by Sandra Brown
He waited. He paced. He wasn’t a patient man.
The anticipated call came shortly after 01:00 EDT.
Unhappily the update confirmed that Tom VanAllen had died in the explosion.
“My condolences, sir,” the agent in Louisiana said. “I know you had a special regard for him.”
“Yes, thank you,” Hamilton replied absently. “And Mrs. Gillette?”
“VanAllen was the only casualty.”
Hamilton nearly dropped the phone. “What? Mrs. Gillette? Coburn? The child?”
“Whereabouts unknown,” the agent told him.
Mystified, Hamilton processed that, but couldn’t come up with an explanation. He asked, “What is the local fire department saying about the explosion?”
He was told that an arson inspector from New Orleans had been asked to assist in the investigation. ATF agents had also been summoned. There were many unanswered questions, but of one thing the authorities were certain: Only one body was discovered in the burned-out car.
Hamilton asked if VanAllen’s wife had been notified. “I want to call her myself, but not before she’s been officially informed.”
“Two agents have been dispatched to the VanAllen home.”
“Keep me posted on that. I also want to know anything else you hear, whether it’s official or scuttlebutt. Anything. Especially about Coburn and Mrs. Gillette.”
He ended the call and slammed his fist onto his desk. Why the hell hadn’t Coburn called to advise him of his present position and situation? Damn the man! Although, he grudgingly admitted to himself, a car bomb wouldn’t exactly inspire an agent’s confidence in his agency, would it?
Hamilton decided that the situation down there could no longer be handled by long distance. He needed to go himself. In hindsight, he wished he had jetted to Louisiana immediately after receiving that first SOS call from Coburn. Since then, the shit had only gotten thicker.
He placed a series of calls and secured clearance from his superiors. He asked for a squad of agents trained for special ops. “No less than four men, no more than eight. I want them at Langley, geared up and ready to board the jet at 02:30.”
Everyone with whom he spoke asked why he was flying men and equipment down there when he could use personnel from the district office in New Orleans.
His answer to all of them was the same. “Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m coming.”
When her doorbell rang, Janice VanAllen ran to answer it, mindful that she was wearing only her nightgown, but uncaring about her lack of modesty. She had her phone in her hand and a look of concern on her face when she pulled open the front door.
Two strangers looked back at her. One was male, the other female, but their dark suits and serious expressions were practically identical.
“Mrs. VanAllen?” The woman palmed a leather ID wallet and extended it toward Janice. Her partner did the same. “I’m Special Agent Beth Turner, this is Special Agent Ward Fitzgerald. We’re from Tom’s office.”
Janice’s chest rose and fell on several short breaths. “Where’s Tom?”
“May we come in?” the woman asked kindly.
Janice shook her head. “Where is Tom?”
They remained silent, but their stoicism spoke volumes.
Janice made a keening sound and gripped the edge of the door for support. “He’s dead?”
Special Agent Turner reached for her, but Janice jerked her arm back before the woman could touch her. “He’s dead?” she repeated, this time on a ragged cry. And then her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor.
The two FBI agents lifted her and supported her between them, half carrying her into the living room where they deposited her on the sofa. All the while Janice was screaming Tom’s name.
Then Agents Turner and Fitzgerald began asking her questions.
Is there someone we can call to come be with you?
“No,” she sobbed into her hands.
Your minister? A friend?
“No, no.”
Is there a family member who should be notified?
“No! Just tell me what happened.”
Can we make you some tea?
“I don’t want anything! I only want Tom! I want my husband!”
Is your son…
Clearly they knew about Lanny, but didn’t know how to phrase a question regarding him. “Lanny, Lanny,” she chanted mournfully. “Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Tom had loved their son. As hopeless as it was that his love would ever be returned, Tom’s love for Lanny had never wavered.
Special Agent Turner sat down beside her and placed a comforting arm across her shoulders. Fitzgerald had moved away and was now standing across the room with his back to them, speaking softly into a cell phone.
Turner said, “You’ll have the full support of the bureau, Mrs. VanAllen. Tom was well liked and respected.”
Janice threw off her arm and wanted badly to slap her. Tom wasn’t respected at all, and, to hear Tom tell it, few of his fellow agents had liked him.
“How did it happen?”
“We’re still trying to determine—”
“How did it happen?” Janice repeated harshly.
“He was alone in his car.”
“His car?”
“He was parked near some abandoned railroad tracks.”
Janice raised trembling fingers to her lips. “Oh, God. Suicide? We… we had a quarrel this afternoon. He left the house upset. I’ve been trying to call him, to… to explain. Apologize. But he wouldn’t answer his phone. Oh, God!” she wailed and shot to her feet.
Turner grabbed her hand and pulled her back down onto the sofa. She stroked her arm. “Tom didn’t take his own life, Mrs. VanAllen. He was killed in the performance of his duty. The initial report is that a bomb was planted on his car.”
Janice gaped at her. “A bomb?”
“An explosive device, yes. A full investigation is already under way.”
“But who… who—”
“It pains me to tell you that the person suspected of involvement is another agent.”
“Coburn?” Janice whispered.
“You know of him?”
“Of course. First because of the warehouse massacre. Then Tom told me he was an agent working undercover.”
“Did they have contact?”
“Not to my knowledge. Although Tom told me earlier today that he might be called upon to bring Coburn in.” She read the pained expression on the agent’s face. “That’s the duty Tom was performing?”
“Mrs. Gillette was supposed to be at the train tracks. Tom went there to get her.”
“Coburn set him up?”
“We’re trying to ascertain—”
“Please tell me that Coburn is in custody.”
“Unfortunately no.”
“Jesus Christ, why not? What have you people been doing? Coburn is obviously crazy. If he’d been apprehended before tonight, as he should have been, Tom would still be alive.” Composure deserted her. She sobbed, “The whole freaking bureau is incompetent, and because of it, Tom is dead.”
“Mrs. VanAllen?”
Janice jumped. She wasn’t aware that Fitzgerald had rejoined them until he laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke her name.
He held his cell phone out to her. “For you.”
She stared at him, then at the phone, and eventually took it from him and put it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Mrs. VanAllen? This is Clint Hamilton. I just heard about Tom. I wanted to call and tell you personally how profoundly—”
“Fuck you.” She disconnected and handed the phone back to the agent.
Then she forcibly composed herself. She wiped her face and took several deep breaths, and when she felt more in control, she stood up and walked toward the door. She left the room, saying, “Let yourselves out. I need to check on my son.”
Chapter 39
Did you?”
“Did I what?
“Li
ke the way I…” Honor let the unfinished question hang.
Coburn turned his head and looked at her. “No. I was faking it. Couldn’t you tell?”
She smiled shyly and burrowed her face into his chest.
He gathered her close. “I liked it.”
“Better than a sneeze or a cough?”
“Can I think about that and get back to you?”
She laughed softly.
They had moved from the floor to the bed and were lying with their legs entwined. Lightly she blew on the chest hair tickling her nose. “What was its name?”
“What?”
“The horse you had to shoot. You’d named it. What was its name?”
He glanced down at her, then away. “I forgot.”
“No you didn’t,” she said softly.
He lay perfectly still and said nothing for the longest time, then, “Dusty.”
She propped her fist on his breastbone and rested her chin on her fist, and looked into his face. He held out for several moments, then lowered his gaze to her. “Every day when I got home from school, he’d amble over to the fence like he was glad to see me. He liked me, I think. But only because I fed him.”
She reached up and ran her thumb along the line of his chin. “I doubt that was the only reason he liked you.”
He made an indifferent motion with his shoulder. “He was a horse. What did he know?” Then he turned to face her and said, “Dumb thing to be talking about.” He tugged on a strand of her hair, then studied it thoughtfully as he rubbed it between his fingers. “It’s pretty.”
“Thank you. It’s seen better days.”
“You’re pretty.”
“Thanks again.”
He took in all the features of her face, but eventually his eyes rested on hers. “You hadn’t been with anybody since Eddie.”
“No.”
“It felt good to me. But I think it might have hurt you.”
“A little at first. Then it didn’t.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think about that.”
In a husky whisper, she said, “Neither did I.”
It was a difficult admission to make, but it was the truth. She was glad that thoughts of Eddie hadn’t intruded upon the moment, although even if they had, they wouldn’t have stopped her from being with Coburn.
Two men, two entirely different experiences. Eddie had been a wonderful and ardent lover, and she would cherish forever sweet memories of him. But Coburn had a distinct advantage. He was alive, warm, virile, and inclining toward her now.
His kiss was languid and sexy. Their hands explored. She discovered scars on him that she kissed in spite of his mild protests. He called her depraved when she brushed her tongue across his nipple, but also claimed to be a big fan of depravity. Her hand glided over the hard muscles of his abdomen and followed the tapering shape of his body down to his sex.
“Do that thing with your thumb,” he whispered. She did as requested, and when she picked up moisture, he groaned a litany of swear words.
His fingertips went unerringly to her most sensitive places that, when he stroked them, left her breathless. She became hot and achy in her center again and moved against him in shameless appeal. He lowered his head to her breasts, where he took his time, loving them with his mouth.
He raised her arm above her head and kissed the sensitive underside, then down her rib cage, gradually turning her until she was on her stomach. He moved her hair aside and softly bit the back of her neck, then started pecking kisses down her spine.
His breath was warm against her skin when he released a short laugh. “My oh my. Who would have guessed?”
Knowing what he had discovered, she said primly, “You didn’t corner the market on tats.” She had spent several minutes admiring the barbed wire encircling his biceps.
“No, but a tramp stamp? On a second-grade schoolteacher? I can remember my second-grade teacher, and I seriously doubt she had one.” He leaned down and took her earlobe between his teeth. “But it makes me hot as hell to think about it. What inspired you?”
“Two Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s. Eddie and I spent a three-day weekend in New Orleans while Stan kept Emily.”
“You got drunk?”
“Tipsy. I was easily persuaded.”
Coburn had kissed his way down and now his tongue was drawing tantalizing circles around her tattoo. “What is it?”
“A Chinese symbol. Maybe Japanese. I can’t remember.” She moaned with pleasure. “In fact, with you doing that, I can’t even think.”
“No? What happens when I do this?” He worked his hand between her and the mattress and began massaging her from the front, while he settled heavily upon her back. “That day in your bathroom…” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “When I had you up against the door.”
“Um-hum.”
“This is what I wanted to be doing. Touching you… here.”
What he was doing caused her breathing to turn choppy, but she managed to say, “I was very afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of what you would do.”
“To hurt you?”
“No, to make me feel like I do now.”
He stilled. “Is that the truth?”
“Shamefully, yes.”
“Turn over,” he growled.
He helped her onto her back, then knelt between her legs and rubbed his lips over her belly. He planted soft kisses on her hipbone and the hollow beneath it. Then nuzzled lower.
“Coburn?”
“Shh.”
His palm settled between her hipbones, and his fingertips caressed her belly while his thumb dipped down to separate and stoke. Then he deep-kissed her. The dual caress of mouth and thumb soon had her gasping his name and begging him with her arching body not to stop.
He didn’t. But he was inside her when she climaxed, inside her when she felt his own release, and when she finally regained the strength to open her eyes, he was still there, cupping her face between his hands and stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs.
The intensity of his expression caused her to tentatively ask, “What?”
“I’ve never been a big fan of the missionary position.”
Not quite sure how to respond to that, she said simply, “Oh.”
“I preferred making it any other way.”
“Why?”
“Because it didn’t have anything to do with getting off.”
“What didn’t?”
“Looking into the woman’s face.” He murmured the statement as though puzzled by it.
Her throat grew tight. She reached up and stroked his cheek. “You wanted to look into mine?”
He continued to stare into her eyes for several moments, then pulled away from her so abruptly that the emotional withdrawal was as definitive as the physical separation.
Reluctant to let that happen, she followed him, turning onto her side toward him. He lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, suddenly but completely detached.
She spoke his name.
He turned only his head toward her.
Quietly she said, “When this is over, I’ll never see you again, will I?”
He waited for a beat or two, then gave an abrupt negative shake of his head.
“Right,” she whispered, smiling ruefully. “I didn’t think so.”
He returned to his study of the ceiling, and she thought that would be the end of it. Then he said, “I guess that changes your mind about this.”
“This?”
“Fucking me. But you knew what you were getting,” he said as though she’d disputed him. “Or you should have known. I haven’t made a secret of who I am, what I’m like. And, yeah, I’ve wanted you naked from the minute I saw you, and I made no secret of that either.
“But I’m not a hearts and flowers guy. I’m not even an all-night guy. I don’t hold hands. I don’t cuddle…” He paused, swore. “I don’t do any of that stuff.”
“No, all you’ve done is risk your life t
o save mine. More than once.”
He turned his head and looked at her.
“You repeatedly asked me why I left the garage,” she said. “Now I want to ask you something. Why were you coming back to it?”
“Huh?”
“You had told me that if you didn’t return within a few minutes of ten o’clock, I was to drive away and get as far from Tambour as possible. So, for all you knew, that’s what I had done. After nearly dying in that explosion, with a burn on your shoulder, and your hair singed, you could have run in any given direction in order to get away, but you didn’t. When you found me on the railroad tracks, you were racing back to the garage. To me.”
He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tensed.
She smiled and moved closer to him, aligning her body along his. “You don’t have to give me flowers, Coburn. You don’t even have to hold me.” She laid her head on his chest just below his chin. Her hand curved around his neck. “Let me hold you.”
Chapter 40
Diego held the edge of his razor to Bonnell Wallace’s Adam’s apple.
Wallace was proving to be a stubborn son of a bitch.
Getting into the house had been easier than Diego had anticipated. The alarm hadn’t been set, so he hadn’t had to strike immediately and then run like hell to get away before the cops showed up. Instead, he’d been able to sneak in and get the layout of the house before Wallace knew he was there.
He thought he’d caught every break, until he realized that Wallace was in the study in the front of the house where he’d seen him the night before, in plain view of anyone who happened by on the street.
The soundtrack of a television show had covered his footsteps as he’d climbed the curved staircase. The second floor had bedrooms along both sides of a long hallway, but Diego soon discovered the one that belonged to the master of the house. The gray pinstripe suit that Wallace had worn to the bank that day had been slung over the back of an easy chair. His dress shoes were in the center of the floor, his necktie lying on the foot of his giant bed.