by LENA DIAZ,
“He could have fallen down because he was unconscious,” Kade argued. “One of the men could have used a tranquilizer gun. That’s one of our tools of the trade. Or he could have Tased him.”
“There was no Taser. Sebastian didn’t move, at all, after he hit the ground. And tranks take a few seconds, even if they’re really strong. He was out.” She snapped the fingers on her left hand. “Like that.”
“Okay. So instead of someone tranquilizing him right then, maybe they got him a few seconds before he ran outside. The meds took effect and he dropped to the ground, unconscious, not dead.”
“Are you even listening to me? I went to his funeral. And Amber’s.” She swiped her left hand across her forehead. The heat was starting to affect her, too. She was getting agitated, which was the last thing he wanted when she was holding a gun on him.
He gestured toward the keys lying on the seat by her drawn-up knee. “I can turn the air conditioner on and—”
“Not yet. I’m still waiting for you to admit that your men killed my friends.”
“They weren’t my—”
“They weren’t your men, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I want to hear you admit that the FBI’s men killed my friends. Say it.”
It was a trap and they both knew it. If he said they didn’t, she’d call strike three and he’d be dead. If he said they did, same outcome.
“Who set up the funerals?” he asked, keeping his tone calm, reasonable. “Did you see the bodies?”
Her mouth tightened into a hard line, giving him the answer that he’d expected. She and her friends wouldn’t have stuck around to gather bodies for funerals. If they had, they’d have been captured, too. They’d probably held memorial services, no burial.
“What makes you so sure the men you saw were really FBI agents?”
“The letters FBI on flak jackets was a pretty big clue.”
He ignored her quip. He was grasping, and he knew it. But he wasn’t giving up without a fight. “Maybe Sebastian made some powerful enemies, assassinated the wrong person.”
“Right,” she said slowly, as if she thought he was mental. “So the FBI is sending teams after Enforcers and nicely taking them into custody while FBI-imposters are doing the exact same thing, going after Enforcers, except that they’re killing the ones they catch. That’s what you’re saying. Does that sound remotely possible to you?”
Not even a little bit.
He sighed. That brilliant plan he’d come up with earlier today didn’t seem quite so brilliant now. He had a thick file on Bailey, had read it front to back numerous times. And he’d bet his life that he knew her well enough to predict that she’d have snuck back into his driveway early this morning and would have put a tracker on his car. Or at the very least, that she’d have hung back somewhere close and tailed him to the motel.
Yay him. He’d been right about that part.
Too bad he’d been wrong about the next part, in thinking he could manipulate her and neutralize her as a threat, then talk through everything as if they weren’t on opposite sides. Turns out, knowing someone on paper was nothing like knowing them in person. He didn’t have a clue what she was going to do next.
“What about your other friend, Amber?” He was operating without a playbook now, not sure where to direct the conversation. But at least she was talking and not shooting. Yet. “You saw Amber die, too, or think you did?”
“No,” she whispered. “She died alone.”
The pain in her gaze nearly stole his breath. And just like that he was wishing he could pull her close, hold her, chase those damn shadows from her eyes.
Stupid. He was so stupid. She wouldn’t want him to hold her. She’d put a bullet in him before that ever happened.
“Then how do you know that she’s dead,” he whispered back.
“I just do. I haven’t heard from her. Neither has Hawke. And we heard rumors there was a shoot-out with FBI agents who came to capture her. So we held a memorial, a funeral.”
He held out his hands in a placating gesture. “I haven’t heard anything to make me believe that your friends are dead. My boss never reported any casualties from before I took over. And I assure you that my men have orders to bring Enforcers in alive, unharmed, and that we pass them off to another set of agents to take them to the retraining facility. Once they’re deemed not a threat, they’re set up with new lives—like a witness protection program. That’s it. Period. No killing. What would be the point?”
“To protect whoever in the government worked with Cyprian Cardenas, the EXIT Inc. CEO, to establish the Enforcer program in the first place. Or maybe to protect whoever tried to cover it up when the program went off the rails and some Enforcers killed some innocent people,” she said, her voice firm again. “Those kinds of revelations would be career killers, to say the least. I’m guessing this goes pretty high up, to someone with political aspirations who’s afraid that one of the Enforcers will eventually leak information about what they used to do. Someone is shutting us up. The only question is who?”
For the first time since she’d pointed the gun at him, she moved her finger from the frame to the trigger. She was going to shoot him. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
“Tell me where Hawke is. I want an address.”
He slowly shook his head, wondering if that was the last thing he’d ever do. “I don’t have that information. Everything is on a need-to-know basis.”
“Trust me,” she gritted out. “You need to know.”
He stared at the dark barrel of the gun. Was this it then? Would he die with all of these unanswered questions floating around in his mind? Not just about the Enforcers, and Faegan, but about everything.
A year ago he’d married a beautiful woman. Two months later she was dead and he was in a coma. He’d freaking gotten married, and he could barely even remember the ceremony—at a Justice of the Peace of all things. His memories of his wife were just fuzzy fragments, impressions, blurry images, like little vignettes. It was obscene to have supposedly loved someone and barely remember her. And yet, here he sat, his would-be killer pointing a loaded gun at his head, an assassin for God’s sake, who was anathema to everything he believed in. And he still wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her.
That was worse than anything else. At a time like this, his life should be flashing before his eyes. He should be devastated by grief over the loss of his wife.
But he wasn’t.
Instead, his last moments on earth were spent desiring a stranger. He craved the feel of her sweat-slicked skin against his like a drunk craved his next drink. He fantasized about ripping off her clothes and sliding his tongue across every inch of her just to see the passion cloud over in her moss-green eyes. He wanted, needed, to hear his name on her tongue as he drove into her and made her come apart all around him. How could he feel all those things for this woman, when he should be repulsed by her on principle alone? In what world did that make sense? In what universe did any of this make sense?
He started to laugh.
Bailey’s eyes widened, which only made him laugh more. He laughed so hard that tears rolled down his cheeks. He laughed until he got a stitch in his side and was gasping for breath. And all that time, Bailey stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
Maybe he had.
He wiped the tears away, chuckled, drew several deep breaths. He waved at the gun. “Go ahead. Strike three and all of that. Get it over with.”
“You’re insane.”
“Now on that we agree.” He swiped the keys from her seat.
“Hey, hey,” she called out.
“Hey yourself. It’s a damn oven in here.” He shoved the keys in the ignition and started the engine. The air conditioner emitted a blast of hot air, then turned blissfully, icy cold. He aimed one of the vents directly at his face and practically melted against the door. “Thank God.”
He closed his eyes. The A/C continued to pump out cold air. A minute ticked by, maybe two.
&
nbsp; “Just tell me one thing,” Bailey said.
“What?” He didn’t open his eyes.
“If your boss admitted that his men were killing people instead of ‘debriefing’ them at that training facility, what would you do?”
He slowly opened his eyes, the urge to laugh evaporating like the sweat on his skin.
“If someone was purposely killed, as opposed to an accident, I’d do everything in my power to halt the program, to stop whoever was behind the killing, and bring them to justice.”
She slowly lowered the gun, but kept her finger on the trigger.
“And Hawke?” she asked quietly. “I was on the phone with him last night. A team was after him. I haven’t been able to reach him since.”
“Their last check-in was this morning. They haven’t caught him yet but expect to soon. Until then, they’ll maintain radio silence.”
“Call them. Tell them to abort the mission.”
“No. I won’t disturb them in the middle of an assignment. It’s too dangerous.”
“You’re in danger. They might as well be, too.”
He considered her request, then shook his head. “No. I won’t put my men in danger. If the phone rang, it could distract them, get them shot if they’re in a standoff. Since I’m the only one who has the team lead’s number, he keeps the ringer on, knowing I would only call in an emergency. But it’s set up not to make a sound or even vibrate for a text message. I could send him a text. As soon as it’s safe, he’ll check his messages, and get back to me. Fair enough?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Fair enough. As long as I get to approve your text before you send it.”
He punched in the message, telling Simmons that if Hawke had gotten away and they were still pursuing him, that he should abort the mission. Then he held the phone up for Bailey to read. When she nodded again, he pressed send, then put the phone away.
She looked tired, weary. Had she slept last night? Probably not if she was watching his house all morning. Regardless of how tired she might be, the determined set of her jaw told him she was going to see this through to the end, whatever that end might be. And somewhere in that befuddled space between his ears, along with the rest of his traitorous body, he was silently cheering her on.
Yep. He’d lost his mind. No doubt about it.
Using her free hand, Bailey put on her seat belt and clicked it into place.
“Drive,” she ordered.
He shifted in his seat to face the front and reached for his seat belt.
“No. No seat belt.”
He couldn’t help but smile. Without a seat belt, he couldn’t risk the old trick of unclicking her belt and slamming the brakes once they were traveling at a high rate of speed. A woman as cunning as Bailey could go far in the FBI. Too bad she’d wasted her considerable talents on a life of crime.
Noting that she’d finally moved her finger off the trigger, he let out a small breath of relief. Without waiting for her next order, he backed out of the parking space and drove toward the front of the lot. “Where to?”
“I-25 South.”
Soon they were on the interstate.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Colorado Springs. We’re going to find Hawke.”
Chapter Nine
Saturday, 2:51 p.m.
She should have taken a nap.
Bailey squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight slanting through the Mustang’s windshield as Kade drove them down the interstate. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open because of the glare. Well, that and she hadn’t slept since Thursday night, which meant she’d been up for about forty hours, give or take.
Her right wrist ached from holding the gun, even though it was propped against her thigh. Curling up on the seat for a nap sounded like heaven. But she didn’t dare let down her guard.
She did, however, turn the bore of the pistol slightly to Kade’s right and kept her finger off the trigger. After all, she didn’t want to accidentally shoot him if the car went over a bump. And pointing it at him the whole time somehow seemed . . . rude.
Settling back against the seat, she checked to make sure he wasn’t watching, then allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes for one, glorious, restful second.
“We’re in Colorado Springs,” Kade announced.
Bailey jerked upright, blinking her eyes. “What?”
“We’ve reached the city limits.”
She blinked again. They were in Colorado Springs already? She’d just closed her eyes. Could she have dozed off? She jerked her gun hand up, then slumped with relief to see that she was still holding her Sig Sauer 9mm.
She covered her mouth to conceal a yawn. She really needed some caffeine. Maybe they should go through a fast food drive-thru and grab a supersized soda. Or a Red Bull. The last caffeinated drink she’d had was shortly before dawn when she’d taken her go bag into a convenience-store bathroom to change her clothes and brush her teeth. The soda and stale muffin she’d bought on her way out weren’t doing a thing for her now.
“We’ve reached the city limits,” he said again.
“I heard you the first time,” she grumbled, rubbing her bleary eyes.
“You snore, by the way.”
She gasped. “I do not.”
He didn’t argue. “Where to now?”
She narrowed her eyes. Something wasn’t right about what he’d said. And if she wasn’t so darn sleepy, she’d know what it was.
“No texts about Hawke from your men yet?” she asked.
He yanked his cell phone out of its holder and held it out to her.
“You check it. I’m not about to let you distract me.” She yawned again.
He put the phone away.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t text and drive. It’s dangerous.”
She waited for the punch line. It didn’t come. “What are you, an altar boy? Give me the phone.”
He handed it over. “I was raised Baptist. We didn’t have altar boys.”
She rolled her eyes and balanced the phone on her knee. Keeping the gun in her right hand, she worked the phone with her left. It was awkward, but not impossible. “It’s locked. What’s your password?”
He told her and a few seconds later the image of Kade and a blonde woman stared up at her from the phone’s background. It was just like the photograph in her pocket.
“Who is she? The woman in the picture with you?”
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “I want the photo back that you stole from my house.”
“I didn’t steal it. I . . . accidentally took it.”
“Well that’s a new one,” he drew out in an exaggerated drawl.
“It’s true. Tell me who she is and you can have it back.”
“Let me guess. You’re accidentally blackmailing me?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She pulled the picture out of her jeans pocket, grimacing when she saw the wrinkles in it. “I hope you have another copy. It’s a bit . . . bent.” She set it in the console.
He glanced down. His jaw tightened.
“I really am sorry,” she said.
He gave her a curt nod.
Did that mean he forgave her?
Did it matter?
She puzzled over that, then decided it did. She didn’t want to hurt him. Contrary to what he probably thought about her, hurting anyone was always her last resort. And, yes, she and Kade were enemies. But that was business, two professionals on opposite sides of a high-stakes war. Damaging a picture that obviously held sentimental value for him crossed into personal territory. And she deeply regretted it. She really should have been more careful.
If their roles were reversed, she’d have yelled and cursed at him. Her father used to tease her about her temper when she was a little girl, saying God gave her fiery red hair to warn those around her to beware. But Kade never seemed to lose his cool, even when he was upset. She couldn’t seem to predict what he was going to
do next. And that made her nervous.
She turned her attention to his phone. But there weren’t any recent text messages.
“What’s the next road I should take?” he asked.
She told him as she idly scrolled through his older messages. Yeah, she was being nosey. But she was the one with the gun.
There were exchanges between him and various team leads, going back for weeks. He gave his men advice, information on their targets, and without fail reminded them over and over that if things got dicey, their orders were to pull back and abort the mission. The safety of his men, and the Enforcers they were going after, seemed equally important to him. Once again, not what she would have expected. He was an interesting man, intriguing, in more ways than one.
Careful not to be obvious, she studied him from beneath her lashes. To say he was her type was a no-brainer—he was any woman with a heartbeat’s type. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, with well-defined muscles that were in perfect proportion to his height, not outrageously overdeveloped like some bodybuilder’s might be.
Without the scars on his face, he would have been too perfect . . . GQ, like a model—which wasn’t her type at all. But with the scars, he appeared more dangerous, intent, and sexier than ever. He would have looked killer in a suit. But she couldn’t find fault with how he filled out a pair of jeans either.
Oh good grief, what was she doing? Wasting time, that’s what. Instead of lusting after Kade Quinn she should be focusing on finding Hawke, before it was too late. She looked down at the phone in her left hand, and it dawned on her that she had the power now to contact the man she’d wanted Kade to call earlier—the team lead who’d been assigned to capture Hawke. She flipped to the main screen and the last text that Kade had sent. After pressing the phone icon, she put it on speaker.
The first ring trilled.
Kade gave her a sharp look, then grabbed for the phone.
She yanked it out of his reach. “I have a gun. Or did you forget?”
“If I weren’t driving it wouldn’t matter,” he snapped.
“Really. Suddenly you’re impervious to bullets? Is there a big red S under your shirt and a cape that I don’t know about?”
