Книга - Set Up With The Agent

Set Up With The Agent
Lori L. Harris








Set Up with the Agent

Lori L Harris



























www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#ube9d7277-f4ce-57cc-975a-bd223476b34f)

Title Page (#u03b626ef-2085-5b0d-b78d-567d5a227696)

About the Author (#ud096d7b7-8002-5879-b38e-dc8a451d5bd8)

Prologue (#u341ee7b9-a011-556d-9535-8b4b77a0b7d2)

Chapter One (#u88728e26-17d4-5165-b3bb-f254687ff1a9)

Chapter Two (#uf9f1a0c4-bbe7-50c4-bfd4-adfa85c0195e)

Chapter Three (#u7b33ba37-a317-57ce-ae9f-b7d99c9174f3)

Chapter Four (#u1333de84-f6ab-5f4f-bb78-b32f14939dc2)

Chapter Five (#u0dc106f4-0120-5364-a585-10ccebd2d456)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




About the Author (#ulink_98df2979-0eba-57a9-8751-20a6164ed6c5)


LORI HARRIS has always enjoyed competition. She grew up in southern Ohio, showing Arabian horses and Great Danes. Later she joined a shooting league, where she competed head to head with police officers – and would be competing today if she hadn’t discovered how much fun and challenging it was to write. Romantic suspense seemed a natural fit. What could be more exciting than writing about life-and-death struggles that include sexy, strong men?

When not in front of a computer, Lori enjoys remodelling her home, gardening and boating. Lori lives in Orlando, Florida, with her very own hero.



For Bobbie Laishley and Bill Laishley And for the Harris Family: Trip, Kathy, Gracie, Mike, Nichele, Brett, Connor, Dillon, John, Billy, Patsy and,

most of all, for Bobby. Love You All!




Prologue (#ulink_7b5171c6-64f7-5079-b7c8-03eabe885f22)


FBI Special Agent Mark Gerritsen ripped his shirttails from his trousers. It was just past 3:30 a.m. on a hot July night, and he was standing on the street in front of a modest home in a quiet Frederick, Maryland, suburb.

“Has the lab determined how much of the chemical weapon is missing?” Mark kept his voice low. As he stripped off his shirt, he glanced at Special Agent Colton Larson, who stood several feet away.

Larson was also down to his T-shirt. “They’re calling it sizable.”

Mark offered a terse smile. “In other words they don’t know, and they’re trying to cover their asses.”

He suspected it was also the reason the FBI hadn’t been alerted of the theft until the middle of the night—because those in charge of security, of protecting the people from the kind of occurrence that had just taken place, had been scrambling to protect their jobs instead of the American public.

Leaving his shirt hanging over the open car door, Mark grabbed the heavy body armor off the seat and settled it over his shoulders. He shrugged the protection into position before pressing down on the Velcro straps. The rest of the counterterrorism unit had been contacted but was unlikely to arrive in time, which meant Mark and Larson would be working with a local SWAT team.

The target was a home two doors down from their current location. Mark scanned the front of the residence. Except for the dim front porch light, the small, brick ranch house with peeling trim paint had been dark when they’d arrived and remained that way.

The owner, Dr. Harvey Thesing, made a good wage, but from the brief background information Mark had obtained en route, over the past year Thesing had been spending his money on environmental causes. Which should have tipped off his superiors that no matter what his credentials were, Thesing wasn’t the best chemist to work on MX141.

Along with the rundown on Thesing, Mark had also received one on the chemical weapon. Though fairly stable in the powdered form, once dissolved in a liquid and vaporized, its lethal power was immeasurable.

Bottom line, they were talking some nasty stuff.

Mark checked out the surrounding residences. “How are those evacuations coming?” While he had been meeting with the SWAT guys, Larson had been seeing to the perimeter.

Larson looked up. “Local cops have cleared a block in all directions and are in the process of closing off roads.”

Mark would have liked to ask for a larger area, but there just wasn’t time for that luxury right now. It was a decision that he hoped he didn’t end up regretting. “Make sure they stick close by in case we need to get more people out.”

A SWAT team member rounded the front end of Mark’s car, striding soundlessly toward them. “Car’s in the garage. Bedrooms appear to be at the back.”

Mark grabbed the olive drab hazmat suit and stepped into it. Because he’d been assimilating a lot of information when they’d met five minutes ago, it took him a second to recall the officer’s name. Rogers?

Mark slid his arms into the sleeves of the suit. “But you don’t know which one Thesing is using? Or if he’s even in that area of the house.”

“No. We’re not picking up any sounds inside.”

Which meant they might find an empty house. That Thesing could already be putting his plan into motion.

Mark zipped up the lightweight suit. But what was Thesing’s agenda? What in the hell did a tree hugger do with a chemical weapon that he’d been instrumental in developing?

“What about a basement?” Mark asked.

“There’s one.”

“Any type of entrance?”

“Two well windows that are boarded up from inside.”

Was it possible that Thesing was sleeping down there? Perhaps because with the recent heat wave it was cooler?

Mark grabbed his holstered weapon and strapped it on. “Any word on whether Thesing owns a gun?”

“Nothing registered.”

Which, given current gun laws, didn’t mean a whole hell of a lot. Thesing could be sitting on a whole arsenal.

Rogers scanned the area quickly and then returned his attention to Mark. “How do you want to do this?”

“Covert entry through the front door. I’ll need for one of your men to handle the pick gun, then hang around long enough to offer some initial cover. Once Larson and I are in, though, your man needs to back off immediately. Best-case scenario, we reach the chemist before he has time to get to the stuff.”

Mark looked up, his gaze connecting with Rogers’s. “No one goes in without full hazmat gear, understand?” He waited until the officer nodded before continuing. “Have the rest of your men keep the windows and doors under hard surveillance, while still maintaining a safe distance.”

“Does this stuff have a name?” Rogers asked.

Larson had just stepped past Mark to grab a hazmat suit. “Yeah. Scary.”

Even as Rogers offered a tight nod and turned away, Mark sensed the local cop’s frustration at being asked to respond to a situation where critical information was being withheld.

Not that Mark had any choice in the matter.

They were under orders to avoid full disclosure of MX141’s capabilities, something that made him extremely uncomfortable. But if everything went well in the next few minutes, if the MX141 was recovered without incident, the decision to withhold certain facts could turn out to be the right one.

At least, that’s what he was hoping.

Grabbing the twelve-gauge he’d left on the sedan’s floorboard, Mark spilled the box of shotgun shells onto the floor mat. After collecting six of them, he backed out of Larson’s way and then waited while the other man did the same. They’d worked together often enough that there was no need for discussion.

With his chest already beginning to tighten with tension, Mark glanced across the hood of the Taurus and toward the residence. Still no sign of life. Maybe he should at least be thankful for that.

Mark took the lead, and by the time they reached the front door, a SWAT officer was already in place. Mark and Larson tugged down their night-vision goggles and adjusted their breathing apparatuses before lowering their hazmat hoods into place.

At Mark’s nod, the officer inserted the pick gun into the first of two locks. In seconds the door was unlocked, but it took another few to dispense with the safety chain.

As the SWAT officer stepped out of the way, Mark moved inside, intent on reaching the bedroom hallway as quickly and as soundlessly as possible.

The door to the first bedroom was open. A home office. Unoccupied. The doors to the other two remained closed. Mark stopped next to the nearest of them, and then waited for Larson to reach the other one.

At Mark’s signal, both men checked to see if their door was unlocked. Larson offered a slight nod, indicating that his was. Mark did the same. On Mark’s next signal they entered their assigned rooms as silently as possible, twelve-gauge shotguns leading the way.

Mark did a quick sweep before focusing on the double bed covered in unfolded clothes. He made sure Thesing wasn’t buried beneath the laundry, and then did a fast inspection of the closet. He hooked up with Larson in the hallway again.

Taking the point position, Mark moved cautiously toward the living areas. The element of surprise was off the table now. If Thesing was in the house, even if he was in the basement, it was unlikely that he’d still be unaware of their presence. Which made it more likely they’d be facing an armed suspect.

Motioning Larson to hang back, Mark skirted the dining room table. Cardboard moving boxes sealed with tape surrounded the table, and a mountain of newspapers covered it.

Because of the hazmat gear, Mark was drowning in sweat, but his breathing was still slow and easy. Like the bedroom he’d just left, the kitchen was a mess. Trash overflowed the fifty-five-gallon waste can in the center of the room, and a healthy roach population was chowing down on the food remnants covering pots and pans and plates. For a man worried about the environment, it looked as if he was well on the way to creating his very own toxic-waste site.

The family room was just beyond and appeared to be in the same condition as the rest of the house.

Backtracking, Mark returned to the kitchen where he waited for Larson to get into position before opening what Mark had correctly assumed would be the door to the basement.

Positioned just to the left of the opening, he peered into the lower level, looking for any hint of movement. Seeing none, he slowly lowered his foot onto the first tread, allowing the wood to absorb his weight.

As he continued to work his way down the stairs, his breathing became less smooth, less even. He kept his back pressed to the wall. Larson was covering him from the head of the stairs, but Mark was still in a very exposed position.

Halfway down, a single tread gave under his weight, the resulting sharp squeal enough to wake anyone. Seeing it as his only option, Mark took the remaining steps quickly and noisily. At the bottom, he dropped into a crouch next to the wall.

The conditions in the basement were even worse than those above stairs. Along with stacks of junk, there were more piles of newspapers and cardboard boxes and bags of trash. Why in the hell would Thesing hoard garbage? What kind of nut case were they dealing with here?

Larson had made it to the bottom of the steps and spread out slightly to Mark’s left as both men moved forward cautiously.

A workbench stretched along the closest wall and was the only relatively neat area. A washer and dryer occupied the opposite wall. In between was a gauntlet of every type of imaginable junk—a tricycle, a dollhouse, an old sewing machine. A rolling cabinet for tools. More sealed plastic bags.

It wasn’t until Mark got past them that he saw the bed tucked back in the far corner. And Harvey Thesing’s body on the floor next to it. Even from his current position, Mark was fairly certain the chemist was dead, but kept his weapon leveled on him as he closed the distance.

It looked as if a shotgun had been used, the blast to Thesing’s midsection nearly cutting him in two, while the one to his head had taken off half his skull.

Knowing it was a waste of time, he checked for a pulse and found none. But as he started to pull his hand away, he realized that, given the cool conditions of the basement the body was warmer than he would have anticipated. He checked the facial muscles—the first place that any signs of rigor mortis would appear—but found no rigidity.

“How long?” Larson asked.

“If I had to make a guess?” Using the method to determine time of death was risky at best. “I’d say only a short time—possibly less than an hour.”

Mark desperately wanted to plow his fist into something—into anything. If the damn lab hadn’t been trying to cover their asses…If they’d made the call an hour earlier…

Talk about being screwed. Even the relatively short lead time wasn’t going to help them. For the moment at least, they were chasing a ghost.

A ghost armed with the most lethal chemical weapon ever developed.




Chapter One (#ulink_0479df7b-b980-506c-b240-3bfc400e0709)


Four Months Later

Leaving her dark, wool coat and white scarf draped across the chair, FBI Special Agent Beth Benedict paced to the bookcase and scanned the titles. Experimental Psychology, Evaluation of Sexual Disorders, The Problem of Maladaptive Behavior—a bevy of volumes detailing human psychoses. Exactly what she would expect to find on a psychologist’s shelf.

As with her previous two sessions, she was the last patient of the day. The receptionist had shown her into Dr. Carmichael’s office, indicating that she should take a seat in one of the high-backed contemporary chairs. Dr. Carmichael would be with her shortly.

But since Beth had been released from the hospital, she’d found it very difficult to sit still for any length of time. Another reason that she needed to be out in the field and not trapped behind a desk.

She took a deep breath in preparation for the coming confrontation. The FBI had trained her how to deceive criminals, how to gain their trust, so scamming one psychologist shouldn’t be all that hard. She just needed to stick with the plan, with her “blueprint of progress.”

This week she’d remain calm and in control, no tears, no outbursts. And no more stony silences that suggested she was bucking authority. By her next appointment, the claustrophobia issue would be nearly resolved.

As with any type of deception, the key was to keep it believable.

When she heard the office door open behind her, her shoulder muscles tightened, and the headache that she’d been coping with exploded at the base of her skull.

Dr. Samuel Carmichael paused momentarily in the opening. He was somewhere in his late forties, with thick, prematurely gray hair and a quick smile. Because any good con required that you know your mark, she’d done her homework. He liked to sail and was on his second marriage, this one to a law student half his age.

“Sorry about running late,” the psychologist offered as he pushed the door closed.

“No problem.” Beth took a seat and settled back, giving the illusion that she was comfortable.

“Can I get you some water before we get started?”

“No. Thanks.”

Taking the chair opposite hers, Carmichael propped his right ankle atop his left knee before resting the legal pad in his lap. “So how do you think you’re doing?”

“Actually, a little better.”

“What about the nightmares? Are you still experiencing them?”

“Occasionally.” She kept the confident and somewhat bland smile on her face. Though this was only her third session, she knew the routine, so she waited for the psychologist to pursue the current subject.

“Are you saying there’s been a decrease in their frequency?”

“Yes. Some.” In reality, the opposite was true. Every time she was lucky enough to fall asleep, it was only a matter of time before she sat straight up, her heart pounding, the scent of spilled gasoline so real that it usually took her several seconds to realize that the smell was a remembered one, a cruel joke played by her own mind.

Dr. Carmichael scribbled a note. “And when they do occur, would you characterize them as any less vivid than when we started meeting?”

“Definitely.” She knew she needed to start offering more than short responses, but despite her earlier resolve, she was finding it surprisingly difficult, her emotions already bubbling to the surface. Her palms were now damp and as she met Carmichael’s gaze, her respiration quickened, almost as if he had leveled a gun at her chest.

But in some ways, the situation she found herself in now was just as much a life-or-death struggle as the event that had landed her here. Dr. Samuel Carmichael held her career in his hands. And since her career was her life…

Carmichael leaned back in his chair. “What about the claustrophobia?”

“It’s better.” Another short response. “I’m back to riding elevators. Wouldn’t you say that’s a pretty major step?”

She managed a slight smile, but when she tried to force it a bit wider, she felt her facial muscles freeze. And knew that she’d made a mistake. She could see it in his washed-out blue eyes and in the way his mouth tightened.

“Beth.” Carmichael uncrossed his legs. “I’ve been in practice for a lot of years. I know when I’m being manipulated. I can’t help you unless you’re open with me.”

She kept her gaze level. How should she respond? Pretend confusion? Try a small amount of honesty?

Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, having decided the latter was going to be the best course of action.

“You’re right. But you have to understand what I need to get better. I need work. Real work. I’ve been pulled out of the field and assigned to administrative duties. Do you have any idea what that includes? I run a copier. I collate reports for other agents. I answer the phone.”

“You do recognize that your boss, that Bill Monroe is concerned that the incident has left you—”

Irritation kicked in. “Incident? Isn’t that a slightly benign description for being locked in the trunk of a burning car? The fact that I have some difficulty sleeping, that I’ve had occasional problems handling tight spaces isn’t all that unusual, is it, given the circumstances?”

“No. What you’re feeling is quite normal.” Holding a pencil in one hand, he ran the fingers of the other one up and down the length as he studied her. “So you believe that you should be put back out into the field? Where your failure to function at a crucial moment could possibly endanger your life or the life of an innocent bystander or coworker?”

She held on to her irritation. “I recognize that I do have issues at the moment, but I believe they are temporary and controllable. I don’t feel they undermine my ability to do my job.”

“So, if you don’t believe you need help, why are you here?” He paused before adding, “My understanding is that these sessions are voluntary.”

“That is what the manual says,” she agreed. Unable to sit still any longer, she got up and paced to the window. Even though her SAC—Special Agent in Charge—had characterized the counseling as voluntary, she knew better.

“Don’t you want to improve?”

“Sure.” And she wanted to keep her job, too. She looked out at the dark night. The window overlooked the parking garage across the street where she’d left her car.

“Of course I want to get better.” She just couldn’t see how dwelling on problems could be therapeutic. That wasn’t the way she’d been raised. You get knocked down, you get back up. End of story.

With her carefully constructed blueprint of progress a bust, she decided maybe it was the right time to put at least a few cards on the table. And at the same time momentarily steer the conversation away from her. “You attended University of Maryland, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

She faced him. “And graduated the same year as Bill Monroe?”

It was Carmichael’s turn to look uncomfortable. “So you think you’re being set up in some way? That I’m your boss’s hit man?”

“It crossed my mind.” Having given up all attempts to control her body language, she tightened her arms in front of her. “I suppose after that remark, you’ll be adding paranoia to the list.”

Carmichael’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “Do you consider yourself to be overly suspicious of the motives of people around you?”

She pretended to consider the possibility. When she’d been doing the background check on Carmichael, she’d done a little self-diagnosing while she was at it. She might be experiencing a sense of fatalism where her job was concerned, but it was fully grounded in cold, hard facts.

Beth realized the psychologist was still waiting for an answer on the paranoia issue. “No. I don’t consider myself to be paranoid.”

Even if Carmichael didn’t know the real reason she was undergoing counseling, the only reason she still had a job, she did. She was the prosecution’s only witness on the Rabbit Rheaume money laundering case, and they were worried that she’d fall apart during cross examination. These sessions were meant to keep her functioning until after the trial—until after she’d taken the stand and the feds had their conviction.

But once they did, all bets would be off.

For more than two years now, since she’d gone over his head, Bill Monroe had been looking for a way to get rid of her—not an easy task considering the previous glowing evaluations he’d given her.

The knot in her gut tightened. Even before she’d gone in undercover, landing a position as Rabbit Rheaume’s assistant, she’d been trying to hold on, to play Monroe’s game. She was hoping that those above him would somehow miraculously recognize that he was conducting a witch hunt against her. But even from the beginning she’d known that her survival was unlikely. That even though she’d managed to survive Rabbit’s car trunk, it was unlikely she’d survive Monroe. He was a twenty-two-year veteran of the Bureau. Part of the men’s club. And the FBI historically tended to protect those in higher positions, sacrificing lower-ranked employees.

Realizing Carmichael was watching her again, she slammed the door closed on that line of thought. She couldn’t afford it right now. “Maybe I’m a little lost at the moment, that’s all.”

“We all are sometimes. But none of us has to remain that way.” Carmichael crossed to his desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a prescription pad.

She found it difficult to hide her exasperation. What kind of pill would it be this time? She’d tried taking what he’d prescribed on the first visit, something for anxiety, but when the drug had interfered with her ability to function, she’d quit taking it. She’d needed to stay clear-headed, keep her wits about her.

When he finished writing, he ripped off the top sheet and handed it to her. Even though she had no intention of having the prescription filled, Beth glanced down at the writing. The name Harriet Thompson was followed by a local phone number.

“She’s a colleague of mine. She didn’t attend Maryland and doesn’t know Bill Monroe.”

Her eyes narrowed briefly as she wondered if she was in fact paranoid.

“You’re a very strong woman, Beth, but you still need to talk to someone.”

She glanced up. “Are you firing me?”

“No. I just want to be sure that the next time we meet, you’re here for the right reasons. I can help you, but only if you let me.”

ONLY MINUTES LATER Beth buttoned the heavy, wool coat over her navy-blue suit and pulled on gloves before pushing open the office building’s exterior door and stepping out into the cold night. As the early-November wind cut through her, Carmichael’s words lingered in the back of her mind.

She’d always considered herself to be tough and competent. During the sixteen weeks at Quantico, she’d physically and mentally outperformed most of her class, even those with military or law enforcement backgrounds.

But in a single night, that had all changed. She’d gone from tough to frightened. And now, nearly four months after she’d escaped the trunk of a burning car, she still felt trapped, as if everything around her was going up in flames. Her career. Her relationship with her father.

She couldn’t afford to look weak, though. Not if she wanted to keep her job. And not when she took the stand at the Rheaume trial. If the prosecution lost there, getting a conviction on the connected attempted-murder charge was going to become even tougher. How was she going to live with herself if the man who had tried to kill her wasn’t made to pay?

She crossed the now-deserted street. Though it was just past seven-thirty, there were few lights on in the surrounding buildings. Which wasn’t surprising since most of them were private medical offices.

Her footsteps rang out sharply. The little bit of snow they’d had earlier had melted, but now with nightfall, the moisture had refrozen, creating an extremely thin shield of ice. Not enough to make driving dangerous, but enough to make walking a little trickier, especially in pumps.

She headed into the parking garage. During normal business hours there was an attendant at the entrance, but the enclosure was now deserted.

As she stepped around the barrier bar, a red Beemer came down the ramp, headed for the exit. Out of habit, she reached inside her jacket to check her weapon, but then remembered she’d locked it in her trunk.

Seeing the woman behind the wheel, Beth relaxed. For the past few months, she’d done a lot of looking over her shoulder, waiting to see if Rheaume would try to stack the deck in his favor. It was just another reason that she was constantly on edge, and why she refused to take the antianxiety medication. And the reason she’d be armed at her next appointment despite Carmichael’s office policy. There was a difference between paranoia and vigilance.

As she passed the elevator doors, she glanced at them but didn’t slow. She’d managed to ride up in the one at the office two days ago, but at the moment she didn’t feel like trying it again.

If the outside temperature had seemed frigid, inside the garage was even worse. She slid her gloved hands into her pockets. A few cars—a green Taurus, a blue Explorer and a white Escalade were clustered near the entrance—but the rest of the lower level had cleared out. Unfortunately, it had been full when she’d arrived, so she’d been forced to leave her car on the second level. She hiked up the ramp.

Several of the fluorescent lights overhead were out. As quickly as she looked up, she diverted her gaze from the reinforced-concrete ceiling. For some reason even in this reasonably wide-open space, she felt as if all that weight was pressing down on her, as if she’d be buried beneath it. Inhaling sharply, she forced her hands a little deeper into her pockets.

She was fine. Absolutely fine. The claustrophobia was getting better. Maybe it was resolving more slowly than she wanted, but she just needed to keep pushing herself.

Reaching the top of the incline, she spotted her red Taurus off to the right, but instead of walking toward it, she stopped in her tracks. A white Chevy van with heavily tinted windows had been backed in next to the Taurus. Her fingers closed around the car keys in her pocket. There had been a maroon Honda in the slot earlier and quite a few empty spaces near the elevator.

She scanned the rest of the second level and, finding it deserted, studied the van again. Something just didn’t feel right. With this level pretty much empty, why would the driver choose to park there? And more important, why go to the trouble of backing in?

The front seats were empty, but that didn’t eliminate the possibility that someone was in the backend, waiting to roll open the side door, waiting to pull her inside when she tried to reach the driver’s door of her car.

Should she bail?

And do what, though? Use her cell phone to call a cop? What if she was wrong about the van? What if in this one instance she actually had taken that downhill slide from cautious to paranoid?

If so, calling Baltimore PD would have been a bad idea. Once the cops realized she was a fed, there was very little chance it wouldn’t get back to Monroe. Or that he wouldn’t use it against her, claiming that the incident further demonstrated her inability to do her job.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Think. No one had followed her here. She was certain of that. And for the past few months she’d been careful to avoid any hint of a pattern in her activities—she never took the same route, never scheduled an appointment on the same day. But all three of her sessions with Carmichael had come at the end of the day…

And then she realized if Rheaume had sent someone after her, bailing now wouldn’t stop them. There would be a next time. One she might not see coming until it was too late.

Better to confront it now.

As a blast of frigid air screamed through the garage, she strode purposefully toward her car, a plan already formulated. She wasn’t going to let them win—not the Monroes or the Carmichaels, and definitely not the Rabbit Rheaumes.

Keeping her eyes on the van, her thumb worked the automatic trunk release on the key fob. If anyone was in the van, they obviously were waiting until she walked between the two vehicles. Otherwise they would have already made their move.

The raised trunk would offer some protection while she grabbed her weapon. And if she was wrong, if the van was empty, she’d just get in her car and go home. Soak in a hot bath. Forget she’d nearly made a fool of herself.

She was already leaning into the trunk when she heard the nearly silent footsteps behind her. Her fingers closed around the holstered SIG-Sauer, and she had it free of leather when the sharp pop echoed. White-hot heat streaked just above her right temple.

Diving toward the side of the car, hoping to use it as cover, she brought the SIG-Sauer up, getting her first look at the shooter—a stocky male in dark clothing. She fired two quick rounds. Both slammed into his chest.

He kept coming.

A loud crack sounded. The taillight next to her shattered. Small bits of plastic exploded, some of it hitting her in the face, causing her to blink. Causing her third shot to miss.

As a bullet punctured the fender next to her, she squeezed the trigger again, this time going for a head shot.

Like a tethered pit bull hitting the end of its chain, the guy’s forward momentum vanished, and for the briefest of moments it was as if both time and motion stood still. His expression changed, bloomed from one of aggression to chagrin and then to stunned disbelief.

And then time kicked in again, and he was flying backward.




Chapter Two (#ulink_e11d479e-8fff-5d09-aea1-22ba3cadaa92)


Beth got to her feet, her weapon trained on her attacker as she checked out the darkened garage for additional signs of danger.

Nothing.

No hint of movement or sound. But then, she hadn’t heard her attacker until it was nearly too late. Where had he come from? Why hadn’t she seen him sooner?

Her pulse scrambled uncontrollably. No matter how fast her lungs worked, she remained winded, gasping for air.

Keeping her weapon leveled at the body on the ground fifteen feet away, she forced herself to focus.

Part of her training had involved role-playing, learning how to survive a situation like the one she’d just been involved in, one where taking the time to weigh options could get you killed. And it was that same training she fell back on now, her attention flipping between her attacker and her surroundings.

She kicked aside the weapon he’d dropped—a .45 Smith & Wesson automatic—before closing the last few feet and getting the first clear look at his injuries. His right eye was gone.

As she reached down to check for a pulse—something she knew was a wasted action even before she did it—the warm scent of fresh blood reached up and grabbed her. Swallowing the bile that piled in her throat, she straightened.

He was younger than she’d first thought, midtwenties maybe. He wore a black ski cap pulled low over his ears. Seeing no sign of hair, she assumed his head was clean shaven. The rest of his clothing—jeans and sweatshirt—were also black.

When her gaze made it as far as his feet, she realized the reason she hadn’t heard him. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Who goes barefoot in November? In freezing temperatures?

Still facing him, she backed away, fumbling for the cell phone at her waist. She couldn’t stop her hand from shaking, so it took several tries to disengage the phone from the clip.

After placing calls to 911 and to Bill Monroe, she sat on the bumper of her car to wait. It was unlikely that Monroe would show up. When she’d reached him, he’d been at some type of social function.

For the first time, she allowed herself to really think about what had just taken place. She’d taken a life. And no matter how prepared she’d thought she was to do it, how certain she’d been that she could live with it, she suddenly realized she might have been wrong.

Inhaling sharply, she tried to dislodge the growing tightness in her chest. She couldn’t fall apart now. Deep breaths. Cleansing breaths. She’d killed a man, and there was no going back.

An hour later Beth was still sitting on the bumper of her car, but she was no longer alone. Minutes after she’d placed the 911 call, the first responding officer—a street cop—had secured the area and taken down an initial report.

Two Baltimore detectives and the crime-scene unit were the next to arrive. And less than two minutes ago, three FBI special agents from the Baltimore office had shown up. At one time she’d considered them office allies. But ever since Monroe had tagged her for termination, they’d distanced themselves from her.

It was always the office relationships that were the first to go. Next would come the stripping of security clearances. So far she’d dodged that bullet, for the same reason she still had a job—because they needed her testimony. Testimony that would carry more weight coming from a special agent whose security clearance hadn’t been downgraded or revoked.

She lowered the wad of fast-food napkins she’d found in her glove box and had been pressing to the side of her head. The gash just above her right temple was a minor one, but like most head wounds, it had bled pretty profusely at first. She glanced down at her shoulder. The white silk scarf was probably a lost cause, but because the coat she wore was navy-blue wool, the bloodstain wasn’t particularly noticeable and would probably clean up okay.

Her gaze returned to the three special agents and two detectives who were still conversing near the ramp. What were they discussing now? Just the shooting? Or were her coworkers eagerly explaining to the detectives that her appointment tonight had been with a shrink and not some other type of doctor?

Beth shifted her attention away from them and onto the dead man. His body remained uncovered. At least the shooter had a name now. Leon Tyber. The shoeless hit man. But even if he’d forgotten footwear, he’d remembered to wear body armor, the reason the first two shots to his chest hadn’t stopped him.

He’d come prepared to take me down swiftly and efficiently. But instead, I killed him.

As another sharp breeze blew through the structure, she shivered. She wasn’t really dressed to hang out in a cold garage. Like everyone else at the scene, she was waiting for the medical examiner to show up and release the body for transport to the morgue. Until he did, she couldn’t move her car without destroying evidence. Of course, if she’d been really eager to go home, she could have called a cab and come back tomorrow to pick up her car.

Hearing footsteps, she glanced up. Special Agent Tom Weston, a seventeen-year FBI veteran, walked over and propped his backside next to hers. He was tall, well built. In her early days in Baltimore, he’d been somewhat of a mentor to her. Up until a year ago, she’d considered him a friend.

Hands clasped in front of him, he looked over at her and then motioned at her injured head. “Maybe you should consider a trip to the emergency room to get that checked out.”

“It’s just a crease. I’m fine.”

“What you are,” Tom said, “is lucky.”

Frowning, she refolded the napkins and rested them against her scalp again, trying to ignore the now throbbing headache. Tom’s comment didn’t surprise her. It did however sting more than she would have expected. “What I am is good at my job.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest—”

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course you didn’t.” But they both knew better. Recently her accomplishments and skills had increasingly been downplayed. “And the fact that I’m not included in the Friday-night get-togethers doesn’t mean a damn thing, either.”

Beth knew she was venturing into areas that would only serve to further damage her relationship with Weston, a man she had once held in great respect.

“You’re shutting me out,” she said, and glanced down, not wanting to meet his eyes, not wanting him to see how much his actions had hurt her. “I didn’t expect that.” She looked over at him. “I actually thought you would be the only one in the office willing to back me up.”

“Damn it, Beth.” Tom grimaced. “I have two kids already in college and another one starting next year. I’m not about to put my job in jeopardy.”

“There’s a name for that, Tom. Careerism. The practice of protecting one’s career. At the cost of one’s integrity.”

When Tom shifted his gaze to the group of men near the ramp, Beth sensed he was looking for a reason to leave her, to rejoin the others. And at the same time she realized even if he’d been going about it very cautiously, he had been trying to be somewhat supportive. At least for tonight.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m not being completely fair here.”

He rubbed his face, suddenly looking even more exhausted than when he’d sat. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He studied her, a deep furrow between his brows. “But why didn’t you come to me before going over Monroe’s head?”

She balled up the bloody napkins. “Like you said, you have kids in college. I don’t.”

“But you had to know that you were risking your career. That Monroe wouldn’t hesitate to blow you away if you said anything about his screw-up.”

“He didn’t give me a choice.” Even she heard the edge of anger in her voice. “It was a viable lead, and he didn’t assign it. And because he didn’t, terrorism got another payday.” Beth realized the other men were watching them now, and lowered her voice. “I took an oath to protect and defend this country,” she said. “Not keep my mouth shut.”

Tom nudged her shoulder with his. “You always were a damned idealist.”

“So were you,” she offered with a sad smile.

He nodded. “Back when I could afford to be.”

“What did Monroe have to say when he called you tonight?”

“Just that I was to head up the investigation and he’d talk to you in the morning. There’s nothing for you to worry about. It was obviously self-defense.”

He glanced toward where the other men were still talking. This time she didn’t think it was because he was looking to escape her. But then his facial expression suddenly changed, went from one of fatigue to near anger. “What in the hell is Mark Gerritsen doing here?”

Surprised to hear the name, Beth followed Tom’s gaze, certain he must be mistaken. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. At six-three and deadly handsome, Special Agent Gerritsen was easy to recognize even from where she sat. Currently he was talking with the other two FBI special agents and the two detectives.

She frowned. Why would the FBI’s leading counterterrorism specialist have any interest in what had taken place here tonight? In a simple shooting?

Mark suddenly broke away from the other men and walked toward Tom and Beth. When he reached the dead shooter, he stopped to examine the body.

Beneath the beige trench coat, Mark Gerritsen wore a dark suit. The collar of his white oxford-cloth shirt was open, and his hair looked as if he’d plowed his fingers through it more than once.

Not so amazingly, as she watched the FBI’s best-of-the-best straighten and walk toward them, her thoughts had nothing to do with national security, and everything to do with the last time they’d met. A meeting where she had come off as completely foolish and sophomoric. A meeting she was hoping he didn’t recall.

But it probably hadn’t been all that memorable for him. During her sixteen weeks of new recruit training, he’d been her counterterrorism instructor. There hadn’t been a female in the class who hadn’t been in lust with Mark Gerritsen, her included. After all, when it came to aphrodisiacs, power coupled with intellect, looks and honor was damn potent.

Back then he’d been newly divorced and had a couple of kids. Was that still the case?

Tom had stood as soon as he’d seen Gerritsen, but she waited until he reached them to get to her feet.

Tom held out his hand, his expression anything but welcoming. “Gerritsen, let me introduce—”

Mark’s gaze connected with Tom’s briefly before immediately shifting to Beth. “We’ve actually met.”

It was only when he extended his hand to her that she realized she still held the bloody napkins. After quickly shoving the wad into her pocket, she shook his hand, lifting her gaze to his face at the same time.

His eyes were brown, and at the moment the brows were drawn down tight over them. There was a rawness to his features—eyes that were deep set, a nose that wasn’t quite straight, a mouth that rarely smiled. But when it did, there was a dimple just to the left of it. She’d seen it on only one occasion—the one she was hoping he’d forgotten.

“I hear you had a rough night,” Mark said.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She tried for a confident tone. “All in all, I’d say mine was better than Leon Tyber’s.”

Mark’s lips shifted toward a smile, but it never actually appeared. He now glanced over his shoulder at the body, too. “At what point did you discover he was wearing body armor?”

“When my first two shots didn’t stop him.” If he was impressed, it didn’t show.

“How many rounds total?” He seemed to be studying her a little too intently, and she again wondered what his interest could be in the shooting. She couldn’t imagine Tyber having any connection to terrorism.

“He got off three, I fired four.” She was aware that Tom still stood beside her and that there was some animosity between the two men. She wondered about its origin.

“And you think Rheaume hired him?” Mark asked.

She paused. How would he have known that? Then she realized the other agents had undoubtedly filled him in. What else had they said? “It went down like a hit.” She took half a step backward. Somehow it suddenly felt as if he’d invaded her space. “Not to mention the fact that street punks don’t usually carry twelve-hundred-dollar weapons and wear body armor.”

“What makes you so certain it isn’t linked to another case?”

“Because the Rheaume case is the only one I’m involved with.” She wasn’t about to elaborate on the reason that it was her only one. If he didn’t already know about her current employment problems—something she figured was fairly unlikely since that kind of thing tended to get around the Bureau pretty quickly—she saw no reason to enlighten him. To make herself look worse in his eyes.

“What brings you here?” Tom asked.

Mark’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps you could excuse us, Tom. I need to speak with Beth.”

Those words took her by surprise. Especially since she’d assumed he was there to see one of the other agents or even Tom. What would Mark Gerritsen need to discuss with her that he wouldn’t want to talk about in front of Tom Weston?

Tom glanced at her. “Are you okay here?”

What was he asking? Why did he seem so hesitant to leave her with Mark? Was it concern for her? Or was he simply worried she’d do something to make their boss look bad? And that as the senior special agent at the scene, he would somehow be held responsible?

“I’m fine.” Those two words were quickly becoming her new mantra.

Mark waited to speak until after Tom walked off. “Fine might be an overstatement. If you haven’t already had someone look at your head, maybe you should.”

“Thanks for the concern, but I’m okay. And I’m curious about what would bring you here tonight.”

Mark turned his back to the breeze. “I just came from trying to see a friend of yours.”

Hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, she leaned against the car fender, even more perplexed. “What friend?”

“Rabbit Rheaume.”

The name took her by surprise. “Really?” Glancing down, noticing the ripped-out knee on her pantyhose, she immediately lifted her gaze again. She wanted to look more confident, more together than she felt. “I plan to pay him a visit tomorrow. To give him the good news about Leon Tyber.”

Mark stared at her. “You’ll find him at the morgue.”




Chapter Three (#ulink_7bd3367b-09dc-53b8-88a4-1e01c39d0a41)


Mark followed Beth into her small bungalow. It hadn’t taken much to convince her to let him bring her home. Or to control the conversation during the drive. They’d covered the recent weather and a number of other unmemorable topics. And the only time she’d brought up Rheaume’s death, he’d suggested they wait until they reached her place. Her agreement had come in the form of silence.

Just inside the door, she stopped to disarm the security system and to turn on the foyer and living room lights, but then kept moving. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to put on some coffee.”

“Sure.”

As she walked on through to what he assumed was the kitchen, he didn’t follow. He wanted to give her some space. Even if she wasn’t displaying any of the obvious signs of distress, she was still coping with it internally. He recalled the first time he’d used lethal force, the way his hands had shaken for hours afterward. How, for nearly a week following the incident, even when he hadn’t been thinking about the shooting, his hands would suddenly start to tremble again.

Turning, he checked out the living room. Though the house and neighborhood dated before the 1940s, the inside of the home had been decorated with an almost loftlike starkness. Lots of metal and wood and bright colors.

He glanced at the red chair and hassock in front of the unlit fireplace and found himself wishing he could afford the luxury of just sitting, of sharing a cup of coffee with a woman without having to interrogate her.

Unfortunately he couldn’t do either of those things. He had a meeting in Boston in the morning, and in the meantime he had a job to do.

The kitchen light went on and then there was an extended stretch of silence where he was left to wonder what she was doing.

After several minutes, he finally took half a step toward the kitchen. “Can I help?”

“No,” she answered in a voice that was an octave higher than usual. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Three years,” she said over the soft thump of a cabinet door closing. “I bought it as soon as I was assigned to the Baltimore office.”

Hearing the kitchen faucet run and figuring that she’d be busy for a few minutes more at least, he stepped across the foyer and into the darkened home office. At one time the space would have been a formal dining room. Like the living room, the furnishings were also contemporary. He took off the khaki-colored trench coat and folded it over the back of the desk chair, before turning his attention to the wall of family photos.

She was the only daughter of a diplomat. Geoffrey Benedict had done stints in both France and Turkey, which accounted for Beth’s proficiency in Turkish and French. And for the numerous black-and-white photos with European and Middle-Eastern backgrounds.

Though she held a degree in accounting, he suspected the FBI had been more impressed with her language skills. Since becoming a government employee, she’d added Farsi and Spanish to the list. And with the global environment out there now, that ability would only become more important as time went on.

So why was Bill Monroe so determined to terminate her? Was she really the loose gun her personnel file suggested? Unwilling to follow orders? Unable to function as part of a team? That wasn’t the recruit Mark remembered.

He’d first noticed her in his class because, even at twenty-three, she’d been a standout. Not only physically but also intellectually. Her questions had demonstrated an awareness of world views that most of the other recruits had yet to recognize. She had intrigued him then. And she intrigued him now. Perhaps more than was wise.

Suddenly the overhead light went on. “Make yourself at home.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he didn’t miss the slight rebuff. Or that she’d taken off the coat and scarf, but didn’t appear to have checked the head wound. If she had, she would have wiped away the dried blood on the side of her neck. She had dark-gray eyes and nearly black hair that was on the short side. And if anything, she was more attractive than she’d been three years ago.

“Coffee will be a few minutes,” she offered as she took an additional step into the room. “Maybe while we’re waiting on it, you could tell me what this is about. Why you went to see Rheaume? And why you came to see me?”

He turned and faced her. “What I’m about to say can’t leave this room.” He held her gaze. “You understand?”

“Okay.” She crossed to the desk chair and sat, looking up at him, her hands resting palm up in her lap. She wanted to look at ease, but he sensed she wasn’t.

Maybe he was making a mistake here. Several members of the task force, men he trusted, had questioned the advisability of approaching Beth Benedict. But given the situation, he didn’t feel he could ignore any lead.

“Nearly four months ago, despite tight security, a canister of MX141 was taken by Harvey Thesing, a chemist who had been instrumental in its development. He not only managed to circumvent the stringent safeguards that were in place, he was also able to conceal the theft for several days.”

“And what exactly is MX141?”

“The next generation chemical weapon. So deadly that exposure to the vaporized form kills in less than a minute. With other types of exposure, either to the skin or ingestion, you’re looking at five minutes tops.”

He grabbed the remaining chair. It didn’t surprise him that she didn’t know anything about MX141. Currently, because there was a very real concern of a full-scale panic should the public learn about the theft, only key members of the administration, the defense department and Mark’s unit knew anything about it.

“By the time the theft was noticed, Thesing was dead and the container was missing. The assumption at the time was that the weapon had changed hands, and Thesing’s buyer had decided it was cheaper to pay with a bullet than with cash.”

“I’m assuming his bank account supported the theory.”

He nodded. “No unusual activity.”

She shifted her hands in her lap, the motion drawing his gaze down. She’d removed her damaged stockings. Her legs were now bare, her skin pale and smooth and…

“Any theory on who the buyer was?”

“No. We’ve been looking at a number of groups, both foreign and domestic. Thesing had recently aligned himself with environmental causes.”

“And that was four months ago?” Beth clarified, obviously trying to figure out the connection between what he was telling her and Rabbit Rheaume and even herself. And also possibly recognizing that for months now the terrorism alert level had remained in the elevated level, when, given the situation, it should have been much higher.

Mark straightened. “We’ve been chasing leads with little progress. Recently, because continued Intel hasn’t picked up any mention of the theft or the weapon, we had started to theorize that Thesing may have had second thoughts and either destroyed the MX141 or possibly hidden it somewhere. That his death had been a result of his refusal to turn it over to the buyer.”

Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and met her gaze. “And then just this morning I received a call from Rabbit Rheaume’s attorney. Rheaume claimed to have been approached in early July by a man looking to sell MX141. In exchange for the prosecution dropping a number of charges, Rheaume would give us his identity.”

Her shoulders dropped slightly. “And now Rabbit is dead?” As if she’d noticed his previous interest in her legs, she tugged at the hem of the navy-blue skirt, tucking one ankle in even more tightly behind the other.

It was a prim-and-proper pose that he suspected she’d perfected during the years when she’d acted as her father’s unofficial hostess following her mother’s death.

“And you don’t really think it’s a coincidence. You think whoever has the chemical weapon knew Rheaume was about to give him up?”

“The timing and the way it went down certainly leaves open the possibility.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How did it happen?”

“An inmate using a shiv got Rabbit in the jugular. He was dead before prison guards could get to him.”

“And the inmate? Did you question him?”

“Didn’t get the chance. A guard shot him.” Mark clasped his hands in front of him. “Right now we’re interviewing any recent visitors the inmate had, but there’s only a few and none of them look promising.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If it was a hit, someone would have needed to contact him to set it up, wouldn’t they?”

“Sure. But it looks as if there may have been a middle man, another inmate who was involved. A go-between. Who, even if we’re lucky enough to ID him, obviously isn’t going to talk. At least not right away.”

She nodded. “So you’re hoping I can help in some way?”

“At the time of the theft and the possible contact between our unsub and Rheaume, you would have still been working the money laundering case. Any chance you saw or heard anything?”

Beth’s mouth tightened briefly before she answered. “I saw and heard a lot during those eighteen months as Rabbit’s assistant, but unfortunately, none of it pointed to Rabbit’s involvement in the sale of any type of weapon, even assault rifles. And certainly nothing like a chemical weapon.”

Obviously it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely certain?” She hedged. “No. Of course not. Even though I was involved in most aspects of his business, I imagine there were instances where that wasn’t the case. Rabbit was the cautious sort. He built himself a pretty good niche business laundering money for half a dozen mid-level drug traffickers. He wouldn’t do business with large ones because they were the ones the feds were after. And he refused to take on a partner. Which is why he managed to fly under the radar for so many years and why it was so difficult to get the evidence needed to prosecute him. All that being said, though, I just can’t see his having the type of contacts who would deal in chemical weapons.”

She leaned back. “My guess, for what it’s worth, is Rabbit somehow heard about the theft and decided to use it to his advantage.”

This time when her mouth tightened, his gaze lingered on her lips for several seconds before he caught himself and forced his eyes to meet hers again. “A deal would have been contingent on the info panning out.”

“Even if it didn’t, he would have had some fun messing with the feds. Rabbit likes—” She broke off to correct herself. “Rabbit liked to mess with people. He really enjoyed watching them squirm. He was cruel like that.”

She glanced away, her voice dropping. “One minute he’d be chatting you up, the next he’d have your face in the dirt and a gun muzzle planted against the back of your skull.”

Because he’d read her file, he knew she was speaking from personal experience.

Getting to her feet, she motioned toward the kitchen. “The coffee should be ready by now. If you’re in a hurry,” she said over her shoulder, “I can put it in a to-go cup.”

She wanted him gone. Unfortunately, there was at least one more thing he needed to discuss with her. “No. I’m not in any hurry.”

After pouring two cups, she handed one to him, then retreated with the other to lean against the opposite counter. The harsh fluorescent lighting revealed the shadows beneath her eyes. She’d had a rough night, maybe a couple of rough years. Eighteen months undercover, constantly on edge, continually fearful of taking a wrong step, would have been a difficult assignment for even a seasoned agent, let alone one with just over a year’s worth of experience.

Why had she been chosen for the assignment?

He set his cup on the counter. “I think there may be one possibility you haven’t yet considered.”

“What’s that?” She blew on her coffee.

“If Rabbit Rheaume wasn’t lying, if he was killed to keep him from talking…Maybe it wasn’t Rabbit behind what happened to you tonight.”

Something flashed briefly in her eyes. Renewed fear maybe, but then it was gone. She took a quick sip and then lowered the cup. “So you’re theorizing that whoever silenced Rabbit is now trying to do the same to me? Because he believes I know something?”

“I think you have to consider the possibility. Especially given that Rabbit contacted us today and not a week from now. Why, after arranging your death, not wait to hear if Leon Tyber was successful? If he had been, there’d have been no need to contact us. To get messed up in any of this. At least, that’s my understanding. That without your testimony there was a good chance the prosecution wouldn’t get a conviction.”

She seemed to contemplate what he’d said for several seconds, and then just as quickly discarded it. “Thanks for the warning, but I’m putting my money on Rabbit. And even if I’m wrong, whoever your unsub is, he’s not stupid. He’s got to realize that if I did have any information, I would have already shared it. If not before tonight, certainly during this visit.”

Looking down at her coffee, she pushed away from the cabinetry before lifting her chin, meeting his eyes. “Besides, nothing has really changed. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for months now. I’ll just keep doing it.”

Her calm composure didn’t particularly surprise him. In essence, she was right. Nothing had really changed for her. “It still might be a good idea to stay with a friend for the next few days. Or maybe even your father. If you want, I could talk to Bill Monroe about a few days—”

She cut him off, her voice sharp. “I’ll be fine.” Her mouth briefly tightened as if she regretted her tone. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.”

“That’s not a bad idea. For both of us. I have an early flight tomorrow, and I’m sure after everything that’s happened, you must be beat.”

She remained silent. He’d been about to suggest he could sleep on her couch, an offer that, given everything he’d seen and heard to date, she wasn’t likely to appreciate.

He dumped what remained of his coffee into the stainless steel sink. But when he turned back to her, something in her expression stopped him from heading for the door. “What is it?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Did Rabbit say he’d actually met with the seller?”

“Why?”

“There was one call.” She started to bring the mug up to her lips again, but then suddenly lowered it. “It came in on July fifth. The man wouldn’t give his name, insisted on talking only to Rabbit.”

Mark noticed that her voice shook slightly now and that the knuckles on the hand grasping the mug were pale. As if it wasn’t just the cup she was trying to hold on to, but her composure, too. It was a definite departure from her behavior of several seconds ago. As much as he would have liked to be concerned about the emotional shift, he couldn’t be right now.

“Did he take the call?”

She nodded. “In his private office. Afterward, when he came out, he was in a mood and said something about having limits.” She put the mug down and crossed her arms in front of her. “And that some things weren’t for sale.”

The fifth…The theft had occurred on the second, so the timing made it possible. And since she’d provided a date, going through the calls from that day wouldn’t take much effort. But why would she find a discussion about a phone call from four months ago unsettling? Maybe when he heard it, he’d have a better understanding.

“I’ll need you to listen to the recordings from that day. Tell me which—”

“There aren’t any.”

“What do you mean? Certainly if there was an ongoing investigation—”

“There was a problem with the phone taps. I’d just been alerted to the situation and assumed the call, the one we’re talking about, was somehow connected to the problem. That my cover had been blown.” She grimaced. “Which turned out to be true, but not until much later.”

“But you’re fairly confident now that the call wasn’t related to your cover, but to something else?”

“I’m not certain, no. But looking back, recalling Rabbit’s behavior, I don’t think he knew until that afternoon that I was a fed. He wasn’t usually the patient sort.”

“You mean because he didn’t confront you until later.”

She offered up a wry smile. “Yeah. Because the incident didn’t take place until later.” Her emphasis on the word seemed to suggest something, but he didn’t allow himself to get sidetracked.

“I assume the phone company had a trap on the line, too?”

She offered a stiff nod. “Sure. And we got a phone number. Unfortunately, it belonged to a public pay phone outside a laundromat.”

He inhaled sharply. Jesus. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d worked a case like this one, where he was thwarted at every turn. “I know I’m talking a long shot here, but is there any possibility that you could recognize the voice if you heard it again?”

For several seconds she continued to meet his gaze and then, tightening her arms in front of her, she closed her eyes. Her brows drew down over them, her head cocking ever so slightly to the left. As if she listened to something only she could hear.

Waiting for her response, his gaze dipped to her mouth. Her lips were softly full, the remnants of lipstick clinging to the shapely outer edges. As he watched, they parted, the tip of her tongue running along the lower one briefly before disappearing again.

His pulse had immediately accelerated as he watched, but it was several seconds before he realized that more than just his heart had been impacted. Fighting the tension in his lower body, he averted his eyes.

He found himself recalling the last time he’d reacted similarly to a woman. It had been nineteen months, three days and counting.

And because he’d allowed himself to get distracted, she was dead. It was that final memory that destroyed whatever sexual tension remained, leaving behind the cold emptiness he’d come to accept as a necessity. Because it allowed him to do his job.

When he lifted his chin, his eyes met her slightly narrowed ones. He got the oddest sensation that she somehow knew where his thoughts had gone.

She inhaled sharply, looking slightly unsettled. “Would I recognize the voice? Maybe.”

LESS THAN SEVEN hours later at 4:30 a.m. Mark was in the hotel exercise room, wrapping up mile four on the treadmill while Colton Larson sat on the edge of a bench working with free weights. Because of the early hour, they had the relatively soundproof space to themselves.

A television mounted high in one corner was tuned to CNN, but the volume was turned off, the closed caption scrambling across the bottom of the screen. Mark read the story covering a congressional investigation. “Another lobbyist bites the dust.”

Larson was still too focused on what they’d been talking about before, though, to show any interest in the Carson scandal.

“I can’t believe you’re even considering this,” Larson said. “Adding Beth Benedict to the team.” The dumbbell he’d been using made a soft thump and clang as he exchanged it for a heavier one. “I’m not downplaying her language skills. Or suggesting that they aren’t ones that we’re in need of since Ledbetter was pulled off the team. But her background is in forensic accounting, for godsake, not counterterrorism.”

“She was at the top of her class three years ago. She impressed not just me but her other instructors, too.”

Larson’s mouth tightened. “I’m just questioning if she’s the best we can do. If one of us has to break pace to bring her up to date on four months of investigation, you’re not really adding manpower, you’re losing it. At least temporarily.”

Mark upped the treadmill speed, lengthening his stride into a full sprint. He understood Larson’s reservations because he shared a number of them. “I haven’t made any kind of decision yet.”

With an intense expression, Larson pumped away. Sweat collected at the end of his nose. He blew out, dislodging it. “Bill Monroe isn’t an idiot. If he’s limiting her to administrative duties and has her seeing a shrink, there’s a reason.” Larson released the twenty-pound weight and straightened. “And from what I hear, she was so spooked by getting locked in that car trunk, she can’t even get on a damn elevator. You’re going to have a hard time finding anyone who wants her covering their back.”

Everything Larson said was true. She wasn’t an ideal choice. In fact, when Mark had been working his way down the pro and con list at 3:00 a.m., the cons had been a runaway train. Her emotional health was questionable; she didn’t have a background in counterterrorism; not one of his agents would be eager to work with her.

And as far as recognizing the voice on the phone that day, even if she had the ability, it wouldn’t do them any good until they had a suspect in custody, and even then it was unlikely to be admissible in court. On top of all those things there was nothing to say with any certainty that the call was even related to the current situation.

In the pro column, though, she would bring something to the table that no other candidate could.

Mark adjusted the treadmill speed downward, slowing his pace. “I think you’re overlooking one crucial fact. She may be the only connection we have to our unsub. If it wasn’t Rabbit who hired Leon Tyber, but our unsub, there’s always the possibility he’ll come after her again.”

“I agree. Use her as bait. But that doesn’t necessarily require that she be part of the team. If the unsub wants her dead, he’s just as likely to go after her here in Baltimore. Ask that she be placed under constant surveillance.”

Larson was right. Mark could handle it that way, but he wouldn’t. He grabbed a towel from the basket next to the door and wiped down. He’d request that Beth be added to the team this morning before leaving Baltimore.

As it had several times since he’d left her place last night, his mind drifted slightly off-topic and into more personal avenues, where he wasn’t so much thinking about her as an agent but as a woman. Even during their short conversation, he’d found himself distracted more than once by her attractiveness. It seemed reasonable to assume her presence would impact at least a few members of his team in the same way.

He had just draped the towel around his neck when his cell phone went off. Even as he reached for it, he and Larson glanced toward the television, focusing on the closed caption, looking for the kind of bad news that would lead to a predawn call, but the text at the bottom of the screen still dealt with the lobbying scandal.

The ringer sounding a third time, Mark checked the number to the incoming call. It was his SAC, special agent in charge, David Daughtry.

As he listened to what Daughtry had to say, the knot in Mark’s chest—the one he’d been battling recently—tightened. He sank onto the closest bench. Larson sat only a few feet away having abandoned his weights, his elbows propped on his knees as he listened.

Even from the one-sided conversation, it would be obvious to him that after months of chasing a ghost, they’d officially run out of time. The investigation had suddenly rocketed into a whole new phase. With even higher stakes.

Disconnecting less than three minutes later, Mark dragged the towel from around his neck and tossed it toward the hamper. Bellingham, North Carolina. He’d never heard of it, had no idea what larger, more-familiar city it was located near. He soon would.

When was the last time he visited a city, a town, a destination where something bad hadn’t just happened? When was the last time he’d climbed onto a plane with a bathing suit and not a business suit packed in his luggage?

Larson’s face had gone from flushed to pale. “It’s finally happened, hasn’t it?”

“Too early to be certain. Call came in just over an hour ago, requesting our assistance.”

“Where?”

“Bellingham, North Carolina.” Mark tried to breathe past the knot. “A high school.”

Larson swiped the sweat from his face with a single hand. “How many casualties?”

Mark climbed to his feet. “Two.”

Still sitting, Larson looked up in surprise, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Only two?”

Two casualties. Mark knew he should be relieved by the number, but somehow it didn’t make any difference. Even two was too many.

Taking a deep breath, he then let it out slowly. The maneuver didn’t help. The tightness in his chest was still there. “Obviously, if it was MX141, it’s just a warm-up exercise.”




Chapter Four (#ulink_cc3f9fdf-743a-5017-b873-1a7aeeef7e91)


Breathing hard, Beth hefted the sledgehammer to waist level, her right hand choking down near the steel head, her left one sliding to the very end of the wooden shaft before tightening. A radio tuned to a rock station blared in the background, and construction dust floated around her. Good thing her neighbors were out of town.

The decision to take out the wall between her kitchen and the small breakfast room had been a spur-of-the-moment one when she couldn’t sleep. Perhaps it was a bigger project than was sensible to take on like that, but she’d needed some kind of physical activity to block out the nonproductive thoughts that had been plaguing her since Mark’s departure.

When she’d last checked it had been 4:00 a.m., but that probably had been more than an hour ago. In another thirty minutes or so, she’d need to shower and get dressed. Start psyching herself up for another round of questioning by some of Baltimore PD’s finest and for a face-to-face with Bill Monroe. The first wouldn’t require much in the way of preparation, but the latter would. Undoubtedly, Monroe would find some way to turn last night’s attempt on her life to his advantage.

She nudged aside the two-by-four that had fallen, widening her stance once more as she studied the framing above the doorway. She’d been at the demolition for possibly three hours now and her muscles were beginning to slow even if her mind wasn’t.

“Name three things—” she heaved in a breath “—that are deader than a doornail.”

She’d lost track of the times she’d ticked off the first two. Leon Tyber. Rabbit Rheaume. And since it was only her testimony during Rheaume’s upcoming trial that had been keeping Bill Monroe in check, her career was likely to be number three on the hit list.

Unless Mark intervened.

But that still didn’t justify what she’d done. She’d intentionally misled him when she’d said she might be able to recognize the voice if she heard it again—an exaggeration born of a desperate desire to save her career. A prime example of careerism.

Her gut roiled with guilt. She’d sat there in the garage tonight with Tom, acting as if she possessed more integrity, pretending that her principles were superior to his, when in reality they weren’t.

Her biceps and shoulder muscles tensed as she lifted the sledgehammer higher still, taking careful aim. She put all her weight and upper-body strength into the swing, but as soon as iron struck wood, she quickly stepped back. The loosened chunk of framing slammed to the floor, kicking up a small cloud of plaster dust.

What if Mark had known he was being manipulated? And even if he hadn’t, even if he bought the idea that she might recognize the voice, would he be likely to go to Bill Monroe?

If not, her awkward attempt to save her job wasn’t going to be worth squat. It would be only a matter of time before she was sent for a fitness-for-duty exam. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Bill Monroe was already making the arrangements. Which meant that in a matter of weeks, even before Christmas rolled around, she could be out of a job.

The idea left her feeling as if she’d been sliced open, twenty feet of gut pulled out and run through a meat grinder. From the time she’d been eleven and had written to the FBI, asking for a silhouette target, she had dreamed of becoming an agent. She had worked hard, acquiring skills to give herself the all-important leg up over the competition.

And now it was very likely going to be taken away from her. Just like that. Because she’d confronted Bill Monroe. Because she’d believed the oath she’d taken to protect the American public was a sacred one—more important than anything else…even the survival of her career.

Recognizing that she’d allowed her thoughts once more to get bogged down in things she had no control over, she shifted her grip on the sledgehammer.

Maybe what she needed to worry about was how she was going to live with herself if Mark did believe her. She’d lied to a man whom she held in great respect. She was intentionally trying to use him to save her ass. Both of which made her extremely uncomfortable.

She heaved out a breath. “Let’s not pull punches here. Everything about the man makes you uncomfortable.” That damn intense gaze. Those probing questions. And that lean body was pretty damn hard to ignore, too. All those lovely muscles…

She suddenly realized she was about to start down yet another wrong road, one with even less value than the previous one. What she needed to do was remain completely focused on the really important things right now.

“Name four things that are deader than a doornail…Leon. Rabbit. Your career.” Ducking her head, she used her forearm to wipe sweat from her forehead. “And coming in at number four on tonight’s big countdown…what’s left of your integrity.”

Negotiating around the debris, she raised the sledgehammer into position again, her shoulder muscles fighting to retain control.

“Name five things that are deader than a doornail…”

Here was where it got scarier. At least on a personal level. If Mark was right, if it hadn’t been Rabbit behind the attempt on her life tonight, there was every possibility that she’d be number five on her own list.

When Mark had first posed the potential risk, it hadn’t really unsettled her. Because it had seemed as if nothing had really changed. For four months now she’d been looking over her shoulder, believing Rheaume might try to have her killed. But now that she’d given it some more consideration, she realized that it was different. Seriously different.

As crazy as it was on a subconscious level at least, she hadn’t been overly afraid of Rabbit. Because she’d survived his first attempt to kill her, she felt more confident that she would be victorious again if put to the test.

But they were no longer talking a midlevel money launderer out to get her. They were talking terrorists here. The real deal.

Definitely not a comfortable thought.

Dropping the sledgehammer, she left it standing on its head as she stepped around the fifty-five-gallon trash can to reach the bottle of water on the counter. She tugged off the face mask, leaving it dangling around her neck.

It was as she took the first swig that the room’s condition registered fully. Believing her safety glasses responsible for most of the fuzziness, she removed them. The haziness remained. And that was only the beginning. Dark electrical wires dangled from the ceiling like long tentacles, their safely capped ends of neon yellow and orange swaying slightly. Pebblelike chunks of plaster had fallen out of the lath as she’d ripped the ceiling down and now resembled gravel strewn across the old floor.

Reaching over, she turned down the radio. What in the hell had she been thinking? Starting a demolition when there was a chance that she’d have to put her house on the market? No job, therefore no money for mortgage.

But as with most things in her life right now, there obviously was no turning back.

As she reached for the sledge again, someone pounded on the front door. She glanced at the clock—5:55 a.m. Who the hell…?

Dread beginning to pool at her core, she shed the safety glasses and retrieved the .45 automatic—her home-protection weapon—from the counter.

Maybe it was just a neighbor in trouble, but she didn’t think so. Given the past twelve hours, she felt fairly certain Mark had been right. That Rabbit had nothing to do with the attempt on her life. That someone had come to correct Leon Tyber’s mistake.

Flicking off the safety, she pulled aside the plastic sheeting she’d used to seal the kitchen from the rest of the house and stepped into the hall. There were no lights on in this part of the house, and she left it that way, preferring not to give whoever was out there a heads-up.

She took up a precautionary position just to the right of the door and out of the direct line of fire in case the person on the other side was planning to pump a few rounds through the solid wood panel. Whoever it was had finally located the door buzzer and punched it a dozen times in rapid succession. Her already fatigued muscles contracted as if the zaps of sound were short blasts of electric current.

Taking a deep breath, she shifted her index finger from the trigger guard to the trigger. “Who is it?” she called through the door.

“Mark Gerritsen.”

The sound of his voice only served to make the adrenaline kick a little faster. What would he be doing here at this time of morning? She hadn’t anticipated any additional contact with him, at least not right away. As she’d shown him out last night, he’d mentioned having to catch an early flight to Boston.

“Beth?”

“Give me a sec.” Still holding the automatic, she punched in the security code to the alarm system and then worked the dead bolt.

As soon as she had the door open, almost before she had time to move aside, he slipped past her, accompanied by a gust of frigid air.

He was dressed in a suit and an overcoat. If not for the fact that he was clean shaven and that he smelled of soap, shampoo and cologne, she might have questioned if he’d been to bed since she’d last seen him.

In sharp contrast to his impeccable grooming, she wore paint-spattered, low-rise sweatpants, an old FBI T-shirt that she’d long ago cropped and a face mask clogged with construction dust. And since she hadn’t bothered to brush her hair when she climbed out of bed it was matted to her skull. Not exactly how any woman wanted to be caught. Especially by an attractive, well-dressed male.

“You should try answering your phone,” he offered tersely, his brows drawn down tight over his eyes.

What in the world was with him? Just because she hadn’t answered her phone at an unreasonable hour, he decided to drive all the way out here at this time of morning? And then is irritated…? She frowned. Was it possible that when he hadn’t been able to reach her, he’d grown concerned? She found the possibility that he might have been checking on her intriguing.

By the time she turned around again, he’d wandered as far as the kitchen doorway and was pulling aside the plastic sheeting. Before she could stop him, he ducked through.

Obviously, he expected her to follow. For a brief moment she debated staying where she was, forcing him to return to the foyer, but then decided playing power games with Mark as an adversary was stupid at best. Mostly because she was unlikely to win, and it would eat up time better spent getting ready for work.

She jerked off the face mask and then, tugging up the neck of her T-shirt almost as if she was stripping it off, she used the less dusty inside to wipe her face before following him into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“I could ask the same thing.” He glanced at her. “Is this your idea of midnight therapy?”

Midnight therapy? For the second time in a matter of minutes, she scanned the mess she’d created, recognizing how it must appear to an outsider. To Mark. As if she’d lost her mind. And maybe she had.

Screw it. He was going to think what he was going to think.

Stepping past him, she turned off the radio. “I hadn’t planned to start demolition until this weekend.” The lie came with surprising ease. “But physical activity helps me think.”

She folded her arms across her, her forearms settling against her bare midriff. “Now what’s going on?” she repeated. “I know you’re not here to discuss my renovation schedule.”

She saw indecision in his eyes, as if he was wondering the same thing—why in the hell he was there. Or maybe he actually had been concerned about her, but for obvious reasons was now hesitant to admit it.

“You’ve been assigned to the task force, and there’s been a development. You need to get packed.”

“I’ve been what?” She managed to keep her voice in check, but certainly not her thoughts.

She hadn’t given any consideration to the possibility he might actually request her transfer. The most she’d anticipated was a reprieve. One that would give her some time and a shot at another investigation where she could shine in her field—in forensic accounting. Which wasn’t likely to happen in a counterterrorism outfit where the other team members would have been handpicked because of their extensive knowledge of terrorist groups and activities.

“I requested your reassignment,” he clarified.

In the middle of the night? Had he awakened Bill Monroe? Or someone at FBI headquarters? Normally a transfer didn’t happen instantaneously, and the idea that this one had left her feeling uncertain.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why would you do that?” It didn’t surprise her that he had pull, but that he would use it to get her transferred did. What could be that urgent? Then she replayed everything in her head a second time. “You said there’s been a development. What kind?”

His eyes met hers, but there was a disconnect in them that hadn’t been there earlier tonight. A sense that he saw her, but that he was no longer emotionally involved with her on a human level.

So it hadn’t been concern for her after all. She was caught off guard by the level of her disappointment.

“I’ll fill you in on the plane. Right now you need to get cleaned up and packed.”

Tightening her arms, she lifted her chin. “I think you need to know that I may have misled you somewhat about my ability to recognize the voice.”

“That has nothing to do with the reason I made the request.”

“Then what does?”

“Whoever wants you dead…If they sent someone after you once, they may do it again. If they do, we’ve got a shot at getting to them before…” Mark didn’t finish the thought.

Why not finish it? What exactly had happened? And then the last pieces fell into place.

“It’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“Maybe. We’re waiting for the FBI lab to make the confirmation. Now get dressed.”

Beth shoved the gun into her waistband. At least now she knew why he hadn’t finished his earlier statement. And the reason for the disconnect in his eyes. She had suddenly become a means to an end. An instrument he could use. That he could exploit.

She jerked off the mask, dropped it on the pile of rubble. “So you want to use me as bait?”

His mouth tightened. “Sweetheart, you are bait. I can’t change that. But I fully intend to take advantage of it.”




Chapter Five (#ulink_26d41dbf-bc4b-57fe-a11e-239952a0bd08)


Ducking because of the limited headroom, Mark walked up the tight aisle of the Cessna Citation. The pilot, a man in his early thirties, glanced up from the instrument panel. Seeing Mark, he flipped the mike away from his lips.

“We’ll be taking off in the next ten to fifteen minutes. We’ve got some more weather coming in from the west, so the ride’s going to be bumpy. You might want to grab coffee and a doughnut from the beverage center before we get in the air.” He motioned to the magazine rack. “I shoved a USA TODAY in there somewhere, too. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” After digging out the newspaper, Mark bypassed the first seat because it faced backward. He preferred to see where he was going.

Larson had followed him onboard. Still talking on a cell phone, he dropped down into the seat facing Mark’s, leaving Beth five more to choose from.

She hesitated just inside the door, one hand resting on a seat back as she gave quick consideration to her options. Mark saw her gaze briefly connect with Larson as she took the seat across the aisle from Mark’s.

When she and Larson had met fifteen minutes ago, he hadn’t bothered to hide his opinion of her. Or of Mark’s decision to add her to the unit. She’d handled the rebuff surprisingly well, and had maintained a professional aloofness since.





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