by Juno Rushdan
Gideon probably socialized a lot. He was always at Rocky’s bar with the rest of Black Ops and wouldn’t want an awkward misfit hiding in the corner, or worse, embarrassing him. He wouldn’t waste his time on her, but why had he initiated anything in the first place?
A dull ache swelled inside. Misinterpreting things said, misreading cues, led her to make mistakes that ballooned into shame. This was the type of humiliation she was desperate to avoid.
Safer and easier to keep to herself.
Gideon cleared his throat. “Your car was inspected. I swung by the auto garage this morning. My mechanic said your cruise control cable was stuck, and the linkage in the manifold vacuum from the servo to the throttle was sticky. Which can happen in an older car, short-circuiting the cruise control. But he’s never seen a brake line shredded and rusted like yours. He couldn’t be certain, due the age of your car, but something about the corrosion and tears seemed off to him. It’s possible someone tampered with your brakes.”
“Why would someone mess with my car?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the new program you’re creating. Pandora. Maybe the mole thinks your program will expose him.”
The information rattled her mind. She stroked her pearls, willing her off-beat pulse to steady. Someone wanted to kill her? Over a computer program? Sounded like a plotline from one of the TV shows her dad watched. What if they tried again? Was the Gray Box safe?
But she had to go to work. Her job and her new program just became more important, if someone wanted to kill her because of it. Her stomach soured, and bile coated her tongue.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Finish the program while we work to find the mole. I’ll ask Maddox to give you a ride home after work, if that’s okay.”
Someone trying to kill her was the only thing that mattered in her head, but she cringed at the idea of Gideon pawning her off onto Maddox. If she earned a bigger paycheck, she would’ve insisted on taking a taxi. But a thirty-minute cab ride in the Beltway would cost a fortune.
Who was she kidding anyway? Willow being with a guy like him was as statistically likely as hitting the lottery. She was the quiet girl no one noticed, who lived with her daddy.
At least she didn’t have cats.
“Please, let Maddox know I’d appreciate a ride.”
09
Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia
Friday, July 5, 8:35 a.m. EDT
Quiet settled in the car like a rancid smell in the air. Gideon turned on the radio, but music didn’t ease the strained silence. Willow’s blunt words, declaring what she wanted, had shocked the shit out of him. Nothing about her was disingenuous, making her even more appealing. He admired her chutzpah and wished things were different.
Wished he was different.
He parked in the closest spot, relieved to be at work. They hopped out of the Jeep and walked to the building without exchanging a word. He held the door open for Willow, letting her walk ahead, and waved hello to Stewart and Peter, the armed plainclothes security guards on duty behind the solid marble desk. There was an additional sniper positioned on the top landing, overlooking the entire main floor. Gideon always looked but never found him.
Avoiding the elevator ride with Willow by striking up small talk with the guards would’ve been easy but a chickenshit play. Besides, he enjoyed looking at her, talking to her, listening to her gentle voice.
Being near her sparked a strange desire for a simple connection, an insane longing for something he couldn’t explain, and it was testing him in a way he hadn’t imagined possible.
After a retinal scan, the elevator doors opened. They stepped in. Green lasers scanned them for unregistered devices that transmitted a signal, such as bugs or cell phones. Ridiculous how movies and TV shows had operatives in classified facilities with freaking personal cell phones. Nothing would ever stay classified if that was the real world. The green lights died and the elevator engaged, descending to the sixth sublevel.
The awkward tension in the confined space was worse, heavy and thick, static electricity a breath away from igniting the molecules between them. She stared at the illuminated numbers, making no attempt at idle chitchat. He hated when people spoke without purpose or a point.
With a chime, the elevator doors opened, and they strode off together.
“Thank you.” Willow stared at the floor as if she couldn’t bear the sight of him. “For yesterday. For everything.”
Finally, her gaze lifted and settled on his face. The hurt and disappointment reflected in her eyes plowed through the defenses he’d spent the elevator ride building.
Willow was exposing his emotional soft spots better left locked in his vault. The woman was…whatever you’d call the opposite of the apple in the Garden of Eden. Instead of tempting him to sin, she made him long to be a better man.
For a moment, he couldn’t tell the difference between what he was fighting for and defending against. “You’re welcome. My pleasure to help.”
“These are for you.” She handed him a Tupperware container, and he took it. “They’re blueberry scones with a lemon glaze. My mother’s recipe.”
She turned, hurrying to the Intelligence section before he could thank her. A foreign sensation erupted in his chest, dark and brutal. He couldn’t shake the sense he was losing something important. He fucking hated losing.
Daniel Cutter—a real fast-burner who used others for fuel—intercepted her. “You’re late.” He cut in front of Willow, bringing her to a jerky halt. “I need your status on the Pandora program for the weekly situation report to send to the chief.”
Built like a boxer, Cutter had a stellar reputation with the Marine Force Recon before joining the Gray Box, but his busy nose was in almost every mission.
“The program will be finished in less than three days.” Willow sidestepped him, clutching her purse and pressing forward.
The douchebag maneuvered into her path, walking backward, peering into her face as if trying to force eye contact. “Once the program is done, I should check it before Sanborn sees it. Ensure there are no bugs.”
Recoiling, Willow skirted around him. “I’ll check for flaws before I send it to the chief.”
“Another set of eyes would be better to catch hiccups. Just want to help.”
Daniel Cutter MO 101. He offered to help with legwork no one else wanted to do, provide an extra set of eyes, anything to weasel his way in and ride the coattails of others.
“Danny,” Amanda said, stepping into the hall, “let Willow settle in and catch her breath before you start harassing her. We have plenty of time to send the report.”
Amanda had softened after she became a mother, cutting everyone slack, including herself, and Gideon noted this wasn’t the first time she’d looked out for Willow.
“It took months to convince you to finally let me handle some extra duties, and I want to make sure the PowerPoint slides are perfect,” Cutter said. “I’m not going to blow it because she’s late.” He circled Willow like a damn vulture and had the gumption to block her again.
Something protective and predatory stirred inside Gideon. He was ready to knock Cutter out of her way, but Willow stopped and raised a hand, steering the guy out of her personal space.
“Daniel, is there anything else you need?” Her voice was firm, and her chin was high.
Amanda came up alongside her in either a show of solidarity or as backup.
Pinching his lips, Cutter shook his head no.
“Then I need to get to work.” Willow walked off as Amanda laid into Cutter about toning down his enthusiasm.
Gideon smiled with pride at how Willow had handled Cutter. She was tougher than he’d expected.
He strode down the main walkway and pulled off the lid of the container she’d given him. A heavenly aroma greeted him. He bit into a scone,
and the crumbly biscuit melted in his mouth. Sweetness from ripe blueberries mixed with the tartness of lemon, creating a medley of flavors. There was good, and then there was culinary greatness. This was perfection.
He crammed a second one into his mouth like a starving caveman and licked his fingers.
“Good morning,” Janet said. “They’re gathered in the conference room.”
“What’s up?”
“Big meeting with the forensic accountants. They’ve already gotten started.”
Quickening his stride, Gideon ate another scone, imagining how it’d taste warm.
The conference room door opened, and Parker sashayed out. Sanborn followed, looking sharp and tireless in a fresh suit despite the fact that the guy lived at the office.
Gideon checked the clocks on the wall, a row of different time zones from Washington, DC, to Tokyo. 8:50. The original plan had been to convene at 9:30, but with the tension radiating from their rigid bodies and frosty gazes, he gathered he’d missed something important.
Sanborn shut the door and faced Parker. “Sybil, stay the fuck out of my conference room.”
Gideon had never heard the chief curse. If something had gotten under Sanborn’s skin enough to make him sully his tongue with profanity, Gideon damn sure wanted to know what the hell it was.
10
Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia
Friday, July 5, 8:55 A.m. EDT
Sanborn glimpsed Gideon “Reaper” Stone duck out of sight fifteen feet away but sensed the man lingering within earshot. Wonderful.
His first choice wasn’t to hash things out with Sybil in front of his subordinates. There was no dignity in the leadership airing their dirty laundry. So he’d stepped into the hall to talk, but this couldn’t wait until they were behind the closed door of his office.
A smug-ass expression swept across Sybil’s face. She put a fist on her hip and pointed a French manicured talon at his face. “Let me remind you, the director of national intelligence, our boss, asked me to provide oversight due to your glaring incompetence.”
One, the DNI was a liaison acting on behalf of the White House, and the president was Sanborn’s boss. Two, he had things under control until the DNI anointed this backstabbing viper with enough power to do serious damage. The Gray Box might very well get crushed as a result.
“Follow protocol,” she said, jabbing her talon at him again. If she stuck that finger in his face one more time, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t bite it off. “You can’t dismiss the evidence.”
Evidence he didn’t trust. Twenty-seven years of operational experience told him protocol, in this instance, would make matters worse. “It’s within my discretion to handle this as I see fit. Overstep your bounds, and you’ll regret the day you ventured into my lane.”
“If you don’t get this clusterfuck cleaned up, the DNI will whitewash this house.”
They’d both been in the business long enough for the meaning to ring clear without elaboration. Funny how the threat hadn’t been mentioned to him last time he spoke to Lee.
“Do your damn job.” She spat the words. “If you don’t, I intend to salvage what I can of my division.”
Her section wouldn’t survive. Nothing survived a whitewash.
As much as he hated to admit it, a breach of this magnitude warranted a purge if he couldn’t clean his house. This operation had gone from finding a traitor to literally saving his people and the Gray Box—after he’d risked everything to secure its future.
Sanborn tamped down his rage to keep his voice smooth as cold steel and stepped forward, not stopping until Sybil lowered her finger and reeled back. “Don’t presume to tell me how to do my job. In this situation, your reach exceeds your grasp. You have no clue what it takes to run Operations. The only reason Lee gave you oversight is because you have your head shoved so far up his butt, he can’t think straight with his prostate throbbing in his throat.”
“Watch yourself.” Sybil shifted her weight from one hip to the other, balancing on her killer three-inch heels. Contempt set her brown eyes ablaze. “I will go balls to the wall with you. We may have once had a relationship, but I will do everything I can to see you prosecuted if you fail to follow procedure and lock up the traitor.”
Au contraire. She wanted him to burn precisely because they’d had a brief thing and he hadn’t fallen for the Machiavellian maneuvers behind her seduction. A damn shame she’d tried to manipulate him. She was fierce and cunning and would’ve made a formidable ally. Instead, she’d foolishly declared herself his enemy.
As if he’d ever let her win this war.
It was one thing to prosecute a mole for treason, another entirely to prosecute the director of the Gray Box, an organization that wasn’t supposed to exist. Sybil was dancing with the devil, and they were all going to fry because she had a vendetta.
He needed the viper out of his hair. “We never had a relationship. We screwed around to pass the time.” He let his tone dip to the ugly bowels of condescension, the only way to send her scurrying off and keep her out of the conference room. “I’m sorry if our brief and forgettable time meant more to you.”
Her pale cheeks flamed to match the crimson dress that fitted her like a second skin. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She swiped long platinum layers from her eye. “Now I’m going to be sweet, give you a break from my company while I call the DNI and give him an update about the new evidence. Maybe I’ll even pay him a visit and tell him about all this face-to-face.”
“Don’t do me any favors, Sybil. And be sure to wipe your mouth and brush your teeth when you’re done with Lee.”
“Well, you do know how to clean up after a good rim job, Bruce. Thanks for the tip.”
Sybil spun on her heel, flipping her shock-white hair, and strutted off. His blood pressure lowered, but the repugnance left a vile aftertaste in his mouth.
Hard to believe he’d ever slept with her, even if it had been years ago.
Turning to go back into the conference room, he caught sight of Emily “Doc” Duvall, their resident CDC scientist. Her gaze met his and her face lit up bright as sunshine. He couldn’t help but wonder what she saw in him to spark joy.
“Any leads on where the bioweapon came from?” he asked.
Their last op to prevent the sale of a super strain of smallpox left them with this proverbial ticking time bomb of a traitor. Doc was doing what she could to find the origins of the biological weapon.
“I keep getting the runaround, hitting brick walls.” The warmth in her voice wrapped around him like the first sip of single malt scotch at the end of a hard day. “It’s only strengthening my resolve to knock them down. I won’t stop until I find out who created it. My job is usually pretty boring, but this is the perfect challenge.”
Since she’d been at the Gray Box, Doc had been exposed to horrors most civilians didn’t have the backbone to handle, and yet she never lost her optimism and always saw the silver lining.
“Keep me posted on your progress. Is there anything else?”
“I heard there was a meeting.” She strode up to him and stood close, testing the bounds of professional propriety. Teasing him with the scent of her hair, strawberries and cream. “Came to see if you needed me.”
After his divorce, he’d made certain never to need any woman again, but part of him wanted to see if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
Sanborn shook his head. “No, you’re not needed.”
“Maybe I can be of assistance in another way. I overheard your conversation. Sounds like you’re having a rough morning.”
Oh, crap. He didn’t want Doc to know he’d slept with that hell-raiser Sybil.
“If you need a nonjudgmental ear to listen,” she said, “or want to go for a run to blow off steam or something, let me know.”
Confiding in others was a firm no-go, and
he always ran alone to clear his head. “A generous offer. Thank you.”
She was radiant, full of life, and he couldn’t help but stare. He swore he could read her emotions in the bright blue depths of her eyes, as if she didn’t want to hide any part of herself.
An inclination he’d never understand.
“I’m sure you’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” she said. “You should take a break.”
“Breaks are for slackers.” But he needed one from the relentless high-ops tempo, and he wanted time to know Doc better. “Even if I took one, I wouldn’t be able to unwind.”
“Melatonin would help you relax. Or exercise for the release of endorphins.” She tousled her hair, a languid gesture, kicking up that sweet scent. “Any vigorous exercise would do. Sex works too.” She laughed nervously as though embarrassed, dropping her gaze for a heartbeat, then looked at him again, throwing an inviting smile his way. “I’m always up to lend a friendly ear over dinner or”—she shrugged—“for some exercise.”
He was tempted. What sane man wouldn’t be? And thankfully, Doc was only a liaison, and the CDC director of the Washington office was her boss, so she wasn’t off-limits as a subordinate. But her timing was piss-poor. Too much at stake. He’d never let anyone close while hunting a mole. Not even his protégé, Castle, who’d started hovering over Sanborn like a scavenging grizzly—part of the job to weed out the traitor.
“I might give melatonin a try,” Reaper said behind him.
Hell’s bells. The man had the stealth of a wraith. Good for this line of work, but bad for Sanborn this morning. As soon as he saw Doc, he’d forgotten about Reaper lurking behind the cubicle divider.
“You can get it at any health food store,” she said.
Sanborn cleared his throat.
“I should get inside,” Reaper said, picking up the cue. “Lots of great tips this morning.” He went into the conference room before Sanborn gave in to the urge to throw him the evil eye.
Sanborn refocused his attention on the beautiful young woman in front of him. “Doc—”