No Shame: The Complete Series: Including exclusive bonus materials and deleted scenes

by Phoenix, Nora

  “Brad, you’re not making any sense. I know you’re gay, but I also know you’re not in the least attracted to me. And what do you mean, you promised to stay away from me? What, Blake thought you’d pity-fuck me?”

  Brad’s head shot up. “Can you do as I fucking asked you and stop fucking analyzing this and me? I don’t owe you a fucking explanation, and we should focus on what’s important instead of wasting our fucking energy on nothing.”

  Wow. This was a side of Brad he hadn’t observed before. The sweet, introverted man he’d witnessed with Charlie had transformed into someone with a serious temper and an affinity for the f-bomb. He did have a point, however.

  Noah grabbed his hoodie from where he’d dropped it on the floor and dragged it over his head, then wiggled himself into a pair of sweatpants, while Brad stood waiting with his back turned to Noah. “Better?”

  Brad turned around. “Yes. Now talk.”

  Bossy much? No, Brad wasn’t bossy, Noah thought. More like teenager-defiant. He was right, though. They had more important things to focus on.

  “As I said, Indy called.” He recapped the conversation for Brad. “What should I do?”

  “Call the FBI,” Brad said. “They have to know something is up. Call them, but don’t volunteer too much info before you know what’s going on.”

  Noah nodded. Brad had confirmed his own gut feeling. He still had the card Connor had given him before he’d taken off, and he took it from his wallet. It was the agent Connor had contacted through his boss—his chief’s brother, if Noah remembered correctly. Special Agent Tobias Wells, the card read.

  With trembling hands he made the call.

  Wells answered on the second ring, which told Noah he’d been awake already. “Wells.”

  “Agent Wells, this is Noah Flint. I’m…”

  “I know who you are. What do you know?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s just past five and shit is going down. What have you heard?”

  Noah took the jump. “Indy called me maybe fifteen minutes ago, seeking medical advice. He told me he was with an agent named Miles. From what he described, this guy had been beaten severely, and I suspected internal bleeding. I told him he needed surgery, and he hung up shortly after. Please, sir, what’s going on?”

  Wells cursed, using some colorful words even Noah hadn’t heard before. “Noah, listen. You have to trust me. I will tell you everything you need to know, but right now, time is of the essence. Is Indy safe as far as you know?”

  “Yes. I asked him if he was okay, and he confirmed it. Do you know where he is?”

  “No, not at this time. I need to make some calls, but I will send an agent to your house to pick you up, okay? Stay tight. Call me if you hear from Indy.”

  Wells hung up without saying anything else, but Noah could hardly blame him. If something had gone this wrong, the guy had better things to do than chat to an anxious boyfriend. Noah had been in this position many times and had always prioritized patient care over updating the family. They could wait, the patient couldn’t. So he’d get ready, as Wells had asked, and wait for news.

  “They’re sending someone to pick me up.”

  “And go where?” Brad asked.

  “I have no idea. Will you and Charlie be okay here by yourself?”

  “Yeah, absolutely. Do whatever you have to do. We’ll man the fort here in your absence.”

  “How’s Charlie?” Noah asked, while hooking up his prosthesis.

  “Better. His headache is gone, but he’s still sore everywhere.”

  “His balls?” Noah hated to ask something so personal, but he wanted to make sure before he left to go wherever the FBI was taking him.

  “Still blue and tender, but getting better.”

  “OK, good. Keep a close eye on him, okay? Call me if you see anything you don’t trust, like fever, or changes in his behavior, or whatever.”

  Brad nodded. “Thanks again for letting us stay here, especially now.”

  “No problem. I’m glad you’ve been here. Charlie has been a good distraction for me, and I like the company.”

  He grabbed some things he thought would come in handy, threw them in a backpack. Clean clothes, a book, his phone, some snacks and a couple of bottles of water. It could take hours before they updated him on whatever was going on.

  He explained a few things to Brad about the heating system and showed him where everything was that he’d need. Max followed Brad wherever they walked. Noah had to admit, he’d never met a sweeter dog than Max. He was a big ole cuddler, and Noah had found himself lounging on the couch with Max at his feet more than once. When Josh got back, they really had to look into getting a dog, he thought.

  By the time he was done packing and explaining stuff, two men walked up to his front door, both dressed in suits. He didn’t think anyone else would show up at this hour, but still asked to see their IDs. As far as he could tell they were legit.

  “Mr. Flint, Special Agent Wells has asked us to escort you to Albany Airport, where we have a flight waiting to take you to DC.”

  DC? Wells wasn’t kidding around. “Okay,” he said.

  “Are you carrying any weapons?”

  “No.”

  “Mind if we check? Search your bag?”

  He lifted the strap off his shoulder and held it out. “Be my guest.”

  One agent took his bag while the other stepped in to pat him down. Noah casually raised his pant leg. “Careful there, I’m already a leg short,” he said.

  Much to his surprise, the agent looked up at him, eyes narrowing when he spotted his dog tags. “Thank you for your service,” he said.

  As always, Noah had no idea what to say to that. In this case, even more so, because the guy was a federal agent, for fuck’s sake. Not the easiest job either, and if anything, today proved it came at a helluva risk. The agent patted him down gently while the other searched his bag.

  “Okay, thank you. We’re good to go.”

  He waved goodbye to Brad, who locked the front door behind them.

  The car ride to the airport was done in silence, the agents driving way over the speed limit. The flashing blue light on the roof of their car made the early morning traffic move over so they could pass. They parked in front of the main entrance and walked him straight inside.

  Badges were flashed left and right, orders were given, and it took only minutes before Noah was rushing through the airport, seated on one of those golf carts, both agents flanking him. They boarded a commercial flight and were seated in the first row. Being an FBI agent had its perks.

  Again, both agents stayed silent during the flight. No wonder, it wasn’t like they had any privacy to talk. Noah closed his eyes and tried to nap, even though he knew it was useless. How could he sleep when Indy was in danger? What the fuck had happened? He didn’t even know where Indy was, what state. Was he even still in the US? They could have flown him to Germany, for all Noah knew. It would explain the hour of the call. The phone number had come up blocked, so he had no way of knowing.

  At least Indy was okay. He’d sounded okay, if panicked. That was understandable if he had a wounded agent at his side. Knowing Indy, he’d feel responsible. It was what had driven him to testify in the first place, the deep desire to stop the Fitzpatricks from killing more people, especially those connected in some way to Indy. He had such a big, tender heart, which was nothing short of amazing considering his past. How the hell had he managed to turn out so kind and soft with a mother who’d sold him and a drug dealer as a boyfriend?

  If Indy ever came back to him, Noah would spend the rest of his life taking care of him. He’d worship the very ground the man walked on—even more than he already did. His heart was a big, gaping, Indy-shaped hole right now. He needed him.

  After this new debacle, whatever the hell had happened, the chances of Indy returning were even less, however. If he couldn’t even trust the FBI to protect him, what alternatives did that leave him? With the price o
n his head, it would only be a matter of time before someone found him. Again.

  Noah took a deep breath, pushed down the hopelessness that threatened to choke him. It wouldn’t help anybody if he broke down, least of all himself.

  The pilot announced their descent, and Noah looked out the window. In the distance the Washington Monument rose, a gray shape against the early morning sun. A new dawn, a new day. Please, let it be a good one.

  Clearing the airport in DC took a little more time, as did the heavy morning traffic, but it still didn’t take too long to arrive at their destination. Noah was ushered inside and brought into a waiting area where he was offered coffee—which he politely declined—and a breakfast sandwich, which he accepted. He’d barely finished it, when a gray-haired man stepped in.

  “Noah, I’m Special Agent Tobias Wells.” They shook hands, the agent’s hand a strong grip. “Follow me.”

  They walked half a mile of hallways and corridors, Wells checking every now and then to make sure Noah could keep up, before Wells knocked on a door. The plaque beside it read “Assistant Director Joseph L. Holmes.” Noah bit back a smile. In his experience, people who needed a middle initial to look more important lacked the balls to get respect any other way.

  Wells led the way into a huge corner office, where another silver-haired man was seated behind a large desk.

  “Sir, Noah Flint,” Wells said.

  Holmes rose. “Yes, grab a seat,” he said, pointing toward a conference table against the wall.

  Noah lowered himself into one of the chairs. Holmes waited till Noah sat down, then walked up to shake his hand, towering over him. Noah didn’t react, meeting his inquisitive gaze head-on.

  “Thank you for coming in,” Holmes said. He sat down across from Noah, next to Wells, folding his hands in one of the most calculated gestures Noah had ever seen. If this was playing games at assistant director level, the guy still had a lot to learn.

  “You’re welcome,” Noah said pleasantly. “Let’s talk.”

  “Special Agent Wells told me Stephan called you this morning?”

  “Indy,” Noah corrected him. “His name is Indy now.”

  “Legally, his name is Stephan Moreau.”

  The man didn’t like to be corrected, that much was clear. “Practically, his name is Indy Baldwin,” Noah fired back.

  “Regardless, what was the call about?”

  Noah leaned back. He wasn’t about to tell them shit before they’d shared what they knew. “I already shared this with Special Agent Wells. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you told me.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you shared some information first.” He kept his tone light and his posture nonchalant, but Holmes had to know he wasn’t fucking around.

  Holmes leaned back in his chair and sighed. “The FBI team assigned to Stephan’s…Indy’s protective detail has been compromised. We discovered two of our agents dead at the house, and one in critical condition. Indy is missing, as is one of our other agents.”

  Fuck. They’d lost two other agents. Miles had to be the one in critical condition.

  Noah inhaled deeply, forcing himself to stay calm. “What is your theory?”

  “I can’t share that with you,” Holmes said. “That’s classified, as it concerns a high-level security FBI operation.”

  “In that case, I’m not sharing either.”

  “Noah, we need to know what Indy told you, in as much detail as possible. This could be crucial in our efforts to find out what happened to our agents and to find Indy.”

  Sweet fuck, could the guy be any more condescending? Noah leaned forward. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Because he killed those agents?”

  Noah blinked. Was he serious? Hell, yes, he looked like he was. “Indy is no killer,” he snapped.

  “From what I’ve been told, he’s highly skilled in one of the most effective and deadly martial arts.”

  “A defensive martial art,” Noah bit back. “And you have got to be fucking kidding me about Indy killing them. You and I both know he saved that agent’s life.”

  It was pure intimidation, Noah realized. Holmes was trying to scare him or bully him into doing what he wanted. Well, he didn’t give a shit after spending years standing up to his dad.

  “Noah, you need to tell us what you know.”

  Noah leaned back and crossed his arms. “I don’t need to do anything.”

  “Don’t you want Stephan to be found? The Fitzpatricks might be looking for him at this very moment.”

  “Indy. His name is Indy. And I’m gonna take a wild guess here. The fact that two of your agents are dead and one is in critical condition, yet a fourth one is missing, seems highly suspicious to me. Surely, if that agent had somehow managed to escape the attack with Indy, he would have contacted you by now. Plus, we both know Indy was with Miles at some point, and concerned enough about him to call me for medical advice. My guess is he called an ambulance for him and took off himself. Also, they were supposed to be at a secret location. This tells me that you have a snitch, and the process of elimination leads me to your fourth agent. The fact that you are certain Indy is missing tells me you have reason to believe he was not taken by this agent, or by any possible others who aided him in the attack. Because the only ones with reason to take him are the Fitzpatricks, and if they had him, they wouldn’t be looking for him. No, you must have a credible reason to believe Indy made it out of there alive and is on the run, probably on his own. Now, if all that is true, why the fuck would I want to help you find him? Seems to me he’s safer on his own. How am I doing so far?”

  24

  The zone. It was what he called it when he’d found complete inner silence and heard and saw nothing else but his target. Once he was in the zone, he could stay that way for hours, never moving. He didn’t eat, didn’t drink, would barely blink until he’d taken out his target. After that, he’d crash.

  They’d found the perfect spot for him in an apartment building three blocks down that provided an unobstructed view and an excellent angle. Getting into the apartment had been easy with the help of John—whose name was something else entirely, of course, just like he’d never been called Mike before. Apparently, whoever lived here worked during the day, so he had till five to get the fuck out—or until the cops figured out where the shots came from. He’d be long gone before then.

  He’d found a spot in the bedroom of the apartment, which offered the best view. He’d counted on having to smash a window but had been pleasantly surprised to be able to slide it open, allowing the freezing air in. Boston in the winter, now that was a different sight than what he’d seen through his telescope so far.

  They’d gotten slammed with snow a couple days before, despite it being early April already, the snow piles still shoveled high into parking lots. Dump trucks were picking up snow banks everywhere, transporting them outside the city to be dumped on snow fields. His glasses protected his eyes from the blinding glare of the sun on the snow and ice. On his part, everything that could reflect had been covered—a practice perfected by having been in warmer climates so much.

  Aside from the snow, only his clothes were different. He missed the sensation of his uniform, his boots, even his helmet. Taking up position while wearing full battle rattle was different than installing himself here, dressed in a crisp light blue shirt and dark blue pinstripe pants. It was so much lighter and yet felt strangely off. Then again, everything had been off ever since the assault. This was the closest he’d been to feeling himself again.

  He perfected his position, already knowing the wind speed and direction. He’d practiced shooting in cold weather in Norway, learning how the cold affected the bullet’s trajectory. He adjusted the telescope slightly, aligning it perfectly with his weapon. Breathed in, out, in, out, until he felt nothing else but his breaths. The targets were clearly visible. Arrogant idiots, meeting in a hotel room with windows, the blinds drawn open.
Never suspecting a thing.

  He’d wait for the signal. The three men in the hotel room were bored, by the looks of it. One was flicking through channels, the other two sitting at a table, nursing a beer. Their body postures were relaxed, despite the guns they had laid out on the table.

  One of the men switched off the TV and walked toward the door. Show time.

  He lay motionless, even when he saw the fourth person enter the room after being thoroughly patted down. He was in the zone, saw nothing else but the targets. The fourth person shook hands, then took a seat at the table with the other three, taking the position farthest away from the window.

  They talked for minutes, but his eyes purely watched body language. The second they became aggressive he’d take them out. The fourth person slowly reached for his pocket, clearly explaining what he was doing, because although there was more alertness, they didn’t respond with force. He took out a red envelope and put it on the table.

  Three seconds. He started counting. One…Two…Three.

  He squeezed the trigger on target one. The fourth person dove to the ground. Target two, clean shot as the guy reached for the gun on the table. Target three was smarter, going for the floor instantly. He was awfully close to the fourth person, but it didn’t matter. He took the shot, hitting him in the chest before he reached the ground. He watched through his telescope as the fourth person got up, shaking ever so slightly, and picked up the red envelope from the table. He never even looked at the window as he put his coat back on and exited the room as fast as he could.

  He exhaled. Done. It was done. Operation Freedom was a success.

  He pulled back his rifle, closed the window. He disassembled the rifle in seconds, put it in his five-hundred-dollar black leather lawyer briefcase. Collected the three shell cases. Sprayed the window and window stiles with special cleaning spray, wiped them down, even though he’d been wearing gloves the entire time. Put everything in his briefcase, checked to see he had left nothing behind.