Shadow of Doubt (An SBG Novel Book 2)

by P. A. DePaul

  “Yes, but only you two do. I’m not calling off the search for Michelle Holman. The U.S. Marshals still want her and she’s still a person of interest in this case.” Annoyance laced the lead FBI agent’s every word. “I want to be kept apprised of every move you two make and every answer you find. Understand me?”

  Some of the relief leaked out of Michelle. She wanted to be done with this whole nightmare. No you don’t! Her heart retorted. That would mean your time is up with Jeremy. How twisted was that? She didn’t want to be hunted by law enforcement or the cartel but felt a bit of happiness that the bad news meant she got to spend more time with a man who already stated he wouldn’t stick around. You now have more time to convince him.

  “Of course, sir,” Sonya answered. “I’ll check back in tomorrow.”

  SAC Bingham hung up.

  “A toast!” Sandra cheered, bolting out of her seat. “The Senator’s plane seems to have every amenity a pampered politician could ask for. We need to find the booze.”

  “Are you guys allowed to drink?” Michelle really liked these two women. Even before the SAC’s call, they had treated her with nothing but respect, never hinting whether they thought her guilty or not.

  “Right,” Sandra agreed, her voice drifting back from the galley. “Junior juice for us and adult juice for you.”

  Sonya finished typing on her phone what Michelle assumed was a text to Raymond, and rested the device on the couch’s armrest.

  Sandra returned with a flourish, her hands full of glasses, plastic bottles, and a wine opener. Sonya grasped the wine bottle with a fancy label Michelle had never heard of out from under Sandra’s arm and plunked it on the coffee table. It only took a moment for them to pour their respective drinks and collapse back onto the couch.

  Sonya raised her glass filled with fruit punch and cried, “To Michelle. Shove it in your face, Talon, with your macabre theories when she told you she was innocent.”

  Another burst of laughter ripped out of Michelle and she lifted her red wine.

  “Here. Here,” Sandra called, then drank.

  The wine was dry and bitter but the alcohol felt good. She needed to relax, and with her low tolerance, she’d be passed out by the time she finished the glass.

  The next hour was probably the most peaceful Michelle had ever experienced. She didn’t participate much other than to accept another refill. Her head spun with a glorious buzz as she listened to Sandra describe the work she was having done on her and Grady’s house while working some shifts at the entertainment center.

  They made it so easy to forget the lines of fugitive and agent-slash-associate. This night was about three women, wine, and junior juice.

  “Oh,” Sonya said, perking Michelle up from her lull. “Before I forget, I’ve got something for you, Michelle.” She placed her empty glass on the coffee table, hauled her purse off the floor beside one of the recliners, then rooted inside. “Got it.” She held up a piece of paper and Michelle’s heart thumped. “I saw this when I entered the oh-so-classy PussyFoot Motel.”

  Michelle’s hand shook as she accepted the memento she never wanted to be without.

  “The second I spied Cappy’s name, I swiped it before anyone realized it was there. By the worn edges, I figured you’d want it back.”

  Stupid tears crowded the corners of her eyes and she could only blame her fuzzy head for their presence. It was a dumb thing to be attached to, but the scrap of paper had been her only link to Jeremy for six years. She swiped a thumb over his name. Once this was over, it would remain the only link she’d have in the future. He made that point very clear.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, realizing she hadn’t said a word.

  “Can I ask about it?” Sonya asked softly.

  Michelle met her kind eyes. She had no clue where the boldness came from but she blurted, “Can I ask about your scar?” All evening she had been staring at it, comparing it to the boatload she had of her own.

  Sonya’s mouth thinned and she cocked her head. “Trade stories?”

  Sandra inhaled, then covered by tipping her glass of apple juice up and gulping.

  By that reaction, Michelle got the feeling this wasn’t something Sonya willingly talked about, if ever. Michelle could relate.

  Michelle nodded. “Ah, yeah.”

  Sandra lurched to her feet. “We need more juice and snacks. Lots of snacks.”

  Ho boy. Did they ever.

  Restocked and resituated, Michelle took the plunge. It took two glasses of wine and a bag of ripple chips, but she managed to tell them every sordid detail, starting with her acceptance letter to become an exchange student to the capture on the bridge. She stumbled over recounting how Maria never made it out of the woods and Luis had been killed the moment they entered the compound. By the time she got to the torture sequence of the tale, Sandra and Sonya were plastered up against her like bookends, using tissues like crazy.

  Michelle pulled the small scrap of paper out of her sweatpants and said, “I thought the medic was going to have an aneurysm at the delay when Jeremy scrawled this note and whispered into my ear, ‘If you ever get into trouble again, contact me. I promise I’ll come running, no questions asked.’” She fingered the spot where he brushed a light kiss below her lobe.

  “Oh my God,” Sandra breathed, wiping her eyes. “If I didn’t love Grady so much, I’d seriously have inappropriate feelings for my superior.”

  A garbled chuckle made Michelle cough and take another sip.

  “No wonder Cappy acted like a raging loon when you mentioned Colin attempted to lock you up in handcuffs.” Sonya plopped a Doritos into her mouth. She crunched, then swallowed. “I suspected something bad happened, but damn.”

  An oppressive weight lifted from confessing her horrific experience. Michelle couldn’t begin to describe the warmth at having these strong women not look at her as if she belonged in a mental ward or showering her with pity.

  She exhaled, her head spinning and muddled from finishing too many glasses of wine in order to make it to the end. “Your turn,” she prompted, nudging the agent and grabbing another Kleenex. “I need a break.”

  Sonya’s eyes deepened and she took a shuddering breath. “Um, okay. Where to begin?” She traced a line in the design on her glass, then began in a low voice, “There’ll be parts I’m going to have to gloss over. I’m sorry, but working undercover—”

  The generic ring of a telephone echoed in the cabin.

  “Mine,” Sandra claimed, straightening enough to pull her phone out of her back pocket while balancing her gun on her thigh. “It’s Cappy.” She held it to her ear and said, “Hey, Cap.” After a pause, she placed the phone on speaker. “Go ahead.”

  “The Senator’s wife has been murdered.”

  Chapter 44

  Cappy paid the cab driver and entered the closed-up hangar through a side door. The muscles in his legs worked overtime to lift the pair of cement shoes that seemed to have replaced his boots. The only good news he’d received this evening was the false alarm on the raid of the safe house, but it hardly outweighed the tragedy. The knots in his shoulders made his movements stiff and every time he blinked he saw images of April’s body lying in a pool of blood on her bed. Son of a bitch. Cuts and slices destroyed her creamy skin, reminiscent of how he found Michelle. He ground the edges of his palms into his eye sockets. Fuck. The action did nothing to stop his mental video from trying to replay the sight of Michelle handcuffed to the iron frame—

  No. He stopped near the private plane’s tail and forcefully pushed the memories down. Dwelling on that tragedy wouldn’t solve a damn thing other than giving him an ulcer.

  He hadn’t felt comfortable leaving the Senator behind, but between the police, FBI, and April’s protection detail, the man was well covered.

  Christ. Losing a wife and a son. He shook his head at the senselessness o
f it.

  He glanced around, but didn’t see a single person moving about. A quick peek at his watch gave him the answer for the silence. 11:39 p.m. Everyone was probably at home.

  The flickering glow of TV images reflecting off a large glass window caught his attention. Hopefully the pilots hadn’t split and were still resting in the lounge.

  Taking advantage of the privacy, he unclipped his cell phone and punched in a private number. It rang two times before a gruff voice, only accomplished by chain-smoking for years, answered, “Warden.”

  “My name’s Cappy; calling on behalf of Senator Bob Harris.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “‘The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits,’” Cappy quoted Albert Einstein per the Senator’s directive.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” the Warden mumbled. “Okay, so you’re legit. What can I do for you?”

  “I quote, ‘Make that son of a bitch hurt so bad, death would be a welcomed end,’” Cappy recited, then tacked on, “And keep at it until he’s jumping at shadows.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “And one more thing,” Cappy growled with every ounce of warning he could muster. “Don’t ever supply him with a cell phone or device that allows him to reach the outside again.”

  The Warden blustered, “I beg your par—”

  “Can it,” Cappy snapped. “Your greed cost the Senator his wife. If Bob Harris ever figures that out, you’ll be lucky if you don’t end up on the other side of the prison system.”

  Cappy hung up, not really interested in hearing the man beg for Cappy to keep his silence. Nothing the warden said would sway him from leaking the news to the Senator . . . though at a much later date. Now would not be a good time. The politician couldn’t afford to be arrested for murder on top of everything else.

  He sighed and rubbed his short hair. Another vision of April tried to take over until a pair of warm bronze irises with little gold flecks overlapped the image. They blinked and his mental camera panned back until he saw her whole face. She gazed up at him with so much desire he actually sprung a semi.

  “Trying to earn the scepter that goes with your King of Stupidity crown?” he muttered as he crossed the distance to the lounge. He rapped on the glass and the two pilots jumped, swinging their gazes his way. He motioned he was ready to go and they signed back they’d only be a moment.

  That taken care of, he picked up his pace to make sure Michelle was out of sight when the pilots boarded. He clomped up the metal stairs and paused at the top of the landing, then texted I’m here. Open Up.

  A matter of seconds later, the door heaved open and Magician and Wraith hovered in the entrance.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” he demanded, taking in their tear-soaked faces. His heart thundered and it took all of him not to knock them out of the way to check on Michelle.

  “Nothing,” Wraith said, stepping back. “We’re fine. She’s fine.”

  Cappy stormed past, his eyes searching the entire cabin.

  “She’s sleeping in the bedroom,” Magician supplied, following his idiotic movements. “Passed out from consuming a lot of wine.”

  He whirled. “What? Wine?”

  “Yes—”

  “We’ll be able to give you an estimated departure time once the plane is moved to the tarmac and we’ve spoken to the tower,” the captain interrupted, moving toward the cockpit.

  The copilot paused by the entrance and peered at their group. “Is everyone present? Can I seal this now?”

  Cappy swiped a hand down his face, trying to swallow the bile lodged in his throat from anxiety. Magician and Wraith kept their backs to the man—probably didn’t want the guy to see they’d been crying.

  “Yes,” Cappy answered, “go ahead and close it up.”

  Cappy didn’t move as he watched the copilot seal the door and disappear into the cockpit. Only after the man locked that door did he exhale. Knowing he was acting like a crazed lovesick boy, he still marched to the bedroom and peered in anyway.

  Michelle lay curled in the middle of the queen-sized bed. She hadn’t bothered to crawl under the sheets or change her clothes. The only thing she had removed were her shoes . . . or maybe one of the other women did that for her.

  His erratic pulse calmed at seeing her resting so peacefully.

  He grabbed the door and closed it with a soft click, then dropped into the seat the Senator had occupied on the flight over. He peered at his two operatives, who now sat on the other side of the table, and demanded, “Someone better start talking.”

  The women traded looks and the fear he thought he’d stowed slammed into his gut.

  Magician plucked at a mashed tissue and sniffed. She dabbed a corner of the white square against her eye, further smudging the black mascara. The image was so out of character for the normally reserved woman that Cappy’s alarm ratcheted up a notch.

  In the past, Wraith had also been aloof, but ever since her escape from SBG, meeting Grady, and reuniting with the team, she had been freer with her emotions. But all that insight didn’t tell Cappy a goddamn thing.

  “Do I need to issue an order?” Cappy asked tightly, ignoring the sounds of the plane getting ready and bracing his feet on the floor as they moved out of the hangar.

  “She didn’t kill Colin,” Wraith blurted, swiping at a tear tracking down her cheek.

  “What?” His heart leapt, and his gaze flew to Magician.

  She nodded. “I got a call from SAC Bingham.” Her voice was huskier than usual, probably from crying. “The preliminary test results didn’t find any traces of Colin’s blood or champagne on her dress.”

  He exhaled and thumped his head against the seat. The relief coursing through him felt like such a betrayal. In his gut he knew she hadn’t done it but that small shadow of doubt had been hammering him.

  “We can’t release her yet,” Cappy mused, staring out the window at nothing. He couldn’t be sure if he was arguing to keep Michelle for her safety or his selfish need to stay close to her a little while longer. “Too many variables, and we’re still trying to get a handle on the SBG angle. The Marshals and Feds won’t be able to protect her from Victor like we can. Cartels, they can manage; that sadistic bastard in jail, not even close.”

  “The tower has cleared us for takeoff. Please stay in your seats with your seatbelts on until I turn the sign off,” the captain instructed over the intercom.

  The plane’s speed increased as it taxied up the runway, then lifted in the air, pressing Cappy deeper into his seat. Oh shit. Michelle. He went to unbuckle his belt despite the warning, but Magician had already beaten him to it. He turned and watched her jog up the aisle, open the door, then close it again.

  “She’s fine,” Magician said, taking her seat. “Shifted a little bit but not much.”

  Cappy nodded, then motioned to his operatives. “Spill it. What happened?”

  Wraith cleared her throat and began. “Magician and I thought a celebration was in order, so we cracked open a bottle of wine—”

  “You two were drinking on the job?” Cappy thundered, his voice rising. “You were supposed to protect—”

  “Shove the lecture,” Magician retorted with disgust. “Of course we weren’t drinking.”

  Wraith’s eyes narrowed, the effect eerie with her glistening, puffy eyes. “As I was about to say, we opened a bottle of wine and juice cartons to toast.”

  Embarrassment flooded his cheeks. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “Continue. What happened after that to put you two . . . ?” He waved a hand toward their faces, uncomfortable at the sight of the waterworks running freely. He hated to see women cry. In fact, he didn’t know many men who could handle it when a woman shed tears. Romeo was the only one in the group who had any clue as to how to make the tears stop, but since the operative wasn’t here now,
Cappy had to handle it on his own. Christ.

  Magician twisted the tissue and whispered, “She told us about Colombia.”

  Cappy jerked.

  Wraith nodded. “All of it.”

  Double Christ. He rubbed a hand over his face and worked to block out the images from that hellish day. Michelle told them all of it? Fuck.

  In a low voice, Wraith continued, “And Magician also confessed how she got the scar.”

  He gawked at the two. Dear Lord. No wonder they were blubbering. Talk about soul-stealing conversations. He shifted and tried to digest the development. To his knowledge only he and Romeo knew the whole story surrounding Magician’s undercover debacle . . . and he suspected they—or at least he—got a sanitized version.

  “You need to tell Michelle about Delta Squad.”

  He jerked his head up at Wraith’s no-nonsense tone. “She can’t be told—”

  “Yes,” Wraith snapped, “she can. We let Grady in.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it? On the surface maybe, but Michelle has someone trying to ruin her life just like Grady had, and a group of strangers—us—she can’t tell whether are enemies or allies.”

  Cappy’s pulsed jumped.

  “Let her in, Cap,” Magician begged softly. “She can keep a secret. Look at all the years of training she’s had with WITSEC. You love her and she loves you.”

  The air froze in his lungs. Christ God. Was he that transparent? Had Michelle figured it out too or did his team just know him that well? Please let it be the latter so Michelle could move on with her life when he left. Only one of them needed to suffer the heartache and she already paid her dues in that department to last two lifetimes.

  “You know I can’t tell her about Delta.” Each word felt like a shard of glass cutting across his tongue.

  “You’ve already messed up once,” Magician stated, her voice no longer shaky and her mask now firmly back in place. “You mentioned you worked for SBG after Colombia when we were all in Cottage Two.”