by Fiona Quinn
Rowan was rather stunned by Avery’s blush. Happily so.
“Looking things up for personal reasons is against Bureau policy.” Rowan put his hand to his chest. “It’s also against my personal policy.”
Her faced changed. Some thought. Some vulnerability. A fear. This time he absolutely did not like what he saw. “Tell me,” he said, his voice sounded too gruff and demanding, but he saw in her look that she felt endangered. And whatever it was that caused that look, Rowan wanted to go after it. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said and cleared his throat again. Taking a swig of water to show her that what she’d just heard was not him turning all “alpha” on her, as Jodie would call it. He noticed that as he thought of Jodie right now it had nothing to do with their past intimate relationship but more about her finger wagging and lessons learned.
So he took another swig of water before he said, “Just now, that look on your face, would you share the thoughts behind it? You suddenly seem upset.”
“This conversation took me back to…” She paused to think. “I had an uncomfortable meeting this morning. I was listening to someone talk about data gathering and artificial intelligence.” She looked up to her right, remembering. When she looked back, she had rolled her lips in. “I’m having an existential crisis. This might not be a good day to talk to me.”
“I think it’s an excellent day to talk to you,” Rowan countered. “I’ve been trained in crisis management.” He chuckled to take some of the sharp energy out of the air. He wished he was there with her. His protective instincts revved.
“Okay.” She knotted her hands and rested her chin on them.
“What’s going on?”
“Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by technology. Things are changing so fast. It makes me anxious. Just this morning, I was thinking about novels I had read in high school—1984 and the Handmaid’s Tale. They frightened me when I read them. Now, I feel like they’re coming to fruition. Artificial intelligence and the Internet and all of this connectivity is helping us move toward things that can be positive, like our meeting and being able to see each other.” She offered up a little smile. “But I’m becoming aware of how things can turn dystopian very quickly.” She paused but Rowan said nothing. “I like things to be quiet and neat. For people to care about each other and to be kind. I would prefer to wear rose colored glasses as I look at the world. My job, after all, is about hearts and flowers and the power of love. But it feels to me, especially today, that the world is getting dirtier, nastier, more vicious. And very soon, most assuredly, it’s going to get worse.”
Rowan sat quietly, nodding to show he was focused on her words.
“There are plenty of people like me out there, who are pawns getting pushed around the board as if we have no say and no volition of our own.” She took a deep breath and swallowed then tucked her chin down. “Circumstances…”
Rowan waited. Interrogation 101: If someone was talking, shut the hell up and listen. Avery hadn’t offered up any clarifying information, and he had no clue what they were talking about. But there were worrisome themes. And because of where she worked, Rowan’s mind leapt to Taylor Knapp. “Avery, can I ask where this is stemming from? Is this something that happened with work?
“I would say that the chaos in my head is a reflection of my externals—unlike the author that I’m working with who wants the externals to reflect what’s in everyone’s head.”
Rowan’s brow creased. “I’m not following.”
“And I can’t talk about it. I want to, believe me. I think this is so wrong. I think people should know what’s happening. But…” Again with the shake of her head, the little sigh, the angst tightening the skin around her eyes.
“So this has something to do with this specific author?” He was taking mental notes. He’d have to parse through this after they were done talking. Rowan recognized he had Knapp on his mind, but this sure sounded like Avery had a connection, and she didn’t like it. Or, she could be talking about something else—her mother for example. But no, that couldn’t be right. Why wouldn’t she be able to talk about that? He decided to throw a thought at the wall and see if it stuck. “If you know of a crime, we can protect you. There are whistleblower statutes.”
“Whistleblower?” She stilled her fingers to her lips. “What do those statutes cover?”
“On a basic level, if you know of something illegal, or unethical, and you tell the authorities, then the laws prevent you from being fired or punished.”
“Oh. Well, I guess if everyone agrees to what’s happening then it’s not unethical or illegal.” She caught his eye. She smiled. “You’re trying to read my expressions. You’re in FBI mode aren’t you?”
He was indeed one hundred percent in FBI mode. Avery knew something about something. And she wasn’t going to share.
What needed to happen now was for Rowan to stop asking for this to be a one sided conversation. He needed to put some skin in the game. Build mutual trust. Expose something private. And that wasn’t something Rowan liked to do. “As to the face reading, that’s not an FBI thing, though sure, they fine-tuned things for me. But I grew up with an alcoholic father. The mean kind. I learned to read faces as a survival skill from an early age.”
Her face went slack with sorrow. Her eyes glazed with tears.
Rowan swallowed past the lump in his throat, trying to force down the unexpected and unfamiliar emotions that Avery conjured with her sympathy. She had enough emotions she was juggling, so he wanted to wipe those tears away. “And I’m grateful that I have that skill, even if I’m not grateful for the means by which I learned. It serves me well as I serve my country.”
She nodded.
“I’m not sure what you’re grappling with, but here it is—there are bad people out there who want to do whatever they want to do, whenever they want to do it. We can’t have that. My job is to stop them.”
“I thought you shook hands for a living and made connections. You told me you were safe.” Accusatory. Worried.
It was interesting to be on the other end of someone’s genuine concern. He both wanted to rebuff it and revel in it. “No matter what your job, there’s risk. Though probably less risk for someone in your job than someone in mine.” He paused. Did he want to march over this bridge? “Windsor Shreveport.” He stopped to weigh his words since he had apparently already made a decision. If Avery knew something about Taylor Knapp, Avery could be in a very dangerous situation, and he needed to know if she was okay. “The name of your publishing house came up in a meeting I was in. Our mutual friend Lisa was there.”
“LisaWrites from Twitter?”
“Yeah, she’s a special agent for cyber. I’ve known her from back in my Army days.”
“Small world. We had coffee once, she and I. I like her.”
“Lisa’s a good friend to have. She’s a big gamer. Big science fiction reader. She said that the The Uprising video game is about to release and that the book will soon follow. Do you know anything about that project?” He held his breath.
There was a flash. Something moved across her face. He’d seen that look before. It was the same look that was on Clara’s face when they were trapped in the garage, and she had the compromising photos in her purse.
Avery was in some kind of danger.
“Avery, you know I work between the United States and Eurasia. But if you ever felt you needed help, you could tell me. If you felt unsafe. If you knew something about some things and needed a sounding board…”
Her shoulders shifted as she rubbed her hands up and down her thighs, a self-comforting gesture. Her eyes scanned left then right then left, she wasn’t focusing on him. He’d hit on something.
He wondered…but before that thought formed, he reminded himself she was a romance editor, and no matter his concerns, would never be in danger of getting rolled up in the pro-Russian cesspool that surrounded Taylor Knapp.
Would she?
He sensed Avery pulling herself back from
him. The warm bubble that had surrounded them during the Skype session burst.
The chill set in.
He’d blown it.
And he wasn’t willing to let that happen. He dove straight in, head first. “Avery, I’d like to take you out for dinner. Unfortunately, I’m leaving out of town tomorrow afternoon.” He stopped and smiled. He let that smile come from his eyes, not just his mouth, so she’d know it was genuine. “You’re in Falls Church. I live near you, in Arlington. Maybe I could meet you for coffee in the morning?
“I’m sorry.” She glanced down at her lap and back up, a sign of disappointment. “I have an early morning meeting with one of my authors.” She pursed her lips, a signal that she didn’t like this author. “Wednesday I’m heading out of town, too. There’s a convention up in New York.”
“New York City?”
She cocked her head. “Yes.”
“I’m not trying to stalk you.” Rowan chuckled, feeling that fortune was on his side in this. “But I happen to have meetings up there this week. I’ll be at the FBI Headquarters on Broadway, which is walking distance to Little Italy. Do you like Italian food? I don’t want to push, but New York is as good a place to meet as Washington. I’d really like to meet you in person Avery.”
Chapter Eighteen
Rowan
Monday night
Alexandria, Virginia
The screen went dark.
He couldn’t believe it.
He just couldn’t believe his luck. She’d said yes.
Whew. He blew out a breath. Ha ha ha! He sat there and grinned at the blank screen.
Slapping his hands on his thighs, he jumped up and ran up the stairs—barely registering the residual pain from the Brussel’s attack—to pull on his running shoes.
Avery had said a lot of things that he wanted to mull over on his run. Her saying yes to their meeting being a really important one. But other things jangled his nerves. The beginning stuff was the usual laundry list. Are you available for my affections? Are you receptive to my affections? He’d gotten past the castle gates of the best friend. And both he and Avery understood that as thirty-somethings, they both had lives that they were leading, careers, personal obligations.
Check. Check, and check. Housekeeping done.
Then there was that weird heaviness that Avery allowed to surface.
Rowan pulled his shoelaces tight, and wrapped them into a bow that he triple tied—a habit from his high school cross-country running days.
Something other than her mother and her normal life had thrown Avery into an existential crisis. He needed to review those words. And he needed to figure out if he really thought they might be tied to Taylor Knapp.
He scooted down the stairs, pulling his lanyard—with his key and ID—over his head, tucking it inside his sweat shirt. He moved out the front door, stopping long enough to check that it was locked, then glanced up and down the road.
The night was dark. Clouds hung low, wrapping blanket-like around the roofs and treetops. The street lamps glow reflected off the slick surface of the pavement, still wet from the earlier rain.
Besides a random barking dog, the neighborhood was still and silent. Most people were already in bed, clocks set to ring their early morning alarms.
Rowan decided he’d run down past the Methodist church to the park trail that led around the back, past the graveyard, then around the pond, finishing the circuit by rounding up the backside of the neighborhood. It was almost exactly a six mile path and would take him a little less than an hour.
He jogged in place, then used the porch rail to do his stretches. Rowan’s body was stiff from the beating. The run would probably help him shake that off. Rowan tugged a beanie in place to keep his head and ears warm and set off at a practiced pace.
By the time he left the neighborhood, Rowan’s limbs were warm, and his stride was comfortable. He didn’t try to push any thought-agendas, he let his mind churn past the hurly-burly thoughts, the chaotic thoughts, the pick-me pick-me thoughts. He watched them pop up, and he watched them fade away.
The meditation of the road.
This was Rowan’s way of dealing with stress.
Getting centered.
Or as his team leader used to say, getting his head on straight.
Right now, the thing he needed to get straight, the place that wobbled for him in the conversation with Avery, was this convergence of his job and his personal life.
He liked those things in two separate pockets.
He had no proof that there was a convergence other than the gnawing in his gut.
The reason for Avery’s existential crisis was still tucked away. She didn’t want to show it to him yet. Or ever. It might just be one of those days when things felt bleak, and she’d be okay tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.” He held that thought through a few strides before he rejected it. Something pretty serious had happened. And it had happened today. This morning.
“There are plenty of people like me out there,” Avery had said, “who are pawns getting pushed around the board as if we have no say and no volition of our own. Circumstances.”
A pawn getting pushed on the board because of circumstances...
God, she was beautiful.
And smart.
And tender.
Those lips. Rowan had been talking about Little Italy and having dinner, but what he’d been focused on were her lips; how they’d taste. How they’d feel pressed against his.
Rowan’s body stirred at the thought. “Down, boy,” Rowan said as he left the pavement and the ambient street lights and moved to the dirt path.
It would take his eyes a couple of minutes to adjust, but Rowan had excellent night vision. It had served him well in his career.
An owl hooted from the distant trees.
The fog hung in streamers off the limbs.
Eerie.
Rowan was aiming for the massive oak. Just before he got there, the path would dog leg to the left and circle behind the church’s graveyard. The sound of his breath and the pounding of his footsteps filled Rowan’s ears, and then he thought he heard something else.
The moist wind carried a hum of conversation toward him.
He slowed his gait.
Maybe it was some local teens out late, trying to get space and autonomy from their parents.
Then, there was a flash of a red beam that tapped the ground just ahead of his feet, and Rowan knew that wasn’t a group of teens. That was a laser sight, seeking a target.
Or, it was someone with a laser cat toy out messing around.
Low probability on that one.
After being shoved in the trunk of a car and driven around Brussels, Rowan was in no mood to find out who had a laser out and if it was attached to a rifle. He shifted his body to a low combat silhouette. Bent knees, balanced on the balls of his feet, he was ready to dive off the X.
Rowan tracked the laser as it searched along the air, looking for something solid to illuminate as it passed over the gravestones. When the light swung his way, Rowan threw himself onto the wet grass underneath the beam.
“Nothing?” The voice carried his way. “Here let me see that. I could swear I heard his footsteps. He can’t have passed here yet.”
Not a cat toy. They were looking for someone without sending out a flashlight beam. Were they looking for him specifically or was this a random drug deal he’d walked into?
The red light swept over the graves again.
Rowan was glad he’d decided he didn’t need his high visibility running gear tonight, since he’d mostly be off the street. Still, he needed cover. And he needed to see who these guys were. Count heads.
Or not. Maybe just get the heck out of here and get the PD involved in sorting this out. He didn’t have his badge on him, or a gun.
On his elbows, head low, Rowan lizard crawled toward the woods, due south of the voices.
“Dan said Kennedy left his house fifteen minutes ago. He should be here by now.”<
br />
“Don’t use real names. Say Delta Five.”
Alrighty then. Definitely not random. They were lying in wait for him. At least they weren’t speaking Bulgarian. Though having Sergei ID him, gather intel on him, and place a crew on site so quickly seemed a stretch.
If Sergei had ID’d him, he’d never be able to go home again.
Talk about an existential crisis, Avery.
They weren’t modulating their voices as low as they had a moment ago. The red light was off. That spoke to the level of their training. If they were the real deal they would be silent. Of course, you didn’t need a whole lot of training when you had numbers on your side.
That they were waiting to ambush him outside of his house might be telling.
A hit squad would come in the middle of the night like a draft through the cracks of the door. They’d pull a plastic bag over his head until he was done struggling, then melt his body in an acid bath, letting the residue go down the drain. Then they’d bleach everything clean and slip out before the birds began their morning songs.
Of course, that they wanted to find Rowan off his property—away from his security system and home court advantage—probably meant they wanted him alive. That they picked his jog, when he’d be physically tired and probably without a weapon made sense.
Rowan was reticent to let them take him alive.
Sometimes dead was just better.
He had a knife. He always had a knife.
He had a phone, but it would light up and give him away if he tried to call for help. At least he’d put it on airplane mode, no risk of it suddenly buzzing and giving his position away.
They thought they had the jump on him. But the surprise belonged to him. That might be his best asset.
Rowan pressed silently forward, slow and steady.
Hiding was his best advantage.
Big fat friendly trees were his best advantage.
He’d almost dragged himself to the tree line.
“He left his property fifteen minutes ago.” A normal tone of voice came over someone’s radio. They needed to turn their volume down, stick an ear bud in their ear.