by Tee O'Fallon
“Why?” Matt countered.
Special Agent in Charge Gotesman cleared his throat. “Recently, Senator Ashburn approached the FBI and told us about the Russians’ attempt to blackmail him. We involved the CIA to obtain as much behind-the-scenes information as possible and to take advantage of their Russian intel.”
“Talking to the FBI was my mother’s idea,” the senator said, looking directly at Trista. “And I agreed because the Russians have to be stopped. Things were quickly spinning out of control and too many people were getting hurt.”
Deputy Director Windham looked directly at Trista. “As the senator said, you are extremely good at your job. So good, in fact, that you unexpectedly stumbled onto this conspiracy in that chat room. We did our best to keep you isolated from that point forward, but Lukashin was tenacious, as were you, putting your life in jeopardy that much more.” He smiled. “You should have been an operative.”
“Thank you.” She smiled back, appreciative of the compliment. “But I think I’ll stay right where I am, sitting in front of a computer.”
Matt crossed his arms, wearing his all-too-familiar scowl. “The Russians will be counting on the senator to keep quiet, and now that the reporter is dead, they think Trista is the only one out there who could blow the whole thing for them. After the story breaks and the whole world hears about it, they’ll have nothing to gain by killing her. But until then, her life is still in jeopardy.”
She shook her head. “There’s something I don’t understand. I gave a printout of the chat room conversation to Wayne and Genevieve, who could have given it to countless others within the agency. Why are the Russians so fixated on me? Why aren’t they trying to kill every other person with the CIA who probably knows by now?”
“Several reasons.” Wayne joined the conversation. “First, they don’t know who within the agency is privy to the chat, and they can’t go around killing all of us. Second, and more importantly, you, Trista, and your top secret program are the source of the information. Without you to testify before Congress as to whom you were tracking in that chat room and how you obtained the information, the U.S. government would never be able to completely prove the Russians were behind this.”
“Just how far up the Russian food chain does this conspiracy go?” Matt asked.
“We suspect,” the senator said, “all the way.”
“To the Russian president?” Trista couldn’t contain the shock in her voice.
“Shit.” Matt dragged a hand down his face. “So what’s your plan?”
SAC Gotesman leaned forward. “That’s need-to-know.”
“For Christ’s sake, Brad.” Director Windham held his arms out from his sides. “They’re already privy to the biggest international conspiracy in decades. They have a right to know what we’re doing to end this, so they can get back to living their lives.”
“Very well, but I don’t like it.” SAC Gotesman pursed his lips. “Senator Ashburn requested a private meeting with Lukashin, during which we’ll record all conversation.”
“You seriously think he’ll admit to anything?” Matt asked. “Don’t you think he’ll check for a wire?”
With obvious reluctance, Fenway nodded. “It’s possible, but it’s all we’ve got. I’m betting he won’t insult a U.S. senator by patting him down.”
“Lukashin is a cagey bastard,” Hentz said. “He’s been around long enough not to get caught. He’ll be uber-suspicious. This trap better be good. Damn good.”
“The FBI and the CIA agree,” Wayne said. “We should at least try. He’s too big a fish not to.”
“In fish size,” Hentz added, “he’s a whale. For years, we’ve suspected him of over twenty assassinations on U.S. soil, not to mention hundreds in Russia while he was with the KGB and the FSB. It’s even been rumored that he was one of the last members of the KGB’s Department 13, the Soviet Union’s executive action operations unit that was known for surreptitious murders using various poisons that mimic death by natural circumstances.”
“Like digitalis,” Matt said, and Trista could tell his mood was darkening by the minute.
Hentz nodded. “Lukashin and the Russian president aren’t exactly friends, but they were in the KGB together. Rumor has it, he reports directly to the president.”
Matt shook his head. “Even if you get evidence he murdered Thomas George and tried to kill Trista, won’t he still be immune to prosecution by virtue of his diplomatic status? The only way this country has ever prosecuted a diplomat for murder is when his own country of origin waives his diplomatic immunity. I’m guessing the Russian president will never agree to that, especially given all the dirt Lukashin must have on him.”
“You’re right about that,” Fenway interrupted. “They’d want to keep him from being put in a position where he could provide intelligence on the Russian government. We’ve spoken to the U.S. Attorney’s Office and believe he wouldn’t have full immunity, only functional immunity. That means if he does something outside his official function as cultural attaché, then he’s subject to prosecution. I’m no lawyer, but I’d say that being a spy and a murderer is outside his official function. The Russians will argue otherwise, but we need the rezidentura. Without him, we’ll never prove any orders came down from the top.”
“Don’t get me wrong”—Matt turned to Fenway—“putting Lukashin behind bars is at the top of my list, but even if you could prove the Russian president is behind this, you can’t charge into Russia and arrest him. So what’s the ultimate goal here?”
“I think I can answer that question,” Senator Ashburn said. “You’re right. He’s sitting in a glass tower that we can’t get to. But we do have recourse. We can impose trade sanctions. Heavy sanctions, those impacting Russian trade to the point where they’ll never try something like this again. We may be able to justify kicking out everyone in the Russian Embassy for a lengthy period of time as punishment. Last, we can put pressure on the Russian government to have their president step down.”
Beneath the table, Trista fingered her charm bracelet, twirling it repeatedly around her wrist. When will this really all be over? She didn’t think she could go into hiding for an indeterminate period of time. Will I be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life?
“And after the story breaks?” She glanced from Mrs. Ashburn to the senator. “What will you do?” Her question was met with silence so thick and heavy it seemed as if everyone in the room had stopped breathing, waiting to hear his response.
The senator turned to look at his mother. “I intend to urge the Sentinel to publish Thomas George’s story posthumously. It’s the right thing to do. I’ll let the American people judge as to whether or not I’m fit to be president.”
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Matt said. “Even though you were eight years old, you could still be subject to criminal prosecution in West Virginia.”
Senator Ashburn didn’t hesitate. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
“Do your wife and children know?” Trista asked, unable to contemplate what a secret like this would do to a marriage.
“I’ll tell them right before the story breaks.”
“Senator, we should get you out of here.” SAC Gotesman nodded to the Secret Service agents guarding the door.
A minute later, the only people remaining in the conference room besides herself were Matt and Agents Hentz and Fenway, who both waited by the door.
“We need to get you into protective custody, Trista.” Hentz arched a brow at Matt. “Official protective custody.”
“Where are you taking her?” Matt’s forehead creased with concern.
“To a safe house,” Fenway answered.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Matt narrowed his eyes. “Again, where?”
Fenway shook his head. “Can’t tell you that.”
Matt sent Trista a look of disbelief. “You can’t seriously go with these clowns. They can’t keep you safe. I can.”
“Matt, it’s for the best.” She glanced briefly at Fenway and Hentz, not wanting to air her and Matt’s personal business in front of the other men. Blinking back tears, she lowered her voice. “You know I can’t stay with you.” Not when you can’t ever love me back. Not while my heart is breaking more and more every second I spend with you.
She took a deep breath, then cleared her throat. “I guess this is goodbye.” She held out her hand, which he took, tugging her closer. “Please,” she pleaded. “Let me go.”
“Tris, no.” He shook his head, a look of incredulity on his handsome features. “Don’t do this.”
“I have to.” She looked down at their linked hands, realizing this would most likely be the last time they would ever touch.
Somehow she mustered the strength to meet his gaze, refusing to see anything more in his worried expression than general concern for her well-being. It will be like ripping off a Band-Aid. Painful at first. But it’s better to get it over with quickly and put it behind you. Just say goodbye and walk away. “Would you mind taking care of Poofy until I can get someone to pick him up?”
He nodded, still clasping her hand in his. “I’ll take good care of him.”
“Say goodbye to Sheba for me.” She turned to leave, but he held fast to her hand, looking as if he was about to say something. Then he let her go. More tears pricked at the backs of her eyes and she blinked rapidly. Be strong.
With her heart aching, she turned and walked out the door without looking back.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Trista lay in her bed, snuggled up with Poofy while binge-watching episodes of Saturday Night Live. Watching late-night TV had become their custom in the two weeks since she’d been whisked away to an FBI safe house.
Poofy busily purred louder than an electric razor, nuzzling her hand, demanding even more attention than usual. Not that she could blame him. Even she was bored out of her mind. Stuck in a tiny house, God knew where, with nothing but a few books, magazines, and two stoic FBI agents in the outer room standing guard over her to make sure she stayed put and didn’t misbehave. That meant no laptop.
The only things that had given her the remotest sense of joy were the notes Hentz had provided from Bonnie and Kevin, who were both worried about her, and the seven postcards from her parents that had been piling up in her mailbox. Apparently, they’d departed Hong Kong and were now island-hopping somewhere in the South Pacific.
She snorted at the idea that the postal carrier had continued delivering her mail even though her house was a burned-out shell. Not for long, thank goodness. Someone high up must have pulled some strings with her insurance company, because her claim was being processed in record time. The agents had delivered her the paperwork notifying her that she could start rebuilding in just a few short weeks. Hopefully by then, this would all be over, and she could start fresh. Maybe she’d even take a walk on the wild side and paint her house some funky color like magenta or chartreuse. The idea of a chartreuse house had her grinning for the first time in two weeks. It was all part of her newfound confidence in herself. Ironically, she had Matt to thank for that.
She held up her hand, looking at the charm bracelet that made a pretty, jangling sound whenever she moved. He’d broken her heart, and she doubted she would ever love as deeply again, but she didn’t regret what had happened between them for a second. Not only had he been her first, but he’d given her many other wonderful things. Through his eyes, she’d learned that she could be beautiful and sexy, and that other men saw her that way as well. He’d helped her to view herself in a different light. A stronger, more confident light.
Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling, counting cracks in the paint. She was beginning to regret her decision to let the FBI watch over her, but staying with Matt another moment longer would have been too painful. Although she really could use a swig of the Dalwhinnie she’d left behind at his house.
“Who am I kidding, Poofy?” In response, the Angora stood and began kneading his paws on her thigh. It was him she missed. More than anything.
Since the moment they’d gone their separate ways, her life seemed empty, devoid of something she hadn’t known existed until she’d met him. Now that it was gone, she wanted it back. But the man had issues, deep-seated issues he needed to resolve before he could ever love a woman.
Cops don’t talk to shrinks. She understood that it was his warrior mindset—that aspect of a person who spends a lifetime protecting others—that made it virtually impossible for him to admit that sometimes he was the one who needed help. It was also fear that prevented Matt from moving on. Fear that seeking help would make him appear weak, undermining his ingrained sense of strength. Not his physical strength. That would never be in question. It was his emotional strength he feared losing, and he’d been that way for twenty years. At this point in his life, he didn’t know any other way.
“I tried, Poof.” She sat and scooped the cat into her arms, snuggling him against her chest. Matt could have been everything to her, and she to him.
Was I wrong? Should I have stayed and tried to help him?
No. He didn’t want her help. This was something he had to work out on his own. Still, it killed her not to be with him. To snuggle against his long, hard body as they’d done that one blissful night at the hotel. To feel his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hard length filling her.
When she groaned this time, it was out of sexual frustration. Now that she knew how wonderful lovemaking could be, she wanted more of it. But the idea of making love with anyone but Matt made her shudder with apprehension.
Lying back again on the bed, she sighed. “Maybe one day, Poofmeister. Maybe one d—”
Raised voices came from downstairs. A heavy thud, followed quickly by another, then… Silence.
Bolting upright, she froze, holding her breath. Doors opened and closed, but she heard no more voices. She set Poofy on the mattress and tiptoed to the door. Something isn’t right. These weren’t the normal sounds made by Donald and Angie, the two agents assigned to the overnight shift. Her heart began thumping crazily.
She pressed her ear to the door. Shuffling. Another door being opened. “Angie? Donald?” No answer.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and she stepped back from the door. The knob rattled. Someone was trying to get in, and it wasn’t Angie or Donald. They would have knocked. That was the prearranged protocol if they needed to speak with her.
They found me. Somehow the Russians found me.
She backed farther from the door, turning her head to search frantically for some kind of weapon. But she already knew there weren’t any. The only weapons in the house were the guns Donald and Angie carried on their belts.
Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would beat right out of her chest. My phone, where is my phone? They’d given her another cell phone for emergencies and with strict orders not to contact anyone but Angie or Donald.
She yanked the covers off the bed, upsetting Poofy, who gave an indignant mew and jumped to the floor.
Again, the door rattled.
Getting to her knees, she searched under the bed. No phone, dammit!
I have to get out of here. But she was on the second floor. Could she really jump to the grass without breaking a leg? Probably not, but it was better than staying where she was and getting shot.
With trembling fingers, she shoved her feet into her shoes, then went to the window. Her hands were shaking so badly she struggled to twist open the lock.
Behind her, the wood splintered.
They were kicking in the door.
Turning back to the window, she flipped open the lock and gripped the handle, raising the lower pane. She glanced over her shoulder to see the door come flying off its top hinge, slamming against the wall.
Sweat dripped into her eyes as she grabbed Poofy from where he sat cowering in the corner. She stuck one leg out the window, preparing to slide down the angled roof, when an arm went around
her waist, hauling her back inside.
For Poofy’s safety, she dropped the cat to the floor, twisting and kicking backward, struggling to get free. “Let me go, you son of a bitch!”
The man laughed as he held her a foot above the floor, kicking and screaming. His hand clamped over her mouth, then a second man slammed the window shut, cutting her off from the outside world. Shit, shit, shit! If ever there was a time and a place for that word, it was now.
Bastards. She might be tiny, but if they thought they could kill her without a fight, they were sorely mistaken.
The hand over her mouth was large and smelled vaguely like borscht. She twisted her head back and forth to loosen his hold so she could bite down on his fingers.
“Don’t move,” the second thug said in heavily accented English, shoving the barrel of a gun against her forehead.
She sucked in a breath and froze. The barrel was long, with a thick cylinder on the end. A silencer. They could kill her, and no one would even hear the shot.
So why haven’t they? Her heart lurched at the realization they’d probably already killed Angie and Donald.
“What are you waiting for?” With Thug One’s hand still covering her mouth, the words came out muffled. She kicked backward and was rewarded with a mild Russian oath as her foot contacted his shin and his hand slipped from her face. “Just kill me and be done with it.”
Even Thug Two’s chuckle had a Russian accent to it. “Perhaps I will. Perhaps I won’t. Behave and maybe the boss lets you live. Maybe not.”
Is there really a chance they’d let her live after all this? She doubted it, but if it could buy her enough time for the FBI to find her, she’d play along.
The stairs creaked as they led her down into the living room. She cried out at the sight of Angie and Donald on the floor. Angie didn’t move, but Donald groaned as he caught sight of her.
