by Tee O'Fallon
His voice had risen to the point where he was yelling at her. Hearing the commotion, Sheba stuck her head through the window, and he reached out to stroke her ear.
Trista turned in the seat to face him, crossing her arms as her own temper rose. “Why are you so angry with me?”
“Because I—” He readjusted his hands on the wheel. When he spoke again, his voice was low and controlled. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
When he gave her a quick glance, the look in his eyes was tender and honest, diffusing her indignation. “Oh.” Uncrossing her arms, she settled back against the seat.
What exactly did he mean by that?
He’d given her another passionate, toe-curling kiss, but that didn’t mean he truly cared about her. On a scale of one to ten, her experience with the opposite sex barely scored a two, but even she understood men had physical needs. Sexual needs they often satisfied without feeling an emotional bond with a woman. The statement he’d made about not wanting anything to happen to her could merely mean that it was his official duty to protect her. She was, after all, a CIA asset.
Having found that scratching Sheba’s ears was soothing not only to the dog but to her as well, she reached out her hand, but her fingers never contacted the soft fur. Matt grabbed her hand, entwining their fingers and holding their linked hands on top of his thigh, something that had nothing to do with protecting her.
Immediately, her body heated and something deep in her womb contracted. She shivered. Matt’s expression didn’t change as he focused on the highway before them. Smiling, she reveled in the warmth of his fingers and the heat from his thigh. Uttering a contented sigh, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Chapter Eighteen
From beneath lowered lids, Matt adjusted the newspaper in his hands and slid his gaze from one side of the coffee shop to the other.
A few patrons lingered, drinking coffee, reading magazines, or chatting away across small, well-used wooden tables. Nothing was out of place, and there was no one around who tripped his bad-guy meter. Except for a couple of men ogling Trista. He still couldn’t believe the flash of possessive irritation he’d experienced when Nick had leaned into the truck and touched Trista’s shoulder.
While he knew none of his friends would ever hit on her, he knew they were attracted to her. She was the only one who didn’t realize her hidden charms where men were concerned, something that was slowly driving him out of his mind with wanting her.
Sitting at a table on the opposite wall, she sipped a cup of coffee that had to be lukewarm by now, since they’d been there an hour.
Six o’clock. The reporter was a no-show.
He sent a quick text to Nick, updating him of the situation, then another to the burner phone he’d given Trista, telling her to meet him back at the truck. Remaining where he was, he waited until she read the text.
Before she had the chance to get up, he tossed the newspaper on the table and exited out the door. As he neared the truck, Sheba’s brown-and-black muzzle stuck through the cracked window of the covered bed. Catching sight of him, the truck began rocking gently, showing the dog’s eagerness to be let out and part of the action. Although tonight was a total bust thus far.
As he sat in the driver’s seat, Sheba greeted him with a series of woofs and whines. They’d taken her for a short walk before going inside to meet the reporter, but she had to be hungry for the stash of kibble he’d brought along. A minute later, Trista joined them, and he nearly laughed at the irony.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, she wouldn’t have dared touch his dog, but as soon as she parked her butt on the passenger seat, she put her face right into Sheba’s, allowing the dog to give her some serious licking.
“What now?” she asked.
“We call him.” He picked up the burner phone from the console, then hit redial and put the call on speaker. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail. Without leaving a message, he ended the call. “Now we go to his house.” He entered the reporter’s address into his phone’s navigation system, then pulled away from the curb.
Ten minutes later, he rolled past the address, a small white Colonial that had seen better days. The house was sorely in need of a paint job, and the foot-tall grass could use a hefty mowing.
“Hey, aren’t you going to stop?” Trista gave him a questioning look.
“I’ll park on the next block. I just wanted a look at the place before we go in.” And to check for vehicles parked out front. But there were none clearly associated with the address, and no garage in which a vehicle could be hidden.
He cut the engine, and Sheba let out a gruff snort, uncertain as to what was going down. “Patience, girl.”
He leaned over to grab a leash from the glove compartment. “I want you to stay close behind me. Take this.” He handed Trista the burner phone. “If everything goes to shit, call 911. Got it?”
She nodded, then swallowed. “Got it.”
“Good.” On impulse, he dropped a quick kiss on her lips and was rewarded with a smile that gave his insides an unexpected jolt. It felt good to make her smile, nearly as good as kissing her. And God help him, he wanted to kiss her all night long.
Outside the truck, he let down the tailgate, and as soon as he’d hooked the search harness and lead onto Sheba’s collar, she leaped from the truck, excited as hell to be going to work. Working was like playtime for the dog. It was what she lived for. That, and now for Trista’s ear massages. He’d have to keep a tight rein on that so his dog didn’t go soft and get lazy.
“Let’s go.” Holding on to Sheba’s leash with his left hand, he reached for Trista’s hand with his right, coming to love the feel of her small fingers entwined with his.
Sensing where they were heading, Sheba led the way onto the sidewalk, then turned onto the walkway leading to the reporter’s house.
At the front door he knocked, and when no one answered after a full ten more seconds he knocked again. Again, no answer. Releasing Trista’s hand, he turned the knob. The door was unlocked, but he didn’t push it open. Sheba tensed, her hind legs poised to catapult her inside the second he opened the door.
“Stay behind me,” he reiterated, gratified when he felt Trista’s hand at the small of his back. He eased the door open, wincing as it creaked.
“Police K-9,” he said in a raised voice as he crossed the threshold. “Mr. George?”
No one answered. The living room was empty. Of people, that was. Every surface was littered with books, magazines, and newspapers. Not unexpected for a man who made his living writing articles. A printer and a stack of white paper were visible on a small desk tucked under the stairwell. A loose cable from the printer dangled off the side of the desk. No laptop, he noted.
Sheba trotted briskly around the sofa and armchairs, ears erect. She sniffed the air and the floor, looking, listening, and smelling for signs of another human being in the house.
Matt cast a wary glance up the stairway, then over his shoulder at Trista to verify she was following him.
Sheba led them into the kitchen. A pizza box sat on an oak table, along with a dirty plate piled high with pizza crust. A can of coffee sat on the counter beside a coffeemaker. Matt touched his hand to the machine, which was cold. The door leading from the kitchen to a small, unkempt backyard was wide open. The yard was empty, save for weeds and overly tall, un-mowed grass.
“Where do you think he is?” Trista asked. “Do you think he left?”
Matt put his finger to his lips, indicating she should remain silent.
Sheba trotted from the kitchen back into the living room to continue searching for people. There was still no sound from anywhere in the house, but something wasn’t right. Not only hadn’t the reporter kept his appointment with them, but for a guy who was clearly suspicious, his house was wide open.
“Call him again,” he whispered in Trista’s ear. “Don’t put it on speakerphone.”
She pulled the phone from her back po
cket and hit redial. A few seconds later, a phone rang somewhere upstairs.
A thump came from above them on the second floor. Sheba lowered her head and placed one paw on the bottom step. The only reason she didn’t bound upstairs was that she was waiting for his command.
Hair on the back of Matt’s neck prickled, and he yanked up the hem of his shirt, pulling his Glock from the holster. Beside him, Trista’s eyes went wide.
“Get behind me,” he whispered in her ear. “Stay close.” He leaned down to the dog, again whispering. “Revier.”
Sheba was so fired up for the search she practically pulled him up the stairs. Luckily, the carpet runner muffled his boots and her nails. At the top of the stairs, he pointed his gun in every direction, clearing the hallway. His heart thumped in a fast but controlled rhythm as his eyes darted in every direction.
The moment he unclipped Sheba’s leash, the dog trotted into the first room. He and Trista followed closely behind, and Matt quickly determined the room was empty. They repeated the same procedure in the second bedroom, then Sheba picked up her pace, bolting toward the third open door at the end of the hallway. He knew the signs his dog was giving him.
Someone was in that room.
“Zustan,” he whispered, and Sheba froze, her ears pricking into sharp points.
Matt pushed past Sheba and eased around the doorjamb. Before he’d even crossed the threshold, he smelled it.
Death.
He aimed his gun into the room. Sheba bounded in beside him, pausing briefly to sniff the man lying face down on the floor. No blood was visible, but he was dead just the same. Matt was sure of it.
Behind him, Trista gasped. Matt hazarded a glance at her. Her face had paled, and she held a hand tight to her mouth. Her shoulders began to heave, and he knew she was about to be sick.
She spun and darted out the door, her hand still over her mouth.
“Trista, no!” Dammit. He still wanted her to stick close.
In a powerful, athletic pirouette, Sheba spun and bolted into the bathroom, barking furiously. Her hind legs bunched, and she launched past the door. A strangled cry followed. From his position in the bedroom, Matt couldn’t see what was happening yet, but he knew the audio cues.
Sheba had just bitten down on her quarry. Though she was trained not to inflict any major damage, a police dog’s jaws clamped around a person’s arm or leg was a terrifying thing.
“Call it off, call off your dog!” a panicked voice came from the bathroom.
Matt charge into the tiny master bathroom, aiming at the ground where Sheba did indeed have her jaws clamped around a man’s upper arm. “Police!” he yelled, just as the man reached for the weapon holstered on his left side. “Don’t move!” Matt shouted, and the man froze. “If you pull that gun, two things will happen. I’ll shoot you, and my partner will rip you to shreds.”
Now Matt’s heart pounded. If the guy tried to shoot Sheba, he’d nail the fucker without hesitation.
The man’s hand fell from the butt of the gun he was reaching for. When Sheba gave the arm clamped in her jaws another shake, he cried out again, louder this time.
“Stop fighting the dog,” he ordered, and the man obeyed, his dark eyes wide with fear, his chest heaving. “Do exactly as I say, and do it slowly.” The man nodded. “Pust,” he said to Sheba, and she released her grip and backed off, not letting the guy out of her sight. “Slowly, roll onto your stomach and interlock your hands behind your back.”
The guy did as he commanded, and Matt quickly extracted the holstered gun, securing it behind his belt in the small of his own back, then patting the man down for additional weapons. Next, he backed away. “Roll over but stay on the floor and interlock your hands on top of your head again.”
As he complied, Matt cast a quick glance behind him, worrying over where Trista had gone. A phone beeped, and he realized it came from beneath the dead body. Probably the cell phone he and Trista had just called, indicating an unanswered call had come in.
The guy in the bathroom wriggled backward to lean his head against the tiled wall. The movement had Sheba lunging to bite, uttering a deep, menacing growl in the back of her throat.
“Call your dog off!” The guy pressed farther back against the wall, his heels slipping on the floor as he tried pushing himself farther away in an effort to avoid Sheba’s snapping jaws.
“Don’t give me orders, asshole.”
For a moment longer, Matt let him experience the terror of a K-9 in full-on attack mode. Not because he was a sadist but because he wanted to impress on the guy that both he and Sheba meant business. Not only did he still have his Glock trained on the guy’s chest, but experience had shown him that even the most hardened criminals, ones who had no qualms about going hand to hand with a cop, backed down like a bunch of babies when confronted by a K-9.
“Okay, okay.” The voice was pure American, not Russian, as Matt had expected.
Aside from the blooming shiner under his right eye, the guy was totally average in appearance. Average height, weight, and with brown hair and brown eyes. Even his clothes were un-noteworthy. Tan slacks, polo shirt, untucked short-sleeved overshirt to cover his gun. He dressed the same way a lot of plainclothes cops did.
“Make any quick moves, and I’ll shoot you,” Matt said with zero inflection in his voice.
“I’m CIA, dammit,” the man growled, then thought better of it when Sheba upped his growl with a louder one of her own. “I said, call off the fucking dog. I’m on your side.”
“That fucking dog,” he snapped, “is my partner, and you’ll treat her with the respect she deserves or I’d be more than happy to let her rip off your nuts with her bare teeth.”
“My apologies, Sgt. Connors.” A muscle in his face twitched as he warily eyed Sheba.
Matt narrowed his eyes. He knows my name. So maybe the guy was CIA after all. But he’d been hiding in a bathroom not ten feet away from the dead reporter. “Did you kill Thomas George?”
“No.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I was ordered to check on him.”
“Ordered by whom?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say.”
Not that Matt had expected the guy to give it up, but it had been worth a try. He assumed the order came from someone inside Trista’s unit. Wayne Gurgas, most likely. “Using your right hand, pull out your creds and hold them out. Don’t make any other moves.” As an added warning, he subtly tipped his head to where Sheba stood bristling, her head lowered, eyeing the guy like she really did want to crunch down on his balls.
He reached awkwardly around to his rear pants pocket, extracting a black wallet that he held out to Matt.
Keeping his eyes and the muzzle of his Glock trained dead center on the guy’s chest, Matt picked up the creds and gave them a quick glance.
Mitchell Hentz. Central Intelligence Agency. An operative, no doubt. To all outward appearances, the creds appeared legitimate. He recognized the agency hologram, which was virtually impossible to replicate.
He threw the creds at Hentz’s chest, then holstered his gun. “Pozor.” Sheba’s body relaxed some as she shifted into guard mode. “When did you get here?”
“About fifteen minutes before you.” Hentz reached down and pocketed his creds.
Matt was well aware that agency operatives were trained for all kinds of deception. Even so, he stared at Hentz, searching for signs of duplicity on his face and in his body language. But there were none. Besides, if Hentz had killed George, he wouldn’t stick around.
Unless he was searching for something.
But the place hadn’t been tossed. The reporter’s laptop wasn’t on his desk, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t in a drawer or a briefcase somewhere.
Where the hell is Trista?
Light footsteps sounded, and he readied his gun, uncertain of whom it was and hoping like hell it was Trista. He exhaled with relief when she burst back into the room. At the sight of Georg
e’s body, she swallowed. “Is he really dead?”
“Looks that way.” He nodded, returning his attention to Hentz.
The next thing he knew, Trista’s arms went around Matt’s midsection, and she pressed her body against his. “Thank goodness you’re okay.”
Still keeping an eye on Hentz, he wrapped an arm around her slim shoulders, surprised at the potent rush he experienced knowing she was worried about him. “We’ll have to call the police,” he said to Hentz, knowing the guy wouldn’t like it and not giving a shit.
Hentz cleared his throat, an annoying smirk growing on his face. “Sorry to interrupt your little reunion, but if you’re gonna call the cops, I need to be gone when they get here.”
“Why’s that?” Matt wanted to wipe the smirk off Hentz’s face with his fist.
“Because I was never here, and if you’re smart, the two of you were never here, either.” He made a move to get up but jerked to stop when Sheba lowered her head and growled. He flinched, banging his head on the wall. “Sgt. Connors, I realize, as a uniformed officer, you’re accustomed to responding to incidents with formalized police procedure, but try to understand the other side of the house. The world I work in is different. The world she works in is different.” He indicated Trista. “It’s gray because it has to be. I don’t know exactly what you two stumbled into, but whatever it is, it’s big and it’s tied in with national security. Do you want to be responsible for fucking up our nation’s safety?”
Matt carefully considered Hentz’s words. He knew both CIA operatives and analysts worked behind the scenes and under the radar, but that didn’t mean he could automatically let the man walk or that he’d lie to the local PD to cover for Hentz. But he did agree that he and Trista had stepped into something deep, dark, and dangerous. Add to that, something was sure as hell off with how Trista’s supervisors were handling the entire situation.
He wasn’t about to let this fucker go without asking a few more questions. “You said you didn’t kill him and that you came to check on him.” Matt nodded to George’s body. “You also said you got here fifteen minutes before us. What have you been doing during that time?”