by Paula Graves
That had been Brand’s idea, too. He’d seen a golden opportunity to kill off Scanlon’s old self and create a whole new person for the undercover assignment he’d been thinking about for months.
“They’re up to more than just drugs and protection down there,” Brand had insisted soon after the bombing, while Scanlon had been hidden away at the SAC’s hunting retreat in central Virginia. Scanlon had agreed to the undercover assignment and headed south to Alabama as soon as he recovered from the worst of his injuries.
Fortunately, he apparently looked different enough from the child he’d been the last time he was in Bolen Bluff that nobody had recognized him at all, at least as far as he knew.
“This was Brand’s idea—sending you here.” Isabel echoed his own thoughts so closely he had to smile. After years of working together, they’d formed the habit of finishing each other’s sentences, their minds honed to think in similar directions.
It was the differences between them—her logical, scholarly approach contrasting with his more freewheeling, improvisational style—that had made them a good team. Brand had never tried assigning them to work with other agents after the first few times they’d worked together on cases.
“Yeah, Brand thinks the Swains may be up to more than just cooking meth and harvesting weed.”
“Does he think the bombs in Georgia, Mississippi and Alabama are connected to the Swains, too?” she asked. “Did you finally make a connection between the victims?”
The bombing cases he and Isabel had been investigating centered on attacks on targets that, as far as they could tell, seemed completely random. The first had been the murder of a Georgia family court judge, which had seemed significant at the time in terms of motive—until the second bombing took out the office of a small movie theater a few miles west of Meridian, Mississippi.
A third blast had destroyed half a warehouse in Gadsden, Alabama, and a fourth blew up a junkyard in western Birmingham. Only the judge died in the bombings. The others had suffered property damage only.
“We still haven’t figured out any connection,” he admitted. “None of the people have any overt relationship to each other, and if there’s a covert one, we haven’t come across it yet.”
“I’ve thought about the cases from time to time,” Isabel admitted, flashing him a faint smile. “You know how I like a puzzle. But Jesse’s kept me pretty busy since I started working for him, and then there was the business last month with my brother Rick and his wife—”
“Rick got married?” The last Scanlon had heard, Isabel’s brother was having trouble settling in at his new job with Cooper Security. Something about personality conflicts with his brother, Jesse, who ran the company.
“He did,” she said, her smile widening. “He reconnected with someone he knew when he was working at MacLear.”
Isabel’s brother Rick had worked for years at a private security contractor, MacLear Enterprises, before the company had been busted for running a secret criminal enterprise under the table. The company owner, Jackson Melville, was under indictment for the actions of the company’s secret SSU—Special Services Unit—which had kidnapped a child and terrorized a woman from California.
Isabel’s brother Rick had nothing to do with the SSU—according to Isabel, Rick hadn’t even known the unit existed. But the entire company had collapsed under the weight of the allegations against Melville and the SSU, Rick’s field operative position included.
“Was she another MacLear agent?” Scanlon asked.
“No—she was a CIA agent.” She smiled at his arched eyebrow. “Apparently they got hot and heavy when they were both working out of Kaziristan about three years ago. They reconnected last month—she was targeted by assassins—”
“Boy, you die for a few months and you miss out on everything,” he muttered drily.
“Oh! Did Brand tell you what we learned about the old MacLear SSU?”
Scanlon and his boss had conversed about little besides the undercover case he was working, and isolated as he was up here in the north Alabama mountains, Scanlon didn’t have much access to news, either. He’d left his BlackBerry and laptop behind when he became Mark Shipley, the disabled vet with just enough disability pay to buy this ramshackle cabin in the middle of nowhere. “What about the SSU?”
“They’re still operating. At least, the ones who escaped indictment or capture. And they may be picking up new members.”
Alarm rippled through him. “How do you know?”
“They went after Amanda—Rick’s wife. Turns out Khalid Mazir, one of the candidates for president of Kaziristan, was an al Adar mole. Rick’s wife, Amanda, was the only person outside al Adar who knew about Mazir’s terrorist ties—the guy kidnapped and tortured her a few years ago. She got away, and I guess it wouldn’t have mattered much if she hadn’t seen Mazir’s face.”
“So she could identify him as an al Adar operative, which would mess with his plans to become president?”
“Exactly.”
“And this guy hired SSU people to, what? Assassinate her?”
“Damned near succeeded,” Isabel said with a grimace.
“I wonder if they were operating as far back as last summer,” Scanlon mused.
“When the first bombing happened?”
He shrugged. “Probably not connected, but I know some of the SSU were explosives and munitions experts. What if they studied Jasper Swain’s MO and decided to mimic it?”
Her brow creased in thought. “It’s a pretty old fashioned MO. His style is primitive compared to the electronically triggered explosives available these days. Honestly, I don’t know why anyone would use that kind of bomb if they had other options.”
“Unless it’s sentimental somehow.”
“Sentimental?”
“Maybe the serial bomber is a fan of old Jasper. Maybe he builds the bombs the Swain way as a tribute.”
Isabel looked skeptical. “Wouldn’t a more famous bomber be a better choice? Someone like the Unabomber or Rudolph—”
Scanlon shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m just spitballing at this point.” He held out his hand to her, bracing himself for the feel of her warm, strong hand in his.
She took his hand, and the tingling commenced, but he managed not to let her see how she affected him as he pulled her to her feet. She gave him a quizzical look but followed as he led her into the hall.
“I keep the files in here.” He opened the linen closet door and pulled up a loose floorboard. Besides the lockbox with the satellite phone, he also kept hidden a rectangular plastic box marked MISALGA, the Bureau shorthand for the bombing cases in Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. He opened the box and handed her the thick portfolio where he kept copies of all the files on the case. “You up to a little light reading?”
She took the portfolio and grinned at him. “You bet.”
They both turned to head back into the living room when a sound from the front of the house brought them up short.
A second later, someone knocked on the door.
“Closet,” he said tersely, nodding toward the bedroom.
Holding onto the portfolio, Isabel disappeared behind the bedroom door, while Scanlon hurried to the living room and took a quick look at the porch through the window beside the door.
A curvy blond woman dressed in a linen suit stood in front of the door, glancing at her watch. Scanlon closed his eyes and released a sigh of frustration.
Dahlia was back.
“Mark, are you in there?”
He opened the door and pasted a smile on his face. “When did you get back in town?”
“Just a little while ago.” Dahlia McCoy lifted to her tiptoes and brushed her pink lips against his. “I ran into Davy in town and he said you were home, so I thought I’d drop by to say hello before I go back to the office.”
She entered without being asked, shrugging off her jacket to bare her toned, sun-kissed arms. She went straight to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Die
t Coke. Settling on the sofa as if she intended to stay awhile, she smiled at Scanlon.
He smiled back, hiding his dismay with the skill of a now-practiced liar.
He’d forgotten to tell Isabel about his girlfriend.
Chapter Four
That was definitely a woman’s voice.
Isabel strained to hear what was going on in the front room. A purely academic interest, she reminded herself. Having Scanlon back as a partner temporarily didn’t mean she had any right to question what he did with his personal life. If the woman even had anything to do with his personal life.
She made out Scanlon’s low-pitched voice, followed by a woman’s soft drawl. Isabel felt their footsteps shake the floor beneath her crossed legs as they entered Scanlon’s bedroom.
“Wish I didn’t have to go back to the office.” The woman’s sultry tone made Isabel’s skin crawl. Definitely girlfriend.
Part of his undercover mission or window dressing? She doubted Scanlon had started a real relationship on assignment—not with the pressure of hiding his identity.
“It was sweet of you to come by and see me,” Scanlon replied, his voice moving toward the door, as if he were trying to get her back out into the hall.
“I have a few more minutes,” the woman said with a light laugh, followed by a silence that dragged on long enough for Isabel’s mind to supply any number of stomach-turning scenarios for what was keeping Scanlon from saying something in return.
“Was your trip to Nashville a success?” he asked finally.
“Mmm.”
Was that a yes or a no? Isabel wondered.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Scanlon asked.
“Why do you always want to talk about my job?” the woman asked, a hint of petulance in her voice.
Isabel rolled her eyes in the dark closet.
“It’s a good job, sugar. You always dress so nice.” Scanlon was really laying on the Texas drawl. “You must be doing important things.”
You always dress so nice? Isabel grimaced. No wonder Scanlon couldn’t keep a girlfriend. What self-respecting woman would find that an appealing compliment?
“You’re so sweet,” the woman said, answering Isabel’s question. “But it would bore you to tears. All that tax and investment stuff. You don’t care about that.”
Scanlon had a master’s degree in accounting, but he was letting this woman talk to him like he was nothing but a side of tasty beef. She had to be part of his undercover work.
Not that knowing his motives made it any easier to listen to her slobber all over him outside the closet door.
“Okay, big guy, time to get back to the office. You want to meet tonight at my place?”
“Not a good idea,” Scanlon murmured. “I’m not sure Davy or any of the others would be happy to see us together.”
“You’re not Romeo, and Davy sure as hell isn’t Tybalt.”
“Who’s Tybalt?” Scanlon asked.
Isabel strangled a laugh before it escaped her throat and exposed them both. Scanlon was the kind of hypereducated dork who quoted Spenser and Donne for fun. For Isabel, it was half his charm. Scanlon was playing the hell out of this poor woman. Isabel started to feel sorry for her, whoever she was.
“Just someone Romeo killed. I trust you won’t be doing that to my brother?”
So, she was Davy’s sister? Isabel strained to hear as they moved away from the bedroom. But the last thing she was able to make out was Scanlon’s assurance that he didn’t intend to go all Montague on the Capulets, though not in those exact terms.
She waited in the dark for Scanlon to give her the all clear, her mind supplying a picture of the girl with the drawl. Probably blonde—Scanlon gravitated toward the fairer-haired of the species. Curvy—he liked curves. She’d even seen him eyeing her own curves with appreciation, making her feel a little better about not fitting into those skinny jeans she liked to try on at the store but never ended up buying.
Smart, clearly Scanlon’s usual type. Though not smart enough to know she was being played like a bloody violin… .
“All clear.” Scanlon said from just outside the closet.
Isabel let herself out and found her former partner on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees. He shot her a look of apology. “Guess I forgot to tell you about Dahlia.”
Dahlia? Just perfect. “You forgot?”
“She’s Davy McCoy’s sister.”
“I figured out that much myself,” she said. Are you sleeping with her?
“I’m not sleeping with her,” Scanlon said.
“Yet,” she murmured.
“It’s complicated.”
“Since everyone thinks you’re an injured vet, tell her the enemy messed up your plumbing, too,” Isabel suggested.
Scanlon’s lips curved. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Glad to help.” She started out of the room.
“Cooper—” He caught her arm and pulled her to face him. His eyes were a smoky blue, liquid and inviting, like a mountain pool just begging for her to dive in and enjoy a long swim.
She hated what he could do to her with one devastating look. If her parents’ wreck of a marriage had taught her anything, it was that giving someone that kind of power over you was a bad idea.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have given you warning.”
“You have a right to a personal life.”
“It’s not personal with Dahlia.”
She tried to ignore how much relief she felt from that one simple declaration. “Maybe not for you—”
His lips flattened. “Brand said she could be an asset.”
Brand again, Isabel thought. Scanlon put a lot of stock in the SAC’s opinion. Of course, she had, too, until about an hour ago when she’d learned about his heartless lies. “Is she part of the meth operation?”
“Not that I can tell. She works at an accounting firm in Fort Payne but lives here in Bolen Bluff. Her father is a retired coal miner with respiratory issues, and God knows she can’t depend on Davy to look after the old man.” There was a hint of affection in Scanlon’s voice.
Maybe he liked Dahlia McCoy more than he realized?
“Just be careful,” Isabel said aloud. “You break her heart, she may not be the only one who gets hurt.”
Scanlon grimaced. “Especially if we’re right about the Swains being involved with these bombings.” He let go of her arm and backed away. “Why don’t you lie down and take a nap? You’ve had a rough day.”
His bed did look pretty inviting, she had to admit. She felt unsteady on her feet, and the ache in her head was still making a bit of a racket.
“Have you heard from Brand about my things?”
“I’ll check in a minute,” he said in the same soothing drawl he’d used with Dahlia earlier. She should smack him for playing her, as well, but she had to admit the tone of voice made her want to purr a little, too.
She sat on the edge of his bed and found the mattress springy and soft, adding to the temptation to just lie down and let her trouble melt away into sleep.
Scanlon’s lips curved again as he apparently read her thoughts. She hated that about him, too, how he always saw through her when she was trying to play it tough. “Come on, Cooper, don’t try to go all John Wayne on me. You can sleep a little while. The world won’t fall apart without you.”
He was echoing words she’d said to him before. It had been her father’s favorite saying when she was little and fighting sleep. She’d used it on her partner a few times when he was driving himself into exhaustion on this case or that.
But she’d been wrong, hadn’t she? Her world had fallen apart completely without him.
She lay on the bed, atop the covers, and closed her eyes, listening for the sound of Scanlon leaving the room. But she didn’t hear him budge. She opened her eyes and found him standing at the side of the bed, watching her.
“If I’d been even a few minutes later this morning—” His voice came out ragged. Hoa
rse.
She sat up and caught his hand in hers, all anger fleeing in the face of his pain. “If I’d reached the office before you did and picked up that note you took off my desk—”
He squeezed her hand. “Sleep well.” Bending, he pressed his lips against her forehead, the kiss chaste and sweet.
But as he walked out of the bedroom, an image flashed through her aching head, fuzzy and surreal.
Scanlon, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her back against something solid and hard. The door of a green panel van. She’d seen a panel van as they’d walked out into the morning sunlight, hadn’t she? Angled into one of the slots across the dark gray asphalt of the hotel parking lot.
His arms were strong, his hands firm as they lifted to her face, holding her still. She could barely focus her eyes but found a way to hold his gaze, to see a miracle when she’d never really believed in miracles before.
He was alive. He was holding her close.
It was as if God had given her mercy.
Then his head dipped, his mouth descended, and she was on fire. Quivering where he touched her, burning from the inside out as the kiss deepened and she fell into madness.
She jerked into a sitting position, staring at the wall across from the bed. A low-slung dresser sat against the cracked Sheetrock, a scarred mirror affixed above the battered wooden top. In the mirror, her pale reflection stared back at her, one hand lifted to her lips.
Had that been a fantasy, a drug-induced hallucination?
Or had it been real?
For the first time, it hit her just how much she’d come to depend on having someone in her family around when she was feeling vulnerable and alone. Right now, she’d give anything to call her sister Megan on the phone—
The phone. Brand had told Scanlon to let her call her family to keep them from worrying.
She went to the front room, expecting to find Scanlon there, but he was nowhere around. Nor was the phone. Taking care not to let the curtain move too much, she looked outside the front window. She saw nothing. No one.
Releasing a sigh of frustration, she looked around the front room, wondering if he’d left the phone out where she could find it. Probably not—it was likely his only relatively secure means of communication with the FBI. He wouldn’t want anyone in the Swain clan to know he had it.