by Nina Croft
He returned her gaze and raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me what this is about, Agent…?”
“Lyons.” She pulled out the chair and sat down opposite him, studying him, trying to see inside his head. Unfortunately, she couldn’t. Where to start? She’d wanted to meet the man before she decided on her strategy. While she might not be able to read minds, she’d always had a certain empathy, an ability to read people. And this man was…good. That was the only word that came to mind, only it was of no help whatsoever. But despite what he had clearly been through, his gaze was serene, his body relaxed. He wore an orange prison suit, the sleeves rolled up, his hands cuffed to a metal bar on the table in front of him. Beneath the silver cuffs, she could see the signs of old restraints. The scars circling his wrists were healed now, but they would probably be with him for life.
Her original breakthrough, the reason she was in this prison in the first place, had been finding the files on an oversight committee, headed by a Senator Gilpin, set up to look into a mysterious government agency referred to as the Tribe. They were telepaths, in a place and time when telepaths shouldn’t have existed. But she still had no idea what had caused the code red. So her next jump, she’d come back a year later—hoping to find out more. Instead, she’d discovered that the oversight committee was dead, all nine of them, and all from natural causes over a very short period of time. Hardly likely. And she’d found no further references to the Tribe. It was as though the records had been wiped clean. The only thing she did find was an earlier record of someone, a Martin Rayleigh, requesting a review into the Tribe five years earlier—a request that was denied at that time, but which meant he had to be connected somehow. And right now, that made him her only lead.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She hadn’t intended to say that, but he looked so…defeated, as though he’d been through this many times, and expected the worst.
His eyes widened at the words and a slow smile curved his lips, changing his face totally. He peered behind her as if expecting to see someone else. “You’re on your own, so you can hardly be going for the good cop, bad cop routine.” His voice held a hint of an accent. A soft lilt.
If he thought the offer of a cup of coffee made her a good guy, there wasn’t a lot of competition. She went to the door, opened it a crack, and spoke to the guard. “Could you get us two cups of coffee, please.”
She closed the door and returned to the table, sat down and studied him for a moment longer. How to begin? She cleared her throat. “My name is Melody Lyons. Special Agent Lyons. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” She twisted in the seat and pulled her nice shiny badge out of her jacket pocket and waved it at him. He didn’t take his eyes from hers. Clearly, the badge didn’t impress him.
“Of course you are.”
He didn’t believe her.
She could feel a frown drawing her brows together. Did he somehow know? Had she given herself away? Of course not. There was nothing to give away. The badge was real.
He shrugged. “Maybe you are, and maybe you aren’t. I’ve come to realize it really doesn’t matter. Ultimately, you’re all working for the same people, whether you know it or not. Now, why are you here?”
A knock sounded on the door and a guard entered carrying a tray. He placed it on the table between them. “Ma’am.” Giving a nod, he left the room.
Rayleigh leaned across the table, his hands clumsy in the cuffs, and wrapped his palms around the mug. If he leaned forward, he had just enough chain to bring the mug to his mouth. He drank, and she let him while she considered what he’d said.
She hadn’t been able to find out why he’d been arrested in the first place. There was no record of his crime. She took a sip of her own coffee. Ugh. It was disgusting. She pushed the mug away from her. “I’m investigating the murder of a Senator Gilpin.”
He glanced up, put his empty coffee mug down, and sat back in his chair. “I didn’t know the senator.”
“He was killed nine months ago in a gas explosion at his home. It was made to appear an accident, but we have reason to believe it was murder.”
“Who was he?”
“How long have you been incarcerated, Mr. Rayleigh?”
“You don’t know?” He sounded skeptical.
She pushed her own coffee mug toward him, and he nodded. “Thank you.”
“The records of your original arrest have been hidden or destroyed. I presume you’ve been kept under various aliases. We only located you when you were transferred to this facility under your own name.”
He’d popped up on her files just at the point she’d been about to give up and admit defeat.
“And why were you trying to locate me?”
“I suspect there is some connection between you and an oversight committee set up to look into funding of a covert government operations group based in the United Kingdom. Senator Gilpin was the head of that committee.”
“And he’s dead?”
“Along with the other eight members of the committee. All accidents, and all around the same time.”
“I’ve been imprisoned for over four years. How can I possibly help you with something that happened nine months ago?”
Four years? That explained his appearance. But how did that fit in with her investigation? As he’d pointed out, he could hardly have been involved with the oversight committee. But there was a definite connection—she just had to figure out what it was. Time to try a different tack. “Have you ever heard of a group referred to as the Tribe?”
Something flickered in his eyes. He glanced at the camera in the corner of the room. She’d have to get the tapes before she left; she wanted no record of this conversation. She was here to clean things up, not raise more questions. “No,” he said.
“I believe you’re lying, Mr. Rayleigh.”
He slammed the mug down so hard, dirty gray coffee splashed over the steel table top. “And I don’t give a fuck.”
Hearing the bad language from someone who had seemed so polite brought her up short. She was onto something here, but at the same time, she had no clue how to get the information from him. Her eyes strayed to the marks on his wrists.
“What now?” he asked. “You torture me? Because I have to warn you—it’s been tried before.”
“No, we don’t torture people, Mr. Rayleigh.”
He shook his head. “Are you for real?”
She pursed her lips. “Nine people are dead, Mr. Rayleigh, and it’s my job to find out why.”
“I told you. I have no clue. I haven’t had contact with the outside world in over four years. So, if you want to prove your good intent, let me call my lawyer.”
“I’ll look into that. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime, I’m not saying anything.”
Damn.
“Mr. Rayleigh, I—”
Something crashed outside the door. She jumped to her feet, reaching for her gun, then realized it wasn’t there—she’d handed it in at the security check.
She stood between the door and Rayleigh. Was this an assassination attempt? How the hell could she protect him?
“Get down,” she shouted over her shoulder.
Rayleigh glanced from her to the door but stayed where he was. Of course, he was chained to the table. His expression was fatalistic, as though he’d expected his imminent death. Maybe even welcomed it.
The door was pushed open slowly from the outside. Mel stepped to the side, so she couldn’t be seen. A man entered, and she whirled around and kicked out, taking him by surprise. He was much taller than her and twice as wide at the shoulder, but the blow flung him back out of the room and onto his back.
She tried to slam the door, but his legs were in the way. She could run, but she didn’t want to leave Rayleigh.
In a flash, it occurred to her that maybe she was going to die here.
She wanted answers first.
Chapter Two
Quinn stared up at the strip light abo
ve his head. His vision was black around the edges, and he felt like he’d just been hit by a truck.
“Are you okay?” Rose asked in his head.
“No. Yes. I have no idea.”
He was sprawled half in, half out of the room. A pair of horizontal legs were level with his head—presumably belonging to the guard Rose had knocked out.
What the hell had just happened?
He’d presumed Martin was alone in the room—he’d only sensed one person—and that the FBI agent had already left. Obviously not. Because he was guessing it had been the FBI agent who had slammed him in the chest. Why hadn’t he picked up the man’s presence?
His vision cleared, and he saw the bottom of Rose’s boots as they stepped over his head and into the room. “Get your lazy ass off the floor, Quinn. We’ve found him. And he’s got company.”
Quinn pushed himself to his elbows and peered around Rose’s legs into the small interrogation room.
His gaze locked on a woman standing in front of the table. The FBI agent wasn’t a guy, but a girl. Well, a woman. He’d been knocked flat by a woman. And she was definitely still conscious. He had a quick impression: tall, slender, short dark red hair.
“Knock her out,” he said to Rose.
“I can’t.”
“What?”
“I can’t get in her head.”
Quinn reached out with his mind and found…nothing.
She moved fast, and Rose flew through the air and crashed into the opposite wall. Damn, she was good.
“Quit fucking admiring her and stop her before this goes completely tits up.”
The downed guard wasn’t armed with a gun, but there was a taser attached to his work belt. Quinn kept a wary eye on the woman as he reached out and pulled it free. She was keeping her attention divided between him and Rose.
He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet as she took a flying leap at him. Her arm came out and she punched him in the face. Stars exploded in his head. He was ready this time and managed to stay on his feet, but it was a close thing. He didn’t have time to ponder how close because she was squaring up to him again. Her leg came out trying to swipe his from under him and he clasped her shoulders and dragged her close, grappling her.
The extremely inappropriate thought came to him that she might be tall and slender, but she was also soft in all the right places, and it had been a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms. She took advantage of his lack of concentration, and somehow, he was on the floor with her on top of him. He tried to roll, but she was incredibly strong, and he didn’t want to hurt her.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
But then, he’d never fought a woman before, except in mock fights with others in the Tribe. Her arm was across his throat now, pressing down, and his lungs were screaming for air. Once again, his vision was fading to black at the edges. She wasn’t playing, and she wasn’t giving up. It was time to get a grip. Before he could put his plan into action, a pair of boots appeared by his head. Rose.
“Jesus,” she muttered.
Leaning down, she snatched the taser from his hand, and a moment later, the body on top of him went rigid and then completely limp.
Quinn dragged air into his lungs, then pushed the unconscious woman off him.
Rose glared. “You were fighting like a girl. And I mean a proper girl. Not one of us.”
He coughed and cleared his throat. “Yeah.” His voice sounded hoarse. He nodded toward the unconscious woman. “Christ, she’s strong.”
He pushed himself to his feet, ran a hand through his hair, stroking over the lump developing on the back of his head where he’d hit the ground. One of the lumps.
She looked harmless, lying on the floor, legs curled up as though to protect herself. Her hair was dark red like a fox’s, short and messy. She had high cheekbones, arched brows the same dark red as her hair, and a wide full mouth.
“You’re staring,” Rose said.
“No, I’m not. Anyway, what was that all about? Why didn’t you just zap her?”
“I tried. I couldn’t get in. Nothing.”
No, he hadn’t been able to get into her head, either. He crouched down and pressed his fingers to the smooth skin of her throat, checking the pulse beneath his fingertips. Then he ran his fingers through her hair, but if she was wearing a reflector device, it was different from the ones they’d come across before—silver bands that hooked around the ear and stopped anyone from getting into the wearer’s mind. Those were easy to spot if you knew what you were looking for. But he couldn’t find anything. All he noticed was that her hair felt like silk beneath his fingertips.
“Quinn?” Rose interrupted his examination.
“Just checking.”
“For what? What sort of shampoo she uses?”
Ignoring the comment, he straightened, then shoved his hands in his pockets as someone cleared their throat behind them.
Christ, he’d almost forgotten the reason they’d come here. He turned, and a slow grin spread across his face as he took in the man seated at the metal table. He hadn’t been 100 percent sure that they would find Martin—there had been so many dead ends in the last few months. Then his smile faded.
Martin looked older than his years, and what he’d endured was clearly written in his eyes, and in the lines of pain bracketing his mouth. Quinn’s muscles tensed, and he fought the urge to slam his fist into something. Anything. His gaze strayed to the woman at his feet. Maybe not anything.
Quinn closed the space between them. “Christ, you look like crap.”
“And you look fantastic.” Martin glanced between the two of them. “Both of you. I take it this is a rescue mission?”
“You take it right,” Rose answered.
Martin raised his arms and rattled his chains. He was cuffed to the table. “You have something to get me out of these?”
They hadn’t risked bringing anything through security, so Quinn turned away, glancing around. The FBI agent would presumably have had to leave any hardware at security, as well, but his gaze snagged on the unconscious guard. He crossed the room and crouched down beside him. The man was still out cold, and Quinn checked the belt at his waist, found a pair of cuffs and then a key in a small pocket. He took the key. As he stood up, he sensed people approaching. They were still too far away to hear with his ears, but he caught the echo of their thoughts in his mind.
“Rose, there are two guards on their way.”
She’d been standing beside Martin, talking to him quietly, with a hand on his shoulder. Now, though, she glanced up and nodded. “Move the guard.”
Quinn took hold of the man’s feet and dragged him into the room where he couldn’t be seen from the door. Then he glanced at the unconscious FBI agent. She couldn’t be seen unless someone entered the room.
Rose stayed where she was. She had line of sight down the corridor from where she stood.
“What if it doesn’t work?” Her glance strayed to the unconscious woman. But this was no time to doubt Rose’s powers. If they didn’t work, he and Rose were fucked. They had no weapons except a taser, and they wouldn’t get close enough to use that. Quinn had a few tricks of his own, but if Rose’s didn’t work, then there was a huge chance he wouldn’t be able to get into their minds, either.
“It will work.”
If it didn’t, they would know soon enough.
“What—?”
Quinn shot Martin a warning glance, and he snapped his mouth closed.
He could hear the footsteps now and was getting a better feel for their thoughts. Something had triggered an alarm. Probably someone hadn’t called in. But there was no immediate panic. It was just a routine check. He sensed the moment they came around the corner and could see through the open door to where Rose stood.
The guards knew she wasn’t the FBI agent—they’d checked her in.
Their thoughts, and then their hands, went to their weapons. He and Rose waited. The guards just needed to go a littl
e bit farther and they’d be out of range of the surveillance cameras in the corridor, just in case someone was watching.
He sensed the psychic wave like a pure bolt of energy from Rose’s mind, and the two men crashed to the floor.
“Thank Christ.”
He could hear the relief in Rose’s words.
“What the hell?” Martin said.
“Rose has been learning some new tricks since you’ve been gone,” Quinn said, grabbing the legs of the first man and pulling him into the room. Rose grabbed the second one. They were both out cold.
“We all have,” she said to Martin.
“How long have we got?” Quinn asked.
“Twenty minutes, give or take a couple. It’s hardly an exact science.”
“We’d better get out of here then.” He hurried across to Martin. “Cuffs.”
He held up his hands and Quinn unlocked the cuffs. Rings of scar tissue circled his thin wrists and Quinn swore quietly but savagely. He couldn’t even promise himself he would get the people responsible, because there was a good chance they were now working with them. They had some strange bed partners these days.
Martin rubbed his wrists and then stood up. For all his frail appearance, he seemed steady enough. “I, for one, would like to leave now.”
“What about her?” Rose toed the unconscious woman with her boot. The redhead groaned and rolled onto her back, her lashes flickering open to reveal dazed green eyes. Rose leaned down and clipped her on the chin, then glanced up and grinned at Quinn. “Don’t look so outraged. It was that or the taser. And too much tasering can damage the brain.” She turned to Martin. “Who is she? What did she want?”
“She’s an FBI agent. Special Agent Lyons. Her credentials are in her pocket.” Martin waved a hand at a black jacket slung over the back of the chair across from where he’d been sitting. Quinn rummaged through the pocket and came out with a small wallet. He flicked it open. “Special Agent Melody Lyons. Boston office.” She appeared legitimate. He tucked the wallet into his back pocket.
