by J. Kenner
Winston crossed his arms over his chest. “Seattle.”
“That bastard was responsible for the bombing of two elementary schools in Europe that he staged to look like US military actions. It was a hit sanctioned at the highest level.”
“Which, of course, I have no way to confirm.”
She shrugged. “Sorry about that.”
“Fine. Go on. Tell me something else I can’t confirm.”
She shot him a scowl so familiar it made his heart twist with the memory.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
“Fine. As I was saying, I never carry out Hawthorne’s orders directly. I run them through my handler and work the counter mission. With the bomb guy, it was a termination, but that’s rare. Usually we’ll fake a death then put the target in witness protection.”
“You’re telling me Bartlett was going under at the government’s expense?”
“No, no. That’s what I anticipated. But my handler told me to take him out. He said the information in Bartlett’s head and on that computer was too sensitive.”
“Accounting info.”
“No,” she said. “That’s the point. The laptop doesn’t really have accounting information. What’s in those files is the identity of deep cover agents all over the globe. Can you imagine how much that would be worth on the black market?”
“And you know this because…?”
“Obviously it’s been a long-term mission at my division. And Collins has been overseeing it since—”
“Collins?” he said. “Dustin Collins?”
Her brow furrowed as she studied him. “Yes. Why?”
“You’re with ID-9.”
Her eyes went wide. “How the hell do you know about ID-9?”
He exhaled, then dragged his fingers through his hair. “Because, darlin’, your Mr. Collins is the son of a bitch that Bartlett’s going to testify against.”
“What?” She shook her head. “No, that can’t be.”
“It is.”
“And you know this because Seagrave told you.”
He tilted his head. “And Collins told you.”
She closed her eyes. “Fuck.”
“That about sums it up.”
She started to rise, then cursed when her leg caught. She sat down hard, then held up a hand. “Give me a sec to think.”
“Hell, I need a second, too.”
After a moment, she took a long swallow of wine, then said, “We need to find Bartlett. Find him, then we see what’s on his laptop ourselves.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, Winston thought. Except for one little problem. “No,” he said.
She gaped at him. “No?”
“How can I ensure that this isn’t a full-blown secondary protocol for you to reacquire Bartlett and take him out?”
“You aren’t serious.”
“It would be exactly the kind of next-level planning a division like ID-9 would put in place.”
“Winston, this is absurd. I can’t prove a negative. You’re locking us into doing nothing. Are we supposed to just sit here until Bartlett decides to come back? Because that’s not happening.”
“We have the laptop.”
“It’s not hackable.”
“I have some very smart friends.”
She dragged her fingers through her hair. “Weren’t you briefed? That laptop has every sort of countermeasure imaginable. One wrong move and the information is erased.”
“That’s good if it’s full of the names of deep cover agents.”
“And bad if it also erases evidence of who collected those names in the first place,” she shot back. “Or if it’s not agents at all, but accounting information, just like you said. Payouts for information leaks. Do we really want to risk losing that kind of evidence?”
“We don’t,” Winston admitted. “But I think we’re at an impasse.”
“Shit.”
He chuckled.
“What?” she snapped.
“The last time we fought like this it was about whether or not to screen in the back porch. I won.”
“Yeah, well I’m winning tonight.”
“I don’t think so. In fact I—what the hell?”
He didn’t even have time to think as she shoved the table over on its side and leaped forward, her leg still tied to the chair. Then he was on his back and she was on top of him. Linda and the chair.
But the thing that really concerned him was the broken wine glass she held at his throat.
“Will you agree with me that I have more experience in the field with terminations?”
He grunted his agreement.
“And will you agree that right now, I could cut your jugular and there’s not a damn thing you could do except bleed out?”
“Linda—”
“Do you agree?”
He closed his eyes and made a concerted effort not to swallow. “Yes,” he said, opening his eyes again and meeting her hard gaze. “At the moment, you have the upper hand.”
“Good. Thank you.” She tossed the glass aside, then bent sideways and unbuckled his belt, releasing her leg from the chair. “Object lesson over. Just trust me already, okay?”
He sat up, groaning from the ache in his back. “Trust you, huh? About what, exactly?”
“Something’s not right.”
He shot her a narrow look, and she grinned.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said as she climbed to her feet. “But if we’re both telling the truth—what we think is the truth, anyway—then one of us was duped.”
“So we work together,” he finished. “We find Bartlett. We figure out which one of our bosses is bad.”
She nodded. “Or if you want an alternative plan, we can pretend I gave you the slip.” She moved around the rubble of the table to the balcony. She slid open the door, then stood there silhouetted against the downtown Austin skyline, the twinkle of lights making the white of the bathrobe glow.
She looked back over her shoulder. “You can walk out of here if you want. I’ll figure this out, and you can go back to the SOC and report in to Seagrave that Bartlett never showed up. After all, it’s not really your problem. Not officially.”
“It’s my problem,” he said, joining her in the doorway. “Someone in intelligence is selling information. Maybe about deep cover agents, maybe about something else. But whatever it is, it’s a breach of trust, and it matters. I’m not going to stand for that.”
Her smile warmed his soul. “I’m glad to see that despite everything, you’re still the man I remember.”
“So we’re working together?” he asked.
She nodded. “We are.”
He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. His hand seemed to rise of its own accord as he brushed her cheek, then cupped the back of her head.
“Winston,” she whispered as he pulled her close.
He waited. Just a heartbeat, but it was enough time for her to pull back. Except she didn’t. She stayed there, her eyes looking deep into his. Her lips parted in invitation.
And so he kissed her, this woman he’d kissed so many times in his dreams and memories. The woman he’d never expected to feel again in his arms. The woman he’d once loved with all his soul, who’d fired his senses, who’d made him laugh.
She was back in his arms, and the world seemed filled with light.
At least until she stepped back and he saw the errant tears on her cheeks.
“Oh, sugar, what is it?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words cracking his soul. “But we can’t.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Can’t,” he repeats, taking a step back from me. “Of course not. I shouldn’t have—”
“I want to,” I admit. “But—but I don’t want to confuse things.”
“Confuse things,” he repeats. “Are you with someone? God, are you married?”
“No. God no.” I reply with more vehemence than the question calls for, and I try
to dial it back in. “It’s just that this—finding each other again like this—I, I didn’t expect it. And right now, I don’t have the bandwidth to process it. We need to find Bartlett. And on top of that, we need to check in with our respective handlers.”
For a moment, he simply stands there as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. Then he squeezes the bridge of his nose and looks at me hard.
“What?”
“You mess with my head,” he says. “Seeing you again. Touching you. I think you’ve re-wired my brain. You’re right, of course. Somehow being around you again has completely erased my ability to think clearly.”
I flash a watery smile. “I know the feeling.”
“Truce?” He holds out his hand, and I take it, and the shock of that simple connection ricochets through me, making me crave things I shouldn’t want. Things I can’t have. The touch of his hand, the brush of his lips. I want to talk with him the way we used to. I want a past that is gone, a man that I can’t have, and a love I don’t deserve.
Except we never really had those things. We were actors playing house. It was warm and comfortable and wonderful, but it was never truly real.
I let go, feigning nonchalance, then slip my hands in the pockets of the robe as I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “We both should have checked in already,” I say again.
“Will Collins wonder why you’re late?”
I shake my head. “I’ve worked with Collins since before Hades. He trusts me. For that matter, I trust him.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not dirty.”
“I know. I’m the one who said that to you. But I still hate this whole situation.”
His eyes meet mine. “I don’t. Most of it, yes. But part of this situation is a gift.”
His words slide over me, his voice like the most intimate caress. “Winston, please. We need—”
“What?”
“We need to figure this out. This,” I stress. “Not us. Not right now,” I add, to soften the blow.
His face tightens, but he nods in acknowledgment. “What about Hawthorne?”
“We’re clean there, too. He’ll be in a fury when I tell him, but I’m positive he doesn’t already know. That’s not how he works. What about on your side of things?”
“I trust Seagrave,” he says, mimicking my response about Collins. I take the cue and roll my eyes.
“I’ve worked with him since before Hades, too,” he continues. He exhales loudly. “Hell, maybe they’re both clean as a whistle. But we won’t know until we know.”
“I’m not arguing. And, again, I’m going to say that this situation sucks.”
“Amen to that.” He bends to pick up the table that I knocked over when attacking him. “Nice maneuver, by the way.”
“You should have seen it coming. That was sloppy of you.”
He looks at me over the newly-righted table. “Maybe I wanted to test my wife. See how far she’d go to get free, and whether she would have actually hurt me.”
I meet his eyes and allow myself the tiniest of smiles. “I don’t like being trapped.”
He studies my face, then nods. “Fair enough. I don’t blame you.”
I look away, uncomfortable with the intense way he’s looking at me, as if he’s trying to read almost five years of lost emotions in my eyes.
“There’s a tracker,” I say. “On Bartlett.”
“You’re serious?”
I nod. “I slipped it into his jacket pocket when I got to the bar. I expected he’d invite me to his room, but just in case, I wanted a backup plan.”
“Let’s go get the son of a bitch.”
“I can track him on my phone,” I say, turning toward the bathroom, where I’d left the leather tote I use as both a purse and an operational kit.
He follows me, and I sit in front of the dressing table and pull the tote onto my lap. My hands brush my gun.
“I’m carrying,” I say. “Glock 9mm.” I’m not sure why it seems important to tell him, but if we’re going in together, I want to show all my cards.
“Good for you,” he says nonchalantly. “Better than the rough end of a wine glass. Although you might want to holster it.”
I nod. “I’ve got a change of clothes in the back of my rental car. And we should get a new vehicle once we know where we’re heading. Odds are good ID-9 will keep tabs on mine.”
I’ve been rummaging for my phone, and I pull it out now, then open the tracking app. “Airport,” I say.
“Shit.”
“Airport hotel,” I clarify. “Probably booked on something tomorrow.”
“Come on.” He stands, and I glance down at the bathrobe I’m wearing. “Right,” he says with a chuckle. “Although I do like the way that looks on you.”
I point toward the dress I wore to the bar, now hanging on the back of the door. “Gimme,” I say, and he tosses it to me as I stand. “I’ll wear this now and change when we switch cars.”
I’m about to let the robe drop to the floor when I realize what I’m doing. “Can you—I mean, give me a moment, okay?”
“Right. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Old habits.”
I smile weakly; I know what he means. It’s like muscle memory around Winston, and part of me wants nothing more than to give in to it. But I can’t. Because the past is gone. And there’s no way to go back to it. No way to move forward from that once upon a time when we were together and happy.
Those days are behind us, and the love we shared never really existed at all. The happiness we’ve both mourned so deeply is tainted with the stain of lies, both his and mine.
And I’m not sure there’s any power in the universe that can clean up a stain that dark.
“The bastard didn’t show,” I tell Collins.
“Am I on speaker? What the hell, Moon?”
“Cut me some slack. I’m in a bitch of a mood.” Not true, but I want Winston to hear Collins’ voice, too. If he’s lying or suspicious, I don’t want to miss those telltale tones.
“Don’t worry,” I add. “The phone’s a secure line, and I swept the room. No listening devices. I’m checking his suitcase now. I need both hands if I don’t want him to know I was here. I haven’t found the laptop. He must have it on him.”
Collins makes a grunting noise. “I want that computer.”
“But you want Bartlett out of the picture more.”
“No. Both. This is a two-prong assignment. You’re clear on that?”
“Crystal.”
“You think he got wind of who you are? Is that why he bailed?”
I glance at Winston. His head is tilted to one side, his eyes closed as he listens intently. “Highly unlikely,” I tell Collins. “He called the bar and left me a message. He’s running late and hoping I can join him for an after-dinner drink.”
“Which you will, of course.”
“With bells on.”
“And Hawthorne? This is his assignment. Have you checked in with him?”
“No, sir. You know his protocol.”
“You know you’re more to him than a hired gun. You need to build that relationship.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
Collins sighs. “I’m not trying to whore you out,” he says, and I watch as Winston’s brow rises. “But I want Hawthorne in a box. He’s putting the lives of our agents and our national security at risk.”
“I know, sir. This is just a change in timing, not an abort of the mission. I’ll report in as soon as the target is eliminated and the laptop secure.”
“All right then. And good luck, Moon. The men and women working undercover around the globe are relying on you.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, then end the call. I wait a moment, then turn my phone off entirely, mostly because it’s in my job description to be paranoid. I look at Winston. “Your take?”
“If he’s a traitor, he’s a damn good actor.”
I nod. I appreciate the honesty, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “You
r turn.”
“Right,” he says, then dials Anderson Seagrave’s secure line.
“Starr,” Seagrave says after the preliminaries. “I hope you’re telling me that you have Bartlett and Moon in custody and a laptop in evidence.”
“Not yet, sir. Just wanted to update you. The target’s meet was changed, but I’ve got eyes on Moon,” he adds as I curtsy, holding out the skirt of the dress and dipping like a debutante. I immediately regret it, as he almost laughs. “I’ll update you soon,” he says, his voice sounding only a little choked.
“I do have one question, though,” Winston continues. “If the SOC is that close to convincing him to testify, wouldn’t it be better to bring in an agent to negotiate those terms, get him secured, and transport him back to LA?”
“If he wasn’t a walking target, I’d agree with you. But Moon’s presence has made the situation more difficult. He’ll understand that he was brought in as a protective measure. And once he realizes he was only inches away from assassination—and we saved him—he’ll be even more likely to finalize his deal and testify.”
He glances at me, and I nod. It was a good question, but Seagrave’s response makes sense.
“A curtsy?” he says to me once he’s ended the call. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
I try to look somber, but I can’t help it. The day’s been too damn stressful. I burst into laughter, and he joins me, taking my hand and pulling me close. For a moment, we stay like that, even though I know I should pull away. I was the one who said this was too confusing, after all.
Except I can’t seem to move. The moment is sweet, almost gentle, and I want to soak it up. I want to wrap myself in our shared memories. But then the tension shifts between us to something more intense. A crackling heat. A bold intensity. A sensual temptation that looms in front of me like a dark pool of warm water, beckoning me to dive in. And I want to. Oh, God, I really want to.
I don’t.
Instead, I clear my throat and step back, glancing at his face only long enough to see the flicker of disappointment quickly wiped away by a professional facade.
I know he doesn’t understand. I’m not sure I do. All I know is that despite the fact that the attraction still burns between us as bright as a supernova, giving in to it would be a mistake.
