by Shandi Boyes
I swear, I barely let Isabelle out of my sight for two seconds, yet she still vanishes. I know who has her. The stool at the end of the bar is noticeably empty, so my panic is nothing like you’d expect. I’m more pissed than anything.
After paying the bartender the exorbitant drink tab Isabelle, Harlow, and I amassed in almost two hours, I scope the area, seeking where Isaac has taken Isabelle. There’s radio silence from the surveillance team stationed in the corner of the club, so I know he hasn’t left. He must have sought somewhere private for them to chat.
An idea on their location is discovered when a middle-aged man with over-gelled hair rounds the corner of the washrooms. He’s an ideal candidate for a manager of a sleazy nightclub, and if his grumble about arrogant fuckfaces is anything to go by, I’m reasonably sure he just had a run-in with Isaac.
Isaac is almost as arrogant as my father, which is saying something. My father’s snootiness rose along with his bank balances and his age. The bank accounts the Bureau is aware of gives Isaac’s haughtiness some credit, but he’s only twenty-seven, so why the fuck does he act as if he runs this town?
My hope to conduct some private investigating is snagged when my soundless steps down the washroom corridor to the manager’s office at the end is spotted by a man I’d never forget. David Crombie is frozen halfway out of the men’s restroom. He’s stacked on a bit of weight since the last time I sat across from him, but I’d never forget his lazy eye, the family crest tattooed on his neck, and let’s not forget how his fingertips are always colored with ash thanks to his fascination with flames.
I curse myself for not carrying a weapon tonight when Crombie rams me into the wall before he bolts for the closest exit. I wouldn’t have shot him, but a bullet wound isn’t needed to take down weasels like him. Just drawing a gun would have had him hitting the deck, and then I wouldn’t have been forced to chase him down by foot.
As I break through a group of five partygoers Crombie burst through only seconds ago, I lift the cuff of my dress shirt to my mouth. “Agent James, code six with suspicious suspect at Lakers’ exit. Tailing him on foot.”
My earpiece crackles before one of the agents in the surveillance van tailing Isaac’s every move responds, “Copy. Do you require assistance?”
Before I can answer him, Crombie’s sprint comes to a dead stop, compliments of a plain-clothed officer coat-hanging him. How do I know he’s an officer if he is wearing everyday clothes? He has the walk of a law enforcement officer, not to mention the arrogance beaming out of him.
When Crombie hits the ground with a thud, the officer rolls him onto his stomach to frisk and handcuff him. I use the gap in time to update my crew. “Agent James, stand down. Suspect has been arrested.”
I wait for the man on the end of my connection to advise he heard my reply before tugging my earpiece out of my ear. The less I look on the job, the easier my conversation with the officer arresting Crombie will go. I hope.
After quietly bridging the gap between us, I ask, “What are you arresting him for?”
The dark-haired officer wearing designer jeans and a buttoned-up shirt stands Crombie to his feet before mashing his face with the brickwork outside of the club. I take a step back when he swings his government-issued pistol my way. “Stand down. This is no business of yours.”
“I’m a federal agent.” When he glares at me like he isn’t stupid, I roll my eyes. This is another reason I hate having a baby face. “I’m just moving for my credentials,” I assure him when my hunt for my wallet has his index finger creeping toward the trigger of his gun.
After flashing him my photo ID and badge like a real-life movie star, I retake the step I took back when he drew his gun on me. “Let me guess, suspected of arson?”
The dark-haired officer cocks his brow. “Old case?”
I shake my head. “No. He was before I joined the Bureau.” A grin tugs on my lips when Crombie’s throat works hard to swallow at my confession that I work for the FBI. I’m not surprised he didn’t miss my revelation. I increased the volume of my voice to ensure he couldn’t miss it. “He was given twelve years a little over six years ago.” I drop my eyes to Crombie’s face squished against a wall of bricks. “So how’d you get out so early?”
“Good behavior.” As unbelieving of his reply as I am, the unnamed officer yanks Crombie back before ramming him forward. The crack his face makes with the brickwork curls my lips into a smile. “All right, all right,” he garbles through the blood pooling in the corner of his mouth. “I pleaded out.”
He’s either trained to deceive, or he is telling the truth. His eyes didn’t shift to seek his imagination, and he’s only sweating because of my pursuit. Still, I’m shocked. He would have had to give something good to get his sentence reduced so dramatically.
“What information could you have possibly offered to have your sentence sliced in half?”
Crombie looks set to squeal like a nark but loses the chance when we’re surrounded by four black Lincoln Navigators. If the words shouted by the agents piling out of the vehicles hadn’t swallowed up his words, I’m sure the helicopter hovering above our heads would have taken care of the injustice.
“We’ll take things from here.” A female agent with raven hair and pretty eyes thrusts an arrest warrant into the unnamed officer’s chest before she attempts to secure the target.
I say attempt as the plain-clothed officer isn’t having any of it. “This isn’t an arrest warrant. I have conclusive evidence the suspect is responsible for a warehouse fire on the outskirts of town. That means he’s mine.”
“Stand down, Detective Carter,” the female agent grumbles on a groan over the turf war that always occurs when the Bureau is involved in local cases. “Federal agents can make arrests for any offense committed in their presence or when they have reasonable grounds that the person they’re arresting committed or is committing a felony in violation of US laws.”
“The warehouse fire was a week ago. You didn’t witness anything.”
The detective’s attitude takes a step back when the female agent snickers. “That’s not what that dumpster says.”
I almost fist bump the air when my neck cranks to the side in sync with Detective Carter to take in a burning dumpster. The evidence Crombie was attempting to discard was most likely ignited by a cigarette butt, but since Detective Carter can’t conclusively say that, he has no choice but to hand Crombie over to the Bureau.
“This is strike three for Crombie. Felony arson. Felony.” The female agent repeats her last word extra slow to ensure Detective Carter doesn’t miss the words she didn’t speak.
With his sneer hidden by a half-hearted grin, Detective Carter hands Crombie off to the female agent. He’s pissed, but he’s aware even in his hometown, he has no jurisdiction when it comes to federal cases.
I wait for Detective Carter to slide into the driver’s seat of his unmarked cruiser to call in his movements before shifting on my feet to face the lead agent on Crombie’s case. “Where are you taking him? We have a field office set up on the—”
“Good evening, Agent James. Enjoy the remainder of your weekend,” she interrupts, dismissing me as if I’m not a fellow agent.
I don’t back down as quickly as Detective Carter, especially when it comes to my past. “I have an interest in this case.”
She walks Crombie to the first Lincoln, places him in the back seat, shuts the door, then pivots around to face me. “I’m aware of that. That’s why I said good evening.”
“But—”
“Good evening, Agent James.” Her tone is the same ball-crushing one she used on Detective Carter, and once again, her unspoken words are the loudest of them all. If I don’t back down, she’ll have Alex breathing down my neck with a click of her fingers.
“Good evening, Agent…” I leave my reply open for her to fill in the blank.
She follows along nicely. “Russell.”
“Good evening, Agent Russell.” I’m sure we’
ll meet again soon.
Brandon
Six weeks later…
I wait for Isabelle to disappear into the hallway before dialing a frequently called number and squishing my cell phone to my ear. Isabelle has been a little cold with me the past six weeks. I don’t know if she’s angry because I plowed her with drinks in the hope of ending her weekend early, or if she’s hoping a bit of distance will stop her from revealing she went home with Isaac Holt the night we visited a dance club a little over six weeks ago.
She got lucky that night. When news of another team in Ravenshoe circulated throughout comms, the men responsible for tracking Isaac missed Isabelle slipping into the back of Isaac’s BMW X7 SUV. I was certain she’d been snared by Alex’s trap, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered my assumption was wrong.
Word to the wise, if you don’t want your private life witnessed by anyone with medium to well-developed hacking skills, don’t buy any electronic devices. Cell phones, laptops, smart TVs, hell, I can even hack into the electronic panel in your fridge if it means I can listen in on a conversation I’m not privy to.
While Harlow tapped away on her phone, oblivious to the undercover work I was doing on her friend, I hacked into the smart TV in Isaac’s penthouse on Hyde. I couldn’t see anything since it was in the blacked-out living room, but once I paired it with the microphone in Isabelle’s cell phone and bounced the image off Isaac’s glass coffee table to the mirrored ceiling in his bedroom, I got the gist of what was happening.
It was a lot more subdued than I had anticipated.
I may have even laughed when Isabelle’s snores filtered through the pods in my ears, confirming the cause of her slumped form on Isaac’s bed.
She was fast asleep.
This is hard to admit, but I failed Isabelle that night. I should have continued with my surveillance to ensure she was safe, but with Crombie in the forefront of my mind, my focus shifted to the past instead of the present.
As it is now.
“Hey, any news on Crombie yet?” I ask Grayson when he finally answers my call after several rings.
He exhales a growling breath. A telltale sign he’s pissed. “They’re not letting anyone near him. I’ve been denied over two dozen times the past six weeks.”
“They’re?” I know who he’s talking about. I just want him to spell it out to me.
“Agent Russell. She has him on such a tight lockdown, Crombie’s movement sheets aren’t being logged each day.”
That spikes my interest. “Can we get her on protocol? If she’s doing shady shit, we could loosen her grip a little.”
He makes another frustrated growl. “Already been there. I even went as far as filing a formal complaint. I got the same answer I always do. I’m not—”
“Privy to that information,” we say in sync.
A hum of agreement vibrates down the line. “What about you? Got anything to share?”
I shake my head before sinking low into my chair. “Nah, she’s got nothing. I don’t think she’s seen Isaac since the night she went home with him.” Grayson is running on the same theory as Alex. That Isaac is a pillow talker, so he has me keeping tabs on Isabelle more than Alex has me watching Isaac.
“Are you sure, Brandon? Is your gut telling you she has a clear conscience? Or evidence?”
“Both.” I sound pissed. Justly so. I heard the words he didn’t speak. He’s as untrusting of my intuition as I am because he saw me get burned for it more than once.
“I don’t mean to be a prick. I just need—”
“Me at my best. I get it,” I interrupt, my voice not as surly as it was moments ago. “I’m not dropping the ball on this one, Grayson. Izzy is as straight as an arrow. I don’t think she knows how to lie.”
His heavy sigh whistles down the line. “I’ve heard you say that before, Brandon.”
“I know you have, and I’m not saying you won’t hear me say it again, but this is different. Izzy isn’t playing me.” I stop just before I say, like Melody and Olivia.
Grayson scrubbing at his beard sounds down the line. “All right. I’ll take your word on it. I trust you, Brandon. We’ve had each other’s back for too long for me not to. I just need you to remain cautious. This is bigger than Tobias realized. I don’t want it taking us down like it did him.”
“It won’t,” I pledge without the slightest quiver in my words. “We just have to concentrate on one man at a time.”
My eyes stray to the massive criminal web we’ve been striving to dismantle for years. Grayson’s team is hunting the top-dog on the list. Mine is targeting the lone solider at the bottom. No matter which one falls first, the outcome will be the same. One loose thread unravels an entire outfit.
I strongly believe that thread is Isaac Holt.
9
Brandon
I close down the picture of Isabelle and Isaac kissing in his car in the front of a recently retired police officer’s house when my name comes tumbling out of Isabelle’s mouth in a purring moan. Their kiss happened weeks ago, and excluding her confronting him the morning after it occurred, it appeared to be the only contact they’d had. But I learned a hard and fast lesson on not trusting my instincts when Alex asked me to upload the images a fellow agent had obtained.
It sucked spilling details of my idiocy to Grayson for the second time in my career, but his reply had my objective teetering on an unstable cliff in an instant.
Grayson: When the Honey Pot has been compromised, bring in the beekeeper. He’ll get the bees back in order.
Anyone outside of Tobias’s inner circle would have been lost as to what his reply meant. I understood it in an instant, and I fucking hated it. I understand there’s no ‘I’ in team, and that I swore an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States from all enemies, both foreign and domestic, but this was different. This was the woman Tobias referred to as his daughter. She was his family as I was once the Greggs’. I couldn’t see how using Isabelle for the benefit of the Bureau was worth it—until Grayson found a link between someone in Isaac’s team and the cattle truck that crashed into the Greggs’ station wagon.
It was the most minute connection you could possibly imagine, but when you’re clutching at straws, you have to investigate every last thread.
That’s what I’m doing. I’m placing every thread under this spotlight. This is nothing against Tobias or Izzy, it’s solely about the pledge I made to Mr. Gregg when I was five years old. A promise I’ll uphold no matter what the cost. Even if Melody no longer wants my protection, she’ll always have it because I’m a man who keeps his word.
My mind shifts back to the present when Isabelle props her backside onto my desk. Her lips are pursed, and she’s batting her eyelashes. I watch her through suspicious eyes when she undoes the top button on her blouse, exposing the slightest peek of a rack every male agent in this office has admired many times the past few months.
“It’s so hot today,” she murmurs, fanning her cheeks with her hand.
“What do you want, Izzy?” I keep my tone as friendly as my smile. It isn’t really a ruse. I genuinely like Isabelle. I just hate that she’s keeping secrets from me. I’ve done nothing but help her, so why doesn’t she trust me?
Isabelle’s huff fans my cheeks. “What gave it away?”
I hit her with straight-up honesty. “The greeting was okay. It gained my attention, but you lost me when unbuttoning your shirt and saying it was hot today. You do realize summer is over, don’t you, Isabelle?”
“Ha ha.”
The disappointment on her face disappears when I playfully whimper about her returning her blouse to her pre-Brandon tease state.
Once everything is in order, I ask, “So, what brought you strutting over to my desk?”
“I wasn’t strutting,” she defends, her mouth falling open.
“You were strutting. The hips were swinging, and you had an extra spring in your step. Total strut.”
Isabelle smiles at me. “I’m
glad you took such detailed notes of my performance.”
Her smile grows when I rub at the thump her whack to my bicep caused. For a girl, she has a lot of power behind her fists.
Our banter has me forgetting there’s a man lodged between us—a man we’re supposed to take down—however, Izzy is quick to remind me of my error. “I need a favor.”
“Anything.” I’m hoping my fast reply will assure her she can tell me anything.
What I’m not anticipating for her to say is, “I need access to a sealed file from the DA’s office in New York.”
“I can’t, Izzy.”
During the process of trying to keep her out of Alex’s trap, I shared many stories of my life with her. Some incidents, like Melody cheating on me, then subsequently assisting me with a fraudulent charge I left out, but she’s aware where things stand between us now. She knows Melody and I are not on speaking terms, so why the fuck is she asking me to do this?
The sexy-kitten look in Isabelle’s eyes switches to a begging puppy when she pleads, “Please, Brandon, you know I wouldn’t have asked you if it weren’t important.”
Her expressive eyes answer my unvoiced question more than her words. This isn’t for the Bureau. It’s for him—Isaac. The desperateness coating her skin is telling enough, much less the name on the file she’s seeking. Hugo Marshall. That’s the name she logged into the Bureau database the day following her sleepover at Isaac’s apartment. She didn’t make her discovery public knowledge, so she’s either casting her own net with the hope of proving she’s a valuable member of Alex’s team, or she’s out to prove not everyone with a tragic backstory is a bad person.
I’m hoping it’s a bit of both.
Nothing but honesty rings in my tone when I say, “I haven’t had any contact with her in years, Izzy. She’ll probably hang up the instant she realizes who’s calling.”
As I scrub my hand down my face, Grayson’s words ring on repeat in my ears.
