After the Dark

by Cynthia Eden

  “But I don’t feel the same way about her.”

  “Yeah,” Blake growled right back. “You made that abundantly clear.”

  Bass notched up his chin. “She could have stopped Cameron Latham. She was in his house. Right there with him. And Samantha let him walk away. That’s the reason she’s out of the FBI. Because when it came right down to it, her loyalty was with her lover, not with us.” His gaze raked Blake. “Maybe you should remember that. If push comes to shove ever again, if it comes down to a choice of saving your ass or of saving his...which side do you think she’d choose then? Do you really think you can count on her? Because I don’t. And I wasn’t going to risk the life of a single FBI agent on that gamble.”

  “There is no risk.” He was certain of that. Blake began to walk away.

  “I never said she wasn’t a good profiler.” Bass’s voice rang out.

  Blake kept walking. Uh, yeah, you did.

  “I said that I thought she’d choose him. If hell came calling, if it was us versus him...I said she’d choose him. I stand by those words, and you need to remember them, Agent Gamble. You think she’s got your back? Just because you’ve got hers?”

  He did.

  “Think again!” Bass yelled.

  That guy was such a pain in his ass.

  Blake marched straight ahead. He’d go talk to the ME. He’d work the case. He’d get justice for Tammy White. She mattered. Bass and his politics? They didn’t.

  Not even a little bit.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LEWIS BRAKED HIS car near the entrance to her house. Samantha reached for the door handle.

  “Wait!”

  Lewis’s sharp voice froze her. Samantha glanced over at him.

  “Reach into the glove box, Sammie.”

  Frowning at him, she opened the glove box. She reached inside, and her fingers touched—a holster? Her heart thudded into her chest as she pulled it out.

  “That was your dad’s,” he muttered. “Always kept it in good condition. Cleaned it regularly. Made sure it was in working order.”

  The weight of the gun was familiar in her hand. A chill skated down her spine.

  “You’re being hunted, Sammie.” He exhaled. “And you need to protect yourself. What better way to do that than with your father’s gun?”

  She looked up at him. “You’re worried about me.”

  “I’m scared spitless.” He blew out another long breath. “And I get that a gun won’t be much protection against a bomb, but I had to make sure you had something.”

  She didn’t mention that she had three guns hidden in her house...and a knife currently strapped to her ankle. You taught me well, Lewis. “Thank you.”

  He glanced toward her house. “Want me to come in with you? Search the place?”

  “My alarm hasn’t gone off.” She had it linked to her phone. “And besides, I know how to do my own searches.” She waited until he was looking at her. “I can protect myself, you know.” She gave a faint smile, hoping to lighten the tension on his face.

  Only, it didn’t lighten. “You can’t protect yourself if you don’t see the threat coming. It’s the same thing that happened to your father. He didn’t see it. I didn’t see it—”

  She caught his hand in hers. “When are you going to stop blaming yourself? You didn’t pull the trigger that night. His death wasn’t on you.”

  His gaze lowered. He stared at their linked hands. “And it wasn’t on you, either. But that didn’t stop your guilt, did it, baby girl?”

  Well played. “Lewis...”

  He peered up at her. “How about I make you a deal? I’ll let my guilt go when you do. Maybe we both need to stop blaming ourselves for the actions others take. Hell, you got that fancy degree in psychology...a couple of them...wasn’t that supposed to teach you not to blame yourself?”

  “Those degrees were supposed to teach me how to stop killers.”

  “I think you already knew how to do that long before you left for college.” His voice had turned musing. “You always did figure folks out so easy. You could read ’em from fifty feet away.”

  Not always, she couldn’t.

  His radio beeped.

  “They need you back in town.” She pulled her hand away from his. “Thanks for the ride.” She reached for the door, and, holding the holster closer, she climbed from the car. Samantha walked around the vehicle and gave him a little wave. “You’d better call me when you learn something.”

  “Consider me your inside man.” But he didn’t smile. “And you call me if you need anything.”

  She always had.

  He drove away, his tires rolling over the shells in her driveway. A lot of people in the area used shells instead of concrete driveways. With the shells, puddles didn’t collect from the heavy rains. She stood there a moment, the sunlight trickling through the trees, the sound of the waves hitting the shore a distant sound as it echoed up the bluff.

  Then she turned and headed toward her house. She climbed up the porch steps. Pulled out her keys and—

  There were scratches on her lock. Faint but discernible. Her finger lifted, and she touched the lock. Little pieces of metal had flecked off the lock because...the scratches are new. She glanced over her shoulder. Lewis was gone. She could call him back, have him there in mere moments...

  She pulled out her father’s gun. Checked it. Loaded, ready to go.

  Yes, she could call Lewis. Or she could call Blake. Or she could handle this shit on her own. She’d had the best training in the world.

  She slipped around to the back of the house. Her gaze darted to that lock. No scratch marks. She checked her phone and saw that—hell, no wonder she hadn’t gotten any sort of alarm. The system was listed as being off-line.

  Her jaw locked. She opened the back door, she kept her father’s gun at the ready and she went inside.

  * * *

  JUSTIN BASS MARCHED toward his car. A rental, one that wasn’t his normal style at all. But he climbed in the four-door sedan and slid behind the wheel. He pulled the door shut, turned on the car and got the air conditioner to blast at him. Who the hell needed an air conditioner in February? People in freaking Alabama.

  He jerked his car into Reverse. He wanted to floor it and zoom out of there, but Justin was far too conscious of eyes on him. People were always watching. He had plenty of guys gunning for his position at the FBI.

  The road twisted and turned as it led back to town. The bay was on his left, gleaming. Water everywhere. The road was damn near deserted, and a sign to the right told him he was taking the “Scenic Route.” Like he cared about the scenery.

  His GPS was giving him directions, the robotic voice just angering him more and more, and when he missed a turn, he burst out, “Shut the hell up!” He needed to think.

  He pulled off the road. Stopped at an old restaurant, one with boarded-up windows, a place that looked as if it had not seen better days in a very, very long time.

  The GPS kept ordering him to turn right—like there was any fucking place to go there. He killed his engine and huffed out a breath. Then Justin jumped out of his car and reached in to yank his cigarettes from his pocket. He’d gone four long months without a smoke. His wife had been so proud of him, and now this case—it was breaking him.

  He lit up and started to pace. As soon as the nicotine hit him, he actually felt the calm hit him, too. Okay, he could do this. He could fix things. The media loved him. He always knew how to work them. There had been one reporter, Janice Beautfont, who’d been flirting like crazy with him. He’d use her. Get her to air exactly what he wanted aired.

  If Samantha’s profile was right, then he’d float the story that he’d made the decision to pull her in. That he’d been the one to offer her a second chance. No one needed to know the
fact that Blake Gamble had pretty much forced him into that chance. He paced away from the road, moving away from the view of the water. Occasionally, a stray car would buzz past him. Just in case any of the reporters happened to be driving that way, he edged closer to the line of trees on his left. The last thing he wanted was for some reporter to catch sight of him. He’d talk again only when he was ready.

  He glanced at his watch. Blake had said they’d have the student list by three. He’d wait until that time, and then he’d see where this case went. If they got a name, if they got a face, then he could play the scene triumphantly. Maybe he’d even let Samantha stand behind him at the press conference.

  Only...

  Damn it, he hadn’t been lying to Gamble. He didn’t trust that woman. She’d been in the home with Latham. She’d let the guy walk. What guarantee did he have that she wouldn’t do the exact same thing again?

  A twig snapped. He dropped the cigarette. Crushed it beneath his feet, and his hand automatically went to his holster. He stared at the forest before him, a thick line of twisting trees and overgrown bushes. “Who’s there?”

  * * *

  SAMANTHA CREPT THROUGH her house. Everything appeared to still be in perfect place. Her books were on the shelves, her furniture untouched. In the kitchen, her glasses were still stacked by the sink. She didn’t lower her gun as she paced down the hallway. A quick glance in the guest room showed nothing appeared to have been disturbed. The house was quiet. Still.

  Her heartbeat drummed in her chest. She could see her bedroom. The door was partially open. For the life of her, Samantha couldn’t remember if she’d left that door open or shut. She’d been heading out with Blake that morning. She’d been stirred up. Desperate. When they’d gone out the front door, Janice had been waiting—

  But I’m not worried about the front door. It’s the bedroom door that matters. Did I shut it?

  Should she call out? Demand that anyone in there surrender? Say that she had a gun?

  Or should she just rush in, hoping to use the element of surprise?

  I’ll try option two. She sucked in a breath and rushed inside, moving soundlessly.

  But...

  No one was in there. Nothing was out of place. The bed was still tousled, her robe was on the floor. Everything was exactly as she’d left it.

  She checked the bathroom—nothing. And then her gaze turned to the white door on the right. The door that led to her office. It was shut securely, no light coming from beneath it. It was the only room in the house that she still had left to check. She moved carefully forward, making sure not to step on any of the old floorboards that would creak beneath her weight.

  Her fingers curled around the doorknob, and she opened the door. She inched into that little room.

  No one was there.

  As with the rest of the house’s interior, everything appeared untouched. She stalked toward the map she’d made, the one that carefully detailed all of the locations that she’d been tracking Cameron.

  Nothing.

  Damn it. She was sure someone had been in her house. Someone had broken in and not touched a single thing? How did that make sense?

  Then Samantha stilled. Maybe the perp hadn’t come to take anything. Maybe he’d come to leave something. Like a bomb. He’d set that little boat to blow; maybe he’d left an explosive at her house, too, and she’d walked straight into his trap. Shit, shit, shit. She should have thought of the bomb first. She should have realized just what could be happening.

  Instead, I was all focused on confronting the perp, on making sure I didn’t draw anyone else into the fire.

  She started retreating down her hallway, heading for the front door. She was almost there.

  The growl of an engine reached her ears. She moved fast, faster. She grabbed for the front door, fumbled with the lock, yanked the door open and rushed down her porch steps. Her gun was still gripped in her hand.

  “Samantha!” Blake was there, hurrying toward her as he left his SUV, his face tight and worried.

  She grabbed his arm with her left hand. “Someone was inside—”

  He immediately tried to lunge for the house.

  “No!” She stepped in his path. “Someone was inside. But the place is empty now. I’m afraid there may be a bomb in there.” Her muscles ached from tension. “We need to call this in and get bomb-sniffing dogs out here, right away.”

  He pulled her back toward his SUV. Pushed her down behind it. “You thought someone was in your house and you just waltzed in there? What in the actual fuck were you thinking?”

  “Oh, I don’t know...that I was a former FBI agent who might be able to handle shit.” That she was a woman who didn’t want the bad guy to get away again.

  He yanked out his phone, and a few moments later, he was giving the order to get the K-9 unit there.

  She crouched behind the vehicle, her heart still beating far too fast. When he put his phone down, Samantha spoke, slowly, carefully. “I wasn’t letting him get away.”

  Blake’s eyes glittered with fury. “I told you that you weren’t bait.”

  Yes, he had said something to that effect. “And I told you that I didn’t want anyone else dying for me.”

  “Samantha...”

  “There were scratches on the front lock. Fresh scratches.” She remembered the flecks of metal. “If the perp was still in that house, I was stopping him. Don’t act as if you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”

  His hand curled around her shoulder, and he brought her in closer. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you. And how many times do I have to tell you...you matter to me? Matter too much to lose.”

  She stared into his eyes. His fury was all around them, but the tension between them wasn’t just about rage. If only things were that simple.

  “I can’t lose you again.” Blake gave a shake of his head. “I won’t.”

  “You aren’t losing me.”

  “That had better be a promise,” Blake said, and then he was kissing her. A fast, wild, hard kiss. A kiss that sent desire for him scorching through her veins. A kiss that made her remember what it had been like to be with him, all abandon gone, in her bed.

  And she wanted to be with him that way again.

  She would be with him that way again.

  Blake eased back. “We aren’t staying here tonight.” His lips twisted. “We’re going someplace secluded. You and me. You aren’t going to be bait.”

  Yes, she was. How many people have to die in my place? He didn’t understand how much that haunted her.

  She could hear the sound of sirens coming toward her. Lewis must have gotten the call about her place—and he was circling back at full speed.

  Blake started to pull away from her. Her hand lifted and caught his wrist, holding him close. “What do you want from me?”

  “I already told you. I want everything. And tonight, I’m getting it.”

  The sirens were louder.

  And she let him go.

  * * *

  A CAT RAN out of the woods. A stupid, scrawny black cat. Justin swore when he saw it. He’d just had a shit-freak over a cat.

  He’d been out of the field too long. Truth be told, he didn’t like the field. Getting shot at, being targeted—hell, no, he was too old for that hot mess. He was more of a strategist. He could direct his agents—from a safe distance—so that they could get their jobs done. And he could handle the media like a pro.

  Justin knew his strengths.

  And it’s time to get to work on the media now.

  Justin marched back to his rental. He opened the door, slid into the front seat. He yanked off his holster and shoved it onto the passenger seat. The thing had been jamming into his side. Better now. He exhaled slowly and started to put the key into the ignition and— />
  Something jabbed into his neck. Hard, sharp. A fucking bee sting? His hand rose to slap at his neck, but...

  His fingers curled around a syringe. “What the fu—” His words were slurring. He tried to turn in his seat but got tangled up in the seat belt. The damn thing was tightening around him.

  “It’s a drug, Bass. A very powerful one,” a low voice rumbled from the backseat.

  Justin blinked. Some fucker was in his car? Since when? Some fucker who had drugged him? From the corner of his eye, he saw a man’s tanned hand, the inside of his wrist. Some kind of black tat?

  “You’re only going to be awake for a few more moments. So you probably shouldn’t even try to understand things now. There’ll be time to talk later. After all, I never kill my victims right away. There’s no fun in that. Nothing to learn from that.”

  Justin slumped in his seat. His body wasn’t doing what he wanted it to do. His holster—his gun—they were right in the seat beside him. He just had to reach them. Inches away.

  But he was blinking groggily.

  “There are so many horses in Fairhope, did you know that? Well, actually, I guess technically most of them are right next door in Point Clear. That’s a lovely city, by the way, really picturesque, and it’s basically the horse capital around here. They even do big polo games. Quite fancy.” That voice was low, amused. “Where there are horses, there is also horse tranquilizer. That’s what is running through your veins right now. Don’t worry. It won’t kill you. Not outright, anyway. I’ve used it on someone else before. You aren’t my first experiment.”

  Experiment.

  Justin tried to talk, desperate, frantic right then because he thought he knew who the bastard was in his backseat. “Ca—Cam...”

  His driver’s-side door was yanked open. Sunlight poured down on Justin as he fought to keep his eyes open. A second man was there, a man who wore a baseball cap, a guy he couldn’t see clearly.

  I can’t see anything clearly.

  He could barely keep his thoughts together.

  “We need to move him fast,” the other guy said, sounding nervous. “Before any cars happen by. And he’s...he’s big. I don’t know if we should have gone after him...”