Quick movement beside her drew her attention. Way cocked his arm back and—no.
Stop him. Roni jumped, literally leaping, inserting herself between the two men.
“Don’t.” She threw her full body weight against Way, pushing on his chest. “You can’t do this. It’ll only make it worse. Please.”
“Go ahead,” Karl taunted. “Hit me. Give me a reason to have your ass locked up. I don’t give a goddamn if your sister is the sheriff.”
Damned Karl, knew exactly what he was doing. In the intelligence community, research was king. He’d know what buttons to press on Way.
And he’d done it. Just jammed his finger against the family button and held it.
A spurt of something fierce and wild scorched Roni’s skin. Some weapons should never be fired. Family being one of them.
She whirled on Karl, curling her fingers in tight fists, squeezing so hard pain shot straight to her knuckles.
Karl had accused her of being used by Way when the CIA had done the same damned thing. They’d sent her here, expecting her to be a good little soldier by leveraging her friendship with Maggie to pin these murders on Way.
Civil duty or not, she didn’t like being a pawn.
Or misled.
This entire situation stunk, and the cynical, streetwise part of her itched to believe Karl and Don Harding had orchestrated one hell of a cover-up.
Another thing that pissed her off.
“Pack your stuff,” Karl said. “Get your ass back to Langley. I’ll deal with you there.”
He’ll deal with her? As if nearly getting killed was her fault?
I’m so done.
With Way behind her, so close that their bodies bumped and the scent of his soap lingered, she lifted her chin, pushed her shoulders back.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not until I figure out how those bullets got out of Langley.” She stepped even closer, propping her hands on her hips. “Because one thing is for sure. Way Kingston is innocent in all this. Either you can’t face that or you’re trying to save Don Harding’s rear. I won’t stop until I know what happened.”
She moved away from Karl, tossing a glance over her shoulder at Way, who wore a happy, satisfied grin. “I’m done here. Let’s go.”
“Hey,” Karl called, his voice sharper than a guillotine blade. “The only place you’re going is Langley. Right fucking now.”
Way by her side, Roni kept walking. “Sorry, Karl. No can do. If I were you, I’d get my ducks in a row.”
“You realize what you’re doing? Your career is over. You’ll never work again.”
“Keep walking,” Way said. “He’s full of shit. He doesn’t have that kind of power.”
She breathed in, lifted her chin. She could do this. Walk away. No matter what the consequences.
“I’ll wreck you,” Karl said with such ease Roni shivered.
Pawns.
Everyone.
She thought back to her father dying. To the subsequent homes, some good, some not-so-good.
She’d survived. Made something of herself.
And she’d do it again.
She halted and turned back. “Go ahead and try. I’ve dealt with way worse than you.”
* * *
After arriving at Way’s and exchanging greetings with Sam, Way and Roni locked themselves in his workshop. Literally bolting the door.
At the floor safe, he placed his finger on the keypad and punched in his code. Might be time to update the code. Just in case.
“You keep the capsules in the safe?”
“With the CIA involved? You know it. Anything regarding this project is locked up.”
Whether he’d had a sixth sense—or straight paranoia—he wasn’t sure, but somehow he’d known to take precautions.
And yet his bullets might still be taking out civilians.
He lifted a small plastic storage container from the top shelf along with the typed list of numbers and then relocked the safe.
“This is them.”
At his workbench, he popped the lid and gently dumped out the contents.
Roni set her messenger bag on the stool next to the bench and stared down at the pile of tiny capsules that could have been used for any number of medications. “This is everything that’s left from the batch you did?”
“Yeah.” He held up the list. “This is every number. The ones I sent to Langley are marked with an L next to it.” He set the list between them and flattened the pile of capsules, shoving half toward Roni. “I triple-checked the list, but let’s do it again. You check this pile, I’ll do this one. You have that autopsy report showing the capsule fragment?”
She nodded as she retrieved her phone from her messenger bag. “Yes. On my phone.”
Way grabbed his spiral notebook and unclipped the pen he always made sure to attach. Nothing sucked more than having a brainstorm—an absolute honey of an idea—and not having a pen handy.
“Read off the number.”
She dictated the lot number from the autopsy report. Way jotted it down, placed the notebook between them and checked his list. None of the ones he sent to Langley matched.
Not even close. A good sign, but, at this point, he wouldn’t take anything for granted. They’d still go through each capsule to make sure he’d recorded the numbers correctly.
He scooped up one of the empty capsules, held it between his fingers, and studied the stamped number on the outside. Lot numbers, depending on the manufacturer, tended to be a combination of dates and facility codes that enabled management to quickly identify where the product came from and when. The system came in handy during recalls.
In terms of Way’s stock, if they got a match or even a close number, they’d know the CIA had lost track of one of his test bullets.
Even then, this wasn’t foolproof. The distributor could have repackaged the capsules, mixing the lots. Until they found the shooter, Way wouldn’t know if his bullets were the ones shredding these people.
He eyed the number, comparing it to the one he’d written down.
Side by side, they worked quickly, checking the numbers, placing an x next to the number on his list and then tossing the empty capsules back in the container. The work was oddly therapeutic and reminded him of being at the shooting range, focused on a singular task, shutting out all distraction and mental noise.
He glanced over at Roni, took in her straight nose, the softness of her cheek, her long hair that curled gently over one shoulder.
His mind tripped back to all that hair spread across his bed pillow and, damn, he wanted her again.
This thing was friggin’ complicated.
Obviously sensing his stare, she met his gaze. “Got anything?”
“No. Everything matches the list.”
“Me too. Which is good.”
Sure was.
By the time he reached the last capsule, Roni had completed her pile.
Way watched as she placed her last capsule back in the container. “Nothing,” she said.
He checked the number on his capsule. Perfect match to the last unmarked number on his list.
Relief, mixed with an odd sense of frustration, lingered. At this point, he didn’t know what the hell he should be feeling.
Gently, he set the capsule on top of the pile inside the box. “Total bust. Nothing even close.”
“Well, that’s good. It’s one more thing to help clear you.”
“I keep thinking there’s an answer, right in front of me. Instead, wall after wall after wall.”
He scrubbed both hands over his face.
Roni gently squeezed the upper part of his arm. “Don’t lose hope. You know it’s a process. We’ll keep eliminating things as we go.”
Right. Excellent advice. Giving up wasn’t an option. Given the personal nature of this project, he needed that reminder.
He dropped his hands and faced her. “Thank you.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Yeah, you hav
e. Your boss pretty much just threatened to vaporize your career and you’re taking a chance on a guy you barely know.”
She slid her hand down his arm, sending sparks to his brain. And maybe other parts of his anatomy.
When she reached his wrist, he turned his hand and hooked his fingers around hers.
“I know enough,” she said. “Your sister trusts you. That alone is a badge of honor.”
Maggie. He’d been hard on her over the years. Constantly on edge, ready for her to stick her nose where he didn’t think it belonged.
In short, he’d been a critical shithead because his overprotective sister cared.
“I owe her an apology.”
“Maggie?”
“Yeah. I’m a defensive prick around her.”
“Well, alright then.” Roni smiled. “Good to know.”
“It’s true. Every time I see her coming, my ass tightens up. I assume she’s about to piss me off with her meddling. I shouldn’t do that.”
She made a humming noise that he was sure would be followed by some sort of female know-it-all lecture.
“Let’s take a second,” she said. “Maggie isn’t innocent in all this.”
Wait. What? No lecture? What was that about? On alert for some kind of headshrinker trick, he eyed her. “What do you mean?”
“I worked with her for months. At her worst, she’s a control freak. At times, even micro-managing. It can be frustrating. It’s also what makes her thorough. Yes, she’s a buttinski, but she’s fierce and capable and means well. On a personal level, I’d imagine it’s, well, difficult to tolerate. Confining even. Have you talked to her? Actually sat her down and told her why you get defensive. No screaming, no accusations.”
Over the last few months, he and Mags had had some royal blowouts.
He shook his head. “It always turns into a screaming match.”
“Then I think you should initiate a conversation. My guess is she’s usually the one to come to you, and you’ve just said you’re ready for battle upon seeing her. You’re constantly in a reactive state.”
He hooked his index finger around hers and tugged gently. “If I initiate it, I won’t be defensive.”
“Exactly. Tell her at the start you’re not interested in fighting and let her know—calmly—why you act poorly. Maggie is reasonable. And she loves you. She’ll listen. In fact, she might be the ambassador we discussed. If you can talk to her reasonably about your issues with her, it’s the perfect segue to asking for her help with your family.”
Way leaned in, got right next to her ear, and didn’t argue when she nudged closer to him, her body damn near molding to his.
“No offense,” he whispered, “but for a girl who grew up in the system, you know a lot about family.”
“I was exposed to different parenting styles. Not all good. I learned from everyone.”
She eased back, tipping her head up at him. In his mind? Open invitation. Plus, he hadn’t kissed her since this morning and…well…way too long.
He lowered his head, moving slow, letting her meet him halfway by going up on her tiptoes. He brushed his lips against hers, taking in the minty taste of her breath, and his pulse slammed.
Never enough of her. For sure.
Parting her lips, she deepened the kiss, pressing her curvy little body into him, making him want so much more.
Later.
When they weren’t in his office with his assistant right outside the door.
He slipped his hand around her waist to her back, where he patted the upper part of her ass.
Roni pulled back from the kiss and he gently tapped her lips with his own. “I like kissing you.”
“Couldn’t agree more. But we have work to do.”
Regretting every second he couldn’t be kissing her, Way nodded. “And you’ve convinced me. About Maggie. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She eased away from him and pointed at the container of capsules. “Now that we’re done there, how are you doing chasing down your friend Clay?”
Way retrieved his phone from his pocket and tapped it. “I texted him, but nothing yet. I’ll leave him a voice mail. Then we’ll see how Mags did with the FBI.”
21
DC in winter has never been one of my favorite places. If I wanted snow, I’d move north where communities know how to deal with slick roads and plowing.
Here? The newscaster announces an inch of the pesky white stuff and panic ensues. Markets clear of basic food supplies—bread, water, canned goods—and the all-important batteries. Schools announce closures while working parents scramble to find sitters. Even the government temporarily shuts down.
Typically, before I even finish my breakfast, the snow has melted and all goes back to normal.
It’s nothing but a hassle.
In a rental car—obtained using a stolen identity, of course—parked two doors down from Clay Bartles’s home, I watch white flakes float from the sky. A dusting covers roofs, cars, and tree branches along the city street.
I check my watch, an old analog one I’ve had for years. I like the simplicity of analog, but even more I like that its data can’t be tracked.
Simplicity, indeed.
8:54 p.m.
I’ve been waiting for Clay to arrive home for over an hour. Normally, I’d surveil my target for a week or two, learn his habits. This time, I haven’t had the luxury.
I’m winging it. Never recommended, but I’ve learned a few things.
Clay is single. His girlfriend of four years ended the relationship eight months ago. Since then, he’s dated occasionally, but has had no ongoing relationships.
In short, he’s pining over the woman he should have married long before she got fed up with his schedule and the constant call of the United States government.
I like Clay. I really do. Unfortunately, he’s become a liability and I can’t risk his continued interference. I need to clear the decks, so to speak, and continue my mission.
If that means eliminating Clay, well, that’s that.
A car—Audi convertible—cruises by me, slowing as it nears the Tudor style row homes toward the end of the block.
Near Clay’s home.
And seeing as he drives an Audi convertible, my pulse kicks up.
The mission continues…
At this hour, there are still spaces on the street and a quick flash of brake lights illuminates the damp road. The driver stops, then deftly hurtles back into a space, his hard-fought parallel parking skills on full display.
I glance around, doing a perimeter search for any nosey bystanders. I don’t see anyone—thank you, Mr. Weatherman—and slip from the rental with my Colt .45 in hand.
Crossing the street, I pick up my pace, my gaze darting left and right. All clear. Three doors down, a porch light glimmers. Clay’s home. Out of my peripheral vision, I check the Audi again as the interior light shines.
Definitely Clay. Still sitting in the car, more than likely checking his phone. He’s a workhorse this one. Constantly brings the office home. Even on a Saturday night.
The car door opens and he exits the vehicle, reaching into his backseat for something.
This might be it. My chance. A tree and a Buick block my shot, so I hustle forward, my feet silently pounding the sidewalk as I clear the offending Buick. My head throbs from gushing adrenaline and I focus on lifting my weapon. On the shot.
But…no.
He stands upright, wrecking my opportunity by shouldering a briefcase and heading across the street.
I lower the gun, keep moving along the sidewalk.
A streetlamp shines down on his strawberry blond hair. I slow to a casual, not-so-determined walk.
The man was a recon Marine and I have to assume his senses are still laser sharp. Like parallel parking, his military skills would be hard to forget.
Ten feet in front of me, he reaches the sidewalk and pauses, digging through the outer pocket of his messenger bag for something. Keys perhaps.
Tsk-tsk-tsk. He should know better. Don’t all the so-called safety experts warn to always have your keys at the ready?
Now.
Weapon at my side, I increase my pace only enough to resemble a resident ready to escape the falling snow that will turn this city into a chaotic mess.
The street light. I’ll have to walk under it, the glare sure to light me up like fireworks on inauguration night.
Keys jangling, Clay glances up, peering straight at me. “Oh,” he says, smiling at me. “Hey.”
Even in the dark I see his gaze drift from my face down to my raised hand.
To the gun.
I slide my finger to the trigger, draw a breath in and let it out slow.
His eyes widen, the whites so clear that my blood roars. “What—”
Bang.
Bang-bang.
The suppressor does its job, masking the fierce power of the .45.
Clay’s body bucks backward and he gasps. His eyes bulge with disbelief and…fear.
I’ve seen this look before. It’s the one people wear right before they die. Clay Bartles has it.
He will die.
He knows it.
Before he hits the ground, I turn and head back to my vehicle, casually checking my perimeter—my six, as they say. Clay’s body settles onto the sidewalk, his blood marring the fresh, pristine bed of snow.
Across the street, a curtain parts and light spills from inside, but it’s too dark and too far for them to see me. I snap my coat collar up and hunch against the falling snow.
Another mission complete.
* * *
Just after dawn on Sunday morning, Way slid out of bed, leaving Roni sleeping peacefully.
After another extremely excellent night of sex, waking up like this would be something he could get used to.
He stood on his side of the bed—whoa, now they had sides?—memorizing the sight of her dark eyelashes resting against her almost-but-not-quite olive skin. Damn, he loved her skin. Soft and touchable and…lush.
In sleep, she retained a calmness that in no way represented the fully awake tiger known as Roni Fenwick.
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