by Dani Pettrey
The sound of Gracie on Luke’s lips—the nickname he’d whispered during their most tender, most in-love moments—echoed through her soul. She swallowed, hugging her knees to her chest as they drove to Luke’s hotel, but where that was, she had no clue.
Luke had apologized for leaving, the words sincere and pained, and he’d kissed her—a kiss that tickled her soul. But what did that all mean after so much time? And why should it even matter?
But it did. It mattered immensely, and that realization heated the frustration pulsing through her veins. How could her feelings betray her so easily? All it took was an apology and a kiss, and love pounded in her for a man who’d wounded her beyond measure.
Speaking of wounding . . . She blinked as her mind shifted to the realization that she’d just lost her home and most of her belongings. Everything was a blur, a distant dream, as if she were sleepwalking. She was in a combination of shock and survival mode, but as soon as the adrenaline wore off, the real pain would come. She braced herself for it, praying Luke didn’t know she was fighting off tears, but surely he’d seen . . .
Luke pulled into the rear lot of what could aptly be described as a down-on-its-luck motel.
Not that she was a hotel snob like her mom—far from it. She’d done her fair share of backpacking across states, camping on beaches, staying in three-star hotels, but this looked like something out of Deliverance.
He rolled to a stop, cut the engine and the lights.
She unbuckled. “Please tell me this is a pit stop on the way to the real hotel.”
He chuckled. “This is it, at least for the night.”
She stepped from the car as he did. “This from the college guy who refused to stay at any hotel chain under four stars.” He and her mom had gotten along great.
“Let’s just say my time in the field gave me a fresh appreciation for any place with a solid roof over my head, running water, and electricity.”
“Never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth.” She wondered more about his time away, where and how it was spent, but she imagined there was little he could share.
He unlocked his door with an extra jiggle of the key and held it open for her. She stepped inside, and as he flipped on the light switch she felt she’d stepped back in time.
Retro nineties was the style. Either that, or the room had been the same for nigh on three decades. Sadly, she was betting the latter. The walls were a deep charcoal gray with a handful of colors painted in zigzag patterns on the far wall. The chairs around the round chrome-and-glass dining table to her right were padded in black pleather. To the left was a double bed with a black, purple, and aqua-striped comforter, a chrome-and-glass nightstand on either side, topped with chrome gooseneck lamps and a square black clock with green digital numbers, like the one she’d had when she was a kid.
But her focus quickly shifted from the furnishings to the fact that there was one bed and—she spun back around to be certain—no sofa. She rubbed her arms. “Um . . . sleeping arrangements?” She gestured to the bed.
He grabbed a pillow off the bed. “No worries. I’ll take the floor.”
She glanced at the worn gray carpet. “Please don’t.”
He arched a brow, and she grimaced. “The floor is beyond scary.”
“I’ll take the extra blanket out of the closet and fashion a makeshift sleeping bag.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll be fine. I don’t—”
“Sleep much. I know.”
“Go ahead.” He gestured to the bed. “Get some sleep. I’ve got you.”
She’d heard that before—mere days before he’d left.
Climbing into bed, she swiped at the tears beginning to fall and shifted her gaze to the phone. “I’d better call Tanner and Declan and let them know I’m okay,” she said.
“You think they’ve already heard about the explosion?”
“I’m sure they heard police dispatched to the marina, and Declan’s place isn’t far away.”
He skimmed a hand across his forehead. “I guess I forgot about keeping others in the loop.”
“Yeah, you did.”
That wounded him. She could read the pain on his pinched brow. She just kept darting jabs his way.
Why?
Because she wanted him to hurt as she did?
No. She wouldn’t ever wish that on another.
Because he deserved it?
Perhaps, but she wanted to believe she was better than that.
It was simply because the hurt inside of her was screaming so loudly, she feared if she didn’t lash out in anger, she’d fall right back into his arms. And that couldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it. She was stronger than that, had been for so many years, but something had shifted the moment she saw him standing before her. All of a sudden she was that college girl hopelessly in love with a college boy who’d promised her the world.
“The bedcovers aren’t the warmest. Let me get you a sweatshirt, and I’ll crank up the heater,” he said, after standing awkwardly still while her thoughts ran wild.
He grabbed the sweatshirt, and though the room wasn’t horrible temperature-wise, he insisted on making it as comfortable as he could.
She slipped on his sweatshirt, its scent of Old Spice reminding her of being in his arms so many times. Shaking off the memories clamoring to be remembered, she picked up the phone and called Tanner, assuring both her and Declan that she was fine.
Hanging up, she turned to find Luke standing over a makeshift bed on the floor. She couldn’t seriously allow him to sleep on that ratty flooring. “You can’t sleep on that.”
“I’ve slept on far worse.” He reached for the light switch.
She bit her lip, leery about falling back asleep after waking up the way she had. A man pouncing on her bed—even if it was Luke—a bomb decimating her home, and nearly everything she owned gone in a single blast. She longed for a night of company and old reruns to soothe her soul, just like they’d done back in college, but dare she go there? Dare she let down her guard enough to enjoy a few hours’ reprieve with Luke? Could she enjoy simply being in his presence after so many years apart? “Would you leave the lights on for a bit? I’m not quite ready to go to sleep.”
He looked poised to argue but apparently thought better of it. “Sure.” He gestured to the bathroom. “Would you like to use it before I go in?”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “Go ahead.”
“Okay. I’ll be out in five. I think I have an extra toothbrush for you in my backpack for the morning. I’ll leave it and some soap on the sink for you. Anything else you need?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” She’d grab a change of clothes at her office before heading to the Bureau. Thankfully, she spent so much time at CCI, she kept a fair number of items and necessities there—so she hadn’t lost everything.
Luke moved for the bathroom and shut the door behind him. The water trickled in the sink as she clicked on the big, boxy TV set.
Channel surfing, she found I Love Lucy reruns. She’d watched less than a minute of the chocolate factory episode when Luke opened the bathroom door. He stood there, his hair combed, face freshly washed, his shirt off and clutched in his hand.
She did her best not to gape, again.
“I hoped you’d be asleep. You need your rest.”
“Like I said, I’m not ready to sleep yet.”
He narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to figure out what he could do to help. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
She pulled her knees up to her chest, his sweatshirt soft and comfy. “Any chance this place has a vending machine?”
“Yep. What’s your fancy?”
She hadn’t heard that question from him since college.
“Doritos and—”
“Ho-Hos?”
It’d been their late-night snack of choice throughout college.
“And Mountain Dew?” he said with a soft smile tickling his lips.
She nodded. He remembered.
“Still haven’t figured out how that doesn’t keep you up all night.”
“Just me, I guess.” She shrugged, swallowing as he put his shirt back on, slid his gun into the back of his jeans, and headed for the door.
“I’ll be back in two shakes,” he said. “Lock the door behind me.”
She did as he instructed, then glanced out the curtains as he walked down the concrete corridor and out of sight.
Suddenly she felt extremely vulnerable—like the target she was.
Flipping the curtains back into place, she moved away from the window.
“Better to let them think they succeeded.”
But the tail following the explosion proved the killer knew he’d failed, that they’d lived.
How long until he figured out where they were?
How long until the next hit?
6
Luke tugged on the knobs of the old-fashioned vending machine, scanning the perimeter while he waited for the bag of Doritos to fall into the bay. Their surroundings were clear. He’d lost the tail, and it appeared no one had figured out where he was staying—at least not yet. They’d switch locations tomorrow night. He prayed Kate wouldn’t balk at remaining by his side until this was finally over. He’d no doubt have a battle before him, convincing her of the necessity to remain with him, but it was a battle he’d win—even if it meant he had to sit outside the door of wherever she chose to stay. He would not leave her side until Ebeid was behind bars or dead.
Grabbing the remaining items for Kate, along with a bag of Cheetos and a grape Shasta for himself, he returned to the room. Unlocking the door, he found Kate lying on her stomach, socked feet up in the air, kicking back and forth, her elbows propped an inch from the foot of the bed.
His mind flashed to all the nights they’d spent talking, studying, and watching old reruns throughout college. They’d been the best years of his life.
“Thanks,” she said as she shifted to sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed. He handed her the treats, and she wasted no time opening them. She started with the Mountain Dew, which fizzed as she popped it open, and then she took a long, slow sip.
He moved to sit on the floor, his back to the bed, but she shifted to the side and patted the spot next to her. “It’s fine.”
He looked up at her. “You sure?”
“Don’t worry. My hands are occupied.” She smirked, dipping her hand back into the Doritos bag. She’d smacked him the night of their reunion, right after they’d shared the most amazing kiss. He’d never gone from a moment of pleasure to one of pain quite so quickly before.
He sat on the bed beside her, not worried about receiving another slap, but rather trying to be conscious of what made her comfortable or, more so, uncomfortable.
He longed for nothing more than to be close to her, to comfort her. She’d just lost her home and all her belongings, and she was taking it in stride. She was one strong lady, but she’d always been so.
It was a huge part of what attracted him to her. Her mix of strength and vulnerability, which stirred his soul like nothing else. It was why he’d believed she could weather his leaving—and Malcolm had promised him it was only to be for a short period of time. One assignment on a team that needed “a man like him.” Malcolm had played to his ego and pride, and Luke allowed the persuasion and flattery to work, not to mention Luke’s own certainty that he could negate a threat to the country he loved. But time passed rapidly, and the longer he was gone, the harder it seemed to return. After a while, and after who the job had turned him into, he thought it might be better for Kate if he didn’t come back at all. Besides, until Ebeid was behind bars, no one was safe. He’d stayed in the Agency to protect her and their country, and yet he longed for nothing more than to be back at her side.
He glanced at the TV screen. “I Love Lucy,” he said, popping his soda open. “Still one of your favorites?”
“Yep, and Green Acres, of course.”
That show was what she’d fallen asleep to pretty much every night at UMD. She’d crash, and he’d cover her up, kiss her forehead, and head back to his dorm room.
Gratitude welled in his heart for this time together, this moment that felt frozen in time, a gift from God.
The chocolate factory episode ended, and the next began. In it, Lucy headed to the dress store with Ethel in tow. He’d seen this one too. Seen them all. He’d embarrassingly enough bought the entire I Love Lucy DVD collection and carried a single season in his laptop DVD drive wherever he went, so he could fall asleep—when he’d actually been able to fall asleep—with thoughts of Kate and better times dancing through his mind.
“I guess I have a good excuse to go shopping now that all my clothes are gone,” she said, a hint of laughter forced into her voice, but he saw past the façade—he always had—to her underlying sadness.
“I’m sorry, Katie.”
She shrugged. “They were just things.”
Kate had never been big on material things, but it’d always been her dream to live on a boat and to sail around the world. She’d accomplished the first part of that dream, and now it was gone. That had to be crushing. Yet one more thing Ebeid had taken away.
Anger flared, and he pumped out his fists to release the adrenaline suddenly surging through him. He’d ask if she had insurance but didn’t want to open that can of worms in case she didn’t, and even if she did, it wasn’t the same. You couldn’t just replace a lifetime’s worth of belongings, no matter how badly you ached to.
“I guess I’ll stay with Tanner and Declan until I can find a new home,” she said before popping a Dorito in her mouth, the smell of cheese filling the air.
“You’re staying with me until this op is over.”
She looked at him with raised brows. “One, I can handle myself. And, two, Declan and Tanner aren’t slackers in the protection area either.”
“And I respect their skills, but they aren’t me.”
“Okay, Mr. Cocky. . . .”
“It’s not cocky if it’s true.” His training was on a far higher level than what the Bureau provided. He wasn’t trying to be arrogant.
She fluttered her eyes in that way only she could. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous or not, you’re at my side until I see this finished.”
A knock rapped on Khaled Ebeid’s bedroom door, jarring him awake.
He sat up, blinking the bleariness from his eyes, and glanced at the clock. 5:13 a.m.
He clicked on the bedside lamp. “Yes?” he called, knowing in his gut Cyrus had failed or he’d still be sound asleep.
Cyrus cracked the door open and poked his head in with apprehension. “I apologize, sir, for waking you. . . .”
“But you failed.”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus’s voice cracked. “Garrett Beck and Kate Maxwell survived the explosion.”
Khaled sat up straighter, stiffening. “Explosion?”
“Yes, sir. I succeeded in blowing up Miss Maxwell’s boat, where she and Agent Beck were sleeping.”
Heat boiled in his veins. “And yet you still managed to fail?” Two right-hand men and both had failed him. It was time to bring in a professional assassin, and he knew just the wet asset for the job. One who freelanced to the highest bidder. One they’d never see coming.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Cyrus said.
Khaled pulled the gun with silencer from the nightstand. It was time to get his hands dirty and send a message—he would no longer permit incompetence.
Two squeezes of the trigger and Cyrus crumpled face-first to the floor.
7
Griffin and Finley boarded a plane for Houston, still dragging from only a few hours’ sleep, but Griffin was thrilled to be taking his wife out of town after the attack at CCI. Both had requested a period of leave from their jobs to make the Houston trip and to commit a good amount of time to focus on finding his sister’s killer.
Griffin balanced the stack of Agent Stev
en Burke’s files on his lap, ready to dig in. On his own time, Burke had been working the case of a friend’s daughter, Chelsea Miller, who had been kidnapped and murdered, and her body found washed up on shore. The case quickly turned cold when all leads fizzled out. But Burke refused to give up and kept working Chelsea’s case until his own murder two months ago.
Burke’s work hadn’t been in vain, however. His digging had revealed a similar M.O. in the murders of seven other young women, including Griffin’s sister, Jenna, who appeared to have been the first victim. After hers, Burke had found two more murders near Wilmington, North Carolina, and most recently, five in the Houston area—Chelsea’s included.
For the first time in almost a decade, Griffin had real hope Jenna’s killer might finally be brought to justice.
Before his death, Agent Burke had surreptitiously marked seven code words in a book—seven words Griffin believed tied to the women’s cases. He couldn’t be sure that all seven words fit all the murders, but multiple words from Burke’s list seemed to fit each case.
Leader. Glock. Handcuffed. Message. Wrists. Barn. Agent.
Seven words. Seven victims. Coincidence? Unfortunately, Griffin believed so. Sadly, in his opinion, the killer wasn’t done. And maybe there were others out there Burke hadn’t connected to the case.
Every word tugged hard at Griffin, but the one that wrenched most was the last. Agent.
Had Burke narrowed the suspect pool down to a profession or, even better, an individual? If so, what type of agent? So many existed—real estate agent, ticket-counter agent for an airline or car rentals, talent agent. Was his profession how he lured his female victims, promising them money or fame?
There was no way Jenna would fall for something like that. She’d had no interest in fame. Her world had wrapped around family, faith, loved ones, the water, and her hometown. She dreamed of being a wife and mom one day—raising her family in Chesapeake Harbor as she and Griffin had been. But that had all been cut short. In the blink of an eye, she was gone.