by Misty Evans
She squeezed tight against him as if she might crawl inside his skin and stay there. Her voice was raw when she spoke. “Now that you’re here, yes.”
Grey took his gaze from Nabil for a second and touched her neck where a welt had formed. The sirens drew closer. Right outside the window, car doors slammed and Monroe yelled his name. “I’m so sorry.”
She grabbed his chin and put her face up to his, their noses touching. “Not. Your. Fault.”
Yeah, it was, but arguing with her was an effort in futility. He leaned his forehead against hers as boots pounded on the stairs. “Thank God you’re okay.”
Behind her, Nabil rose, a sneer on his face. “She will never be yours.” His hand shot toward Sydney’s back. “She belongs to me.”
Monroe burst in with his gun ready to fire. “Grey!”
“I’ve got it.” Raising his gun, Grey aimed at the center of Nabil’s forehead. Shooting the sick fuck was too easy. And while Grey had broken every rule in the book to gather the evidence to put Nabil away, this time he was going to do things by the system.
Grey locked an arm around Syd and hoisted her out of the way. Then he lunged forward and nailed Nabil’s temple with the butt of the gun.
The cops made an appearance as Nabil went down once more—this time for good. Grey helped Syd off the floor, and never one to give up, she kicked the unconscious man in the ribs.
Grey kissed the top of her head. “That’s my girl.”
This time she didn’t correct him.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The red neon numbers of Syd’s alarm clock threw shadows against the wall and she closed her eyes.
Damned darkness.
Unsettling silence engulfed her. Never before had she felt this way in her own bed. The stillness usually brought a sense of quiet to her normally tormented mind. Now though? She needed noise. She needed angry sex to block out the nightmare that had been her evening. Never mind the anger and resentment that had become so much a part of her. All she wanted was to forget it all for a few brief minutes.
After being questioned by the FBI’s Special Agent in Charge, she hadn’t been allowed to see Grey. She assumed he was locked in a room somewhere, also being questioned, but one of the agents had slipped her a note from Grey saying he’d be by later. She’d been escorted home and assured agents would watch her house overnight.
None of it mattered. An army outside her door couldn’t fight the fear gripping her.
And it wasn’t the good fear, the kind that propelled one into action, and motivated one to conquer whatever challenge lay in wait.
No, this was the kind that drilled so far in, she’d never dig it out.
Nothing new for Syd. She had enough crap buried inside her to fill a garbage dump.
The soft roar of an engine sounded from the street—she knew that car—and the chill straddling her bones disappeared. She glanced at the clock. Well, it was later. Three a.m. to be exact. Long night for him.
Syd pulled the sheet higher, absorbed the silence in the room and waited. She’d know the minute he stepped into the house. She always did. The energy around him always reached her before he did and somewhere along the way, she’d learned to crave it, to cherish it for all its newness and comfort.
Damn him.
The bedroom door eased open.
“It’s me,” he whispered, knowing she’d be skittish.
She came up on one elbow, the glare of the clock illuminating the stark white sheet. She let it slide down enough for him to know she was naked.
And waiting.
“Hi.”
Keeping his gaze glued to her face, he strode to the bed and braced one hand on the backboard. “You okay?”
“I’m good.”
The knot in his tie had been loosened enough for him to unfasten the top button of his shirt. She curled her fingers around it and dragged his mouth to hers. Before she got him all the way home, he grasped her hand.
“We can’t do this now. Donaldson needs to see you.”
“I already talked to him.” She inched him closer. “It’s late.”
“Welcome to the FBI.”
Their gazes met and held for a few long seconds and something, a huge chunk of her frozen heart, broke away. Finally, he kissed her, but it wasn’t like all the other times. This kiss was an easy glide of lips and the soft press of his mouth against hers. All that anger and resentment and pain she’d clung to for so long opened its grip and a new weightlessness filled her. Always, she’d wanted this.
He inched away. “Baby, we have to go.”
Gripping the tie tighter, she drew him back. “Tell them you couldn’t get me up. Just a few minutes. I need the quiet. You and the quiet.”
She kissed him again. Slower than last time and, damn, it was so good. Sex for her had always been about releasing the hate that had become so much a part of her. Now, there was no hate. Now, she was simply a traumatized woman who needed—when had she ever been needy?—to be held.
And loved.
Grey was the one—the only one—she’d ever wanted that with.
She let go of the tie, wrapped her hand around his neck, and eased him on top of her.
“I hate you for being naked,” he said.
In the darkness, she grinned. “You won’t hate me in a few minutes.”
Gently, he dotted kisses down her cheek, along her jaw to her neck where the aching, rawness of Nabil’s actions branded her. Grey let his lips linger there a moment.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You saved me.”
Suddenly, he rolled sideways and planted his feet on the floor. In the shadows, she saw him working the buttons of his shirt, the flash of white as he slid the shirt off. She laid back, rested against the pillow, and watched him unfasten his pants. How she loved his body. The muscle and deep curves of his abs. The combination of hard and soft skin. Too much.
A minute later, he was naked and sliding under the sheet with her.
“I thought we had to go,” she teased.
“Like you said, you’re a heavy sleeper.” He kissed her. “You sure you’re up for this?”
So up for this.
She curled into his side, let him put his arm around her and draw her close. Her own little cocoon. “All night I’ve been thinking about you being here.”
Air clogged her throat and she gulped. Can’t breathe. Her chest heaved and she focused on keeping the lid on her emotions. All the loathing and filth that had deadened her for so many years.
“You’re safe now,” Grey said.
Game over.
Each little muscle in her body collapsed under the wave of abhorrence begging to come free. She curled deeper into him, wrapping her arms around him, and clinging to something, anything, that would let her hang on. A never-ending bucket of tears streamed down her face and she pressed into the warmth of Grey’s neck as he rubbed her back and held her.
“I mean it. You’re safe.”
Over and over he said it until she kissed him again. Slower, softer. Limitless kisses. So gentle.
The swell of his erection prodded her leg and she slid her hand down his chest, through the soft line of curly hair, then lower, until he took hold of her hand and rolled her to her back.
With him on top, she spread her legs, felt the slow slide of his thigh against hers. The tingle of skin against skin shooting through her, making her want lovemaking she’d never experienced before.
She breathed deep. Kissed his shoulder. His neck. Pulled him closer still while his lips moved over her, across her breasts and back up. She eased her fingers through his hair, down the back of his head, over his muscled shoulders, and still, he wasn’t close enough.
“I love this,” she said.
“I love you,” he said. “So much.”
More kisses. Soft and slow. Excruciatingly exquisite.
When he finally entered her, he did it with ease, just a gentle push and, for the first time, she opened herself, all of her—b
ody, heart and mind—to this man who drove her insane, but knew her and loved her despite the ugliness inside.
“I love you,” she said. “You’ll never know how much.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Grey entered the front door of FBI Headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue, passed through the metal detector, and received his visitor’s pass. Black-clad security guards patrolled the building and the outside grounds. Bright sunlight created rectangular panes on the carpet in front of him as he made his way to the elevators that would take him to the top floor.
In the elevator, memories assaulted him. Good ones. Bad ones. Didn’t matter. He’d had enough hope and ambition to fuel an international space station the first time he’d walked these halls. The last time he’d been headed for the top floor, he’d had an unshakable sense of foreboding. His instincts had been spot on—that was the day he’d been fired.
The director’s secretary waited for him as he stepped out of the elevator. Another long hallway greeted Grey as he and Sharon made their way to the east office. Sharon wasn’t into small talk and he wasn’t in the mood.
He’d expected it to take months, maybe longer, for Donaldson to keep his word and get Grey back into criminal investigations. Grey hadn’t expected any ceremony, just an assignment to one of the field offices or a desk job at Quantico entering data into the ViCAP system. He’d never expected to be summoned to D.C. headquarters, top floor, two days after Nabil’s arrest.
Even though the early fall day was sunny and warm and he had no reason to suspect the director was his enemy, he straightened his tie for the third time and cleared his throat.
Sharon knocked and waited for her boss to yell, “Come in.”
Byron Lockhart III sat his desk in the far corner, Harold Donaldson across from him. Both men looked Grey over as he entered the large suite filled with tall mahogany bookcases, a conference table that could seat twenty, and a small living area off to one side where the director could sleep and eat during times of national crisis.
Sharon offered to bring Grey coffee or bottled water. He declined. His throat was dry but he didn’t trust his hands to hold anything.
Director Lockhart rose and shook Grey’s hand. Donaldson only nodded at him. On the director’s desk, Grey’s badge and credentials sat spotlighted in the center.
Grey unbuttoned his jacket and took the seat Lockhart motioned him to. Then he held his breath.
“As you know, Justice, the FBI runs on a set of core values.” Lockhart used his fingers to emphasize his next statement. “Personal integrity. Institutional integrity. Accountability for our actions and the consequences of those actions.”
Uh, oh.
“Rigorous obedience to the Constitution,” the director continued. “Leadership. In many of these areas, you’ve excelled. In others…” He shrugged.
Shit. He wasn’t getting his job back. He was going to be arrested.
Taking a deep breath, Grey let it out slowly. He wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Director Lockhart.” Leaning forward, Grey tapped a finger on the desk. “The FBI’s mission—my mission as an agent of this great organization—is to handle threats involving dangers too large or complex for local or state authorities to handle alone. Nabil Khourey was one of those threats. My job was to protect the innocent and bring the killer to justice for violating the law. That’s what I did. I won’t apologize for my methods, and I take full responsibility for my actions.”
“I’m not asking you to apologize, Justice. The FBI needs you and your willingness to take on ugly assignments. We need someone with your unique skill set. What I’m asking is how soon can you start your next case?”
“Excuse me?”
Lockhart slid Grey’s badge and creds across the desk. “I’m offering you your job back.”
For a second, the world tilted, then righted. This was the second big-ass moment he’d been waiting for. He’d put a serial killer behind bars—based on the veils hidden in the picture frame safe, Nabil had already been brought up on ten counts of murder by the Department of Justice—and Lebanon was calling for extradition. They wanted him for the murder of Mariam Rashid, the female candidate for prime minister who’d been killed days before their last election. The stupid kid had a video of her murder on his cell phone.
Grey didn’t even have to fake evidence to pin on the kid. Nabil had done it all himself.
Ahmed Khourey had left the country, quietly, to return to the Middle East. He was a sick bastard, too, but there was no evidence that he’d killed any of the girls. Even Goldberg, the dickweed, and his partners had been arrested for running an escort service. The Smoking Gun was out of commission. For a while, anyway. It wouldn’t be long before the senators and diplomats found a replacement.
Now Grey was being offered his old job back by the director of the FBI.
He waited for the weight on his shoulders to lift. Waited to feel a sense of accomplishment. Satisfaction. One tiny ounce of happiness.
All he felt were Sydney’s fingers brushing against his spine. Her hair tickling his nose.
She brought him happiness. She lifted the weight of his guilt and provided the sense of accomplishment and self-satisfaction he’d been chasing all these years. All this time he’d been working to get back under the FBI’s roof and now it didn’t matter because Syd mattered more.
“There are a few conditions,” Lockhart said.
Grey crossed his hands over his stomach, foreboding crawling over his skin. “Sir?”
“While your methods produce results, you’ve broken the law on multiple counts. We’re willing to forgive the ones related to this case, but you can’t continue to break the law, and from what Special Agent Donaldson tells me, there are loose ties concerning your former partner’s whereabouts that need to be resolved. Protecting a fugitive is a crime, Justice.”
As if he didn’t know.
Protecting a woman who provided others with fake identities was also a crime.
There was no listening to logic on this one. No mental angst at all. Grey stood, offered his hand, even though he didn’t want to. “Thank you for your time, sir. I appreciate the job offer, but I’m afraid it isn’t going to work for me.”
Donaldson scoffed. “You can’t be serious. You’d throw your career away for Monroe?”
He’d done it before and he’d do it again. Add in Sydney’s well-being and it was a no-brainer. This system, the one concerning his friends and his lover, was rock solid. “I’m afraid I don’t have any idea where Mitch Monroe is hiding.”
That was the truth. Monroe came and went. If the guy had a regular landing spot, he never told Grey and Grey didn’t ask. Plausible deniability. “But I consider him a hero and a man whose skill set, much like mine, is wasted because of the bureaucratic bullshit rampant inside these walls.”
Grey nodded at the director, ignored Donaldson, and headed for the door. There, he turned back. “Upholding and enforcing the law is a noble pursuit, Director, but only by doing the right thing, even if it breaks the law, is where you’ll find real justice. For you. For the FBI. For America.”
With that, he left. He waved off Sharon when she appeared outside the door and offered to see him out. Once inside the elevators, he smashed his fist into the metal wall, glad for the pain it caused. He set his jaw and didn’t release it until he walked out of FBI headquarters.
On the sidewalk, he hailed a cab.
“Greystone,” a voice called from behind him.
Grey turned, expecting to see one of his former coworkers.
Ted Riggs, Executive Assistant Director of the Criminal and Cyber Crimes Branch, had his head out the entrance doors. He motioned Grey to follow him back inside.
This time when Grey entered the building, he bypassed security as a quiet Riggs led him to a conference room on the first floor.
A handful of men and women from various departments nodded to Grey as he entered. Riggs shut the door behind him. “Take a seat, Justice.”<
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Although he didn’t know them personally, Grey recognized most of the men and women in the room. The director of criminal investigations, the director of the cybercrimes division, the director of international affairs. Two others who dressed and smelled like CIA or NSA.
A million questions popped into his head. He ignored all but one. “What’s this about?”
The group exchanged a look. Riggs cleared his throat. “Did you accept the offer from Director Lockhart to return to your former position with ViCAP?”
“Not in the cards, I’m afraid.”
“Would you still like to work on criminal investigations?”
What was this? “I’m not sure I follow.”
Riggs pointed at his cohorts. “The group gathered in this room is a special taskforce assigned the job of creating a Covert Action Pursuit team to handle some of our more…difficult operations.”
That answered a couple of questions. “Like the Khourey case?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’m afraid after my talk with Director Lockhart, he won’t be in favor of me joining you.”
“Director Lockhart is not in charge of this taskforce.”
Grey’s shit detector went off. “Who is?”
Riggs gave him a friendly smile. “Our direction comes from on high.”
The Justice Department? The White House? “I’m listening.”
“We’d like you to head up this CAP team, and I assure you, you’ll be compensated quite well for it. The members will be hired by you and considered independent contractors. In other words, you decide what each case needs and hire the best crew for the job. You’ll have full discretion with job assignments and you’ll take full responsibility for their actions.”
A huge chunk of D.C. ran on deniability. He and Monroe ran on deniability. “So this is a black ops unit.”
Riggs gave him a patient smile. “CAP teams have been used throughout our joint histories.” He pointed at the two non-FBI group members—definitely spooks—and then at himself. “The last one was dissolved in 2010 due to some unforeseen circumstances with the leader. Because of a recent rise in the number of complex cases passing over our desks, we have deemed it necessary to employ a new team. One that can handle sensitive cybercrimes as well as criminal investigations like the Khourey case. And like the previous CAP teams, everything your unit does will be covert. No one outside this room will know who’s on your team or anything about the cases you’re working.”