It wasn't working. "Maybe it's time to retire," she said.
"Maybe. But you'd be bored as shit." Jacoby handed her half his sandwich since she'd scarfed hers down in record time. Like she was a wild dog who hadn't eaten in years. "I still want to know where you were last week."
"Leave me some mystery, please. I just needed to get away," she lied, her mouth purposely stuffed full of sandwich. Telling the men in her life about the CIA would only make them crazy—crazier—and then they'd never leave her alone. It was over. She'd handled it. Ethan was gone, and she was able to mourn him the way she needed to. She wasn't going to ask Teige anything again. Wouldn't involve him. "Hey listen—don't worry about the Ethan stuff. It's cool."
Teige frowned. "It sounded like stuff to worry about."
She felt Jacoby's eyes on her. "He called back and explained. He was sorry to freak me out—it was part of a job."
Teige nodded. She sounded believable but hey, he was going to believe what he wanted. Maybe he let it drop because Jacoby was there, or maybe they'd talk about her when she wasn't there.
Not much she could do about it but keep up the ruse. That Ethan was alive and well. That she wasn't being stalked by his killer.
That she wasn't about to bring danger onto all of them again.
She was definitely buying sage.
Several hours after Jacoby and Teige left, and still unsure if she'd convinced them of anything, Abby threw on comfortable sweats and an old, cut-up T-shirt from a concert she'd gone to in high school (hey, those were the best kinds of T-shirts) and went downstairs for more ice for her ribs.
By the time she hit the fifth step from the bottom, she realized she wasn't alone in the house. Since she didn't travel the house without her weapon in hand, a sad but true fact, she immediately went still and listened.
"It's just me—don't shoot." Vance's voice drifted toward her from the living room area.
"I'm not making any promises," she called back and carefully went toward the sound of his voice, weapon drawn.
He was sitting on her couch, watching TV like an invited guest. He'd taken a soda from her fridge too.
"Kidnapping wasn't enough, so now you're adding breaking and entering?" she asked, still keeping her weapon drawn, well aware he noted how tightly she kept her arm to her bruised side.
"I didn't break in. I've got a key."
She narrowed her eyes. "You had a copy of my keys made when you kidnapped me."
"You were a willing guest of the CIA, Abby. Let's not get dramatic. And I'm here for your protection—no more, no less."
"So no pretend dates?" She tried to keep the bitterness out of her tone and hoped she succeeded.
Vance stared at her steadily and ultimately ignored her question. "When were you going to tell me about the phone call and the packages?"
Her stomach tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Haven't we come further than this?" he said, almost sadly.
She wanted to ask how long he'd known about the contact and guessed probably from the beginning. Why had he let her get away with holding out about it…or had he? "Maybe you could send the cab driver over—he seemed more than willing to give up information."
The doorbell rang. "I ordered pizza. It's all paid for," Vance offered.
"Impossible," she muttered and marched off to answer the door. She holstered her gun and grabbed the pie with one hand, carried it to the kitchen counter and proceeded to eat by herself. After a few minutes Vance wandered in, but she had the box positioned under her elbow as if he'd have to fight her to get a slice.
"Nice tan," was his only comment. It was then she realized he'd gotten her favorite pizza—black olives.
Dammit, did the man know everything about her? "You should go."
"Yeah, thing is, I can't."
"Sure you can," she said, her mouth full of delicious hot cheese. "One foot in front of the other. I can push you if it helps. Or shoot at your feet…"
"While the sentiment is appreciated, I'm afraid we've got unfinished business." He sat across from her and she continued eating, like that would somehow make this whole thing, and him, disappear.
It didn't, though.
"Ethan hasn't stopped killing," Vance explained.
"It's not Ethan doing the killing," she pointed out. "And it's not my problem, even if it was."
"Technically, you might be right, but since he's doing it for you…"
"For me?" she managed to choke out. She threw the pizza down and stood.
"That's the part I figured you'd freak out about, which is why the pizza." He waved a hand over the box. A few seconds later, she threw the box at him. Of course he ducked in time and the pain screamed through her and now, to top it off, she'd be stuck cleaning it all up. But in the moment it felt great. She wanted to do more, to break everything in the house trying to hit him, even if it was just a one-time graze.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she managed through gritted teeth.
"It's not me, Angel."
"You need to stop calling me that. And yes, it's most definitely you. Unless you forgot about the kidnapping."
"Angel…" He took a step toward her, got a little too close and even though she stood her ground, she felt herself flinch.
She was pissed at herself for that, but obviously, Vance was more so at himself because he paled and stepped back. Cursed under his breath.
It was the first time she'd seen him off his game.
"I'd never hurt you," he told her, his voice low. Steady. Apologetic.
"How can you say that?" she asked and immediately regretted it.
"I was just trying to prepare you, Abby. You need to goddamned know that."
"Prepare me," she repeated hollowly. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days? I mean, why, Vance? Why would you do that to me?" she demanded, and he continued to look pained.
Maybe he's just a damned good actor.
"I had to," was his only answer.
"You're going to have to do better than that. Why did you have to—an order from your superiors?" she continued and he shook his head. "Then who?"
His voice was hoarse when he said, "I did it for Ethan."
She backed away and stared at him. "For Ethan? What are you talking about?"
"I had to make sure you weren't involved in his death," Vance said fiercely, and his famous detachment was completely gone. "Can you fucking understand that?"
"How could you even think that?"
"How could I not?" he yelled. "You were the last person to see him alive—the last person to ever talk to him."
She took several steps back, hugged herself.
He stared at her. "You didn't know that?"
"How would I know that?" she asked. "I didn't even know he was dead until the guy in the cab told me. I thought Ethan was alive the entire time you tortured me."
"I didn't torture you, Abby. Trust me," he scoffed.
"Did you get the information you needed to trust me?" she asked.
"Yes, I did, or I wouldn't be here now."
"Good for you, but I don't want you here."
"Tough shit. You don't have a choice."
"I don't believe you. I don't trust you, and I never will," she challenged.
"Unfortunately for you, that doesn't matter," he said tiredly.
Chapter Eight
Abby paused outside the diner as the sense of being watched skittered over her like a nervous moth.
She'd often wondered how Ethan handled his abilities. Her instincts were finely honed and difficult enough to handle, so she couldn't imagine a constant barrage of it. Two minutes into this gut feeling and she was ready to jump out of her skin.
She was used to spending time alone, a great deal more than the average person, actually, and obviously that wasn't happening these days. She'd finally gotten back into her routine with her witnesses and her life and now it had exploded again.
She'd barely gotten Vance out of her house last
night. The last thing she needed was to have to explain him to Teige, and when she mentioned that, Vance had agreed.
For now, he'd warned.
That didn't mean he wasn't keeping track of her. She'd been tailed most of the day but she'd lost the most recent one, just because.
But now, she felt the swell of danger as surely as a hand on her shoulder, urging her into her car, making her put her hand on her weapon. And wishing for that backup.
Someone was following her. It wasn't Vance or his tail or Teige or Jacoby. She'd helped a lot of witnesses, so that was always a possibility. Mary went to trial soon, so her former boyfriend's colleagues would be a logical choice.
She should be so lucky.
She pulled her weapon, held it down against her thigh as she walked to her truck. She'd autostarted it when she was at a safe distance in case this was about a witness and there was a bomb attached to her starter. She got in and locked the doors, checked around her and kept her gun in her lap as she drove.
She took a long way home, slowly, watching taillights creep behind her when she pulled into the busy 7-11 parking lot.
The car pulled into a dark corner and shut off its lights. She wondered it she should storm up to the car, but instead she chose the element of surprise. She went into the store, and immediately went through the back (after showing her badge) and circled to the front lot…only to find the car that'd been following her gone.
Dammit.
She thought about letting Vance know. He wouldn't think she was overreacting, but he would know he was on her mind.
Pride goeth before a fall.
She went to her truck and got in without noticing the flower on her windshield right away.
Then she froze, pulled her weapon again as she got halfway out to free the long-stemmed rose from the windshield wiper. It wasn't until she'd locked herself back inside that she noticed the dried blood on the white petals.
White roses—her favorite. The ones Ethan would always send her.
This wasn't about a witness.
"I touched the stem and then I bagged it immediately," she repeated for what felt like the hundredth time to Carl, her sup.
"Barely back a day from vacation and trouble's already finding you," Carl mused.
"You have no idea," she muttered. No matter how sure she was that the rose concerned Ethan, she'd be doing her witnesses a disservice by not turning the evidence over to her own. If the blood turned out to not be one of her witnesses or related to one of her cases…
She texted Vance, told him that the blood would be run through the marshal's lab. He could intercept if he wanted, but he understood her need to keep herself and her witnesses safe.
He would also appreciate her need to keep the CIA out of it.
She turned off her phone without waiting for his response. A lot of it was because she didn't want to know if it was Ethan's blood, if it was Ethan's stalker, she was dealing with. She could barely deal with thinking about Vance, the man who'd severely betrayed her trust. The first guy she'd felt anything for since Ethan and look how it turned out.
The knock at her door didn't surprise her. She'd assumed it was Vance, who'd been pissed that her phone was turned off, but when she checked through the small window on her front door, there was no one there.
Shit.
Automatically, her eyes swept the ground to see if a package had been left there.
Nothing. If someone was trying to lure her out to check the mailbox, they could be close, watching and waiting…
Or they could know her well enough to know she'd go out the back, come around the front for the element of surprise the way she'd done at the 7-11. Which meant someone who knew her training.
Carefully, she moved to the back of the house, staying low, checking out the back windows. She noted a shadow and tried to wait it out, but she was too impatient. She jangled the doorknob like she was coming out, and got confirmation that the shadow was a person—moved, crouched, waiting for her.
Then, realizing he'd been played, the shadow—and the man attached—backed away into the woods. Now on the offensive, Abby went out on the attack. She'd made it a point to know the woods behind the house like the back of her hand, thanks to runs with Teige and his dog, Hanny. It helped during times like this. So did the NV goggles she'd grabbed.
What didn't help at all were her ribs. She couldn't run nearly as well as she normally could, because she couldn't breathe.
She did catch sight of the man. Slim. Dark hair, dressed in dark clothes and military-style boots. Running fast. There was no one behind her.
She retraced her steps and quietly returned to her house. No cars out front, nothing suspicious happening inside.
She picked up her phone and called Vance, who demanded immediately,
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Did your tail just run through the woods behind my house?" she asked, holding her side.
"Are you gasping?"
"Bruised ribs will do that when you're running after an asshole who isn't good enough not to be made," she managed.
There was a pause and then, "I sent him to your house after you didn't pick up. No one was on you when you got the rose."
"Because I lost him," she said triumphantly. At least she sounded that way in her mind. In reality, it was a pathetic wheeze.
"I'm coming over, with a doctor."
"Don't bother."
"Fine—I'm sending a doctor. Answer the fucking door."
The doctor who showed at her house was a big guy but he managed to move like a ghost. Impressive.
She supposed he was probably as trained as any agent in the CIA, but he introduced himself simply as Knox. Not Doctor.
Which was not all that comforting, although the large black medical bag and the portable X-ray and ultrasound machines he wheeled in were. He also gave her a medical gown to wear over her bra, and then proceeded to examine her as she lay on her kitchen table.
"Normally I bring a stretcher, but I'm told we have prying eyes next door," he commented.
"My brother. Former Delta Force."
"Definitely a prying motherfucker," he said with no real rancor. Which meant, in military-speak, that he was most definitely not former Army, which meant Marine or, most likely Navy.
Definitely Special Forces.
It didn't matter if he was the devil though, because once he told her that her ribs were bruised and not fractured, but that the healing process was a bitch either way, he managed to give her a special wrap that made breathing easier.
He also acknowledged her scars with the solid eyes of a man who'd seen far too much and knew better than to ask when the answers were there in front of him—a road map on her body, the souvenirs of a survivor.
He also gave her IVs of some 'special mixes' he assured her contained no narcotics. Just homeopathic remedies he'd concocted that could help her heal faster and better.
He finished up by giving her a prescription bottle of painkillers. "They're not that strong, but Vance wants you breathing."
"I'm sure he does," she muttered.
"Don't ask me about him," he warned.
"I won't." But she'd been about to. "How long have you worked with him?"
His dark eyes slid over to hers. "Long enough. You?"
"Too long." She shifted herself and winced. "Did you know Ethan?"
His expression didn't falter. "Who?" And then he distracted her by proceeding with some pressure-point therapy on her, followed by acupuncture.
A jack of all trades. By the time he was done, she was curled on the couch, sleepy as hell.
"I'll let myself out," he told her.
"Let me guess—you've got a key."
He simply smiled in response. She wondered why she didn't give more of a shit about this.
Because he had good hands. Vance had them too, the fucker. "You ever need a new career…those hands."
"If I ever need another career, I can always drive a cab." As he spoke, his voice cha
nged slightly, enough that her neck snapped to stare at him.
He smiled. "Night, Abby. Be gentle to those ribs."
"I hate all of you!" she yelled through the closed door.
"I don't blame you," was his response back.
Her phone rang an hour later. She'd refused to move from the couch and was half asleep, figured it was Vance's check-in call. "You woke me up."
"Will you live?"
"You tell me. I'm sure your lackey reported back to you immediately, if he wasn't wearing a wire," she retorted.
"Such little faith in me to respect your privacy. We strongly believe in HIPAA laws," he said solemnly. "I'm sure Knox will be thrilled with the characterization though."
"Knox is wasted driving cabs. He's hot. Amazing hands," she shot back smugly, pleased when there was a long silence. Gotcha. "Any way I can have him back here? You know, for my…ribs."
"The ones you broke on purpose?"
"Bruised, actually. For a good cause."
"One that proved you were a liar. Think harder before you pull shit like that, Angel."
"I'm not your angel."
"That's what you think."
"You need to let this go. Let me go," she murmured. In actuality, she'd thought he'd hung up, and she was drifting off with the phone to her ear.
"Can't let that happen."
"Just let me go. Have to let me go. He promised to and now he can't…"
"I never made that promise, Angel. Never will."
Vance had been pacing a hole in the floor waiting for Knox's call. When it finally came through as a FaceTime call, his "How's Abby?" came through a little too fast.
Knox paused and then said, "She's hot." Vance heard himself growl through clenched teeth. Of course, Knox laughed. "Guess she's got you by the balls."
Walk In My Shadow: A Gripping Romantic Thriller (Mirror Book 3): A Mirror Novel Page 5