Terms of Surrender

by Kylie Brant

“Yes, sir. We’re ready to go ahead with this.”

  Jolie’s response just made the man’s expression even grimmer. Sanders looked across the table. The chairs were lined with FBI personnel, many of whom Jolie hadn’t met before. “Well, Special Agent in Charge Fenholt, let’s hear what you have so far. I’m not allowing you to use my detectives for tiger bait unless I can be damn sure it’s a necessity. And that they’ll be protected.”

  Fenholt sat directly across from the chief. She pushed an accordion file over to Sanders, who extracted the contents and began looking through them. “We were able to get enough DNA from the blood the HT left at the bank to run tests,” she began. “Once we have the results we’ll be able to cross-check with CODIS and the state criminal DNA database. We’re coordinating closely with our antiterrorism unit, and they’ll facilitate running the DNA through the Department of Homeland Security’s database on international terrorists.”

  That news had Jolie’s attention snapping to the woman. A quick glance around the table showed similar reactions from all the locals.

  Fenholt seemed to choose her words carefully. “About two months ago a confidential informant gave us what we believe to be solid intelligence regarding a terrorist sleeper cell operating here in California. Without going into detail, DHS verified the existence of the cell, believed to be operated by American-born al Qaeda sympathizers. We’re pursuing the possibility that they’re hitting banks to fund a future strike somewhere on the West Coast.”

  Stunned, Jolie could only look at the expressions of the federal agents. This thing had more far-reaching implications than she’d first believed. The possible targets in the area were endless. And devastating.

  “I’m telling you this only so you’ll understand what’s at stake.” Fenholt wore a grim mask. “If there’s even the slightest chance of drawing these people out, we’re going to take it.”

  She slanted a look at Dawson, who took up where she left off. “We’ve successfully moved Detective Conrad’s mother to a safe house and one of our agents will stay with her at all times.” He shifted his attention to Jolie and Dace. “We’ve gone through your place thoroughly and it’s secure. An agent will be stationed with you at all times, and a car and driver will be provided. For any public appearances, of course, you’ll have a full tactical team covering you.”

  She and Dace exchanged a look. Sanders raised his head sharply. “Public appearances?”

  Fenholt took over. “If the HT’s accomplices are still in the area, they may try for the detectives where they appear the most vulnerable, in their home. We can prepare for that. Or we can be more daring and plan something that is sure to draw the accomplices out, if they’re still around.”

  Sanders was no fool. “I assume you already have something in mind.”

  “The last of the funerals for the agent and officers who were killed last week will be held tomorrow.” Fenholt’s jaw tightened. “It would seem reasonable to hold a public memorial for them on Saturday.”

  “Let me guess.” Sanders’s voice was steely. “Recker and Conrad would be on prominent display.”

  A trickle of unease made its way down Jolie’s spine. The bank robbery was still fodder for the nightly news. The memorial would be a public spectacle, full of media, politicians and rubberneckers, as well as law enforcement and their families. An event that large would be a security nightmare.

  Guilt stabbed her. She’d signed on for this. But Dace would be exposed, too, in a way he’d probably never considered when he’d elbowed his way in. Not for the first time, she cursed that stubborn protective streak of his that had him believing he always needed to ride to the rescue. She would have thought their past would have eliminated his Galahad quality, at least where she was concerned.

  Sanders exchanged a quick glance with his deputy chief, clearly unconvinced. “Why don’t you just paint targets on their foreheads and be done with it?”

  “We’ve given this a lot of thought. With national media coverage prior, I think the service will be an irresistible temptation to the accomplices, wherever they may be. We’ll have full tactical and sniper response in place, and the site will receive the highest level of security,” Fenholt assured him.

  “Until something goes wrong.” He shook his head. “Not good enough. We’ll go ahead and plan the memorial. But my department will provide additional security.”

  The special agent fingered the bifocals hanging from a chain around her neck. “You’re talking a lot of man-hours.”

  “It’s the only way my detectives will take part.” Sanders’s voice was adamant. “Take it or leave it.”

  After a slight hesitation, Fenholt nodded. “We’ll coordinate the details with your office.” The matter resolved, she shifted her attention to Jolie and the silent man beside her. “Special Agent Dawson passed along your willingness to participate in the investigation. We appreciate the interagency cooperation. We can always use a couple extra pair of hands, at least for the duration of this case.” It was painfully clear to Jolie that the SAC’s words were for Sanders’s benefit. It remained to be seen just how deeply she and Dace would be allowed to delve into the task force intelligence.

  But their participation would provide a welcome diversion. With Dace at her side, she was certain to need one.

  * * *

  By the time Jolie followed Dace and Agent Hart up the walk to the town house they’d be staying in, her body nearly wept in gratitude. Not for anything would she have admitted just how good a bed sounded right now. It had gotten increasingly difficult to concentrate as the meeting had stretched into the late hours. Her brain felt as though it were stuffed with cotton.

  Fenholt had explained that there would be two agents stationed outside, while Dawson and Truman would take turns providing interior protection. Agent Hart had drawn Trixie detail, a task she was certain would prove one of the most challenging of the young man’s career. Dawson had provided her with Hart’s cell-phone number. It was too late now, but she’d call Trixie tomorrow morning and try to gauge the woman’s understanding of the turn of events.

  She frowned when Dace stepped forward to unlock the door. What was he doing with the key to the safe house?

  “Detective Conrad?”

  Dawson’s questioning tone came from behind her shoulder. Still grappling with her confusion, she followed Dace over the threshold. Watched him slip the keys into his pocket and cross to the answering machine on the counter. Play back the messages. She froze, comprehension belatedly slamming into her.

  They weren’t going to be staying in some anonymous FBI safe house. This was Dace’s home.

  Dawson brushed by her and slipped out of his suit jacket, hung it over the back of a chair pushed up to the center island in the kitchen. Maybe she’d underestimated the damage done to her head in the explosion. She wasn’t usually dense, but this little detail had skated right by her.

  “You’ll have to take the couch, Dawson. But I can round up sheets and a pillow.” Dace indicated a door across the room. “There’s a bathroom through there. Jolie and I will use the one upstairs.”

  The agent worked his shoulders tiredly. “That sounds great right now. And under the circumstances, you can call me Anthony.”

  Dace nodded, looked at Jolie. “The second bedroom is outfitted as an office. There’s a foldout couch in it, though, that’s supposed to be halfway comfortable. I told the agents to put your stuff in there.”

  He turned to lead the way and Jolie fell in behind him, weariness making it difficult to walk without stumbling. She’d given a list to Dawson of the things she needed from her apartment. She supposed it was too late to be worrying about someone pawing around in her personals, but still, the thought made her sort of…

  She stopped in her tracks, her heart leaping to her throat, staring at the mantel above a fireplace that probably never got used. It was crowded with framed pictures. Of Dace with his mother, his sisters. Of him standing, grinning like a fiend, with nieces and nephews wrapp
ed around him like limpets.

  But it was the photos in the center of the bunch that had her heart clutching, the oxygen leaching from her lungs.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sammy.

  Jolie felt herself sway. The photos were like a visual banquet for a woman who’d starved herself too long. She took an involuntary step toward the pictures, her gaze sweeping over them hungrily.

  With a kick in her chest, she recognized the one of her son only minutes old, naked and wrinkled, being held up to Dace’s shoulder. And the one they’d snapped of his first baby grin, his mouth wide and toothless. Her throat closed at the sight.

  When she’d left Metro City, she’d wanted only to escape the memories that brought the slashing pain. She’d left everything behind that would remind her of the loss she was fleeing. She’d told herself that was the safest thing. The smartest.

  She’d regretted it almost every day since.

  Dace hadn’t run from the memories. Instead he’d put them on display, and she greedily devoured them, even as she wondered how he could bear to see them every day. To remember.

  But in a flash she recognized her mistake. Not having any photos of Sammy hadn’t stemmed her memories. It had only made the specifics of her son’s appearance go fuzzy around the edges, while the pain had remained undulled.

  Dace was coming back down the steps from the second level with an armful of sheets and a pillow. She looked up then, caught his gaze on her. There was a softness there that nearly undid her, blended with an understanding only he could share. And it was all too easy to recall exactly what had drawn her to him in the first place. What had persuaded her to throw her well-honed caution to the winds. And what had kept her at his side, long after the life had sputtered from their relationship.

  He continued past her, dropped the pillow and sheets on the couch. When he turned, she forced herself to move, nearly stumbling with the effort. She followed him up six steps to the second level of the condominium.

  “The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Your room is here.” He reached inside the first door on their right and flicked on the light. “Sheets, blankets and pillows are in the closet.” When she remained unmoving, he brushed by her, opened the closet door to show her the bedding stacked neatly on the shelves at one side.

  Jolie flicked a glance over the space. Her suitcases were piled next to an overstuffed navy couch. The room was neat, impersonal, as if he spent little time in here. Dace had always had a habit of leaving his belongings strewn around, although he’d always cleaned up after himself eventually.

  The rolltop desk in the corner had the lid closed, and she’d be willing to bet if it were raised she’d find its top littered with bills and correspondence, the contents in no particular order. At one time the lack of organization had driven her nuts, even as she realized that her need for order sprang from a childhood absent of it.

  There were more framed pictures on top of the desk. Most featured Dace with buddies of his from the force. But there was also one of Sammy in his infant swing. Another showed Della holding him, their faces close together.

  In two swift strides Dace crossed to the desk, picked up the pictures. “I can put them away while you’re here.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t have to.” Seeing photos of Sammy after all this time had a different effect on her than she’d expected. The sight of him hurt, but it also filled a part of her that had gone cold and dark since she’d left.

  Without a conscious decision, she closed the distance between them, took the framed pictures out of his hands and looked down at them. “I didn’t take any when I left.”

  “I know.”

  Her eyes burning, she continued, “But it wasn’t because I was trying to forget him. It just…it all hurt so much. I just wanted to leave the pain behind.”

  Dace’s voice was quiet. “I know that, too. I guess I always did.”

  He reached out and touched her then, one crooked finger sliding lightly along her jaw, and her eyes closed against the wash of sensation trailing in its wake. There had been too many hits in the past twenty-four hours, one piling on top of the other until her defenses were not just weakened but lying in a shambles. She needed time to regroup. She knew that. But acting on the realization seemed beyond her.

  His lips brushed hers, whisper soft, and a sob she’d never release knotted in her chest. There was danger here. She could recognize that even as she accepted the outcome. His taste was familiar and so was the yearning it elicited. That longing had always alarmed her. A man who could make her want, in any way but the physical, was a threat to the control she’d spent a lifetime building.

  His tongue traced the seam of her lips and they parted of their own accord. Her breath caught. It would be easy to deny the heat that had always flared to life between them. All too easy to recall where it led. But this tenderness from him was devastating to senses already shredded by the events of the day.

  He touched her nowhere else. There was only the soft pressure of mouth against mouth, the connection as light as gossamer. Her fingers clutched around the frames she still held, needing something substantial to hold on to. Afraid that without it, she’d reach for him.

  Somehow their entire past seemed tied up in the kiss. Everything that had gone before. The passion. The joy. The sorrow. The regrets. As her lips moved beneath his she wondered what it said about their future.

  As if in response to that thought, the tenuous connection was broken. Her eyes flickered open in delayed reaction just in time to see him walking out the door. He didn’t look back.

  Taking a shaky breath, Jolie acknowledged that he had the right idea. They couldn’t afford to look back. The past held nothing but heartache. And with someone out there trying to kill them, they were going to have their hands full dealing with the present.

  * * *

  “This is crap.” Dace tossed down his pen in frustration. “Interagency cooperation, my ass. We’re nothing but glorified paper shufflers.”

  Jolie looked up from the sheaf of papers she was reading. They were the only occupants of the small windowless conference room. After a great deal of debate, Sanders and Fenholt had decided it would look most natural to have them working at the police administration building. If the subject was watching their movements, they could ill afford to be followed to the temporary offices the FBI was using.

  Which meant they had limited access to the case files the feds had compiled so far—only what they needed to follow up on whatever lead the force determined. Given the first few hours of their assignment, she had to agree with Dace’s assessment.

  “At least you have Sanders’s copy of the case file,” she said, swallowing a yawn. The chief, familiar with the Bureau’s idea of information sharing, had done what he could to provide them with the tools they’d need to actually contribute to the investigation. Besides giving them the case file this morning, he’d outfitted the room with two laptops with high-speed Internet access and a printer. “My eyes are ready to start bleeding. Some of these bank robbery records go back to the sixties. The ex-cons are collecting social security by now.”

  It was their first day on the job since she’d left the hospital. Yesterday had been spent replacing her cell phone, driver’s license and credit cards, and both of them had had insurance companies to deal with on their cars. Then each of them had mothers to contact.

  She’d overheard Dace speaking with Della. He’d concocted a creative story about pipes bursting and making a mess of her kitchen. He was an admirable liar. He’d managed to convince his mother to stay in Arizona for a couple weeks while he handled the cleanup.

  Her call to Trixie hadn’t gone quite as smoothly. The woman had rejected Jolie’s explanation regarding the precautionary move, and had been even more verbal about her dislike of Agent Hart. On that measure, at least, Jolie could sympathize. She’d ended the conversation by talking to Hart herself and arranging for him to bring Trixie to meet Jolie at a restaurant that evening for dinner.
It was doubtful her mother would be any more reasonable in person. She had several more hours to come up with an excuse to leave Dace behind. She was less willing than ever to have the two of them meet.

  Dace rolled his chair back from the table and stretched before rising in one lithe movement and sauntering over to her. Instantly, her muscles tensed. With everything else going on yesterday, it had been easy to shove aside the memory of that ill-advised kiss.

  Her pulse began to thud, slow and heavy. Emotions had been close to the surface. They’d both experienced shocks that would have laid some people flat. Had laid her flat, at least overnight. And then being hit with those photos of Sammy had rocked her even more.

  The excuses came quickly, but rang false. So she hadn’t been at the top of her game the night before. It was just as true that no one could sneak under her guard like Dace Recker. She’d known that, yet still hadn’t avoided a kiss that had summoned all-too-dangerous memories. The two of them had been combustible, once upon a time. It would be a mistake to recall that portion of their past without also remembering the pain of how they’d ended.

  Nothing could ever convince her to willingly go through that agony again. And based on Dace’s distant behavior since the kiss, he must agree.

  He propped his hands on the table next to her to peer at her notes. “Making lists. That’s a first.” He managed, barely, to dodge the elbow she sent to his ribs. She was meticulous in her note-taking. So sue her.

  He studied the chart she’d been working on. She’d started with the most recent of the files they’d been given, those dating in the early nineties. She’d noted felons who’d been convicted of bank robbery in the state of California or surrounding states. Since the crime was usually a younger person’s choice, she’d cut off the ages at fifty and excluded any felons who were still incarcerated or dead. It was a depressingly long list.

  “The feds are going to pursue the strongest leads,” he said finally. “That’s why we’re left tracking down the long shots.”