by Krista Holt
“I mean, Reagan, this compromises everything. I’ll bet money Cameron is going to fire you. You should have told us. You should have told me.” He leans forward. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
My hand nervously tucks a few strands of hair behind me ear. “It’s a really long story, Scott. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until Cameron is here and only tell it once.”
“Fine.” He picks up the Blackberry again. “Are you okay? Guys like that don’t go from zero to violent with no history. Did he ever hurt you before?”
“It’s not like that. It was never like that.” My hands twist in my lap. “Until last night.”
“I sure hope you’re telling me the truth.”
“I am.”
He frowns, but doesn’t say anything else as he calls Cameron. In hushed tones he tells the congressman we need to talk with him right away, promising it’ll be worth skipping a legislative briefing.
Scott keeps icing his face, and I get us some ibuprofen from the office first aid kit, before Cameron enters his office. He takes us in with an astute glance, from Scott’s battered face to my bruised features.
“This should be good,” he says. “Who’s going to fill me in?”
Scott stares at me until I clear my throat. “I will, sir. But it might take awhile. Do you want to take a seat?”
He crosses the room, taking a seat behind his desk. I carefully pull the scarf from my neck, revealing the ugly bruise, and Cameron inhales quickly.
“Tell me what happened.”
* * *
Two hours later, we have yet to leave the office. Cameron took a few minutes to soak in the details before firing questions at us. “So that’s everything that happened last night?”
“Yeah,” Scott confirms.
“How do you know this guy?”
“I met him in college. He disappeared after he graduated, but I ran into him a few weeks ago randomly down the street at Cap Lounge.” As I say it out loud, it becomes obvious. There was nothing random about him popping back up. He planned it.
They come to the same conclusion, simultaneously asking, “Have you told him anything?”
“No, other than what was said last night. I didn’t tell him anything,” I say, trying to hide my hurt pride. They have every right to assume Nic has been using me for information. “I understand if you want to remove me from the investigation.”
“Does he know where you live?” Cameron rests his elbows on the edge of his desk, leaning forward.
“Yes.”
“We are going to have to fix that, relocate you somewhere temporarily.”
“No,” I say with a firm shake of my head, “we can’t change anything.”
“She’s right, sir,” Scott agrees with me. “They told us to keep our mouths shut, or . . .” Cameron catches his implication. “It’s for that same reason, Reagan, that you can’t stop working on this,” Scott turns to me. “If you didn’t tell him what we were working on, he found out somehow that you and I were the personal office staffers assigned to it. He has someone else feeding him information. We need to maintain the status quo.”
“I understand,” Cameron butts in, “but I can’t let you both risk your lives for this investigation.”
“We’re already risking our lives,” Scott argues. “They already know who we are. Even if you were to fire us tomorrow, there is no guarantee they’ll leave us alone.”
“We need to talk to the FBI,” Cameron says. “At least so they are aware. Maybe we can get some charges filed on this guy, attempted kidnapping or what have you.”
“It’s not going to work,” I say quietly.
“Why not?”
“They’ve been trying for years to bring down his family, but they haven’t gotten anywhere.”
Cameron rubs his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “This is making a lot more sense now.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “You’re an informant.”
“Yes, I am. I was.”
“Can you tell us about it?”
“I can’t really say a lot.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Simmons made me sign document after document after document, assuring confidentiality, but . . .”They had me report on his movements for close to eight months, right up until he left Stanford. They were never able to build a case on anything I found. When he left, they told me I was done. All contact ceased until right after Nic showed up in D.C. and I got back in touch with my handler. They were unaware he was reaching back out to me. They didn’t know anything about last night either. That’s why going to them isn’t exactly a reassurance. I think we’re better off keeping quiet.”
“You’re an informant,” Scott utters. “All this time?”
I ignore him, focusing on Cameron. “I thought you were aware. I would have never kept this from you otherwise.”
He clears his throat. “I knew your employment started as a favor to the FBI. But they didn’t tell me why.”
“I’m sorry about this.”
He waves away my apology. “You couldn’t have known it would escalate this way.”
“Still.”
“None of this adds up,” Scott interjects. “You knew him in college, but why now. Why does he appear now?”
“The investigation. It’s the only reason I can think of.”
“Then why didn’t he kill us when he found out we don’t have the answers he wants? Unless . . .” He snaps his fingers, catching up with an idea. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Cameron and I both ask.
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong,” Scott announces. “The whistleblower is not an FBI agent. It’s someone within the Mob. Shit, it’s someone within his crime family. Otherwise, why would they care that the FBI is cracking down on these agents? They’d just find other ones to flip.”
Cameron mutters a curse under his breath.
“Right?” Scott goes on. “It makes sense. They’re trying to find a rat. They’re as much in the dark as we are. They have no idea who it is, but I can guarantee you, if they find the whistleblower before we do, whoever it is will be dead.”
“We have to go to the FBI. I don’t have the capacity to protect you both,” Cameron says. “Nor do I know if I should. That could be construed as some sort of crime.”
“How do we know that if we contact the FBI it’s not going to get back to this guy?” Scott glances over at me. “What was his name again?”
“Nicola Selvaggio,” I reply, but that name is as unfamiliar to me as his harshness was last night. I only knew him as Nic. Friend. Protector. The man I had naively fallen in love with.
“We don’t know that it won’t get back to him,” Cameron acknowledges, pulling my thoughts back to the room. “But we can hedge our bets. Anderson from my security detail has friends at the FBI. He used to work for them, I’m sure he can point us in the direction of a solid agent. One who he knows isn’t corrupt.” He turns to me. “Unless you’d rather use your handler?”
I swallow hard. My trust in Simmons plummeted when Nic took us. He had no idea what was going on, and some twisted part of me thinks he would’ve let it happen it even if he knew. He’s so desperate to punish Nic that I don’t think he can be objective anymore. He’s acting reckless with my life. Like pushing me to plant that bug in Nic’s car. If I’d been caught . . . A chill runs up my spine.
I can’t afford to be naive anymore. I can’t trust that other people will protect me. I need to protect myself, and that means distancing myself from Simmons.
“I think we should use someone else,” I reply. “My handler and I aren’t exactly talking at the moment. And this is a big risk. We need someone who isn’t emotionally invested. Someone with a clear head.”
“It is a risk,” Cameron confirms. “But the one thing we have going for us is that he didn’t . . .”
“Kill us,” Scott supplies.
“Yes, he didn’t kill either of you. Maybe you’re still useful to him. Maybe he’s planning on picking you up again, hoping for more information. Or may
be he genuinely has feelings for you.” He stares at me. “You said you met him in college, before all this.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not unless we can use it against him.”
“Then, if you both approve, I’ll talk to Anderson and get you both set up to talk to the FBI.”
Scott agrees right away. They both look at me, waiting for me to agree. “Yes.”
“Good.” Cameron sighs. “Reagan, we need to know if he reaches out to you. For any reason.”
“Of course. If that happens, I’ll tell you.”
“This is a dangerous game we’re all playing here,” Cameron says. “There are things this family has been credited for, things neither of you know about because the FBI is keeping it from the public, but they are more than capable of doing horrible things. We need to be smart about this and only trust each other. Agreed?”
“Yes,” we both reply.
“Fine. I’ll talk to my detail. Give me a day or two to get this straightened out.”
We leave the office and Anderson, the member of Cameron’s security detail, sweeps inside, shutting the door behind him.
As soon as we step into the lobby, April pounces on us. “Are you both okay?”
“We’re fine,” Scott says, putting a hand on my waist as we walk. “Rough car accident, but we’re both okay. Excuse us.”
“You were together?” Accusation is clear in her tone.
“I don’t have time for this, April,” Scott barks. “We’re at work. Try to be professional.”
“April, it’s work,” I insist. “There’s nothing going on here. I don’t want to get in the middle of anything. I promise.”
Suspicion clouds her expression, but she retreats to her desk. Scott urges me inside the empty chief of staff’s office and closes the door.
“Is this going to work? Can you stay away from him? If not, you need to tell me right now. I don’t want either of us ending up dead.”
“Cameron’s solution is too easy.” I run a hand across my forehead, pushing my hair back. “This doesn’t feel right. None of this is right.”
“What are you saying?”
“Someone is pulling our strings, using us a puppets. Whatever is going on here, we’re not in control of it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Nothing. It’s just a feeling,” I groan, wishing I had proof of my gut instinct. “The whistleblower tip came at just the right time for Nic to reappear. It’s too easy.”
He frowns. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. We agreed to Cameron’s plan, so I guess we’ll wait and see.”
CHAPTER 40
Nic
“Some of the guys have been talking,” Enzo says, fiddling with his coffee cup. Nervous energy keeps his knee bouncing underneath the table. He’s hit it twice, spilling coffee out of both our cups. I got an apology each time, but if he keeps it up, I might slap him.
Leaning back in the booth of this all-night diner, I stare at my half-empty cup of bitter coffee. We could go somewhere else, somewhere better, but this place is halfway between Reagan and Scott’s apartments. So for logistics’ sake, it’s easier to meet here and have Enzo fill me on what her co-worker has been up to.
It’s been two days since the incident. Two days in which I’ve carefully trailed her cabs to work and back, watching as she hurries inside her apartment, not to reemerge until she leaves for work the next morning.
According to Enzo, Scott seems to be keeping his act together, as well. Going to work. Going home. Eating at the Chinese restaurant down the street from his apartment. Much like Reagan, he’s heeding my warning and keeping his mouth shut. Thankfully.
“So, they’ve been talking,” Enzo says again. “And is it true?”
I arch one brow, pulling my attention from my coffee cup to focus on his ramblings. “I am not a mind reader. Is what true?”
“You know. . . .” He shifts in his seat, uneasy.
“If you don’t spit it out,” I threaten, “in the next two seconds . . .”
“Are you going against your father?”
“Why do you think that?”
His shoulders rise in a shrug, and his eyes fall back to the coffee cup in his hands.
“I can think of two reasons you’d bring that up to me,” I continue. “One, if I am, you want in on the ground floor. Two, if I’m not, this is your way of earning points by ratting on the others.” I lean forward. “Or maybe it’s another reason all together. Maybe you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut.”
He takes a drink of his coffee, needing to break the awkwardness between us.
I sigh. “I am not plotting against my father. You should spread that around.”
“Would you tell me if you were?”
“Secrets don’t stay quiet if everyone knows.”
He nods knowingly.
My middle name should be bullshit at this point. There are so many lies circulating in my head and jumping off of my tongue. I don’t even know if I’m telling the truth half the time, but I don’t have time to dwell on that right now.
“What’d he do today?” I ask.
“Work. Home. Beer at the bar around the corner from his place,” Enzo informs me. “Nothing important. His face looks like shit, though. Saul really did a number on him.”
He’s not the only one. The bruises on Reagan’s face and throat are hard to hide. The makeup tries to cover them, but they’re still visible. My stomach clenches just thinking about it.
“Yeah. He’s getting to be a pain in my ass.”
“What about the girl?”
“The same. Work. Home. Nothing else.” He doesn’t need to know that she’s not taking the metro or that she jumps at the sound of a backfiring car, a slamming door, or if someone yells within a three-block distance. “I think we got our point across.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t get a name. The rat is still out there.”
“You think it’s one of ours?”
“Yeah, it’s got to be.”
“Why?”
“’Cause why would it be one of theirs? They have a sweet gig. We pay them more than Uncle Sam does. Why give that up?”
“It’s not either of the feds we’re paying,” I agree. “They wouldn’t screw themselves. It’s got to be one of their superiors or someone they let it slip to.”
“If they let it slip, they deserve to hang in the breeze.” He pauses, cocking his head to the side. “But why now? Why is this happening at the same time your father suspects a rat? What’s that saying about coincidence?”
“That’s there is no such thing?”
“Yeah. I don’t buy it. I think we got a rat.”
“If we do, the guy is a damn genius. All he did was make a phone call, and we’re tearing ourselves apart. Kidnapping and threatening staffers, we’re making ourselves visible in ways we haven’t before.”
“Which means if we get caught, this becomes front page news. Every single news outlet covers it, and we’re all screwed.”
Six ways to Sunday, with no hope of an easy out. “Keep your ear to the ground,” I tell him, sliding out of the booth.
I pay our bill and follow him outside. I lift my chin in goodbye as he drives off, giving him a head start. I’ve got a meeting to get to, and I really don’t want him lurking around.
The city is quiet as I drive into downtown D.C. There’s not a lot of traffic and the couple inches of snow we got last night means there aren’t many people outdoors.
I park toward the back of the lot, stepping around a few snow piles left behind from the removal process. The large door opens before I reach it, thanks to a smiling doorman. I palm him a tip and step inside the building.
“Good evening, sir,” the concierge greets me. “Welcome to the Hays Morgan. What can I help you with?”
I pull off my gloves and tuck them into my coat pocket. “I’m checking in.”
“Wonderful. The name on your reservation?”
“Tom Smith.”
He clicks around on the computer screen. “Yes, here it is.” He hands me the keycard. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Smith.”
“Thank you.” I cross the lobby to the elevators and step inside the first available one. I punch the button I need and the floors tick by.
With a beep, the doors slide apart, and I find the room I need. Swiping the keycard, I throw open the door.
Garrett looks up from the computer in front of him, his forehead furrowed. “Start from the beginning.”
I shrug my shoulders out of the heavy coat. The heat is on in here, and I’m starting to sweat before his interrogation even gets going. “Can you spring for the mini bar?”
“Fine,” he groans. “But go easy.”
I unlock it and grab a few bottles of booze. I twist the caps off of two of them, downing the first in one swallow, and taking my time with second plastic bottle.
“Nic.”
“Yeah, okay.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair.
And then I tell him everything. He sits there, stoic, listening without interrupting. I swear though, his already pale face whitens even more as I tell him about the events of the other night.
When I finish, he tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling. A freckled hand covers up his eyes, but not his grimace. “Jesus.”
“I know.” I pace by the door. My anxiety refuses to let me sit still. He drops his hands back to the desk and types something rapidly. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making notes,” he replies, staring at the computer screen that casts a weird bluish-green light on his face.
“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing me. That’s not what I came to you for.”
“Guilty conscience much?” He doesn’t stop typing.
“Would you help me out here?” I grab another bottle of cheap, yet overpriced, booze and twist the cap off.
“Did you kill Senator Thomas?”
The question comes out of nowhere, catching me off guard, but that was probably his plan. I turn my back to him, walking the length of the room. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes . . . no. Shit.” His fist pounds the desk. “I can’t protect you if you’re doing things like that.”
“Then you don’t want to know the truth.” I tip the bottle to my lips and empty it.
