Terms of Surrender

by Kylie Brant

  “As we will.”

  Dace inclined his head. “It’s as safe as it can be. Safer than Riley and Fitzpatrick were. You can’t keep the squad on leave indefinitely. This is really the only good option we have.”

  He took a step forward, lowered his voice. “However, I think we can minimize our risk, sir, if just one of us appears tomorrow at the memorial.”

  It took a moment for the import of his words to sink in. When they did, Jolie’s temper instantly spiked. She lodged a discreet elbow in his ribs, to no noticeable affect. He continued. “Detective Conrad can stay behind with the protection offered by the Bureau, and I can appear onstage alone.”

  “I think second-guessing our strategy is wasted effort at this point,” she quickly said from between gritted teeth. “I volunteered for this duty and I haven’t changed my mind in the time since.”

  “Well, I haven’t decided whether to change my mind,” Sanders snapped. “No chief likes to bury his officers. I’m not willing to take the chance on two more funerals.”

  “This is the best opportunity we’re going to get to draw him out,” Jolie said quietly. “If we succeed, this thing is over. The rest of the unit is safe. It’s a risk worth taking, sir. I’m willing to take it.”

  Sanders’s mouth was a hard, flat line. He took his time answering and every second of silence that ticked by was an eternity. Finally he said, “I have a meeting with Fenholt in an hour. I’ll let you know my decision by the end of the day. In the meantime, you can get back to the investigation.” His attention drifted to a pile of paperwork before him on the desktop.

  Releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, Jolie nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Conrad,” he said tersely. “Either you’re getting pulled off this detail or I’m going to allow them to dangle you out there on that stage like a sitting duck. Either way, gratitude is the last damn thing you should be feeling right now.”

  * * *

  “You jerk.” Suppressed anger lengthened her strides, allowing her to easily keep up with Dace. “You cheating low-life sneak. Where the hell do you get off trying to bump me from this detail? I was the one who volunteered in the first place. You’re the tagalong.”

  Dace’s lack of response was even more maddening. She reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop. “I’m a cop, just like you. I do the same job, take the same risks. You undermined me in there. Don’t ever do that again.”

  He just looked at her, his expression impassive. “You done?”

  Incensed, she clenched her fist, fought the urge to take a swing at him. “I’m just getting started, ace. If there will be only one of us up there tomorrow, it’s going to be me. I want your promise that you’ll drop this end run you’re trying to do around me.”

  “You have to admit, it makes sense. The media has reported there will be two of us there, but one makes just as much a target as two. We can fulfill the opportunity while minimizing our risks. Even you can see the sense in that.”

  What she could see was that Hawkins, the fed, was hanging behind them, pretending he wasn’t interested in their low-pitched conversation. But she wasn’t ready to let go of this yet. There was a burning stab of betrayal deep in her chest at his turnabout with the chief. She wondered for the first time if Dace was one of those officers who had difficulty working with women. She wouldn’t have believed it, but his attitude now planted the seed of doubt. She’d met more than her share on the force who questioned a woman’s ability to do the job with the same capability as a man.

  Or else…he was trying to protect her. The thought had her throat drying out. The last time they’d made a decision based on his protective tendencies, devastation had followed.

  “If this is your latent Galahad streak rearing its ugly head again, you need to bury it. Fast.” She saw the change in his expression but refused to rein in her reaction. “On the job, I’m not a woman, I’m a cop. If you can’t be objective about this, maybe you should bow out.”

  She’d wanted a response from him. She got it. He shoved his face close to hers. There was a glint of anger in his eyes, a lethal tone to his voice. “Is that what you want, Jolie? For me to be objective? You want a guy who will crawl into your bed at night and then stand by and watch you invite a bullet a couple days later?” He gave a grim nod. “Fine. You got it.”

  Turning on his heel, he walked away, fury apparent in every step. Aware that Hawkins was edging awkwardly in her direction, she followed in Dace’s trail, more slowly. Dammit, he’d been out of line. She shouldn’t be the one feeling small and petty for pointing it out to him. And throwing last night in her face had been an underhanded ploy.

  It wasn’t like she needed the reminder.

  When she’d awakened this morning, still in that foggy state between sleep and wakefulness, she’d experienced a curious sense of déjà vu. For a moment she’d been transported back in time to when she used to share a bed with Dace.

  Not at the end, when they’d each feigned sleep, hugging their sides of the bed, taking care not to touch each other. But before Sammy’s funeral. Before even his birth. When the passion had flared, scorching and frequent. Until their relationship had gotten complicated beyond all measure.

  An involuntary shudder worked through her. Last night had proven that the passion was still scorching. Dace had an effect on her that no other man could come close to matching. The admission was dismaying. But the complications from their fractured past still loomed, grim and insurmountable.

  Dace was seated at the computer when she entered the room, tapping in a command. He didn’t speak, and she was loath to break the brittle silence. She sat down at her post from yesterday, unenthusiastically pulling out the notes she’d taken on parolees with bank robbery convictions. Dace had given Dawson’s file back to Truman that morning.

  “I called that buddy of mine in OMPF/PERMS while you were in the shower this morning. We should be hearing from him later today.” His voice was distant, impersonal. Jolie both welcomed that distance and knew what it said about her.

  “So what are you working on now?”

  “I’ve got responses from nine of the prisons in surrounding areas regarding the information requests we sent yesterday. We can start working from the notes we started.”

  “From the surveillance photos we saw last night, even taking the disguises into consideration, the HT’s accomplice appears about ten years older than John.”

  “Let’s focus first on parolees native to the western United States, ages thirty-eight to forty-five.” Dace sounded as impersonal as if he were addressing a stranger. “Get me a copy of the list you make. I’ll print out copies of the info from the prisons to cross-reference. We can see if anything pops while we’re waiting to hear from Ben.” At her questioning look, he elaborated tersely, “My buddy.”

  She gave a short nod and got to work. The feds would have gone down this road already, of course, although the records detailing the course of the investigation had been sparse in the files they’d seen. But they wouldn’t have been looking for what she and Dace were. They wouldn’t have been trying to link recent parolees with recently dismissed military with OPFOR training.

  Jolie got to work, glad to have something to focus on. Anything that took even a portion of her attention away from Dace, and the impossible situation between them, was welcome distraction.

  The task of cross-referencing names and information was tedious. They worked through lunch. When she glanced at her watch and saw it was approaching one o’clock, she rose. “I took a couple hours’ medical leave this afternoon. I should be back by three.”

  Dace looked up from the pile of paperwork he was sifting through. “What’s wrong?”

  She hesitated, her innate need for privacy warring with a vague sense of guilt. She’d never been completely open with him, even from the first. And although she doubted it would have changed anything, perhaps she had owed him candidness, at least.

&n
bsp; “My mother has a doctor’s appointment. Hart will bring her, meeting me there. Hawkins will drive.” She rose, getting her purse, extracting her sunglasses.

  His silence made her nervous. She could still feel his eyes on her. “I better drop by the chief’s office and let him know. I doubt the leave request made its way that far up the ladder.”

  To her dismay, Dace rose. “What the hell. I already pissed you off once today. I’m coming with you.”

  A dart of sheer panic pierced her chest, lodged there. Maybe she’d owed him an explanation about Trixie once upon a time, but that didn’t mean she was ready to rectify her lapse by having them meet. Ever. “That isn’t necessary. Hawkins can—”

  “—take both of us as easily as just you.” He rounded the table to approach her. “And if there’s anything out of the ordinary, an extra pair of eyes isn’t going to hurt.”

  He placed his hand at the small of her back, nudging her toward the door. She planted her feet and refused to budge, saying, “We’ve already done this today. You said…you indicated that you could be objective where it came to me on this case.”

  With his hand exerting more pressure, she was moved reluctantly toward the door. “I lied.”

  * * *

  Dace realized Jolie must have discussed her intentions for today earlier with the feds, because when they entered the hallway they found Truman waiting with Hawkins. If either of the men thought it was odd that Dace was accompanying them, neither of them mentioned it.

  He’d surprised even himself when the words left his mouth. But it was stupid for them to split up. Stupid to provide the subject with an extra opportunity to take one of them out. Yeah, they wore Kevlar vests beneath their clothes. The cars they rode in were inspected routinely for IEDs. But neither those measures nor the accompanying agents protected them from a head shot.

  The smart thing to do would have been to insist Hart deliver Jolie’s mother to the doctor himself. But he’d learned long ago to determine which battles weren’t worth fighting. Instinctively, he knew this was one of them. Maybe the agents had discovered the same for themselves.

  Conversation in the car was sparse. Truman wore a dour expression, but as it was his usual demeanor, it wasn’t necessarily a reflection on his opinion of their outing.

  He could tell when they were getting close to their destination by Jolie’s increasing tension. Although behind her shades her eyes were unreadable, her spine seemed to grow stiffer with each passing mile. His gaze dropped to her lap. Her index finger was tapping a rapid tattoo on one leg in a rare display of nerves.

  She wanted him to be objective. Hell, he could do objective. But that didn’t keep him from wondering what had her so tense. Was it the upcoming appointment? Or the fact that he’d invited himself along?

  Hawkins turned into the drive leading to the hospital. Bypassing the parking lot, he drove up to the front entrance to let them out beneath a canopy welcoming them to St. Michael’s. Truman got out first, scanning the surrounding area carefully before gesturing for them to join him.

  Once inside, Jolie took the lead, striding down a labyrinth of hallways and corridors. When she pushed open a set of double doors, Dace paused a moment to read the stenciled window. Oncology Center.

  …she’s dying of cancer. Other than that she’s the same. Exactly the same.

  Her words from the night before echoed, lingered. He couldn’t afford to dwell on them. It wasn’t “objective” to wonder how the woman had happened back into Jolie’s life. Or why the hell Jolie would bother with a woman who had abandoned her as a child.

  When they reached a set of offices, Jolie paused, her hand on the doorknob, and looked back at them. “You can wait here. This shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”

  Truman shrugged and she sent a quick glance in Dace’s direction, he assumed to let him know that the order included him, too. So he hung back and let her enter alone. The fed leaned a shoulder against the wall, in a stance obviously meant for waiting. Dace positioned himself farther down the hall so that he could see into the waiting area of the office.

  He saw Hart seated near a thin bleached-blonde who was flipping listlessly through a magazine. He stepped closer to the windows, curious in spite of himself. Other than her coloring and slight build, Jolie shared no real resemblance with her mother.

  The young agent surged to his feet when he saw Jolie and took her aside. As Dace watched curiously, the conversation had the color leaching from Jolie’s expression. She disengaged herself to approach her mother and it was clear from the sneer on the other woman’s mouth, the way her lips twisted as she spoke, that the exchange was unpleasant.

  He’d taken two steps to the door before he caught himself. Jolie could handle herself. He had no doubts of that. And it wasn’t like she needed, or wanted, him to run interference. She wasn’t his concern. Hadn’t been for a long time.

  Jamming his hands in his pockets, he caught Hart’s gaze on him through the glass, nodded curtly. Then he forced himself to turn around and mimic Truman’s stance against a wall, if some distance from the agent. The little drama unfolding in the doctor’s office had nothing to do with him.

  But he couldn’t help but believe it would explain a hell of a lot about Jolie and what had shaped her into the woman she was today.

  About ten minutes later, Hart exited the office and crossed over to him. “Conrad said Special Agent Truman was with you.”

  Dace jerked his head toward the other agent down the hall, and the younger man nodded. “I’m going to speak with him for a few minutes. Trixie just got called in so Conrad’s back in the doctor’s office with her. I have no idea how long it will take, but if you want to go inside and wait, we’ve got it covered out here.”

  “Trixie? That’s Jolie’s mother?”

  Hart snorted. “She’s a piece of work. I don’t know what I did to deserve this detail. Actually caught her trying to sneak johns in her bedroom window last night, you believe that? The woman’s a burnout. She’ll do anything to get her hands on enough money to score a nickel bag.” He started to shuffle in the other direction. “Come to think of it, I don’t know what Conrad did to deserve the old hag. At least I’m rid of her after this case is over. She’s stuck with her until the woman croaks. Which, at the rate she’s going, won’t take long.”

  Dace stood for a long moment, mulling over the agent’s words as he stared blindly into the glass office windows across the hall. Whatever he had imagined of Jolie’s past, it was obviously worse, much worse, than he’d thought. And Hart’s careless words struck a chord.

  Because it was obvious that Jolie had done nothing to deserve having a woman like Trixie as a mother. It was just as obvious that she’d never quite accepted that for herself.

  * * *

  It was close to a half hour before Jolie and her mother returned. And Dace heard them before he saw them.

  “I don’t give a damn what Baxter says. He don’t run me and neither do you. I got rights. I don’t gotta do nothing I don’t wanna do.”

  The two reentered the waiting area, an argument in progress. Jolie’s voice was strained. “You heard him. The radiation treatments haven’t halted the spread of the tumor. Chemo is the next logical option.”

  “Logical.” Trixie snorted. “Ain’t nothing logical about nuking me to death. I ain’t going through all that, losing my hair, looking like a freak when I’m gonna die anyway.”

  Jolie winced a little, and shushed the other woman, shooting a quick look at the dozen or so occupants of the room. It was only then that her gaze landed on Dace. “We can talk about it later.”

  “Already told you both. Ain’t nothing to talk about.” The older woman began to rummage in her bag, taking out a pack of cigarettes.

  “You’re not lighting that in here.”

  Dace rose lazily to his feet as they approached, heard the steel in Jolie’s tone.

  “Like I say, you don’t run me.”

  He reached out and plucked the pac
kage from the woman’s fingers. “Why don’t I hold these until you get outside the hospital.”

  The woman shot him a narrowed look, and he stemmed her protest by sticking out his hand. “We haven’t met. I’m Dace Recker. Jolie and I—”

  Trixie interrupted him as his hand engulfed hers. “I know who you are.”

  “Ms. Conrad?”

  Jolie didn’t look eager to leave them alone, but the receptionist was growing impatient. “I have to schedule the next appointment,” she said in low tones. “Keep your voices down and watch your wallet.”

  Dace lifted a surprised brow, but she moved away. He shifted his attention to Trixie, noting the older woman’s appraising stare.

  “So you’re the one knocked her up. Hope you got smarter since then. The last thing she needs is to get stuck with another kid.”

  The verbal blow, delivered in that caustic tone, hit its mark. He assessed her with new caution. Despite the too-youthful, figure-hugging short skirt and halter top, Trixie looked prematurely old. Her eyes were sunken, her face deeply wrinkled, and she was missing several teeth. The long bottle-blond hair was thinning.

  The signs were glaring. Trixie was an addict. From the devastation done her appearance, he’d guess meth head. And he doubted she’d given it up willingly.

  The woman looked him up and down, a flicker of appreciation in her expression. “Well, easy enough to see why she decided to take you for a ride. But seems to me you owe her for putting her through all that. Losing a kid…that’s a hard thing for a woman. I should know. Damn social services yanked Jolie away from me without any cause or warning.” She paused, as if waiting for a word of sympathy, before going on. “She’d never ask for herself, but I’m guessing you can afford to throw her a little money. Go a long way toward making up for getting her pregnant to begin with.”

  His throat tightened. One fist curled, before he remembered he still held her cigarettes in it. “You think I should pay Jolie off for having Sammy?”