She described how, after a lengthy trial during which Lee Mawadi’s ex-wife, Mariah, was briefly suspected of complicity and then exonerated, the three powerful terrorists were convicted for the Santa Bombings and sent to the ARX Supermax Prison north of Bear Claw City. There, through the sort of clandestine communication network that tended to exist in supermax security prisons despite the inmates’ isolation, al-Jihad made contact with Jonah Fairfax, who was supposedly doing life without parole for killing two federal agents during a raid on an antigovernment cult up in Montana. In reality, he was a deep undercover operative tasked with ferreting out al-Jihad’s contacts within federal law enforcement. In that guise, his handler encouraged him to help al-Jihad and his lieutenants escape. That same handler, Jane Doe, had been working with the terrorists all along. Fax had turned out to truly be one of the good guys, despite Sara’s concerns when her best friend, Chelsea, had fallen for the escaped-convict-maybe-undercover-agent. He and Chelsea’s friends had banded together to foil a terror attack on a local concert, recapturing Muhammad Feyd in the process. The others—including Jane Doe—had remained at large, though, and intelligence suggested they had fled the country.
A few months later, Lee Mawadi had reappeared in the Bear Claw area, gunning for his ex-wife, Mariah. Sara was less clear on the details, except to say that the ex was now engaged to one of the FBI agents on the task force. The two had been instrumental in foiling a planned attack on the prison, though they hadn’t stopped the riot that had killed—supposedly, anyway—Detective Romo Sampson of the BCCPD’s internal affairs department. Who patently wasn’t dead.
Finishing up, Sara told him how over the past few weeks the communication monitors had said things were heating up the way they might before another attack. Nobody knew where the next horror would be targeted, though, or when. She paused. “There was a manhunt today. Two federal agents were killed, maybe a couple of the terrorists, too…and then you show up here covered in blood.”
His eyes were very dark, though she couldn’t read the emotions in them. “I don’t know whose blood it was,” he grated. “God help me, but I don’t know. I don’t even know whose side I’m on.”
“You’re one of the good guys,” she said automatically. “You must’ve been undercover, working for al-Jihad and his people, while reporting back to someone on the local or federal response team.”
“You sound very sure of that, considering our history.” He paused. “What exactly happened between us?”
Unease was a sluice of cold in her belly. “You sure you want to go there?”
“Yeah.” His smile went crooked. “I can’t imagine…I don’t feel like the kind of guy who would cheat.”
Her heart drummed in her chest, with a relentless, aching beat. “Trust me, you did. Then you came to me the next morning and confessed. You said you’d stopped into a bar, had a few, one thing led to another…and you woke up next to your waitress.”
He winced, but struggled to lever himself up on an elbow, even though the action must’ve hurt like fury. His eyes were steady on hers, his gaze deep and probing, making her very aware of his bare collarbones and throat, and the fact that he was all but naked beneath the blanket. “Did I ask you for another chance?”
Her face felt numb, her whole body felt numb. She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with a dead man who didn’t even know his own name. “I don’t do second chances.”
Something flickered in his expression. “Pity. That was a hell of a kiss.”
She squared her shoulders as anger guttered. “We were great in bed. In the end, that wasn’t enough.” He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but she steamrolled over him, snapping, “And is that the only thing you can think about, after what I just told you?”
“Of course not. But it’s the elephant in the room, isn’t it?”
He was right, of course. They weren’t strangers, but in a sense they were, because he didn’t remember the things she did—assuming she could believe him about the amnesia. She did believe him, though, because no matter how many times she’d called him a cheat and a liar inside her own head, the truth was that he’d never lied. He’d told her about the waitress the next morning. If he hadn’t lied about that, she couldn’t believe he was lying now. Which left them—where?
She shook her head, not sure what came next. “You should get some sleep, let some of this gel.”
“Actually, what I should do is leave,” he said bluntly. “I shouldn’t have come here. I just…It was instinct.”
The fact that she found that even the slightest bit flattering just went to show how thoroughly she’d been into him. And also that she was her mother’s daughter.
“If you leave, I doubt you’ll get far,” she said dryly.
His eyes went to the window, even though she’d drawn the curtain earlier, blocking out the night. “You’re probably right. I’ve endangered you by coming here. Whether I leave or not, you’ll still be a target.”
A chill swept over her. “I was talking about the fact that I doubt you’d make it far without collapsing, given the concussion, bullet wound and blood loss.” But he was right about the other, too, she knew. People were looking for him. Regardless of who found him first, she was going to be in serious trouble. If the task force found out she’d hidden him, Percy would have his excuse to fire her. If the terrorists found him, they were both dead.
She should turn him in, to Fax or someone she trusted. But what if the blood on his clothing had come from the dead agents? Even Fax was on a witch hunt to cull all the conspirators from the federal ranks, and none of her friends had thought much of Romo in the wake of the breakup. Could she truly trust them to believe in him the way she did?
Damn it, she didn’t know what to do, and she hated not knowing what came next. She’d grown up in a family that had been in a constant state of flux, with her father coming and going depending on where her parents had been in the cycle of him cheating, her kicking him out, him repenting and her forgiving him. Over and over again.
“You’re a doctor?” Romo asked, no doubt because she’d just predicted he’d fall on his face if he tried to leave now.
“I’m—” She broke off, struck anew by just how odd it was for him to be meeting her for the first time all over again, after they’d been as intimate as two people could possibly be. Or at least as intimate as he’d let them be. “I’m the chief ME of Bear Claw City,” she said, and even she heard the quiet ring of pride in the words. And why not? The job might not be hers for much longer, but for now she could claim the prestigious title.
He whistled. “Impressive.” He frowned for a moment, thinking.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It’s just that it’s true, you know. You’re in danger now because I came here.”
“I have friends who could help.”
Romo’s expression went instantly shuttered. “Don’t tell any of them that I’m here. Don’t even hint it. Promise me.”
His sudden intensity sent a spear of worry through her. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to endanger them the same way I’ve endangered you,” he said, but she had a feeling there was more to it than that.
“They’re all cops and agents, Romo. They can handle themselves.” She wasn’t as sure as she sounded, though. The memory of his funeral was too close to the surface. She couldn’t bear to think of reliving the experience for Chelsea, Fax or any of the others.
“Promise me,” he repeated, reaching out as though he wanted to touch her, though they were a room apart. “Promise you’ll give me the night to remember. Promise me we’ll talk again before you do anything.”
They stared at each other for a long moment while the air thickened with things said and unsaid, and with too many questions. Finally, unable to deal with the pressure that gathered in her chest and made her want impossible things, she turned away. “Get some rest. I’m going to call Tucker. He’s a homicide detective w
ith the BCCPD. If I tell him the manhunt has me freaked out, he’ll send a patrol past here every hour or so.” It didn’t seem like nearly enough, but it was all she could think to do just then. She couldn’t leave her patient, couldn’t move him, couldn’t kick him out…and she’d just promised not to turn him in until at least morning.
“And one other thing.”
“What?” she asked, but the word came out weakly, as exhaustion rushed over her, swamping her. Her brain was full, her heart heavy. She just wanted to shut it all off for a little while.
“You called me Romo.”
She stilled, her heart cracking a little, bleeding for what he’d lost, for the uncertainty of when—or even if—he’d get it all back. “That’s your name. Detective Romo Sampson, Internal Affairs, Bear Claw Creek.”
“And you?”
“Sara Whitney.”
He said her name back to himself. “Pretty name.”
The offhand comment shouldn’t have touched her as deeply as it did. Because of that, because of the weakness it indicated, she backed out the door. “I’m going now. Sleep. And don’t stress your stitches.”
She closed the door firmly at her back, not to keep him in, but to remind herself to keep out. Romo wasn’t hers anymore. He hadn’t been for a long, long time.
AS THE DOOR SHUT, he lay still, staring after her, trying on his own name. Romo Sampson. It was a good enough handle, he supposed, ignoring the lick of panic that came when he realized he didn’t know what “Romo” was short for, if anything. He didn’t remember the name, didn’t remember the parents who’d given it to him, or the woman he’d instinctively come to for help.
An ex-girlfriend, he thought, trying to align that information with his almost overwhelming desire to roll across the big bed with her, and do something to blunt the roiling, churning lust that had gripped him low in the gut the moment he’d pressed his body against hers, the moment he’d kissed her.
Mine, his entire being had said at that moment. And she had cooperated fully, making it something of a shock to learn that they weren’t together, hadn’t been for some time. Somewhere in his banged-up head, he’d been sure they were a couple. Apparently, he’d forgotten their breakup. He’d forgotten a whole lot of things, and he had a feeling lots of what he’d forgotten wasn’t at all pleasant.
Sara seemed convinced he’d been undercover. He wasn’t so sure. But as he lay there, trying to remember something—anything—the gray-brown crept in on the edges of his vision, taking over everything. Willing or not, he slept.
Hours later, he awoke stiff and sore, with an excessively foul taste in his mouth. A dim light shone from the bathroom, and when he made it in there, he found a couple of pain pills and a glass for tap water. He downed the pills and water, and stood there, braced against the sink with his head hanging and his shoulder on fire.
He should go back to bed and give his body more healing time, he knew, but his half-remembered dreams kept him on his feet.
His head throbbed, tangling the present with occasional flashes of what he could only assume were things from his past. They weren’t in any sort of order, though, didn’t have any context. He hoped to hell the flashes themselves were evidence that his memory would come back quickly, as whatever swelling he had going on inside his skull came back down to a dull roar. Problem was, a part of him wasn’t sure he wanted those memories back—they were starting to show him some seriously grim scenes, ones suggesting he hadn’t been quite the nice guy Sara seemed to believe.
He saw blood and heard a man’s screams, saw a computer with a set of schematics on it. And he had an overwhelming sense that he needed to be doing something, performing some sort of mission, but he was damned if he knew what he was supposed to be doing.
Panic stirred. He was unarmed, unprotected. And he wasn’t sure the thought of the local cops doubling their patrols was much of a comfort; first, because from the sounds of it, the terrorists had been running rings around them for months; and second, because for all he knew, the cops were the ones looking for him.
He should leave, he knew. Unfortunately, he was realistic enough to admit that he wouldn’t get far. He was too damned weak to run. What was more, he’d been there too long already. Whoever was looking for him might’ve found him already. If so, he couldn’t very well leave Sara, knowing she was in danger. He owed her better than running away. He owed her protection, through the morning, at least.
Pushing away from the sink, he headed for the bedroom door, remembering that he’d glimpsed a gun cabinet in the office next door to the bedroom. Almost as an afterthought, he realized he was wearing cheapo skivvies and nothing else. Detouring to her wardrobe, he unearthed a pair of navy blue drawstring sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt that probably swam on Sara’s slender frame, but fit snugly across his chest.
The clothing was soft and smelled of her, of laundry detergent and springtime, though he couldn’t help noticing the faint odor of blood that came from his own skin, tainting the moment.
Once he was dressed, he slipped out of the bedroom and down the hall to Sara’s office. He crossed to the gun cabinet, alert for any noise from the first floor, assuming she’d bunked down on the couch. The gun cabinet was unlocked, which had him muttering about her lack of security. When he got the cabinet open, though, and saw that it was most of the way full with first aid supplies that looked hastily rifled, he figured that explained it. She’d left the cabinet unlocked in her haste to deal with his injuries.
Either that, or there was no gun in there, just medical supplies.
For a moment he thought he was out of luck. Then he caught sight of a small handgun on the top shelf, shoved most of the way to the back next to a box of ammo. Gritting his teeth against a bit of pain, he dug the weapon out and loaded the little .22. Once he had it tucked into his waistband, he felt far better about the situation, and his ability to deal with anyone who tracked him to pretty Sara Whitney’s home.
Granted, a .22 wasn’t much in the way of firepower, but it was something.
He was about to close up the cabinet when he spied a crumpled paper bag that looked completely out of place amid the sterile first aid supplies. Beside it were his boots. A quick recon showed that the bag held what he suspected were his clothes, packaged as if for evidence. He left the bag alone, but took the boots, carrying them rather than putting him on because he didn’t want to wake Sara as he descended the stairs.
Halfway down, on a small, carpeted landing, he paused as a touch of heat feathered across his skin, accompanied by a flare of longing. He grabbed for the memory but it refused to come clear, leaving him feeling hollow. Lonely.
“She’s your ex-girlfriend,” he reminded himself. “Ex. And you’re sure as hell not in a position to be thinking about changing her mind on that one.” He’d endangered her by his presence. He wouldn’t compound that by trying to seduce her.
He wasn’t clear on what had happened between them. He didn’t think he was the kind of man who cheated; he’d felt a deeply rooted twist of guilt and self-loathing when she’d mentioned it, along with something else that made him think things had been far from simple between them. But complicated or not, he’d reacted to her. And, injured or not, he wanted her.
Still, though, she’d been very clear: no second chances. And although he didn’t know her well—at least not in this incarnation of himself—he had a feeling she didn’t make statements like that lightly.
But while logic and rationality said he should leave her alone, when he reached the first floor and found her lying asleep on the sofa where she’d been before—where she’d been when he grabbed her, kissed her—he had to damp down the almost irresistible urge to cross to her, go down on his knees beside the couch and pick up where they’d broken off earlier, with her hands on his face, his buried in her thick, honey-colored hair. That part had been easy, natural. The rest of it, though, was anything but.
Knowing it, and knowing he couldn’t live with himself—whoever he was—i
f anything happened to her, he snagged the bedding he’d been lying on earlier, and cobbled together a makeshift pallet near the front door. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, he found as he lay down and felt his bruises howl, his stitches tug. But that had been his plan—the discomfort would keep him from sleeping too deeply despite his injuries, meaning he’d have a better chance of hearing an intruder and responding in time. He hoped.
He lay facing the door for maybe five minutes before he gave in to the temptation and levered himself painfully to his other side, so he could watch Sara sleep. She’d left on the same kitchen night-light as before, and the dim illumination cast soft shadows on her hands, which were tucked beneath her cheek. The pose might have been angelic, but even in repose her face lacked the pure sweetness generally associated with cherubs and angels. No, she exuded an earthy sensuality in the tilt of her high, elegant brows and the purse of her full lips. And there was an energy about her, a sense that she was never quite still, even in sleep, never quite at peace with herself, or maybe with what was going on around her.
Can you blame her? he thought sardonically, because of course he couldn’t blame her one bit. But he could, and would, do his best to see that she didn’t suffer because she’d helped him.
Forcing himself to turn away, he once again faced the doorway, and shifted the handgun to beneath his pillow, where he could grab it easily if he heard a suspicious noise. Then, knowing he’d better doze and give his body the time and resources to heal, he closed his eyes and put himself into a light, restorative trance he didn’t know he knew how to do until after he’d done it.
In the trance he saw sounds as colors, a rainbow of soft nighttime noises, none of which alarmed him. Sinking a level deeper into the self-hypnosis, he heard the same whisper that had been nagging at him since he’d regained consciousness out in the woods. The mission. Must complete the mission.
Internal Affairs Page 5
