Enigma

by Dee Davis

  “Thanks.” She opened the container and inhaled appreciatively, then picked up a taco bursting with meat and cheese. “It looks wonderful. Between our trip to Houston and working here in the lab, the day sort of got away from me.”

  “Totally understandable,” he said, sliding into the chair next to hers, his thigh brushing against hers. “But starving yourself isn’t going to help you find answers.”

  She nodded, her mouth too full of guacamole to answer with words. She was touched by his thoughtfulness. Surprised by it, too. Payton didn’t seem like the kind of man who spent time thinking about other people’s needs. Obviously she’d misjudged him.

  She reached for her Dr. Pepper, and in the process moved her leg. The contact was distracting. Payton didn’t seem to notice and she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or offended. Basically she was overanalyzing the whole thing. He’d brought her dinner.

  Big freaking deal.

  “What are you working on?” He motioned to the partially completed model with an enchilada-laden fork.

  “I’m trying to build a model of the San Antonio bomb. But it’s tricky. There were only a couple of fragments large enough to work off of. So I’m trying to guess the proximity of the rest.”

  “An educated guess, I’d assume.” He was studying the pieces now.

  “Well, I have seen a lot of bombs in my day. But the real key is the computer. Both the ATF and the FBI have extensive databases recording blasts and the apparatus used. By comparing my parts with the database, I can be a hell of a lot more accurate.” She motioned toward a laptop she had set up at the end of the table.

  “Still, seems like frustrating work.” He turned back to his plate of food, already more than halfway through it.

  “It can be. But for the most part I like it. Particularly the challenge of working backward to solve the puzzle. It’s interesting to try and get into the bomber’s head.”

  “You sound like Madison.”

  Sam smiled. “I guess there are similarities. Only her job is a lot harder.”

  “No. Just different.” His smile was still only half-mast, but it was genuine. “Once you get that done, what will it tell you?”

  “Hopefully it’ll help establish a signature. Which is the best way I know of to try and nail a bomber. The methodology may vary from incident to incident, but, for the most part, there are peculiarities that hold true every time a particular bomber produces something. If we can find those idiosyncrasies, we can start to build a history for the guy and work from there.”

  “Sounds like an indefinite science.” Payton put his trash back in the bag, wiping his hands with a napkin.

  “In some ways it isn’t science at all. I mean the principles of chemistry and physics apply, certainly, and without a working knowledge of both, a bomb can’t be constructed. But there’s also an art to it. And sometimes these guys are a lot more about the sheer beauty of combustion than the more technical aspects.”

  “And reconstructing the bomb can tell you how this particular bomber fits onto the scale?”

  “Exactly. You start with specific components he chooses, then work through the way he connects them together, right up to the way he perceives the impact of explosion. It’s a detailed process, and the construction of the bomb can tell it all.” She smiled up at him. “Sounds certifiable, huh?”

  “On the contrary, I find it fascinating.” His hooded gaze held hers, and though the message there was all about chemistry, it had nothing to do with bombs or bomb fragments. Her stomach tightened and her pulse pounded in her ears.

  Just looking at him made her dizzy. The idea of him touching her set off every nerve synapse in her body. She leaned forward, not certain what exactly she was planning to do, intent only on the green of his eyes and the battle-scarred line of his jaw.

  She knew she should back away, break the connection, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wanted to know what he tasted like, what his lips would feel like against hers. She’d wanted it since last night. His vulnerability touched her in a way she couldn’t have imagined.

  Her heart beat wildly as she closed the distance between them. His lips brushed against hers, the contact more exquisite than anything she could have imagined. She closed her eyes, and simply let the sensation surround her.

  Minutes seemed to stretch to hours, and then, with a groan, he threaded his fingers through her hair, his hands holding her captive as he tasted and teased. With a sigh, she opened to him, their tongues tangling together, the kiss deepening, desire burgeoning from deep within.

  There was no trace of gentleness now. This was a man who took what he wanted. No quarter spared. In any other man it would have offended her, but with Payton she found the idea enticing.

  Then reality reared its ugly head and she realized where they were.

  Pushing away, she fought for breath, her gaze locking on his.

  His smile was slow, his gaze still clouded with passion. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you.”

  “I can’t say that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, but you know as well as I do that this isn’t a good idea.” Her voice was raspy, her breathing still labored.

  “It was just a kiss.”

  “It was a hell of a lot more than a kiss, and you know it,” she snapped, immediately wishing the words back, her anger clearly overriding good sense.

  Damn the man.

  “Well one thing is for certain, if we don’t explore our options we’ll never find out.” He reached over to wipe a smear of guacamole from her cheek, the intimacy of the act sending shivers chasing through her. “Consider the kiss an invitation. If you’re interested, you know where to find me.”

  She wanted to tell him to drop dead. To forget the whole idea, but instead she nodded, not certain at all what she was agreeing to. The truth was, she’d never in her life met a man who managed to put her at such a disadvantage.

  She reached for the remains of her dinner and started stuffing things back into the sack, the action giving her time to pull her rioting emotions into control.

  “I’m glad you guys are still here.” Gabe’s voice was like a bucket of cold water, and despite herself, Sam jumped back, dropping the bag, her guilt no doubt playing across her face like a neon sign.

  Payton bent down to help her retrieve the sack, in the process reaching out to squeeze her hand. “He didn’t see a thing.”

  His whispered reassurance was oddly more disconcerting than his earlier words had been, and Sam wondered if perhaps she’d stumbled down Alice’s rabbit hole.

  Forcing a calm she did not feel, she straightened and turned to Gabe, who fortunately seemed to have other things on his mind than the dinnertime philandering of his teammates. In fact, now that her head was clearer, she noticed the stark lines on his face.

  “What’s happened?”

  Gabe’s expression, if possible, turned even more grim. “There’s been another bombing.”

  “Where?” Payton stepped around the end of the table, his attention fixed solely on Gabe.

  “Virginia, just outside of D.C.”

  “Any casualties?” Sam sank back against the table, trying to process this newest information.

  “One. Some director with the FBI. His garage was booby-trapped. Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.”

  “So what’s the tie-in to San Antonio?”

  “Logistically there’s nothing yet. But the guy killed was heading up the NRT for our bomb. Seems like something more than coincidence.”

  Sam’s stomach roiled, her dinner threatening to do an encore performance. “You’re talking about Walter Atherton.” It was a statement, not a question, but her heart refused to believe the obvious without verification.

  “Yeah, why? You know him?”

  She nodded, surprised that the muscles were working. “He was my boss when I worked in evidence recovery. A lot of what I know I learned from him. He and Amanda were like a second family.”

  Payton
moved to stand beside her, his physical presence giving her needed support.

  “Was…” She paused, trying to order her words, her emotions blocking the transmission of cognizant thought. “Was Amanda there?”

  Gabe shook his head. “Just Atherton. You going to be able to deal with this?”

  It was a valid question and one she wasn’t completely sure she could answer, but compartmentalizing her feelings was part and parcel of the job, and if anything she owed it to Walter to pull herself together. “I’ll be fine.” She sucked in a breath and squared her shoulders. “I assume we’re heading to McLean.”

  Gabe searched her face, and then nodded, seemingly satisfied with what he saw. “Cullen’s plane is standing by. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

  She reached across the table for her bomb kit, tucking a couple of files from the table into the bag. Everything else she needed they’d have on site. “I’m ready.”

  Flanked by Gabe and Payton she walked out of the office mentally preparing to do battle with the devil.

  Only this time, it was personal.

  J.T. SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the bed of his hotel room, watching the evening news. The blast had made all three networks, not to mention blow-by-blow details on CNN. He should have been pleased that things had gone according to plan, but he wasn’t.

  Instead, he had once more unwittingly tied himself into the senators’ wrongdoings. The press had already concluded that the hit on Atherton was precipitated by his involvement in the investigation. The logic following that the bombing was either meant to slow the investigation or send a message, quite probably both.

  There was an element of truth in the latter. He was trying to send a message, but the world was intent on translating it completely wrong.

  According to the news, Samantha’s team was on its way. The film footage of her and one of Cullen Pulaski’s flunkies was disconcerting at best. He didn’t like the possessive manner in which the man cupped Sam’s elbow, although she seemed oblivious to the fact, concentrating instead on the plane they were boarding.

  Knowing Samantha, her mind was firmly fixed on the task at hand—deciphering the clues his handiwork had left behind. Even before she reached the site, she’d be examining other experts’ reports: the medical examiner, the preliminary site team, probably even interviews with Atherton’s widow.

  She’d want to pull together as much information as she could, then let her senses do the rest, filtering the visceral reality of the bomb impact with the conclusions of others. She was meticulous to a fault. And at the end of the day, J.T. had no doubt she’d work out the implications of what he’d done.

  Unfortunately, Atherton’s ties to the investigation would no doubt confuse things. He should have anticipated the outcome. Done something to make certain there could be no confusion. But in the heat of the moment, he’d allowed his emotions to carry him away, his need to reach Sam more pressing than the minor details of Atherton’s professional life.

  In the course of a day Walter Atherton oversaw a myriad of cases. Still, J.T. should have realized that the San Antonio bombing was a priority. And that the press would see the attack as part of the alleged conspiracy involving Ruckland and the others.

  He sighed, allowing his body to settle into the familiar lotus position. What he needed was to find inner strength. To cleanse his body of all emotion. His attachment to Samantha was something that couldn’t be denied, as intrinsic to his being as breathing and blood flow. But it couldn’t become a distraction.

  The senators had been a mistake, but he should have predicted the media’s reaction to Atherton’s death. He wouldn’t make the same mistake next time.

  He closed his eyes, intent on traveling the pathways of his mind. He chanted softly, letting the monotonous tone pull him deeper into his own subconscious. Peace beckoned, the circle curling in on itself until he felt whole.

  As always, she was there waiting, the smile on her face knowing, the promise of completion pulling him deeper and deeper until he could no longer tell where he ended and she began.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PAYTON STOOD on the remains of the Athertons’ driveway, watching as Sam studied the burnt-out casing that had once been a wall-mounted garage door opener. She stopped for a moment, writing something in the spiral notebook she carried everywhere, then resumed her inspection. They’d been on-site for less than an hour, but already she’d taken control with a seamless efficiency that left no ruffled feathers.

  And considering the number of high-ranking FBI personnel present, that was no mean feat.

  The medical examiner’s office had already been by to collect what remained of Walter Atherton. Although there hadn’t been much left, there had been enough to establish tentative identification. Which meant that Sam’s friend had been the man caught in the blast.

  Sam bent to pick something up, then discarded it, her expression remaining carefully neutral, but Payton knew her well enough now to recognize the signs of stress.

  On the plane ride to Virginia she hadn’t said much, just reiterated that Atherton was a friend. The world of ordnance retrieval was small and when one factored out the military it was miniscule, all personnel interconnected in some way or other. But this was more than that—she’d truly cared for this man.

  And Payton hated the idea that she was hurting. He’d known her for such a short time, yet he felt connected, bound in the pheromone-laden way that nature had created to assure survival of the species.

  But it was more than that. He recognized something of himself in her. Like him, she kept the world at arm’s length, preferring to live in the moment with little thought to the future. And no thought at all of the past.

  But unlike him, Sam had nothing to hide. No internal flaw that destroyed the people he loved. Sam was simply a loner more comfortable in her own company than anyone else’s.

  He could respect that—to a point. But he’d meant it when he’d invited her into his bed. He wanted to feel her moving beneath him. Wanted to drive deep into her heat, losing himself in the moment, forgetting just who and what he was.

  He was realistic enough to understand that the road might end there, that neither of them was particularly inclined to enter into something long-term. Which in some ways suited him just fine. But there was another part of him that was intrigued with the idea of something more. Something permanent.

  Yeah. Right.

  He shook his head, clearing his brain of romantic bullshit. No matter how big the hole inside him, it wasn’t worth it to try and fill it again.

  Except temporarily.

  It was a rationalization. He was honest enough to admit that. But hell, the truth was he wanted her. Simple as that. In the meantime, however, they had bigger fish to fry, starting with the big black limo that had skirted the barricades to arrive at the Athertons’ curb.

  Sam had seen it, too, temporarily abandoning her examination of the site to cross over to him, her face awash with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. “Any idea who that is?”

  He shook his head, trying to ignore the jump in his pulse at her nearness. “Someone with clout, though. The limo waltzed right through the checkpoint.”

  Sam nodded, shading her eyes as the back door opened. Payton followed the line of her gaze. The door opened and a man in a blue suit stepped out. Cullen. He should have known. Leave it to him to arrive like the king of fucking England.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed as she realized who had emerged from the limo, her quick intake of breath a sign that she viewed the man as nothing more than an unnecessary intrusion.

  “Great,” she murmured, already striding toward the limo.

  Payton followed in her wake, watching as Cullen turned to lean back into the limo, helping a woman disembark. The lady was of indeterminate age, dressed in an expensive green suit. She clung to Cullen, her ringed hand lined with age.

  “Amanda,” Sam called out, shoving past the gathering crime scene folks as if they were of no more substance tha
n paper dolls. The two women embraced, and as Payton drew closer, he could see the tear-ravaged face of the older woman.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Sam said, shooting Cullen a murderous glance, then returning her worried gaze to Amanda Atherton.

  “I had to come.” The older woman shook her head. “I needed to see this.”

  “The deputy director told her about Walter,” Cullen said by way of explanation. “But then left her at her club to wait. I found her there and volunteered to bring her here.”

  Sam opened her mouth to say something, and then evidently thought better of it, putting an arm around Amanda instead.

  Payton could understand why Sam would want to shelter her friend, but at the same time he couldn’t fault Amanda for wanting to see firsthand what had happened to her husband. There was a masochistic kind of closure in the act, something he often wished he’d been allowed in Iraq. But circumstances had prevented it. Circumstances and people.

  He fought a surge of bitter resentment and kept his gaze away from Cullen’s.

  “Is he here?” Amanda asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Sam shook her head. “They took him to the medical examiner’s office. I’m sure they’ll release his remains as soon as they can.”

  “Won’t they…” Amanda paused, sucking in a deep breath. “Won’t they need me to identify the body?”

  Sam shot a look at Payton, her gaze beseeching.

  “No, ma’am,” Payton said, trying to keep his voice even. “They’ve already had a visual ID. They’ll want to verify using DNA. But they’re certain it’s him.”

  “I see.” The words were quiet. Accepting. This was a woman of strength, and Payton admired her for it. “Have you found out what caused the explosion?” Again she looked to Sam for an answer.

  “Not yet. I think the detonator was in the garage door opener. But that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”