by Misty Evans
Now, in his new position as Director of Operations, he was constantly getting calls from field operators, section managers and other CIA directors at all times of the day and night. He no longer had the option of laying low under the radar. If anything, he was the center of everyone’s target these days and he hated it. Michael Stone, the deputy director and his boss, had painted a neon green bull’s-eye on Conrad’s forehead just because Julia had picked him over Stone after the battle to oust the mole. Stone had been in love with her, but in the end, lost her to the better man. Conrad grinned at the thought as he fumbled with his work phone. He stared at it a second, hitting the connect button twice, before realizing his personal cell was still buzzing maniacally in his jeans pocket. He pulled it out, looked at the LCD screen and frowned at the ID. Big Mike.
With that nickname, clearly Ace, his coroner-turned-spy friend, had been playing personal assistant again with Con’s phone.
The phone buzzed in his hand like a giant wasp. What could Stone want at this time of night?
Julia.
Con’s heart thudded hard. Jamming the phone into the crook of his neck, he started the Jeep, his eyes scanning the road for the taillights of a certain white Audi. “Yeah?”
Stone’s voice was clear and commanding, like always. “Meet me at my place in half an hour.”
Conrad concentrated on wheeling the Jeep in the direction he’d seen her disappear. “Why?”
“I have an assignment for you.”
“It’s after midnight if you haven’t noticed. Go to bed. You might have to act like you know what you’re doing tomorrow.”
“My house, Flynn, or you won’t have a job tomorrow.”
The boss card again. He shifted and pushed the gas pedal into the floor, imagining the man’s face under his foot. “Does this have anything to do with Julia?”
“Julia?” Stone’s voice dropped a notch. “Is she okay?”
“Forget I mentioned her.” He snapped the phone shut and dropped it on top of his running shoes. His eyes caught the red flash of brake lights and his gut tightened in response. While he’d done his best to ignore the jealousy Stone triggered in him, it was always there in the background, haunting him like his tattered past as a renegade spy.
His gut didn’t release until two miles south of Arlington when the Audi left the interstate and pulled into a Perkins restaurant. A giant American flag waved its shadow over Julia’s petite figure as she exited her car and walked inside.
There were no FBI initials on the back of her pink Roxy jacket.
Conrad huffed out a sigh. No undercover work, just a pie run. She’d recently had a jones for the strawberry pie the restaurant served twenty-four hours a day. He’d seen her eat a piece for breakfast the previous morning and another after their lovemaking last night.
As Conrad steered the Jeep back to the interstate, his heart thudded afresh, but with a different intensity to it. An intensity that hinted at fear. Strawberry pie wasn’t pickles and ice cream, but then Julia was no ordinary woman.
~ * ~
Pongo, Michael’s Rottweiler, barked as Flynn entered via the back door. From the den, Michael heard Flynn try to sweet talk the dog. Pongo’s reply—a throaty growl—made Michael feel a touch of smug relief.
Flynn got along with almost everybody. He did not, however, get along with Michael, inside or outside CIA headquarters. Skimming the surface, it was because of their vastly different work philosophies. Plunging deeper, they stomped on each other’s backsides because of Julia. Every time Michael looked at Flynn, he saw her, but damned if he’d let Flynn know.
“Call off the dog,” Flynn yelled from the mudroom.
Michael gave a short whistle and Pongo came trotting into the den, Flynn following a few footsteps behind him.
“Sit,” Michael said, motioning to a chair across from the desk.
“Me or the dog?”
Locking his jaw, he gave Flynn his usual stop fucking around look.
As he passed the west wall, Flynn eyed the patch job. “You should hire a professional, or at least let me and Ace help you.”
“You’re not touching my wall.”
Knowing he’d hit a sore spot, Flynn smiled as he dropped into the chair.
His gaze fell on Michael’s shiny new leather briefcase—a congratulations-on-your-promotion gift from Julia, Smitty and Ace—and quickly glanced away. Michael knew Julia had forged Conrad’s signature on the accompanying card. Tit for tat on hitting sore spots.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Flynn asked.
Michael tapped his thumb against the coffee cup in his hand. “Not this week.”
Without looking at him, Flynn pointed a finger at the obvious culprit for most folks’ insomnia. “You might try laying off the jet fuel.”
“Can’t. Too much going on.”
Michael released the coffee cup and removed a file from his briefcase. He slid it to Flynn’s side of the desk. “You familiar with Dr. Brigit Kent?”
Flynn narrowed his eyes as he noticed the green stripe down the side of the folder. The information was coded for someone with much higher clearance than Flynn. Higher clearance than even Michael, which Flynn surmised without missing a beat. “How’d you get that?”
“I asked for it.”
Flynn didn’t hold his surprise in check, shaking his head and snorting. “Never heard of her.”
“She’s got her nose in the Pennington kidnapping. I want to know why.”
“Your brother-in-law’s been kidnapped?”
“Not my brother-in-law, you idiot. My niece. Tonight—last night.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t you watch the news or read the memos in your inbox?”
“Your niece? Christ.” His dislike of Michael was instantly supplanted with what appeared to be empathy. “I’m sorry, man. FBI got any leads?”
“No.” Michael told him the whole story. When he described the phone call, about Ella’s terrified voice crying for her mom, Flynn went completely still. The usual smart-assed look in his eyes flattened.
“I found Dr. Kent hanging out with Ruthie like she’s a member of our family or a close friend,” Michael said. “Her interest…bothers me.”
“You think she’s got an ulterior motive?”
“She’s on the DHS payroll as a consultant, supposedly on domestic terrorism.”
Flynn frowned. “Since when do we need another expert on that?”
“There’s no formal training in domestic terrorism on her resume. She’s a psychotherapist, works mostly with kids, but she has experience as a code breaker too.”
Flipping the file open, Flynn studied the colored eight-by-ten photo of the woman’s head and face. After a few seconds of breezing through the fact sheet and background info, he closed the folder. “Can I offer her a job?”
Michael gave Flynn his trademarked look again.
“What? She’s thirty-three, beautiful, educated and skilled. A regular Swiss Army Knife. Perfect for my army.”
Flynn’s Army was a covert group of the best spies the CIA had. In the world of espionage, they equated to Navy SEALs or the Marines Delta Force. And just like their counterparts in the military, they often performed black ops. “No.”
Flynn made a noise in his throat that Michael took for rebellious consent. He sat back in his chair. “She’s been selling herself and her skills to foreign intelligence agencies off and on since nine-eleven but she’s never worked with the FBI on any kidnappings and she barely knows Ruth, even if she’s pretending otherwise.”
“So where do I fit in?”
“Contact sources you have here in the States and see what they know. Outside of that, follow her and find out what you can.”
“What do you want to know about her that isn’t in this file?”
“Where she goes and who she meets. Who her connections are in DHS, the FBI, anyone here in Washington.”
“You want to run an investigation within the borders of the U.S., a total breach of your precious b
y-the-book mentality. How’s that going to resolve the kidnapping?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Not good enough. You’re putting both our careers on the line if I investigate her and get caught. I want a reason.”
Michael dropped his gaze to the file and toyed with his coffee cup. In that split second, he gave himself away.
Flynn pounced. “You got a personal interest in the doctor?”
“I simply want a guarantee she’s one hundred percent on our team.”
“What makes you think she isn’t?”
Michael couldn’t control the kidnappers, but he still needed to control something about the kidnapping. “Nothing I can put my finger on, but the encounter I had with her tonight makes me think she’s working a personal angle. I want to know what it is.” He squeezed the coffee cup.
His director of operations nodded, seeming to understand his nobody messes with my family reaction. “But she passed her background check with flying colors and has a security clearance higher than mine.”
“You and I both know security clearance doesn’t mean jack shit and background checks miss stuff not marked with a bull’s-eye.” Michael sipped his cold coffee without tasting it. “When I asked for her file, my source told me Brigit’s seen a therapist off and on since she was a kid, but there’s nothing in her folder about it. I want to know why. I want to know what secrets she’s keeping.”
If anyone knew about secret lives, it was Flynn. “If I get caught, I’m blaming it all on you. You are the boss after all.”
Michael handed him a small jump drive fashioned like a Lego piece. “All the information in the file is contained on this. A few other items of information as well. Don’t lose it.”
Flynn slid the folder back to him, took the Lego brick and checked his watch, suddenly antsy to leave. “I’ll start on this when I get into the office.”
“Start now,” Michael said. “Brigit’s in your neck of the woods. I followed her to a bar just outside Arlington’s city limits, called Sail Away. It’s off the interstate past Perkins. She drives a green Ford rental car. On your way home, see if she’s still there and tail her. If she’s gone, her U.S. residence is listed in her file.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. The deputy director of the CIA did personal surveillance on a suspect. Why didn’t you hang around the bar and find out who she snuggled up to?”
“She knows me now after meeting me at Ruth’s. I can’t get too close. You can.”
“And I’m still the best field operator you’ve got.”
“I’m handing you this job because you owe me. Big time.”
Flynn tapped the desk with a finger. “I don’t owe you squat. Julia chose me.”
“Your debt has nothing to do with Julia. You betrayed my confidence in you as a spy when you faked your death two years ago.” He jammed the folder back into his briefcase. “Earn it back.”
Flynn rose, his hands clenched into fists. “You’re setting me up to take a risk that could end my career and embarrass me in front of the entire intelligence community. That has everything to do with Julia.”
In the past six months, Michael’s dislike of Flynn had mellowed, mostly because his feelings for Julia had done the same. She was happy with the asshole, and he cared about her enough to want that for her, even if it meant she was married to someone else.
Besides that, Flynn was a damn good head of Operations. Better than Michael had been. Even with the budget cutbacks and a gutted army of field operatives, Flynn had manipulated the European and Middle East playing field with the tenacity and patience of a chess master. He’d been quietly building his secret army of spies who put their Cold War predecessors to shame. Multiple terrorist cells in Germany had been picked apart, two different attacks in Italy and Spain had been derailed. All because of Conrad Flynn.
“I’m asking for your help,” Michael admitted, as much to himself as to Flynn, “because you’re the only person I trust with Ella’s life.”
The fists relaxed. Flynn took a deep breath and eyed the wall on his way out. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Four
Construction site southwest of Perkins
Dull yellow light from overhead construction lamps fell on dump trucks and piles of lumber, casting eerie shadows and turning the faces of three men in the open space sallow. Their low male voices bounced like a hum between the bricks and made it difficult for Brigit to hear what they were saying from the front seat of her rental car, but she didn’t need to. The exchange between two Israeli terrorists and two unknown subjects was nearing its conclusion. The terrorists had produced a woman, a cloth bag over her head and her hands bound behind her back, from their vehicle, while their redheaded counterpart yanked a gym bag from the backseat of his rusty Volvo.
As one of the Israelis rifled through the bag of money, the redheaded unsub assisted his ransomed friend toward the Volvo. Another player, smaller and wearing a knit hat, emerged from the driver side of the car and guided the woman into the backseat. The hair on Brigit’s arms rose at the sight.
Truman’s instincts about Tory were spot on. There was no good reason for her to be in the States even though she was a U.S. citizen. No good reason for her to be at this construction site exchanging money for a hostage. No good reason, except for one.
Both parties satisfied, the sound of slamming car doors echoed through the site. The deal was over. The Israelis pulled out first, never looking back.
Brigit threw her binoculars into the passenger seat and shifted her car into gear. The Volvo had gone less than thirty feet when she rounded the corner, rocks flying, and cut it off.
The Volvo’s front end dived as the driver hit the brakes. Brigit threw her rental into park and grabbed her gun, pointing it at the driver as she exited the car.
The cold night air smelled like upturned dirt, metal pipes and cooling concrete. Her voice carried, sounding calm and assertive even though her hands were shaking. “Get out.”
The passenger door opened instead and Tory stepped out. Under the weird light, Brigit made out the dark eyes, familiar nose and full lips identical to her own. The younger mirror image she hadn’t seen in years sent a wave of sadness flooding through her. It was her fault Tory was here, just like everything that had happened since the night their mother died in the fire.
Tory stayed behind the door, using it as a partial shield. “Brigit. Long time no see, sister of mine.”
In the now-silent construction area, the slight Irish brogue in her sister’s voice sounded soft and still childlike. Brigit’s heart contracted. In her chest of memories, she heard Tory’s cries as the kitchen burned, their mother trapped inside. If only she could rewind time and find a way to keep her family together.
But she and Tory weren’t kids anymore. Their innocence had been stripped away at a too-young age and there was no going back. Tamping down her emotions, Brigit kept her gun aimed on the car’s driver just in case he got any ideas. “What are you doing here making an exchange with Israeli terrorists?”
“‘By ballot or gun, our day will come.’”
“Quoting Peter now?” Brigit laughed, from nerves and false disbelief. Bottom line, she didn’t want to talk about revolutionaries. God help her, but she wanted to talk about what normal sisters talked about—reality TV, bad hair days, the shoe sale at Macy’s. Unfortunately, that language was foreign to Tory. “The Troubles are over, in case he didn’t tell you. Besides, this is America, not Ireland.”
“Ireland, America, Afghanistan, Palestine, it’s a global war.” Tory tilted her head at the backseat of the Volvo. “We are international brothers and sisters in arms now, fighting against governments who would press us under their heel.” She shut the door and took a step toward Brigit. “Our identity, the new nation we’re building, is about family, religion and tradition. Peter peeled away all the Protestant garbage you and Da filled my head with and showed me the truth.”
“Truth?” Brigit’s voice dropped a d
ecibel and she shook her head in resignation, but she didn’t lower the gun. As much as she wanted to, she wasn’t that stupid. “Where’s Peter? Did he send you after that package you just put in the car?”
“You got close to him in London last week. Spooked him. He went underground.” Tory took another step and like a compass needle finding due north, Brigit shifted the gun to point it at her. Tory stared down the barrel and chuckled. “You won’t shoot me. I’m your sister.”
The sound of the gun cocking reverberated across the yard. “You’d be surprised at what I’ll do when it comes to Peter’s war.”
Without warning, Tory brushed the gun aside and embraced Brigit in a hug.
Stunned, Brigit held her breath. She’d dreamed of this moment, held it in her hand and examined it from all sides like a beautiful glass ball. Except in her dream, Tory was embracing her because she’d left Peter and returned to Brigit. In her world, dreams did not come true.
So instead of the relief and love she expected to feel spreading through her body, her skin itched, especially where Tory’s heavy weight pressed against her. Tory released her and patted one of her cheeks. “We mean you no harm. Let Peter be. Let us all be.”
Tory turned her back on Brigit and climbed into the car, and the glass ball fell and shattered at Brigit’s feet. A few seconds later, the driver wheeled around her, where she was still frozen in place, and the Volvo disappeared into the night.
The gun suddenly felt too heavy in Brigit’s hand. The cords of tension holding her together gave way and she slumped against the car, dropping her head and mentally kicking herself. For the first time in years, she’d been face-to-face with her younger sister and failed to tell her what was in her heart. Failed to make Tory see the light about Peter and his cause.
Failed to hug her back.
How could she be such a success with her career and such a miserable failure at everything else?
