Burning (PAVAD: FBI Romantic Suspense Book 11)

by Calle J. Brookes

  Yeah, they knew each other’s nightmares well.

  They both still bore the scars. Inside.

  “Dreams are the subconscious mind’s way of telling us something,” Georgia said. “Anything different about this dream?”

  “No.”

  “No difference?”

  “This time, he bleeds to death in the elevator, and I’m trapped with him. For hours. Then he comes back from the dead, and we’re trapped in that supply closet in D.C., same story, minimal variation.”

  “And when you woke, how did you feel?”

  “Angry, scared, sad, guilty.” Ana listed the feelings she’d felt nearly every time she woke from the dream. Just like Georgia had insisted the first time she’d helped Ana deal with them nearly two years ago. “When I first woke, I was sure he was dead. Dammit, Georgia. I’ve not had the dreams in months.”

  “Subconscious telling you something?”

  “But what?”

  Their conversation was cut short as they entered the large conference room.

  Their team leader looked at them though dark rimmed glasses. Ana loved it when he wore his glasses; it made him twice as hot. “You’re both late.”

  “We apologize, Mal,” Georgia said as Ana murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sure you are.” But he smiled when he said it, and Ana felt the urge to smile back.

  Ana thought her team leader was the hottest guy in the world, and he was one of the nicest, too. Malachi Brockman didn’t tolerate screw-ups. So she tried her best not to be one. Mal was one of those bosses who made people try their best because he always tried his best. “We’ve all been summoned to Conference room A.”

  “Great,” Ana whispered to Georgia as they immediately stood back up to follow him and the other four members of their team out of the room. “Now what?”

  “We’ll just have to wait and find out.” Georgia said, slinging the backpack that carried her laptop and various other necessities over her shoulder. The backpack went with Georgia everywhere.

  They rounded the corner, looked through the window into the largest conference room in the St. Louis field office. A huge crowd was already inside. And they didn’t look very happy. “I don’t think this is going to be good.”

  “I think this is the whole field office.” Georgia’s tone was just as puzzled. “Something must be going on.”

  Some of the people Ana recognized. Some she didn’t. Holding court in the center was the Assistant Director of the Directorate of Intelligence.

  Georgia’s father.

  Edward Dennis looked a lot like his daughter. The man was cold, imposing, and definitely larger than life. And terrifying.

  Until you got to know him, then you realized he was just reserved.

  He nodded in his daughter’s direction, and Ana caught the small smile. Edward Dennis loved his daughter—there was no doubt about that in Ana’s mind—and that was the only thing that made him appear human at first.

  “Wow. They called out the big cheese on this one.” Special Agent Whitman said from behind the two women. “That’s the...”

  “Assistant Director?” Georgia asked, a touch of mischief in her voice. Ana smirked. Whitman was young, obnoxious, the newest transplant to their unit in the CEPD, and both women enjoyed tormenting him whenever possible.

  “I heard he was a real cold bastard. Heard he fired this SA for messing up his lunch order last week.”

  “I don’t think he’s cold at all,” Georgia said. “Daddy’s always been shy.”

  “Daddy?” Whitman’s blue eyes widened and he paled. Georgia didn’t advertise her relationship to the director, though Ana thought most people knew. Their team didn’t speak of the connection often, but surely Whitman knew?

  “Hmm, Whitman, Doctor Dennis, Director Dennis—you think they’re related?” Ana widened her own eyes at Whitman. “Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

  Whitman said nothing, just moved away.

  “You know, we probably shouldn’t tease him that much,” Georgia said as they took their seats on the left side of Mal. Whitman, J.T. Thompkins, and Dakon Royal took the seats on the right. Ken Chalmers took the seat on Ana’s left. “One of these days he’s going to take us seriously.”

  “You’d think he’d know not to take you too seriously to begin with. Ana, love, your cheek is swelling slightly.” Mal frowned at the two women. His glasses were gone, but that didn’t detract from how beautiful her dark-headed, blue-eyed boss actually was. She sniffed discretely, taking in the warm mint-tinged cologne he favored. She favored it, too, one of the reasons she always tried to sit by him.

  She was in deep for her Malachi, but would never act on it. That would be too weird—and could potentially ruin her career. But that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy him thoroughly whenever given the smallest chance.

  “Georgia beat me up, boss,” Ana mocked an injured shoulder. “This time. I’ll take her next time.”

  “Sure you will.” J.T. leaned forward to look at them. His black-rimmed glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them up with one finger. He was such a cute nerd, with his blond hair uncombed and his shirt stained and untucked. Ana loved him. Fiercely, the way one loved a particularly lovable younger brother. “You two still running neck and neck?”

  “Dead even. Ana beat me last week,” Georgia said, as the conference room door opened and one more team entered. The man in front was large, tall and muscular—at least six-foot-five, broad-shouldered, with chestnut hair and a handsome face. She’d seen him before, but couldn’t place him. He was followed by several other agents, including a young redhead, with hair nearly as dark as Ana’s and a gorgeous blonde woman. The redhead was a bit odd, but someone Ana knew well enough to say hello to in the elevator. One look at the blonde made Ana feel even more self-conscious in the pantsuit she’d filched from Georgia’s donation pile a few weeks ago when the other woman had done her ritual spring closet cleaning.

  The man glared fiercely at Edward Dennis. Ana’s gaze moved to the older man. The assistant director’s return look was pure ice. “Uh, Georgia...”

  “What?” Georgia turned, and Ana knew she saw what she did.

  “Who is that?” Ana asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Georgia said softly, her eyes trained on the man. “But whoever he is...I don’t think he likes my father very well.”

  “That’s Michael Hellbrook, ladies. From the Complex Crime Unit two floors up. Wonder what he’s doing here?” Mal said. “He usually steers clear of any cases or anything involving your father, Georgia.”

  “I’ve heard my father, grumbling but I’ve never met the man. I think that has been my father’s maneuvering, actually. I’m not so sure I want to, now.”

  Ana couldn’t blame her. Rumor had it that Michael Hellbrook had earned his nickname of ‘Hell’. They said he was hell to work with, and had one hell of a temper. “What’s the deal, Mal?”

  “A case, nearly fifteen years ago. Hellbrook’s first, I think. Two agents were killed. Rumor has it Hellbrook blames your father, Georgia.” Mal shook his head as if he couldn’t understand it. “But no one knows what really happened. The bad blood has persisted.”

  “Even after all this time?” Georgia asked. Both women watched the man and his team as they settled into the last few seats of the first row. “Must have been horrible. We’d just moved to St. Louis then. My father had had his choice of regions. He chose this one.”

  Ana suspected the man had also pulled strings to get his daughter in the St. Louis field office, where he’d worked for over fifteen years. Georgia had spent her entire career in St. Louis. Ana had jumped around more. She’d started in Washington in Hostage Recovery. Then she’d transferred to Chicago’s branch of Violent Crimes, before finally coming to Mal’s notice. He’d handpicked her around the same time he’d filched Georgia from a Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team. Thompkins was their computer guy, and he did a phenomenal job. Chalmers and Royal had been with the CEPD just as long as Ana and Georgia
.

  They worked well together. Even Whitman, who’d not been picked by Malachi, served his purpose well. Of course, that purpose was basically that of errand boy—he’d yet to earn more. Ana sent him for her lunch at least twice a week as a joke. He did it, too. Without complaint. He had a lot of potential, and Ana was glad to be around to see it evolve. Mal’s team—her team—was one of the best in the field office. In the region, even.

  “If I may have your attention, please.”

  Ana focused on the stage as the room quieted quickly. Edward Dennis stepped to the front center, immediately commanding attention. The room quieted.

  Georgia was capable of that. She’d seen her friend draw attention her way with just the tone of her voice. Georgia didn’t do it often. But when she did, it was highly effective.

  Not Ana; Ana preferred to do her work behind the crowd. She was the strategy specialist, the one who planned extraction maneuvers or dealt with victims. Ana had grown up in a world far removed from Georgia’s. Ana’s father had been nomadic, dragging his small family everywhere. They’d stayed nowhere more than two months.

  Her family—her, her mother, father, and older brother—had made their living as salvagers, hocking junk they’d collected from yard sales and selling artwork her mother and older brother would create. Ana had been almost forgotten about, artless and untalented in all the ways her family had prized. It had hurt her the way they’d ignored her.

  It had surprised them when Ana had chosen the FBI as a career. She’d deflected, defied the family tradition of being artists and nomads and searched for security in a world they wanted no part of.

  She’d not spoken to her family except once since she’d told them she’d been accepted to her first choice college at the age of seventeen.

  Georgia was her family now. Matthew, Georgia, and Brockman. Thompkins, Royal, Chalmers, even Whitman. And to Ana, her new family was everything.

  Chapter 2

  FIN McLaughlin studied the crowded room, looking for anyone of particular interest. Some of the occupants would be his new team. And it burned him that he’d not be allowed to pick which ones. Fin was very particular in who he wanted at his back, yet for the first time since he’d become a Unit Chief nine years ago, he’d have no say.

  That privilege rested with Director Dennis. And like the older man had said, he had a definite list in mind.

  “Funding has been approved,” Dennis said, and the crowd hushed. “For a new division. It will be based here in St. Louis. The primary focus will be on a new age of crime. Crimes don’t just cover one area anymore. We have pedophiles committing cyber crimes; we have sex crimes blending into violent crimes; we have terrorism intermingling with gang activity. This new division will seek to address all those overlaps by the blending of specialists in every area. No more ordinary run of the mill field teams will be coming out of St. Louis. Calls to us—this division—will be special requests that only our teams can solve.”

  Fin scanned the crowd, beginning in the front two rows. Fifty plus people crammed the room. Seventy percent were male. Most were in their thirties, forties, or fifties. A handful were younger. Half a dozen were older.

  They all had the jaded look of law enforcement in their eyes. It was a look Fin saw in his own eyes whenever he’d look in a mirror.

  Dennis droned on. Fin flexed his prosthetic hand, readjusted it a bit. There was a thread or something between it and the stump that was his forearm. He’d have to remove it later.

  “Our only order of business is team restructuring, especially within my directorate.”

  There were discontented murmurs from the crowd then. Fin straightened. He hadn’t known Dennis would be screwing with the teams under his command that severely or that soon. People were bound to be unhappy having their teams jerked around. He would be. One man stood and glared at the platform. “The Complex Crimes Unit is not part of your directorate; there will be no changes to my team.”

  “I’m not finished.” The director’s tone and body language spoke of some seriously bad blood. Fin wondered at the hostility between the two.

  The man sat, though with obvious reluctance. Fin studied the two men and the looks that passed between them. Definite history, bad history.

  Another man spoke from the other side of the room. “Our teams are highly functioning as they are. My unit has an incredibly high solve rate. I’m not sure rearranging that will be in the best interest of the Bureau.”

  “Dr. Brockman, thank you. That brings up another thing. For those of you who are part of a highly functioning team, you will most likely not be impacted significantly. Some of you may be reassigned to cover any other holes. We will still have the field intelligence and investigative services. They’ll just be permanently under my jurisdiction. And the Complex Crimes Unit—you’ll be moving up two floors to this directorate. You’ve been reclassified. Len will be calling off a list of names of agents to be reassigned. We will also be forming a master task force, under my direct leadership. This team will be the front leaders. They will be the best and brightest this office has to offer and will set the future course for this division. When SSA Len calls your name, please stand.”

  Fin watched as the first set of agents were reassigned, most having very unhappy expressions on their faces. Another five minutes passed and nearly every agent had been reassigned or told to stay with their current unit.

  Dennis stepped back to the front. “Those of you who’ve been reassigned, you’re dismissed. The rest of you, please stay seated. You’ll receive instructions shortly.”

  The majority of the crowd filed out. Eleven people remained: Fin, Dennis, the two men who’d spoken—Hellbrook and Brockman, three other men, two brunette women, and two redheaded women.

  This was Deputy Dennis’s elite team, Fin realized. His new team, whenever he needed them. He straightened. Looked them over carefully. Hellbrook was furious, it was in the way his shoulders were rigid. The young redhead on his right wasn’t even listening. She had headphones in. Fin wondered the reason why. The three younger male agents were all waiting somewhat impatiently. Fin just glanced over them. The two brunette women were on opposite sides of the room, and seemed opposite in personality, from Fin’s first impressions. One was Hispanic, seemed a bit edgy, squirming in her seat near the front, and very pretty. The other was small, attractive, and businesslike. Cool and calm. She turned and said something to the redhead on her left.

  Fin’s gaze followed her movement. The hair was dark red. Warm. Straight. It tugged at him, a bit familiar. The body was small. Delicate. She moved a lot, her foot tapping, arms crossing and uncrossing. Tense and fidgety—a deep personality trait, or something more? She didn’t want to be there. Brockman reached behind the brunette and squeezed the redhead’s shoulder. She turned, becoming more visible.

  Fin’s hand tightened as a rush of remembered pain shot through him. Memories of that morning in June nine years ago, when he’d lost most of his arm, and of the woman who’d been with him at the time.

  The woman he’d never forgotten.

  Ana.

  Chapter 3

  “I don’t like this,” Ana whispered to Georgia. “The teams were fine the way they were.”

  “I know,” Georgia said as Malachi stood and approached the front of the room. Ana and Georgia followed. “But my dad knows what he’s doing.”

  Georgia’s dad looked at all of them for a moment. Ana tried not to squirm more than usual. “We’ll make introductions and I’ll explain a bit more about this task force.”

  “We’re it, Dad?” Georgia looked at her father with clear surprise on her usually calm face.

  Director Dennis nodded.

  Hellbrook looked at Georgia with an appraising look on his face. Ana shifted in front of Georgia. Her friend didn’t need to be pulled into the trouble between her father and the other guy.

  Malachi moved to block Hellbrook’s gaze, a challenging look on his own face. Ana knew then this wouldn’t be good—not if t
he normally placid Mal’s protective streak was aroused. Not good, not at all.

  Malachi spoke. “I’ll begin. I’m Dr. Malachi Brockman. I head the Child Exploitation Prevention Division. These are three of my team—SSA Dakon Royal, Dr. Georgia Dennis, and SSA Anastacia Sorin. Royal’s a former demolitions expert from ATF. Dr. Dennis is our team profiler. Ana’s our tactics expert and victim advocate when needed.”

  ***

  Fin watched the man look toward Hellbrook. Hellbrook’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Michael Hellbrook. Complex Crimes Unit.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Fin said. The CCU was the stuff legends were made of. A small team of agents—the unit only had five people in it—who took the cases nobody else wanted, or could solve. Hellbrook was legendary, his intra-Bureau fame rising in the last four years. How would Hellbrook react to such an unplanned situation? With arrogance because of his reputation and accomplishments, or with professionalism? If the guy couldn’t fit in with the task force, Fin wouldn’t want him. Arrogance got people killed—or hurt. Had he been a little less arrogant nine years ago, he’d probably still be able to bat left-handed.

  Fin thought he’d be older, instead of around his own thirty-nine. Hellbrook continued, motioning to the younger redhead at his side. “This is my agent, Special Agent Carrie Sparks. She’s our computer forensic specialist.”

  Another man, younger than either Hellbrook or Fin spoke up. “I’m Lucas Armitage and this is my partner Maria Angel. We’re with Stephenson. I’ve training in anti-terrorism and hostage negotiation, and Angel comes from Crimes against Children.”

  “Reece Ramirez,” Another man said, with touches of a New York and Hispanic accent mingling beneath his words. “I’m with Violent Crimes, as well.”

  “Fineas McLaughlin. I’ll be heading up this new division, second to Director Dennis. I transferred in this morning. My recent assignment was with the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime’s serial murder division, located in DC,” Fin moved from his position partially behind Dennis. His gaze locked on the one woman he’d never expected to see again. “Hello, Ana.”