Lord of the Wolfyn / Twin Targets

by Jessica Andersen

  SEVERAL HUNDRED MILES away, sitting in the elegant kitchen of a renovated Vermont farmhouse that was owned under the little-used alias Kyle Cross, Tiberius slapped the phone shut with a bitter oath.

  The thick-maned redhead sitting at the other end of the long breakfast bar, still wearing one of the skin-tight flight suits she favored when piloting Tiberius’s chopper, looked up from buffing a chip out of one of her nails. “Problem, darling?”

  “Nothing that can’t be dealt with,” he responded, feeling a measure of calm at the knowledge of just how true those words were. His guards might have let Sydney Westlake escape from the island—and they’d be punished for the lapse—and the contractors he’d hired in Maryland might’ve screwed up the sister’s capture, ditto on the retribution, but that didn’t mean he was entirely without options.

  He tapped the computer screen of his high-tech phone, bringing up an encrypted list, and keyed in the code required to translate the names, revealing a list of key FBI personnel that he’d either found useful in the past, or who had weaknesses he knew he could exploit. A quick comparison between that list and the names he’d gotten for John Sharpe’s major crimes team, followed by a brief phone call, and he had himself a new employee.

  Sydney wasn’t going to know what hit her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SYDNEY SPENT THE NEXT four days in a safe house outside D.C., downloading her brain into huge databases and modeling programs run by two of Sharpe’s people—pretty, soft-spoken Grace Mears and quirky, geeky Jimmy Oliverra.

  There was no sign of Sharpe. He didn’t visit, didn’t call. He might as well have taken Celeste away himself, because she hadn’t heard a peep from either of them.

  Telling herself he didn’t owe her an accounting of his whereabouts, Sydney forced herself to focus on the laptop screen, which showed a satellite photo of Rocky Cliff Island. It was near dusk on day four, and she was losing her edge. She was sick of the safe house, sick of being cooped up, sick of going over the same information again and again, until it was all starting to blur together in her head.

  She’d already told them everything she thought was relevant about the DNA vector, and the computer programs currently guarding it. Now they were working on constructing a virtual model of Rocky Cliff Island. At first the agents had been concerned that Tiberius might have left the island for good; none of the initial passes of the retasked satellite had shown evidence of him being in residence. But that didn’t make any sense—there was no way for him to get the DNA sequence off the island without the password, short of moving each and every computer without disrupting the networked connections.

  Sure enough, on the previous day his helicopter had touched down on the pad just uphill of the mansion, and word had come down from Sharpe—relayed through Jimmy, of course—that they were to model “every damn last beach plum on the godforsaken piece of rock” in case they needed to plan a raid.

  Sydney was pretty sure that was close to verbatim, and she was more than a little horrified that she kept replaying the words in her mind, imagining the way they’d sound in his deep, resonant voice.

  Forcing herself to focus on the job at hand, she pointed to a small white box on the extreme eastern point of the narrow, oblong island. “That’s a guard shack, one of the big ones. It’s got some sort of weapon on the top, hidden under a second, false roof.” She glanced at the others and shrugged slightly. “Sorry, but I only saw it once on my way in. I’m not sure I can do much more with the details.”

  Jimmy broke off the low, tuneless whistling he maintained while working his machines. “Don’t be sorry. Just do your best.” That was pretty much Jimmy’s attitude toward life, which made him a good match for type-A, intense Grace, who immediately began tapping away at her computer.

  Within seconds, the screen in front of Sydney had the guard shack labeled as such. Next, Grace tapped a few more keys and a new page popped up, showing schematic renderings of some seriously nasty-looking turret-type guns that looked like they could take out anything from an airplane to a medium-size boat. “Anything look familiar?” she asked.

  Sydney closed her eyes, trying to remember what the weapon had looked like. “It was longer and…thinner at the end, I think.” They went through a few iterations before she nodded. “That’s as close as I can get.”

  “We’ll take it.” Jimmy spun the image of the island on-screen, focusing their view in on another structure. “How about this one?”

  Grace’s e-mail program gave a ping, signaling incoming mail. Sydney automatically glanced at the screen. She saw J. Sharpe in boldface.

  Grace spun the screen away from her before opening the message. She shot Sydney an uncomfortable sidelong look. “Sorry.”

  “You’re just following orders,” Sydney said softly, “It’s not your fault he doesn’t trust me. It’s mine.” What she didn’t say was how much his mistrust bothered her, how much she wished things had started off differently between them.

  She kept trying to tell herself it was the isolation of the safe house that had her hyperfocused on Sharpe, but that didn’t play because she’d been just as isolated—if not more so—in the lab on Rocky Cliff Island, and she hadn’t spent her time fantasizing about any of her guards, or thinking about her ex, Richard, or hell, imagining herself with Gabriel Byrne or one of the dark-haired hunks she usually gravitated toward in the movies.

  No, she had Special Agent John Sharpe on the brain. Special Agent John Sharpe, who hadn’t spoken to her in four days and twelve hours, and who, as far as she could tell, wanted nothing more from her than information.

  “He doesn’t trust anybody,” Grace corrected. “That’s why he’s so good at his job.”

  “I’m betting it doesn’t make him much of a hit in the social department,” Sydney observed. She pushed back her chair at the kitchen table they were using as a workspace, and crossed the tiled floor to open the refrigerator and peer inside, just in case something interesting had magically appeared in there since the last time she’d checked. Which had been, oh, fifteen minutes or so earlier.

  “Why do you ask?” Grace’s look was sly.

  “Just looking for a weak spot.” Sydney sighed and shut the fridge before hiking herself up onto the kitchen counter. She was wearing jeans and a clingy red sweater she’d thought would cheer her up when she’d gotten dressed that morning. Her feet were laced into a pair of sneakers, even though it was doubtful she’d be going anywhere.

  The shoes were a house rule, though: be ready to run, in case something bad happens.

  “Sharpe doesn’t have any weak spots,” Grace said. “A few dents, maybe, but no gaps in the armor.”

  Don’t ask, Sydney told herself, but did it anyway. “Dents?”

  That earned her a long look, but Grace answered, “There was a woman a few years back. A witness. It ended badly.”

  “Ahem.” Jimmy tapped the computer screen. “Not to interrupt, but…”

  “I saw men coming and going from that one once, carrying things,” Sydney said. “Storeroom, maybe?”

  “Can you define things?”

  “Not really. I was pretty far away.” Sydney tried to concentrate, but what she really wanted to do was ask about Sharpe’s ex. What sort of witness had she been? What exactly did “end badly” mean? Had it been a simple breakup that’d turned awkward, or had it been a double cross, like she’d had with Richard? Or worse, had it been a more final end, like bang dead?

  “We need a different satellite,” Jimmy groused, flipping through the views of the island. “I want thermals, high-def, that sort of thing.”

  “Can’t do it,” Grace responded. “No tasking other satellites until further notice—Sharpe wants to keep all the info gathering in-house. His paranoia has kicked in. He’s got it in his head that Tiberius might be working with someone on the inside.”

  That froze Sydney. “Why does he think that?” And does it mean I’m not safe here anymore? Does it mean Tiberius knows where Celeste is?


  “Because he’s a paranoid bastard,” a new voice said from the doorway.

  Sydney gasped and spun, her heart freezing in her chest, then starting up again—entirely too fast—when she saw Sharpe standing there with his arms folded over his chest and his long, lean body propped up against the door frame.

  He was wearing a dark gray suit and pale gray shirt, with a brightly patterned tie shoved in his breast pocket as though he’d worn it for a meeting and yanked it off immediately after. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable, and the combined effect made the whole package seriously drool worthy.

  A quiver took up residence in Sydney’s stomach. Damn it. She’d spent the past four days trying not to think about him—and failing miserably. Yet even at that, she’d forgotten how gorgeous he actually was.

  Without meaning to, she took a step back, so she was even with Grace’s chair. Glancing down at the computer specialist, Sydney realized the woman hadn’t moved, hadn’t reacted to the surprise.

  Ergo, she hadn’t been surprised.

  “You could’ve warned me he was here,” Sydney muttered under her breath.

  “Could’ve,” Grace agreed, “but I do so hate being predictable.”

  She casually tilted the computer so Sydney could read the brief email giving his ETA at the safe house. The note gave no hint why he was there, nor did the closed expression on his strong, elegant face give any insight into his thoughts.

  Suddenly, though, Sydney had the strongest feeling that he hadn’t come to speak with his teammates. He’d come for her.

  “Is something wrong?” she took a step toward him. “Celeste?”

  “Hugo hasn’t missed a checkin,” he said. It wasn’t the same thing as “they’re fine” but she knew it was probably the best she was going to get out of him.

  Where have you been? she wanted to ask. Have you been busy? Were you avoiding me? But she kept those questions to herself, because he didn’t owe her comfort, or an explanation. So instead she asked, “Why are you here?”

  His eyes fixed on her and darkened, and there was a click of connection. Heat flared in her center, urging her to cross the short distance between them and touch the strong line of his jaw, tempting her to dig her fingers into his hair and hang on for the ride.

  And from the heat that flared in his eyes when he looked at her, she wasn’t the only one feeling the urge.

  “Grace said you were getting stir-crazy.” His voice had gone slightly rough, and the sound thrilled along her nerve endings like a caress. “She thought it’d do you some good to get out of here.”

  “I’d kill to,” she said without thinking, then winced. “Figuratively, I mean. Sorry, I’m still not used to being around people who don’t necessarily consider that a figure of speech.”

  “Noted.” Sharpe unfolded himself from the doorway and gestured toward the front door of the heavily guarded safe house. “You want to go or not?”

  Sydney hung back, sudden nerves gathering alongside the heat of excitement in her belly. “Is it safe?”

  “You’ll be wearing a vest and the location we’re going to is secure.” Again, not an absolute promise of safety. Just the facts, ma’am.

  “Are you—” She broke off and swallowed hard. “Is this a plan to draw out the men who killed Danielle and Jay?”

  “Would that bother you?”

  “Not if I knew I was being used as bait.”

  He gave her a long, assessing look. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to decide whether she was telling the truth, or if she’d surprised him. After a moment he said, “We already have the two men who broke into your house.”

  “You captured them?” If that was where he’d been, he was entirely forgiven.

  But he shook his head. “We found them…or rather what was left of them when Tiberius was through.” He paused. “The prints of one of the men match the partials from your kitchen—he must’ve been the one not wearing gloves. The other guy had traces of blood on one of his shoes. We’re running the DNA now, but I’d be surprised if it doesn’t match one or both of the victims.” He didn’t say where they’d been found or how they died and she didn’t ask.

  She didn’t really think she wanted to know.

  “That leaves us right back where we started,” Sydney said, staring at her toes on a beat of sadness. Guilt tugged at the thought of the domino chain she’d helped initiate. Yes, Tiberius was ultimately responsible for the killings, but so much of the violence had been initiated by her actions.

  “Not entirely. We know more than we did before,” he countered. “And Tiberius is back on the island. I have a feeling things are going to break loose in the next few days, one way or the other.”

  Sydney shivered, not wanting to know what “the other” might entail. “Can’t you just, I don’t know, blow up the island or something?”

  His blue eyes glinted with a brief flash of amusement. “That’s not exactly kosher in the due process department. At the moment, we don’t even have enough to justify a raid on the mansion.” He grimaced, his frustration evident. “That’s according to our higher-ups, anyway. They want this done squeaky clean and by the books. He’s slipped away too many times before. We’re not taking that chance again. Besides—” now his expression turned sardonic “—I thought you wanted to protect your work. Isn’t that why you froze the machines rather than blanking them completely?”

  “That, and because I figured I’d need the leverage if he caught me,” she answered honestly.

  “You were going to trade the password for your freedom.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Of course.” Her voice went defensive. “I was going to send everything I had to the authorities the moment I thought Celeste and I were safely hidden.”

  “That plan has two major flaws,” Sharpe pointed out. “One, you and your sister will never truly be safe from him until he’s either dead or behind bars. And two, by the time you dropped the dime, he could’ve easily sold your bug. The damage would’ve already been done.”

  Something in his eyes alerted her. “You know what he plans to do with the virus.”

  He tipped his head. “We have a pretty good guess.” But he didn’t elaborate, emphasizing that he might be using her for information, but she wasn’t really part of the team. Glancing at Grace and Jimmy, who had given up all pretense of working and were avidly watching the exchange, Sharpe said, “Speaking of which, don’t you two have work to do?”

  Jimmy grinned, unrepentant. “Yes, but this is way more entertaining.”

  Sharpe grimaced and waved in the direction of the front door, and the deepening night beyond. He said to Sydney, “Do you want to get out of here or not?”

  Something in his body language warned her that it wasn’t nearly that simple. “You’re sure it’s not a trap?”

  “No. It’s pizza under armed guard by yours truly. You in or out?” He said it like he didn’t care which way she went, but there was a subtle challenge in his tone.

  “I’m in,” she said finally, wondering why it felt like she’d just agreed to more than pizza.

  “Good. I’ll get the Kevlar. Meet me by the front door.” He turned on his heel and strode out, leaving Sydney staring at the empty doorway.

  She shot a look at Grace. “Was that a little strange, or is it my imagination?”

  Grace looked torn, as though she didn’t want to talk about her team leader out of turn—especially with him potentially within earshot.

  Jimmy had no such compunction, saying, “Yeah, this isn’t his usual style.” He paused and lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Thing is, you can trust Sharpe to say exactly what he means. If he says he’s not using you as bait, then he’s not using you as bait.”

  The statement implied he was very likely planning to use her for some other purpose she hadn’t yet guessed at.

  Since that lined up with Sydney’s own gut check, she nodded. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you guys later.”

  “I’m headed out.” Jimmy stood a
nd cracked his knuckles. “Hot date.”

  Grace rolled her eyes in a look of yeah, right, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be here, slaving away.” She sketched a wave and bent back over her laptop keyboard.

  Which left Sydney with one last question as she grabbed her jacket and headed for the front door: Why pizza?

  JOHN WAS ASKING HIMSELF a similar question forty minutes later as he turned off the highway and headed his car along the outskirts of the D.C. commuter belt, toward the restored farmhouse he called home in-between road assignments.

  Why was he taking Sydney home with him? Why hadn’t he just stuck her in witness protection along with her sister and forgotten about them both while he went on with the investigation?

  And why, when he came down to it, had he added dinner to the mix?

  He’d picked up the pizza on the way through town. The box sat on the backseat, steaming the interior of the car with the spicy smells of garlic and tomatoes, along with the greasy promise of melted cheese.

  The food, along with his last-minute decision to drive his own wheels rather than a company car, made the scenario feel too much like a date. Worse was the fleeting thought of whether she’d like the place, and the hope that she wouldn’t mind eating in the living room because the dining table was snowed in under a drift of psych magazines, gun journals, prison newsletters and just about anything else he could get his hands on that could give him new insight into the heads of major criminals like Tiberius.

  And he was losing his mind.

  He’d told himself to stay away from her. He’d even managed to follow through…for four whole days. Four days during which he’d done his job but been unable to get her out of his head. Four days of flipping open his phone intending to call her, then forcing himself to put the unit back in his pocket without dialing.