They’d both slept in the living room the night before, for a second night in a row, she on the couch, he on his makeshift pallet near the door, keeping watch. Sometime during the night, though, he’d moved closer to her, and she’d awakened to find her fingertips dangling over the side of the couch just brushing his shoulder. It hadn’t quite been his old habit of wanting some part of him touching some part of her, but it had been enough to make her heart shudder a little in her chest. Enough to make her yearn, damn him.
Focus! she told herself, forcing her attention on the meeting at hand as she marched to her hybrid and climbed inside.
The skin between her shoulder blades prickled with the sensation of watching eyes, but she told herself to ignore it. If al-Jihad’s people had figured out where Romo was hiding, they wouldn’t be sitting around, watching. They would’ve done something already. The thought brought a serious shiver, but it did make a fatalistic sort of sense. Which meant that if she was being watched, it wasn’t by one of the terrorists. More than likely, she knew, it was Tucker. Or, since Tucker was due at their meeting point, he might have deputized Alyssa to keep watch in his stead. The married couple made a formidable team.
Sara had called Tucker first, then Fax, and had told them only that she needed to meet with them in the utmost secrecy. She hadn’t dared reveal more than that, for fear that the information might leak to one of the conspirators believed to still be within the task force. Not that Fax or Tucker would talk, but still…thanks to Jane Doe’s defection, al-Jihad’s people had access to the latest spy-ware technology and strategy. As Fax had once said, the task force members had to assume that the terrorists had all of the toys and know-how the good guys did, and then some.
“Which is so not an encouraging thought,” Sara muttered to herself as she fired up the hybrid’s engine and pulled out of her driveway. After taking a few turns through her neighborhood and deciding she wasn’t being followed, she drove down a street two blocks over from her house, and pulled up next to a thick stand of landscaped trees.
Romo slipped from concealment—she hadn’t even seen him hiding there, though she’d been looking for him—and climbed into the hybrid, folding himself into the backseat and keeping his head down so it looked as though she were still alone. “See anything?” he asked as she pulled away from the bushes.
“Nope. But I’m not a professional, either.”
“You do fine.”
His calm assurance steadied her more than it probably should have. But then again, that was Romo. He’d always made her feel like more than she really was, as though together they made something that was better than each of them alone. She’d thought he’d felt the same way, until he’d proven otherwise. But although his betrayal was never far from the surface of her thoughts, she was startled to realize that the pain was beginning to fade, in a way it hadn’t done during the months after they’d broken up, or after that, when she’d believed him dead. And that was a problem, she knew. Thanks to her mother, she was genetically and environmentally predisposed to forgive the man she loved, even when he patently didn’t deserve forgiveness.
She could potentially get past Romo’s disappearing act, presuming that he proved to have been undercover. They hadn’t been together when he’d faked his death; he hadn’t owed her an explanation or a warning, a sign that he was really alive. Or so she kept telling herself, and the logic worked even if the emotions lagged a little. What didn’t work was knowing she was just as ready to forgive him for what had happened before then, when they had been together. All he’d had to do was send her some of his long, slow looks and a single hot, toe-curling kiss, and a large part of her was more than ready to forgive and forget, and give their relationship a second chance. Not that he’d even indicated that he wanted a second chance with her, she reminded herself. The weakness was inside her. It always had been.
“Problem?” he asked.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw him looking at her in it from his cramped position in the back. “Why would there be a problem?” she inquired with a faint bite in her tone as she returned her attention to the road. “My cheating ex comes back from the dead, bleeds all over my living room, forces me to lie to a friend and runs a strong risk of getting me killed. No problem there that I can see.”
“All true, but none of it is news at this point. Which means there’s something else going on in that head of yours that had you frowning.” He paused. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not even remotely,” she snapped.
“I’ll listen. Venting might help.”
She cut her eyes back to his in the mirror. “And that’s the sort of thing that leaves no question you’ve got a head injury and amnesia. The old Romo Sampson never would’ve put himself in the line of fire for an emotional outburst.” He’d avoided negative emotions, claiming he got enough of them at work; he didn’t need to go looking for drama on his off hours.
“I’m starting to think I might not have entirely liked the old me,” Romo said mildly.
“Join the club.” But the absurdity of it tugged a reluctant smile from her as she turned onto the highway and then off it again.
She made a quick stop at one of the big box stores that dotted the region, and went inside to buy jeans, a white oxford and a black blazer for Romo, so he didn’t have to wear her sweatpants to the meeting. He’d kept hold of his own boots, so she filled in the gaps with a package of socks and a pair of boxers. The clothes weren’t the more expensive brands he’d preferred, but once he’d changed in the car—covering the winces as best he could, though obviously still in pain—he looked much more like the man he’d once been, albeit a version of himself wearing a layer of stubble and a hunted, haunted look in the back of his eyes.
Haggard or not, Romo’s dark, sharp good looks had always drawn female attention wherever he went. And, damn it, his looks hadn’t changed with the time away. If anything, his features had gotten even sharper with the loss of a few pounds, as though any softness that had once been inside him had been burned away by whatever he’d seen and done. And it’s that “whatever he’s seen or done” that you need to focus on, she reminded herself, forcing her eyes away from the mirror and gluing them back on the road.
She hadn’t thought he’d noticed her glance. But moments later, he said softly, “I’m sorry I’ve made things so difficult for you, Sara.”
He saw through her, damn it, saw into her. He knew what she was thinking and feeling, and the knowledge made her feel stripped raw inside. But when she glanced into the mirror and away, she saw only compassion in his gorgeous green eyes with their ridiculously long, sexy lashes. “Just don’t kiss me again,” she said, voice going ragged before she could force it steady.
She expected easy assent. Instead, he said, “I can’t promise that.”
The quiet statement sent a bolt of electricity through her midsection as she rolled to a stop at a red light. She wanted to turn and look at him directly, but didn’t dare, so she met his eyes once again in the mirror, and saw heat there. Desire. “Don’t,” she said, the single word coming out in a dry-mouthed whisper.
“I’m not the guy who cheated on you, Sara.” His eyes were steady on hers.
“Yes, you are.” But she knew that was a lie. The old Romo had been a charming rogue who’d committed himself fiercely to the chase once she’d let him know that she was attracted to him but made it a point not to date men who went through girlfriends with depressing regularity. She’d eventually given in and gone out with him, then had fallen for him, but he’d only let himself fall so far. There had been a distance between them, a barrier she’d been unable to breach.
With this man, though, there was no barrier that she could see. Stripped of his practiced game, he remained as fiercely protective of her as he’d been before, but he let her see it in him. His eyes showed his thoughts and feelings, and when he reached up between the front seats to touch her elbow in a brief caress that lit her body as though it had been so much
more, there was an honesty in his touch that she didn’t remember from before. It was as though, in losing himself, Romo Sampson had found a new, different man. A better one.
“Sara,” he began.
“We’re here,” she interrupted, unable to deal with whatever he was about to say, knowing she wanted to hear it far too much. She turned into the small parking lot of the state park trailhead that Fax had chosen as a meeting place and saw two other cars already there, a dark green truck and a standard-issue sedan. “Those are Fax and Tucker’s rides.”
As she rolled the hybrid to a stop, Fax emerged from his truck. A couple of inches under six feet, he was tough and compact, with dark hair, piercing blue eyes and a thin scar running through one eyebrow. He looked healthier than he had when Sara had first met him, fresh out of his own undercover hell. He hadn’t mellowed over the ten months, though, despite his engagement to Chelsea. If anything, Fax had grown even more intense as she had progressed through her FBI training, as though he was bound and determined to end al-Jihad’s reign of terror before the woman he loved wound up any deeper in the danger. Even now, he practically vibrated with deadly tension as he rounded his truck to join Tucker, who leaned back against his car, arms folded over his broad chest.
Tucker was a couple of inches taller than Fax, with wavy dark hair, brown eyes and a swarthy tan and an air of unconstrained wildness that made him look more like a park ranger than a senior homicide detective.
Both men wore bulletproof vests marked with their affiliations, and had guns on their hips. When Sara parked the hybrid and just sat there for a second, dithering, her friends moved to stand shoulder to shoulder, presenting a strong, united front. She told herself she should feel reassured by the sight. Instead, nerves skittered to life beneath her skin.
“They’re going to kill me when they hear what I’ve done,” she said, mostly to herself.
“They’re not going to touch you,” Romo said succinctly from the backseat, where he was still hunkered down, avoiding detection. “And for the record, the you-and-me conversation isn’t over.”
Her throat went dry even as her blood revved in her veins. “What if I want it to be over?”
“I can’t let it be over,” he said, and in his eyes she saw a raw honesty she’d never seen in his face before. “I don’t know what the old me did, exactly, and I sure as hell don’t understand why he did what he did, but I’m not that man anymore, Sara. And the man I am now wants his chance with you.”
Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest. “I don’t do second chances.”
“It wouldn’t be a second chance. It’d be a first one for the guy I am now.”
A bubble of near-hysterical laughter rose within her. “For how long? As far as I know, you’re thirty seconds from being dragged back undercover. And even if that doesn’t happen, how long will it be until it all comes back, until the real Romo Sampson returns?”
“Trust me,” he said. “I won’t let you down this time. I promise.”
But how could she trust him when she didn’t really know who he was anymore? Before she could respond—before she could even figure out how she wanted to respond, as warmth and wishes swirled in her chest—he straightened up and slipped from the vehicle, leaving the door ajar as he headed toward where Fax and Tucker both went stiff and on point at the sight of him.
“Sampson!” Tucker bit off. “Son of a—”
Heart drumming, Sara hurried to catch up with Romo. They were maybe three or four car lengths from the men, and Sara could already feel the tension coming off them in waves. Figuring she should make a rearguard effort to smooth things over, she called, “Hey, you two. Thanks for meet—”
A whistling shriek cut her off, followed quickly by Romo’s shout of alarm. Then he was slamming into her, driving her to the ground.
Half a heartbeat later, the world exploded.
They’d been ambushed! Sara’s heart constricted in her chest as Romo covered her body with his own. “No!” she cried. “Tucker! Fax!” She tried to struggle out from beneath Romo, but he wouldn’t budge, just hung on to her tightly, covering her ears with his big, strong hands.
A terrible noise blasted over them, coming from where Fax’s truck had been. Waves of concussion battered Sara, even though she was protected by Romo’s weight pressing her down into the hard surface of the parking area.
Her ears rang and went dull as panic gripped her, took her over, paralyzing in its intensity. She thought someone was screaming, realized a moment later it was her, and shut up. Heat flared in the air, bringing terrible, choking smoke.
Slitting her eyes, she looked toward the conflagration. Fax’s truck was burning. Tucker’s car was marked with blast char, its front quarter panel mangled. The two men lay twenty or so feet away from the vehicles, close to each other. Neither was moving.
“Fax! Tucker!” Hacking against the burning ash, Sara struggled to get up, to get to her friends. Then Romo rolled off her, dragged her up and pulled her into a shambling run. Only he was going in the wrong direction. He was headed away from the other men.
“No!” Sara dug in her heels and tried to twist away. “No, we’ve got to go back for them!”
“We can’t.” His grip was inexorable, his jaw set and his face colder than she’d ever seen it, even before the amnesia, when he’d been a far harder man.
“Romo, stop. We can’t leave them.” Tears stung her eyes, a combination of smoke and emotion.
“We don’t have a choice. Move!” He shoved her into the back of the hybrid, shut the door and climbed in the driver’s seat. He had the little vehicle moving before she even scrambled to grab the door handle with some mad intent of flinging herself out and running to Fax’s and Tucker’s aid.
She froze as a second missile whistled through the air and impacted the spot where the hybrid had been. The parking area cratered in an instant, and the little car rocked with the waves of concussion, but the tires held and the hybrid leaped away, engine racing as Romo gunned it out of the parking lot. Sara clung to the door handle as the little vehicle flew away from the attack.
“Call it in,” he snapped, attention divided between the road ahead and that behind them. “Tell them to get to Tucker and Fax ASAP, but don’t say anything about us.”
Mind blank with fear, Sara scrabbled for her pocket, pulling out her cell. She stabbed the familiar number and reported the attack in a voice that cracked with tears. When the dispatcher asked her name, she started to say, “This is Sara—”
“Give me that.” Romo grabbed her cell and tossed it out the driver’s-side window.
“What the hell?” she demanded angrily.
“You made your call. They’ll get to Fax and Tucker in time, thanks to you. But we can’t let them track the phone.”
“Who, the cops?” Incredulity had her voice cracking, but inside her, sluggish fear stirred. “Romo, at this point we want the cops to find us. Don’t you get it? Al-Jihad’s people just tried to kill us to keep us from talking to Fax and Tucker.” Her throat closed as the sight of their motionless bodies flashed in her head. “And now they’re…”
“Stunned,” he filled in when she faltered. “They’ll be okay.”
“We left them there!” she snapped, anger rising quickly. “What if the shooters go after them, to finish them off?”
“They won’t.” His voice rang with calm assurance.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s them behind us.” He nodded into the rearview mirror.
That was when she realized he didn’t have the engine redlined anymore; he’d eased up on the gas, though he kept steady progress up onto the highway, weaving through the sparse Sunday morning traffic.
Maybe a half mile back, there was another car making similar moves.
Sara’s blood iced in her veins. “You’re letting them catch us?”
He slid her a sardonic glance. “If they’d wanted to catch us, they would’ve by now. This putt-putt car of yours isn’t exac
tly a hot rod.”
She craned her neck. “Then what are they doing?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He grimaced as he drove. “They aimed for the cops’ vehicles, not the cops, and they didn’t take a second shot at us, which they damn well had the time to do. Which means they were trying to break up the meeting without killing us—or more likely without killing me, no offense.”
“None taken,” she said grimly, as her mind moved ahead to the next logical conclusion. “You have something they want. Or at least they think you do. And they don’t want the cops to have it.”
“What’s more, nobody followed us from your place,” he pointed out, voice all but expressionless as he pulled off the highway at a random exit somewhere south of Bear Claw. “Which means that either the guys with the RPG were working with your friends—”
“They’re not.”
“—or,” he continued as though she hadn’t interrupted, “they found out about the meeting through your friends.”
“Neither Fax nor Tucker would’ve said anything,” she maintained.
“For all we know, they’re being monitored. Or else someone on the inside recognized the samples you gave to the forensic analyst and put her and her contacts under surveillance.”
That made sense, Sara realized. “But if that were the case, wouldn’t they have been watching me?”
“Maybe they hadn’t gotten there yet,” he said, grimly navigating the hybrid through a set of back roads she didn’t recognize. “You might not have been first on the list of people I’d go to, given that you’re not a cop.”
“But we had a relationship,” she pointed out. “They would’ve looked at me eventually.”
“True.” He paused. “Maybe they did follow us from your place, after all. But if they knew where I’d been, why didn’t they move in on me sooner? What the hell are they waiting for?”
Internal Affairs Page 8
