by Joan Swan
“Good to know I can still keep up with you.” Owen’s grin loosened, turned flirtatious. His eyes sharpened as he sat forward and pressed elbows to knees. “You are right about her team, though. They’ll go ape-shit when they find out she’s gone. Mitch Foster’s going to be crawling up your ass before sunrise.”
Just the mention of that cunning, manipulative piece-of-shit lawyer made Jocelyn’s skin ripple.
A man’s voice sounded in Jocelyn’s ear. “Deputy Dargan, ma’am?”
She held up a hand to Owen and spoke into her phone. “Redland, I don’t want your excuses. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely, ma’am. I—”
“Esposito,” she cut him off with a curt snap of her voice, “was your responsibility, soldier. The results of his actions today remain to be seen. They are deep and far reaching and will affect our department, our careers, and ultimately the security of our nation. You will take care of the problem you created with your oversight.”
A heavy moment of silence wafted over the line. Redland was a former decorated Marine. Where he’d gone wrong with Tony, Jocelyn didn’t know. What she did know was that addressing him as “soldier” would bring out all his loyalty and the dig about national security would cut deep.
“Are we clear, soldier?” Jocelyn asked.
“Crystal clear, ma’am.”
Jocelyn disconnected after his promise to contact her with status updates.
When she looked up, Owen’s expression held a mixture of decades-old emotions that stirred her heart and her libido. Those eyes in crazy-beautiful shades of caramel and moss stared back with pride, awe, and plenty of heat.
“You always did have a way with words, Jocelyn.”
Owen’s deep, slow speech reverberated around the office, rolling through her like a heat wave. Sexual, predatory, challenging. Since Jason had died—correction, been killed by Teague Creek and the hell that miserable team stirred, Owen had picked up his prowl around Jocelyn as if twenty years hadn’t passed since their wild fling while stationed together during Desert Storm. As if Owen hadn’t ever gotten married, had children. As if Jocelyn would be interested simply because Jason wasn’t around anymore.
Idiot.
Whether Jason was around or not, she wanted Owen. He had a maddening way of making her want him and hate him at the same time. She could have entertained the idea of an occasional sexual interlude with Owen now that she was mature enough to remain emotionally distant, but there was a large and, Jocelyn often thought, convenient roadblock between them: Owen was still married. Jocelyn had never been, and would never be, a mistress.
She pushed off the desk and wandered to the windows again, her gaze blurring over the city lights. “If we let O’Shay go, she leaves with information about the boy, about Rostov. If we eliminate her, the others will crawl out from their quiet holes.”
She thought of Foster, and all his evidence. The photos and documents and taped phone conversations linking a dozen top officials—most important, Senator Schaeffer—to a slew of unethical, unauthorized, unsavory scientific projects funded by taxpayers. Information that would be strewn to various major media sources should anything happen to Foster or his team.
Jocelyn’s mind churned with options. “If we can make it look like she was killed in the incident—”
“No chance.” Owen’s voice cut into her plans.
She glared at him over her shoulder. “Why the hell not?”
He slapped the papers on the walnut coffee table at his knees. Pointed at something highlighted on the page. “Because Ransom was there, too. Reportedly aided her in the boy’s rescue. He knows she didn’t die in that incident, and he’d never rest until he found and killed everyone involved in her death. Besides, the news is already across the wires.”
Jocelyn’s stomach dropped. She rushed to the table and picked up Owen’s papers. Interdepartmental news updates. Next worst thing to media. This would be spread throughout every department in every government agency within hours.
“How did Ransom show up there? And you’re off base on their relationship. They broke up three years ago. Not a word since.”
Owen sat back and reached up to pull his tie a little looser and unfasten the second button on his shirt.
“Time doesn’t erase emotion,” he said. “At least, not for some of us.”
“Only those of us who have emotion would know that, Owen.”
“Low, Joce. Low. As far as I can tell, Ransom ended up there by statistical chance.”
“That’s the same as coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidence.”
Owen tipped his head, narrowed his eyes, his thick dark lashes nearly obscuring the light irises. “What about fate, Joce?” His voice softened to what Jocelyn would have misconstrued as a vulnerable tone if she didn’t know him better. But she did. “Do you believe fate brought Ransom and O’Shay back together?”
A stream of heat poured through the center of her chest. She crossed her arms and clenched her fingers around her biceps. “Why are you screwing with me, Owen? Frustrated? Is Libby going through the change? Not in the mood?” She raised her brows. “Having an affair?”
He didn’t react. Unusual. A new tactic in his arsenal? If so, it was unnerving. But Jocelyn didn’t show it. She held her ground and his stare.
“Ransom is part of a Special Response Team with ATF.” When he finally spoke, his voice was even, but subdued. The fact that he hadn’t picked up her challenge hinted at something painful and personal brewing for Owen. Maybe he had developed emotion sometime over the past twenty years after all.
“His team covers the northwestern United States. Normally, the Los Angeles SRT would have gone to the incident with Rostov, but they were, and still are, dispatched to a hostage situation along the border of Mexico and Texas in a little hellhole by the name of Langtry. Some Mexican drug lord smuggling through a tunnel across the border.
“Esposito wrangled O’Shay into finding and retrieving this kid. Ballsy and innovative if you ask me, only it backfired on him when it became a siege and Ransom’s unit was deployed. Once Ransom and O’Shay were within fifty miles of each other, they were bound to end up together. We can monitor, we can manipulate, but we can’t control every move every member of their team makes.”
“Not every member,” she said. “But we should be controlling Ransom and O’Shay. Considering how their powers intensify, definitely them. And Creek. And Foster. And . . .” Shit. “Okay, yes, every member. Keeping them all apart is the best possible situation short of killing them.”
She lifted her fingers to her temples and rubbed small circles at the fresh surge of tension. “Schaeffer should have gotten rid of them all at that damned fire. It would have been so easy. This should have been handled five goddamned years ago. It’s not my issue.”
Owen’s superior chuckle scraped Jocelyn’s raw nerves. “Wishing you’d stayed in the private sector, Jocie?”
A fiery spear of pain slashed her heart. “Don’t call me that.” Halfway through the bark, she wished she could pull it back. Only Jason called her Jocie. And Owen knew it. Owen could call her Joce. But not Jocie. Never Jocie.
“Hey, hey . . .” He held up his hands in surrender and enlisted that purring voice he used when he wanted something. “I’m sorry, honey. You’re still a little sensitive.” He shrugged, all innocence. “It’s been over six months now. I guess I figured . . . I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”
She ground her teeth to keep from responding. If she admitted to still hurting over Jason’s death, aching over his absence, mourning over how much time she’d wasted at work instead of spending it with him when he’d asked, she’d expose her weakness. If she got angry over Owen’s sentiment, he would take it as admittance. There was no win. Manipulative bastard.
“No, I don’t belong in the private sector,” she said instead. “But neither do I belong working with such incompetence, and I won’t stand for any manipulation. I’ll take care of this situati
on just like I would in any sector—public or private. Professionally and permanently.”
Owen pushed to his feet, left the papers on the table, and pulled an envelope from his back pocket. He tapped the paper against one palm, a pensive expression pulling at his mouth. “This came for you while you were on that conference call with Schaeffer a couple of hours ago.”
Crap. What now? “What is it?”
“I wasn’t sure . . . I mean, I was trying to find a good time to give it to you, but . . .” He looked up, an uncharacteristic sympathy in his eyes. “I guess there really is no good time.”
Unease curled through her stomach. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. It came by messenger from, um, Carl Sutton’s office.”
Jason’s attorney.
Jocelyn managed to tighten her throat around the sound trying to escape. Managed to keep her face frozen against the pain.
Owen lifted cautious eyes to her face. “I thought Jason’s estate was all settled.”
She swallowed, cleared her throat, and managed a weak, “So did I.”
. . . You should see them together . . . once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. . . Rostov’s heredity research . . .
Keira was still trying to piece together that bizarre stream of information when Tony smacked his BlackBerry against the steering wheel with a curse. She flinched and came fully out of the half-hypnotic state she’d been using to tap into Tony’s thoughts. Not that she’d been getting anything anyway. Whispers of possible messages continued to linger just out of reach, and his new flash of anger not only tossed a black sheet over his mind, but it added to Keira’s anxiety, interfering with her abilities.
Mateo stirred where he lay against her chest. He’d finally fallen asleep half an hour ago, allowing her to focus.
Tony dropped the phone into his left pocket, close to where he held his gun, resting against his thigh. Well out of Keira’s reach.
She’d had nearly two hours to consider escape plans—none of which was appealing in the middle of a quickly cooling, pitch-black desert night with no cover, no weapons, no food, no water, and no freaking idea where they were or which direction she should take. But tidbits of Tony’s conversation—specifically the part about getting rid of her and being thirty minutes from an exchange point—told her she’d better do something. And given the risks and her limitations, fucking with his head seemed to be her best bet.
“You’ve gone and done it now.” She projected a bored, knowing tone as she stared out the passenger’s window at the black expanse she hoped to be sprinting over soon. “You’ve gone and made a decision on your own. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to think, Tony?”
“You really don’t get it,” he said, his attention steady on the road. “You never did. You look at the trees and miss the forest. You just don’t have the vision.”
After working with Tony for a year, she knew he wasn’t the clearest thinker when he was pissed off.
“You mean the one that involves sacrificing individuals for the sake of experimentation?” she said. “Using human guinea pigs to test your latest inventions or scientific discoveries so you can turn around and give that information to soldiers who can then apply it in warfare to destroy other human beings? That vision? No, Tony. I don’t have that vision.”
“This is the problem.” He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “You completely twist the idea. If you’d been more sensible in the first place, none of this would have been necessary. I could have gone at this mission from an entirely different direction.”
Yeah, he could have used her more completely than she’d already allowed. “Are you working for the same men Jason Vasser was working for? Are you working for Jocelyn Dargan? For Senator Schaeffer?”
Tony’s mouth compressed in frustration. He had a narrow face, broad forehead. His dark hair was too long at the bottom, too thin at the top. His dark eyes set too far apart. He was an attractive guy when you looked at his face as a unit, but no one feature alone was the least bit handsome.
“Don’t start,” he warned. “Vasser has nothing to do—”
“It’s called manipulation, Tony, not the greater good. The common thread here is manipulation and control, not American freedom and safety. Framing Teague Creek for murder, rigging the trial so he’d go to prison and stop asking questions about that warehouse fire—tell me, where was the greater good in that? A little girl lost her only living parent. Teague’s escape from prison—for something he didn’t do in the first place—caused the deaths of innocent bystanders. Forgive me, but I’m not seeing a benefit to the American people anywhere in that scenario.”
“Creek’s got nothing to bitch about,” Tony said. “He and Alyssa Foster made bank on that situation. After her brother raked in double settlements, they’re living in fucking Fort Knox in Truckee. Neither will ever have to work another day of their lives if they don’t want to.” He rested one elbow on the window ledge, his fingers rubbing hard strokes over his forehead. “Besides, that situation was different.”
“No, Tony, that’s the point. It wasn’t different. Let’s compare that to what happened today. For whatever reason, Rostov went off the reservation. He’d made progress with Mateo, and your . . . psycho scientists . . . wanted the new and improved toy, but Rostov said no. Finders, keepers. Your job was to find out what was really going on, to find a way to steal Mateo back. You knew about me, about the way I acquired my powers through similar chemicals. Hell, you work for the people who caused them in that fire. So you used me.”
Though how he knew she’d feel this deep connection to the boy, Keira had no idea. Maybe the people who’d exposed her to the chemicals in that explosion five years ago understood more about how she and her teammates would develop their powers than they did.
“But what happens, Tony, when things don’t go exactly as planned? What happens when someone finds out about these chemicals and Rostov and Dargan and Schaeffer and all the games they’ve been playing? Manipulation and control. They turn the scene over to the army so they can classify information and destroy evidence.” Before she went on, Keira coated her stomach with an imaginary steel lining, because the facts she was going to hit him with would otherwise make her puke.
“Did you do your homework on the ranch, Tony? Do you realize there were thirty-four children living there? Thirty-four. Sixteen adults. Your people slaughtered them, Tony. Slaughtered them. Because of you. Because of your plan.”
“Stop.”
“Have you ever seen that many bodies? In pieces? Burned? Women, Tony. Babies.”
“Enough!”
She paused. Gave him a minute to wipe the sweat from his upper lip, slow his breathing, then pushed on. Going for the break.
“I’ve studied Dargan for a long time. Schaeffer, too. You know all that overtime I spend at the office, Tony? That’s what I’m doing. Investigating your people. That’s how I know they’re all about manipulation and control. Life means nothing to them. Loyalty means less than nothing. It’s all about power, and all they want are yes men. You went beyond yes. You put your mind to work. What do you think they’re going to do to you after you drop us off? When they realize they can’t trust you to stay in line?”
“What happened at the ranch . . . wasn’t us. It was Rostov.” Tony cast an uncertain look her way, as if he were searching for affirmation in her eyes. “Our organization cares more about life than most Americans. We’re fighting to sustain and better all Americans’ way of life by doing the work the public wants done but doesn’t have the guts to approve.”
“Straight out of the DoD black ops manual. Nice.”
“If one kid could save thousands, are you saying you’d let thousands die to save that one?”
Her arms tightened around Mateo. “That’s a theoretical question that can’t be answered.”
“It’s not as theoretical as you think. Any threat to America threatens our children.”
Our children. Mateo’s weight seemed to double. Som
ething unnerving shifted in Keira’s belly. “And whose child is this, Tony? Who has he been snatched from to be used as a pawn in your war games?”
Tony’s teeth clenched hard. His fingers choked the steering wheel.
“Who is he, Tony?” An indescribable need to know stoked her anger. “Where did he come from?”
“Some ghetto in Greece.” Tony spat the words, his hand flying with the confession. “He’s a fucking street urchin who begged for food like a dog. Even a restricted life in America is better than how he existed.”
An uneasy tingle slithered under her skin and sank into her stomach. He was lying. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew. “You’re saying you pulled him off the streets?”
“We didn’t do anything. Rostov did.”
That part felt true. But which streets remained in question.
“If you’re not involved, how do you know that?”
“The same way you know things, Keira—information, research, observation.”
“Stalking. The way the rest of your department watches our team. We all know we have shadows.”
Surprise registered in his dark eyes.
She snorted a laugh. “I’m an FBI agent. You don’t think I’m going to notice someone following me? Don’t think Teague Creek is watching every damn move around him?”
He looked away, shrugged. “Each of you has value. Each of you poses a risk. It would be stupid not to monitor you.”
Mateo lifted his head from Keira’s shoulder and rubbed his eyes.
Lucas.
Mateo’s single word filled Keira’s head.
“Stamata t’aftokinito, Thia. Stamata to,” he murmured.
Frustration sizzled over her skin. He could have been speaking an alien language for all she understood. The only thing she got out of that was Lucas. Maybe Luke was close. And even if he wasn’t, Keira had to make a move soon. Who knew what would happen in thirty minutes?
“He probably has to pee,” she said.