by Laura Kaye
“Okay,” he said, scanning everyone’s gazes.
“Tell her we love her,” Becca said, giving him a watery but happy smile.
He nodded, then followed the doctor through the shock trauma building to Kat’s secure unit and finally to her room.
“I’ll speak to her brother now,” the surgeon said. “Visiting hours end at six-thirty and resume at eight.”
“Thanks,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The clock on the wall by the nurse’s station read 5:35. He wouldn’t have long, but at least he’d have something.
He stood on the threshold of her door like it was the entrance to a sacred space.
Move, before Nick gets here and throws your ass out. Right.
The thought unstuck his boots from the floor and sent him into the room. His gaze locked onto Kat. Onto her pale skin. The tube running out of the side of her mouth. The IVs taped to her hand and wrist. White blankets covered her chest, but the sickly yellow-orange of the cleaning solvent they’d applied to her skin was just visible along her collarbone.
He felt like he moved in slow motion, like he might never close the distance that existed between the two of them. And then he was there, standing at the side of her bed, reaching out to hold her hand.
The moment his fingers touched hers, emotion swamped him so thoroughly it took him down to his knees. Fear. Anger. Guilt. Regret. Soul-deep sorrow. He pressed his forehead to the back of her hand and smothered his urge to sob against the edge of the bed. But those gut-wrenching emotions weren’t the only ones overwhelming him. Because there was also a soaring relief, breath-stealing gratitude that she’d made it through, and something else. Something that was all-encompassing and eclipsed all the rest.
Love.
Love.
He . . . loved her.
No. He was in love with her. In love with another human being for the first time in his life.
That warm, aching pressure ballooned inside his chest again as he recognized the foreign sensation for what it was. Love. Love for Katherine Rixey, the only person who’d been able to sneak around his ancient defenses to the heart of him. The person who made him confront his emotions and let them rise. The person who’d made him realize that he hadn’t been living. Not really.
The person who had awakened his heart, stirred his soul, and brought him back to life. Who’d made him want to live.
“I love you,” he rasped, lifting his head and staring at her lovely face. “Do you hear me, Angel? I love you and I’m sorry and you have to come back to me so I can look into those beautiful eyes and tell you. I love you.”
God, why hadn’t he realized this last night? Why hadn’t he told her before she lay injured and intubated and unconscious? What if she— No. He wasn’t even going to allow himself to finish that thought.
Wetness streamed down his face. His voice halted and rasped. His shoulders shook. And, for maybe the first time in his life, Beckett didn’t hold any of it back. Didn’t even try to. Didn’t even consider it.
He allowed the anguish and the longing and the relief to pour out of him. And the oddest thing happened—he gradually felt lighter, less burdened, freer to focus on what mattered most. Kat. And his love for her.
Her hand clasped between both of his, Beckett gently lifted it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I love you so much.”
Someone cleared their throat behind him.
Beckett peered over his shoulder to find Nick standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. With a quick scrub at the moisture on his face, Beckett pushed to his feet. “How’s Jeremy?” he asked, his voice like gravel.
Nick crossed to the foot of the bed. “Looks like hell, but they say he’s doing fine.” He sighed. “Right side of his head’s all wrapped in gauze and he’s got some bruises from Wexler kicking him. He’s intubated, too,” he said, staring at Kat.
Beckett nodded and swallowed hard. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go . . .” But he couldn’t get his feet to move.
“Stay,” Nick said. “If you love her, you should stay.”
Heat crawled up Beckett’s face. The wrong damn Rixey had heard what he’d said. But that was all trumped by the fact that Nick wasn’t telling him to go. “I do,” he said, gaze glued to Kat. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t,” Nick said. “I know. And I’m sorry, too. I was an asshole to you. Even Jer told me so.”
Beckett frowned. How could—
“I could hear him in my head telling me what a dick move it’d been for me to hit you.” Nick’s pale green eyes flashed toward Beckett. “He was right. I’ve kept a lot of things from Kat over the years because I didn’t want to burden her. I can hardly blame her for doing the same damn thing.” He jammed his hands in the pockets of his dark slacks. “Sure wish she’d wake up so I could say all this to her.”
Beckett nodded, Nick’s words making his heart less heavy in his chest. “Boy, do I feel that.”
“Does she know? How you feel?”
“No,” Beckett said, shaking his head. “Neither did I, until just now. Or, at least, I didn’t recognize it.” And maybe that was because when he tried to pin down the exact moment he’d actual fallen for Kat, he kept going back to that day in the stairwell. When they first met. When she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by a big, male stranger pulling a gun on her in her brother’s home. Whenever it was, something about her had spoken to something inside him from the very beginning.
And, Jesus, now that he knew, it felt like he might explode if he couldn’t let Kat know, too.
“The shooter . . . Kat’s stalker . . .” Nick said, voice ice cold. “Is he—”
“Dead.” Beckett nailed Nick with a stare. And he didn’t feel the least bit bad about the dark satisfaction that rushed through him. If that made him a monster, he’d own that shit full out.
“Good,” Nick said, meeting his gaze. “That’s good.”
A long moment of silence, and then Beckett said, “Hate to bring work up—”
“Don’t be.” Nick shook his head. “This thing needs to be resolved before anyone else gets hurt.”
“Agreed,” Beckett said. “Gonna take a meeting with Wexler tonight. Trade the Singapore money for evidence against Kaine. Wexler’ll be calling at some point with the details. I need to know what you want me to do with him.”
“Perhaps we should talk before you make that decision,” came a voice from the doorway.
Beckett and Nick both whirled in time to see the man come inside and close the door behind him. Brown hair, brown eyes, and of average height, their visitor wore a long lab coat over a white button-down shirt and khaki pants. Both the ID clipped to his pocket and the embroidered name on the jacket read: Dr. Zhaoming Chen.
“And why would we talk to you, Dr. Chen,” Nick said, clearly as skeptical as Beckett about the man’s identity. This guy couldn’t have been more rural Iowa in his appearance.
Seemingly relaxed and casual, not-Chen moved closer and looked both Nick and Beckett in the eye. “Because I’m the man Colonel Merritt was working for in Afghanistan. And I think I might be able to help you.”
Chapter 25
Beckett’s mind went deadly focused. Because their visitor was either lying and a threat, or telling the truth and therefore the best thing that had happened to them in the past month. He saw the same questions reflected back in Nick’s wide-eyed gaze.
“And who exactly are you?” Nick asked, muscles braced, expression carefully neutral.
The man gestured to the name on the coat. “Let’s leave it at Dr. Chen for now. I’m a foreign service officer at the State Department.”
Sounded perfectly believable. Except, when you’d worked in the SpecOps community and knew people who worked in the intelligence community, you knew that generic answers like this were often cover stories for whatever the person really did. Guys in SpecOps often said they worked for the Department of Defense, a line Beckett had used more than once in his own life. He also had a buddy who worked for the CI
A analyzing data retrieved from reconnaissance satellites. When people asked him at parties what he did for a living, he’d often say something like, “I work with satellites.” When pressed, he would tell distractingly interesting stories about experiences he’d had while working with NASA as a younger man.
So, foreign service officer at the State Department, my ass.
“Okay,” Nick said. “Let’s go with that. Why should we believe Merritt worked for you?”
“You shouldn’t,” Chen said, gesturing with his hands. “Which is why I’m prepared to prove it. Have you not yet learned that his daughter’s silver bracelet contains a binary code?”
Holy shit. Beckett and Nick exchanged looks.
“I’ll take that as a yes. I had the bracelet made for Merritt to send to her, so I know what the binaries translate to numerically,” he said, face perfectly placid.
Merritt had mailed that bracelet from Afghanistan to Becca before his death. She’d thought it a simple present, but Charlie had recognized that the circle and bar charms formed two six-digit binary numbers, one if the bracelet was read from right to left and another if read from left to right. Those numbers turned out to be the user ID and password for the microchip Merritt had sent them hidden inside the glass eye of an Army teddy bear. To this day, Becca always wore the bracelet.
“And?” Nick said.
“The code translated to the numbers 631780 and 162905,” Chen said in that same blandly polite way he had.
From the instant Charlie had converted the binary to numerals his first night at Hard Ink, those numbers cemented themselves in Beckett’s head, because it had been clear from the beginning that they’d be important. Chen knowing them? That was convincing enough for Beckett. Because the numbers represented a way too specific detail for the man to know any other way.
“Jesus,” Nick said, the glance he threw at Beckett full of incredulity. “How did you find us? And why now?”
“I knew who the five of you were, of course. I knew everything about Merritt’s A-team and what happened to you in the wake of the ambush. But you weren’t on my radar as having taken up his investigation until this past Monday, when I learned that a building owned by a Rixey—a unique name shared by one of Merritt’s men—had been damaged in a suspicious explosion, and that a known operative within the organization Merritt was investigating died during that same incident. Given the backstory I alone knew, it was no leap at all to see the gas main explosion for the cover story it was.” He took a few steps closer, his gaze flickering to Kat and back to Nick. “Your brother and sister’s hospital admissions alerted me that you’d most likely be here.”
Annnd the fact that he had ways of learning that kind of information placed him squarely in the intelligence community. Probably CIA—
Beckett sucked in a breath as a series of puzzle pieces nearly fell into place. “You’re Special Activities Division.” The elite paramilitary arm of the CIA, which in Afghanistan was headquartered at FOB Chapman. Their former base. Sonofabitch.
A small smile played around the man’s mouth, but he didn’t answer Beckett’s supposition one way or the other.
Nick nodded. “So, how can you help us?”
“What is it you want more than anything else?” Chen asked, tilting his head as if analyzing them.
Beckett stepped closer, his heart racing with cautious hope. Because this man quite possibly had the power and connections to actually give them what they wanted. More than that, what they deserved. “Our honor, reputations, and service records restored. For the whole team.”
“And for Kaine to face justice so he can never endanger any other soldiers under his command,” Nick added.
“Those are within the realm of the possible,” Chen said. “As long as you’re willing to finish what you’ve started with the investigation. It all hinges on the assembly of an airtight case against Kaine and this cabal of Seneka operatives. Merritt started building it. It’s up to you to finish it.”
Nick and Beckett traded glances, and Beckett could see reflected in Nick’s eyes the same hope and resolve he himself felt. Finish it? Wasn’t even a question.
“That was our plan from the beginning,” Nick said. “But why would you help us, even if we did finish it?”
Chen crossed his arms and tapped a finger against his chin. “Fair enough. I thought I’d lost four years of accumulated evidence. Poof. Gone in an instant in an ambush on a sunny rural road. Kaine has been suspected of dirty dealing and corruption for years, but he’s so politically connected that no one’s ever been able to get anything to stick. On a . . . let’s call it a visit to FOB Chapman, I became aware of murmurings about stolen confiscated heroin, about destruction facilities destroying less than they received. No two ways about it, if these stories were true, they weren’t just criminal, they were treasonous. Injurious to the very mission the United States attempted to carry out there. The gratitude of your country for picking up that torch will earn you the things you want, and will do a great service to your country at the same time.”
The door opened behind Chen and a heavyset nurse stepped in. “Visiting hours are over, gentlemen. Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor.”
He gave her a nod and a smile. “We were just finishing up.” The woman left the door open and retreated as quickly as she’d come.
“So, about our meeting with Wexler tonight,” Beckett said.
Chen nodded. “Are you picking the location or is he?”
“He is,” Beckett said. “That was a deal breaker for him.”
“Of course it was,” Chen said. “In addition to being a sociopath with a pronounced Napoleon complex and deep-seeded feelings of inferiority aimed at his longtime friend and rival, John Seneka, Wexler is an explosives and demolitions expert. You can pretty well count on him planning that you will not leave that meeting location alive, and that he will use explosives to ensure it.”
“Well, that’s some fucking cheery news,” Beckett said.
“Gentlemen,” the nurse said, standing in the doorway with her hands planted on her hips.
“Shall we move this conversation to the hallway?” Chen asked.
“Just one minute,” Nick said, rounding the end of the bed. He grabbed Kat’s hand. “Wake up already so we can yell at each other or something,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “I love you. Everyone sends their love.” His brow furrowed in an instant of sadness, and then he put his game face securely into place again.
As Nick walked away, Beckett leaned over. “Hurry back to me, Angel,” he said, then kissed her temple. Damn, he didn’t want to leave her. Doing so felt a whole lot like his chest was cracking open. But she couldn’t be fully safe until the team brought this investigation to a full conclusion, so that was the best thing he could do for her right now. He followed Nick and Chen out the door, through the unit, and beyond the secure doors into the quiet hallway.
“Knowing Wexler’s competencies is, as you so colorfully put it, ‘fucking cheery news,’ ” Chen said, “because it means you know what to expect and how to defuse it. No pun intended.” He winked. “You will simply have to identify the location of the device before the meeting ends.”
Beckett heaved a deep breath. “I have a handheld chemicals and explosives detector in my equipment back at . . . the place,” he said. His urge had to been to avoid divulging their home location, but maybe that was a moot point given who they were dealing with. This guy probably knew what size shoes Beckett wore. Twelves. Thank you very much. “I’d need to go there now to make sure I could get it before the meeting, though.”
“Then let’s do that,” Nick said. “I’ll handle the meeting with Wexler, while you and Easy work on detection and defusing.”
Jesus. What if they couldn’t detect and defuse any devices before the exchange was wrapped up? What if Wexler hit the detonator while Nick was still within the blast radius? Beckett’s gut was waffling on the question of acceptable risks. But what choice did they have?
Chen nodde
d. “Once you have the evidence in hand, we should meet right away and decide the best and fastest course against Kaine. It’s quite probable Wexler’s already given the general a heads-up that things are unraveling.”
“Makes sense,” Nick said. “I can call you after—”
“Hold up,” Beckett said, pulling a buzzing phone from his pocket, then looking at it. “It’s Wexler.” His heart thudded and his focus narrowed as he answered. Nick and Chen watched him like a hawk. “This is Murda.”
“Wexler,” the other man said. “Listen good. Meet me at eight o’clock at the under-construction parking garage on Aviation near Dorsey at BWI.”
Beckett locked eyes with Nick. “You open to meeting with the head of my team? Nick Rixey?”
“No. We started this, we finish it. Come alone and bring the laptop. I get any sense that you’ve got company or are playing me, you die, I disappear, and this evidence goes up in flames for good. Are we clear?”
Nick nodded, and Beckett said, “Yes.”
Click.
“Well, looks like I’m going in and you’re helping Easy,” Beckett said. He glanced at the phone’s LED screen. “And we have eighty minutes to get ready for the most important meeting of our lives.”
Chen produced cards and handed one to both of them. The white rectangle had exactly one piece of information inscribed on it: a phone number. That was it. No name, no title, no business or address. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”
THE PAST SIXTY-FIVE minutes had been such a balls-to-the-wall scramble that Beckett could hardly believe he’d made it to the garage meeting location a few minutes early. Since one person was permitted to sleep in a trauma patient’s room overnight, Charlie had decided to remain at the hospital to keep an eye on both Jeremy and Kat. But when Nick explained what was about to go down, everyone else returned to Hard Ink with the team to help and lend moral support.
Back in the gym, Beckett had given Nick and Easy a crash course on operating the explosive detection device, and Marz readied a spare laptop with everything Beckett would need to make the exchange look legit and recording software that had the ability to automatically e-mail logged keystrokes. That meant they’d have all the password information Wexler added to the Singapore account, and could therefore undo the changes he’d make to the account.