Identity Unknown

by Debra Webb

  She closed her eyes, fought the confusion.

  What was he doing with her?

  “Everyone at the Colby Agency wants to help you.”

  She opened her eyes. Stared at the man who had spoken. Colby Agency. The old woman who lived in the boxes, from that day she had escaped. She’d been naked. She’d awakened by the morgue.

  And then he had come to help her.

  Patrick O’Brien. The man whose wife had cheated on him, then gotten herself murdered. The man who promised to keep her safe.

  The man who had kept his promise.

  Angela dropped to her knees. The gun clattered to the floor.

  And then she cried.

  Cried for the people who had lost their lives because of her. She still didn’t know why, but she knew with complete certainty that it was all her fault.

  “You’re safe.”

  His whispered voice touched her in a place that had been empty and cold for so long she could scarcely draw in her next breath.

  No one had been there when she needed help.

  No one had come to save her.

  She’d been left alone. Abandoned when the operation had fallen apart.

  Patrick O’Brien pulled her into his arms and cradled her like a child. She burrowed into the warmth and security he offered.

  No one had held her this way in so very long.

  She needed someone to help her. This man had promised to do that. She had to trust him.

  She couldn’t do this alone anymore.

  Patrick gathered the sobbing woman into his arms and carried her upstairs. He placed her on the bed in the room she’d chosen, and pulled the covers up around her.

  The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. “I’ll be right back,” he promised before leaving her.

  In the hall outside her room he took the call. “O’Brien.”

  “Any problems inside?”

  Ian Michaels.

  Patrick let go a big breath. “No.” He swallowed at the tightness in his throat. “No problems. I’ve got everything under control in here.”

  “I’ve taken up a post on the opposite side of the street. Shane Allen will be here momentarily to assume a post behind the house.”

  “Thanks, Ian.”

  Patrick closed the phone and sagged against the wall. He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to clear the fog from his brain. Three years ago he had sworn he would never let himself be deceived again. Although Sande Williams—Angela Tapley—had not purposely deceived him, he’d fallen under her spell to some degree and that was not good.

  He’d gotten too close, too personally involved, and his years of formal education had gone right out the window, just like last time.

  He was on his way back to the kitchen when his cell vibrated again. It would be Simon with word on what he’d learned from Lucas’s contact. Patrick pulled himself together and took the call. “O’Brien.”

  “O’Brien, if you’re in a position for me to bring you up to speed, we’ll get that done.”

  Patrick returned to the bottom of the stairs and listened a moment. All quiet. Hopefully Angela—he still had trouble calling her that—was sleeping. “Now’s good. Go ahead.”

  “According to Lucas’s contact, a shadow operation, what the CIA would refer to as a black bag operation, was set in motion three years ago.”

  Patrick had some idea of what all that meant, but wanted the full story. “What exactly does that entail?”

  “That means it’s off the record. Conducted in the dark. No support or contact with the Bureau whatsoever. No one knows except the director himself and the field agent in charge of the operation. The Bureau rarely does an operation like this. They leave that kind of cloak-and-dagger stuff to the CIA.”

  Sounded risky for the agents involved.

  “This particular operation was put in place to infiltrate an organization here in Chicago that specialized in stealing identities. But those in charge of the thriving organization decided to branch out and delve into other illegal activities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Data miners.”

  That sounded like something his computer’s firewall blocked. “How do these data miners work?”

  “The desired identity is located. For example, if the job required a certain educational background or work history, the identity is chosen and taken. One of the organization’s many soldiers assumes the identity and accepts a position at, say, Peyton and Wyatt.”

  Now the picture came into focus. “That soldier,” Patrick guessed, “uses his or her position to gather information for the stealing.”

  “Then that person would simply disappear or return to his or her normal life. We believe Nancy Childers was one of those soldiers. We don’t know why some were executed. Perhaps all were. The firm…”

  “Angela was working undercover to help infiltrate this organization?” Patrick didn’t actually need confirmation; the rest was easy to guess. If Nancy Childers had in fact been one of them, she’d been damned good at concealing her reactions.

  “Yes. Angela was one of two agents from the D.C. office assigned to work here under Chet Wheeler, just over two years ago. Angela was selected because of her specialized training in software systems. One month ago she disappeared, and no one has seen or heard from her until now. Because she was involved in a shadow operation, her personnel file for all intents and purposes didn’t exist. That’s why her prints didn’t garner a match. But as soon as we ran them, the director’s office was notified.”

  “Why didn’t the Bureau step forward and retrieve their agent?” Patrick didn’t like the idea that she had been left to sink or swim even after the FBI learned that she was still alive and right here in Chicago.

  “That’s the sticky part,” Simon explained. “They need this operation to play out. The ultimate goal is far too important to jeopardize for one agent.”

  They were going to use her as bait. “Can Lucas talk to someone and let them know that their agent is in no condition to finish what she started? Right now she’s more than a little unstable. This needs to end. Now.”

  “He’s already tried that. Didn’t work. This is the way they do things, O’Brien. Your job is to react to whatever is thrown your way. And to keep her safe to the best of your ability.”

  “I don’t like it.” Patrick recognized when he was bested. There was nothing he could do but, as Simon said, react.

  “I’ll check in with you every hour,” his colleague informed him before ending the call.

  Patrick gave his word that he wouldn’t go changing the game plan. But he wasn’t sure he could stick by his promise.

  He’d always done the right thing, and it hadn’t always worked. Maybe he would follow his gut this time instead of the rules.

  That was exactly what Windy would do. She would follow her instincts. Patrick owed it to her to do the job the way she would.

  And get the bad guys.

  SHE WAS RUNNING.

  The sheet flapped against her bare thighs.

  She had to run faster. He would catch her otherwise. And then she would be finished.

  Fingers closed around her throat. She gasped for breath. He was winning!

  She couldn’t escape this time…

  Angela bolted upright in bed, her breath rasping in and out of her lungs, and looked around the room.

  Safe. She was safe.

  Safe house.

  The Colby Agency was protecting her.

  Her heart rate slowed little by little.

  Okay. She was okay.

  He couldn’t get her here.

  She shoved the hair back from her face and slowed her breathing. Deep breath, release. Another. Long, deep breath. Let it go. Calm. Find that calm place.

  Throwing the covers back, she dropped her bare feet to the floor. She stood on shaky legs and righted the robe twisted around her torso.

  O’Brien.

  God, she’d pulled a gun on him.

  He probably wasn’t very h
appy with her right now. She had some explaining to do.

  She should get dressed.

  Angela fished some underwear and jeans from the bag Windy had prepared for her.

  Windy.

  Anguish pierced her. Windy was dead because of her. Alma, Nancy, they were all dead. But then Nancy had been one of them. Alma, however, had been an innocent victim, guilty of nothing but being a nosy neighbor.

  Suck it up. Don’t think about it.

  She couldn’t finish this if she allowed herself to sink into the pain.

  And she couldn’t let him win.

  After tugging a sweater over her head, she dug around for socks, then found her shoes.

  Who he was still remained unclear, but she would lure him out into the open and take him down.

  She had survived what he’d done to her. That fact alone was an outright miracle. There had to be a reason God had ensured that she live.

  She found O’Brien downstairs, talking on the phone. He flipped it shut and turned to meet her as she approached.

  For several moments she couldn’t bring herself to speak. He’d risked his life and that of his associate to protect her. To help her uncover her past. Only to learn that she was not who or what he’d thought.

  A man who had been deceived so cruelly in the past wouldn’t forgive so easily, even if a wrong had been levied unintentionally.

  “I’m sorry.” It was all she could think to say. “I didn’t mean to mislead you in any way.”

  He inclined his head and studied her for a moment that stretched out like an eternity. “You had no idea who you were until just a few hours ago. There’s no reason to apologize.”

  “I know, but…” She drew a deep breath for courage. “I know how much truth means to you.”

  A ghost of a smile haunted his lips. “You remember that conversation, do you?”

  Her own lips twitched with the need to return that smile. “I remember all our conversations.”

  “Tea? Or did you remember that you like coffee, after all?” He sounded weary, but he still managed a teasing tone.

  “Tea. Always tea or cocoa.”

  “It’ll be dark out for a while now. We should prepare for what the next few hours may bring.”

  He was right. Only she didn’t intend to wait for the enemy to act. She intended to be the one acting, not reacting. She couldn’t bring down all of them, but if she got him the organization would fall apart.

  “We need to talk,” she told him.

  “So talk.” He moved toward the kitchen even as he urged her to say what was on her mind.

  “There are a lot of blank spots in my memory,” she admitted as she leaned against the counter and watched him put the kettle on the stove.

  “Since we don’t know the method used to corrupt your memory, that could change in time.”

  “The last thing I recall before waking up on that gurney is being strapped to a table with an intravenous line running into a vein.” She pushed her hair behind her ears. “I don’t know what they did to me after that, but whatever it was, it worked.”

  “Temporarily,” O’Brien countered. “You’re remembering more with each passing hour, I would suspect.”

  He was right. She recalled more now than she had only a few minutes ago, when she had awakened. She looked out at the lake. The moon hung low over the water, glimmering in the darkness.

  “I remember that when no one else believed in me, you did.”

  He hadn’t shaved. The dark stubble on his face lent a rugged appeal. She doubted he let that side show often. She liked it.

  He plopped a teabag into a mug. “Don’t forget, that’s my job.”

  True, but she sensed there was more to it than that. “I think you needed someone to save, and I was it.” That hadn’t exactly come out the way she’d intended. “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “No. I don’t think you do.” She put her hand on his arm when he would have reached to pour himself another cup of coffee. “You’re way out of your comfort zone. You went there for me. I appreciate it more than you can know.”

  He moved away from her touch and poured his coffee. She shouldn’t be surprised. This was a professional relationship, nothing personal. Even if some moments had felt entirely personal.

  “What can you tell me about the element who wants you erased?”

  Erased. That was a perfect description of what they wanted. She had gotten in the way, thrown a wrench into their plans, and now they wanted to expunge her.

  “Highly intelligent.” She considered the murky facts filed away in her memory so haphazardly. She wondered if her head would ever really be on straight again. “Cunning. They know what they’re doing. The main thrust of the organization is here in Chicago. There are branches in New York and D.C., but communication central is here.” That had been her target. Infiltrate at the management level. Get the him whose identity remained unknown to her.

  “Do you recall names or locations?” He poured boiling water into her mug.

  “Some. But nothing important.” She added the sugar and stirred. “What we need is the top man.”

  “Have you met the chief?”

  She nodded. “He’s the guy who showed up at the coffee shop. He calls himself Chet Wheeler, but the real Chet Wheeler is dead.” Angela had to look away from O’Brien’s discerning eyes. She didn’t like to think about Wheeler.

  “You feel responsible for his death.”

  Ah, the shrink was coming out. “Yeah.” She met his gaze. “I do. Maybe because he took a bullet for me early in this operation. I made a mistake and he died because of it.” She’d had to pretend she didn’t even know him. Had watched those thugs dump his body. Her stomach churned violently. Somehow the drugs had scrambled her memory and she had considered herself Wheeler’s killer. God only knew what else she’d confused.

  “You know he did what he was trained to do, just as you would have or may have to someday.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She searched O’Brien’s eyes. “Don’t analyze me, Doc. I know the deal, I just don’t like it.”

  “Is this tough persona the real Angela Tapley? Or was Sande Williams the real you that hides behind the title ‘special agent’?”

  “If you’re trying to get on my good side, it’s not working.” She sipped her tea. “Look.” She exhaled a breath of frustration. “I know you’re accustomed to doing things your way, but I have to warn you, I have a plan, and I won’t be dissuaded from carrying it out.”

  He schooled his expression, denying her access to what he was feeling. “Let’s hear this plan of yours.”

  “Since I can’t tell you who or where the bad guys are, I have no choice but to attempt to lure them into the open. Otherwise,” she interjected quickly, when he would have protested, “we might never get the people responsible for Windy’s death. Or any of the others’.”

  “You need to know that I won’t allow you to risk your life to accomplish your goal. My job is to protect you, while attempting to solve this case.”

  She got the picture. “So you, as a representative of the Colby Agency, feel compelled to ensure my safety, since I’m your client.”

  “That’s correct.” He knocked back a slug of coffee. “I have an obligation to ensure your safety twenty-four–seven until this is done.”

  “Great.” She set her tea aside. “That’s an easy fix. You’re fired.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Patrick called in reinforcements.

  Ian Michaels and Simon Ruhl, along with Lucas Camp, Victoria’s husband, were on hand to help persuade Angela to see reason.

  She sat on the sofa, arms crossed over her chest, one jean-clad leg over the other. So far she refused to be swayed.

  Patrick shook his head. “You’re not thinking this through. What good is luring out this man who calls himself Agent Wheeler if you can’t take him down?”

  Those blue eyes that, on Sande, had been so soft and vulnerable turned to rock-hard i
ce as he watched. “What makes you think I can’t take him down on my own?”

  Ian Michaels flashed Patrick a glance that said touché. Not funny.

  “History,” Patrick responded. “You weren’t able to take him down before. There’s no logical reason to believe that has changed.”

  Those icy-blue eyes glittered with fury. “Keep in mind that the last time Wheeler and I met, I was mentally incapacitated.”

  “That’s an excuse,” Patrick countered. “You can either do the job or you can’t.” Now he’d really pissed her off. Even he realized that had been a cheap shot, but he’d passed the point of desperation about an hour ago. He had to make her see reason.

  Angela leaped to her feet, the movement rapid and fluid. She didn’t even move the way Sande had. The memory of Patrick’s wife’s two personas crashed into his mind. He booted it back to that area of gray matter he rarely accessed. Angela’s situation was not the same. The Sande persona had not arisen of her own free will.

  “If I don’t stop him, he’ll just keep extending the network of his organization. He’s like a virus and he’s out of control. When this operation started, there was one group here in Chicago. Then he moved into D.C. and then New York. He won’t stop until someone stops him.” She strolled right up to Patrick and stood toe to toe. “He won’t leave his protective cocoon for any reason other than to eradicate his one mistake. Me.”

  Patrick refused to back down. He met that glacial glare with fire in his own. “That’s exactly why I can’t let you do that.”

  “She has a point.”

  Patrick whipped his gaze to the man who’d spoken. Lucas Camp. Most of the spy world referred to him as the Legend. Right now he was a pain in Patrick’s neck. “What?”

  “Lucas is right.” Ian pushed away from the back of the sofa. He’d been perched there since he arrived, enjoying the sparring between Patrick and Angela far too much. “She’s the one loose end Wheeler would surface to personally take care of. His operation has been far too perfectly executed until now. He can’t risk her continued survival.”

  Patrick threw his hands up. “It would be helpful if you didn’t encourage her.”