, home.”
Her green eyes widened. “This is your house?”
“Yup.” The cab of the truck was high off the ground, so he held out his hand to assist her. “I’ve got eight bedrooms. Plenty of space for you and Poofy.”
Looking over his shoulder, she asked, “Who do all the other trucks belong to?”
“Friends. K-9 officers working pre-election events in the D.C. area over the next couple months.” Matt watched her gaze travel down the row of Explorers.
“There are six of them? Six men plus their dogs? And yours?”
He understood her wariness. Rooming with seven men would be intimidating to any woman. “They—and their dogs—are all highly trained officers. You have nothing to worry about. I trust them with my life, and yours. They’ll be here for at least the next two months, backing me up. If anything happens, they’ll be there in a heartbeat.”
Her face paled. “The dogs,” she whispered. “Where will the d-dogs be?”
As expected, her innate fear of all things canine was at the crux of the matter, not him
or his friends. “See that building?” He tipped his head toward the main house’s addition. “It’s a kennel. Enough for a dozen dogs. Occasionally, we let them into the house, but I promise…as long as you and Poofy are here, no dog will be allowed inside.”
Furrowing her brows, she looked cute as ever, but worried. He’d seen that look before on people who’d been terrorized by dogs, and he’d noticed it on her face during her encounters with Sheba. Something had definitely happened to make her believe canines were the devil. Maybe, since they’d be stuck here for at least the next thirty days, he’d work on getting her over that fear.
“You p-promise?” She glared at him, clearly trying to give him her most intimidating look. On her, it was cute.
“Cross my heart.” He grinned, doing just that.
“Okay.” She took a deep breath, then with Poofy still clutched to her chest, she placed her free hand in his.
When their fingers touched, he heard her quick intake of breath, felt the softness of her fingers, along with an awareness he hadn’t expected. There was something sizzling between them, and she felt it, too. It was there in her eyes, just as he knew it was in his. She was a beautiful woman, one he might one day be interested in pursuing. If my head wasn’t so fucked up. For now, he’d settle for protecting her, and he gladly accepted that responsibility.
He unlocked the door to his house and stood aside for her to enter. The alarm pad beeped, and as soon as he’d closed the door behind them, he entered the four-digit code and reset the alarm for what was left of the night.
As he led the way up the wide staircase to the room that would be Trista and Poofy’s, he flipped on various lights. With the brand-new runner he’d installed on the stairs, their footsteps were quiet, which was a good thing, since everyone else was still asleep. Sure enough, before they even reached the top of the stairs, the sound of deep snoring came to his ears.
