Savage

by Krista Holt

  I clear my throat. “We’re just about done here, but to clarify, you leave town. If I see you again, if I hear about you even offering to screw a small-time congressman from Kalamazoo, I will kill you. Tell me you understand.”

  “I-I . . . I understand.”

  “Good. Now, 79 Cherry Lane and 143 Hickory Way. Do you know what those are?”

  The blood drains from her face. “Addresses.”

  “To your grandmother’s house and your mother’s double-wide trailer, yes. I don’t want to go there, but if I find out you made a copy of this video, I will.” I note her pale face and wide eyes. I’ve made my point. “Forget you ever met me, or him, and you get to live. 50k should go far in the backwater town you came from.”

  That gets her attention, and she jerks herself upright. “We agreed on a hundred thousand. That was the price.”

  “Fifty thousand is all you’re getting from him. I suggest you take it and leave, breathing.”

  She doesn’t move.

  “Go! Now!”

  She stumbles back down the alley, and from the shadows I watch as she hails a cab with shaking limbs. The alcohol and the adrenaline pulsing through her system messes with her coordination, and she falls into the back seat as soon as she gets the door open. The cab drives down the street, ultimately turning right before the taillights fade to nothing.

  I pull out her phone and call Thomas. Dumb girl has his personal cell stored in here. It’s like she’s asking to be gossip fodder. There’s a faint click as he picks up. He picks up the damn phone, after everything I’ve just done.

  “You sick piece of shit,” I snarl. “Why are you taking her call?”

  “I . . . I,” he stutters.

  “You’re too pathetic to keep yourself out of shit like this,” I interrupt. “So, this is the last time I fix this type of situation for you.” I don’t wait for him to stammer an agreement. “She’s been paid. I have the video. You’ll get it when I get my money back.”

  I hang up, not bothering to wait for his confirmation. He knows I have him by the throat. All it would take is one anonymous email to HillTalk, a local gossip site, to end his career. Something he desperately wants to avoid. It’s the whole reason he came to my father in the first place, to keep his reputation scandal free.

  Still in the damp alley, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It does nothing. I still feel dirty. Threatening a child is a new low. Even for me.

  CHAPTER 11

  Reagan

  I unlock the front door to our apartment and shove it open with my shoulder. Becca turns on the couch, pausing an episode of Suits.

  “Seriously? It’s after ten? Have you been at work this whole time?”

  I drop my purse and take off my coat. “I need wine.”

  “Rough day?”

  “No. Just long.” I head to the kitchen. “You want some.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  I pull the cork out of an already open bottle. How many days ago did I open this? Two? Three? Not caring, I pour some into a coffee cup.

  Sitting down beside Becca, I sigh, happy to be off my aching feet. “What’s new with you? I haven’t seen you in days.”

  “Not much. Work and this.” She gestures to the television. “But I do have a favor to ask you. You know Devin?”

  “The guy you’ve been dating?” I hide my smile behind the cup. “Yeah, I think I’m familiar with him.”

  Becca chucks a pillow at my head, narrowly missing my face and the wine. Lucky for her. Spilling wine is a serious offense.

  “Anyway,” she says, “his roommate is dragging him out to a new restaurant tomorrow. He wants me to come with them, but the roommate needs a date. His name is Nate, by the way.”

  My amusement dies instantly. I know where she’s going with this. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “I told him not to worry,” she talks over me. “I know just the girl.”

  “Oh, no. Please tell me you didn’t?”

  “I did.” She grins unrepentantly.

  “Becca! No,” I whine, setting my cup down on our glass coffee table. “I don’t want to go on any date, let alone a double date.”

  “Please!”

  “No,” I repeat, even louder this time.

  “Yes, Reagan Delaine Cooper.”

  “Don’t use my full name. You’re not my mother.”

  “When was the last time you went out on a date? Huh? Has there even been one since Nic left?”

  There hasn’t, but that’s beside the point. “Tell him I’m sick or I’ve died. Whatever, I don’t care. I’m not going.”

  “Come on, this will be good for you. Get back out there, meet new people,” she tries to entice me. “Besides, you haven’t heard from the mysterious Italian since the other night, and I doubt you will again. He probably just wanted to mess with your head. He’s bad news.”

  I groan, too tired to have yet another conversation on the pros and cons of Nic. We’ve done it plenty of times, and it never ends in my favor.

  “Please,” she begs. “Do this, for me?”

  “Ugh. I hate you just a little.” I close my eyes, letting my head drop against the back of the couch. “Fine.”

  “Thank you,” she shouts, reaching over to hug me. “Tomorrow night at eight. Don’t be late.”

  I hug her back before sliding off the couch. “I’m going to bed. You’ll text me where I need to show up for this horrible thing?”

  “Funny. And yes, I’ll text you.”

  “Night, Becca.”

  “Night,” she replies, playing her show again.

  Sound filters through the apartment as I softly close the door to my room, running a hand over my forehead.

  A date is the last thing I want, but I’ll do it for Becca. She was there for me when my whole last year of school was a colossal mess thanks to the Italian. I owe her. That doesn’t mean I’m excited about it, though. I’m not.

  I take off my earrings and drop them into a small box, along with all my other jewelry. I reach for the lid, but my eyes catch on the black leather case shoved in the back, the one that holds the diamond bracelet he gave me. It’s been there since I moved. I haven’t touched it, haven’t worn it. I should really put this somewhere else.

  I don’t move it, though. Looking at it every day has become this twisted habit I don’t want to analyze. Maybe it reminds me of a time when I was still hoping he’d come back and offer some kind of explanation for his absence. Or maybe it just serves as a reminder not to make decisions with my idiotic heart again. I don’t know. Either way, it’s probably not healthy. More like bordering on pathetic, Reagan.

  With a sigh, I close the box, telling myself I’ll move it another day, and get ready for bed.

  * * *

  “Let’s have a SitRep!” Scott shouts over the cubicle wall.

  “What?” I stall, coffee cup halfway to my lips. “What is that?”

  He laughs. “I forget not everyone has been in the military. It means situation report. In other words, come over to my desk so we can talk about this latest development.”

  “You could have just said that.” Grabbing my coffee, notepad, and pen, I head to his desk.

  “That would be boring.” He waits for me to find a comfortable position before launching into an update. “There’s been a slight wrinkle in our plans. The FBI has decided to open its own investigation.” He shuffles through some papers on his desk.

  “Why would they do that?”

  “It’s standard procedure anytime there’s an allegation against an FBI agent, be it bribery, excessive force, or just misconduct. They usually suspend the agents without pay until they can investigate the accusation and determine if what happened is a fire-able offense, if the agent deserves a mark in their permanent record, or if the allegations are false.” He angles his chair toward me. “It doesn’t have the weight our investigation does. It’s like asking the fox to guard the henhouse.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They’
re just covering their asses. In case something really ugly comes to light, like the truth, they want to be able to tell the public, ‘we’re looking into it.’ The problem is, they can’t really be objective, since they’re judging one of their own. We don’t have that problem.”

  “Okay.” I take a sip of my coffee.

  “There’s also been a rumor that the Inspector General over at the Justice Department is considering opening an investigation as well. Speaking of that . . .” He pulls up his email on his computer and types out a quick message before hitting send. “There. I just sent an email to a guy I served with in the Marines. He works at Justice now, and I’m hoping he’ll be able to verify whether that rumor is fact or fiction.”

  “If they are opening an investigation as well, what does that mean?”

  “Not much. Their investigation shouldn’t get in our way. But it is going to increase the pressure when it comes to finding the whistleblower. We’ll need to find him first.”

  “You think it’s a guy?”

  He snorts. “Don’t you? You listened to the tip.”

  “Yes. But that could be an assumption. If the whistleblower is an FBI agent, they’d know enough to distort a voice, right?”

  He tilts his head, contemplating my idea. “Maybe . . . but I’ve never heard a women use the words, ‘plug your leak.’ That’s aggressive. It’s sounds like something a man would say.”

  My brows rise. “And women can’t be aggressive?”

  He grins. “You’re kinda of scaring me right now, so I’ll plead the fifth.”

  I shake my head. “Moving on . . .”

  “Yeah, let’s.” He glances back at a notepad on his desk. “HPSCI is also throwing a fit, claiming this investigation should be theirs.”

  “HPSCI?”

  “The House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence,” he clarifies. “Technically, they have oversight over the Justice Department, who is over the FBI. However, we got the tip, so I doubt Cameron is going to hand over something this groundbreaking. He might offer them a joint investigation, but he hasn’t said anything to me about doing that.”

  My brow wrinkles. “This is like being thrown into a foreign country with no guide book. These acronyms are giving me a headache.”

  “You’ll get used to it. Pretty soon you’ll be talking in code like the rest of us.”

  “Good.” I take another sip of coffee.

  He eyes my mug with interest. “Is that fresh?”

  “Yes, it is. I just made it.”

  “Hold that thought.” He grabs the coffee cup off his desk and brushes past me, reappearing a second later with a mug full of black coffee. “Okay, where were we? Oh, yeah, so basically we keep doing what we’re doing. The FBI didn’t turn over any of the information we requested about the Organized Crime Task Force, so this morning the committee subpoenaed it. They have forty-eight hours to respond.” He shoots one brow up.

  “You don’t think they’ll do it?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll give us something. The odds of it being helpful,” he shrugs, “I’d say are slim to none.”

  “So, what happens now?”

  “We wait. We keep pressure on them. Cameron’s got an interview tonight with some talking head over at Fox News. That’ll help apply public pressure. There’s also a preliminary hearing in fifteen minutes. You have anything going on?”

  “Nothing scheduled, no.”

  “Good. You can come with me. They’re just reading some basic information into the record. The transcript of the whistleblower’s call and anything else the committee’s found that might be interesting. It shouldn’t take long.” He checks his watch. “In fact, we should probably head over now. Cameron might be early, and we don’t want him there before we are.” He pushes to his feet, clipping his ID badge to his belt at the same time.

  I grab my Blackberry, cell, and ID badge as we pass my desk, heading to the lobby. April smiles quickly, but her gaze lingers on Scott as he moves toward the door.

  “Are you guys heading out for awhile?” she asks.

  Scott’s head snaps toward her and he gives her a grin. “Yeah, we have a briefing. Roll our calls to voicemail if needed. Thanks, April.” He yanks the heavy door open. I gesture for him to him to go first, giving April a pointed look once he’s out in the hallway. “Let’s grab drinks tonight. I think you need a pep talk.”

  “It’s a date.”

  I groan internally at her choice of words. Date. I’d almost forgotten about the horrible double date looming over my evening. At least I’ll have a few drinks in me before I have to play nice. “Text me and let me know where you want to meet up. I have a dinner over by the White House tonight. Maybe we could meet nearby?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I step out into the hallway where Scott is shuffling some papers around in the brown accordion file he gave me yesterday. Our steps sync as we walk toward the nearest bank of elevators.

  The floors tick by, and Scott’s Blackberry chimes as we hit the ground floor.

  “I knew it,” he says, tilting the screen so I can read the email. It’s from his friend at Justice.

  Yeah, that’s happening. It’ll be announced in a couple of hours.

  Try to keep it to yourself, Thumper.

  Semper Fi,

  Craig

  “Is there a story behind that nickname, Thumper?” I ask as we exit the elevator, navigating our way down a marble hallway to the Oversight Committee’s hearing room.

  Scott chuckles, tucking his phone back into his inner jacket pocket. “There is.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “No, no you don’t.” He pauses at the entrance to the hearing room, addressing the Capitol police officer standing at the door. “Hey, James. Is Cameron in there?”

  James shakes his head. “Haven’t seen him yet, Scott. Who’s this?” He tilts his chin toward me.

  “This is Reagan,” Scott replies. “She’s helping me out with the investigation.”

  “Hello.” I smile.

  He nods in return. “Can I see your badge?”

  “Sure.” I unclip it from my jacket lapel and hand it to him.

  “It’s a closed door hearing,” Scott explains. “Many of the details being read into the record still impact ongoing FBI investigations into the Mob, including how the FBI is monitoring their operations. We can’t let that information get out or fall into the wrong hands. That’s why Capitol Police is screening before admitting anyone. We have to keep the public, and more importantly, the press, in the dark.”

  James grunts in agreement and hands me back my ID badge after giving it a once-over. I clip it back onto my jacket just as both Scott and James stand a little taller, pausing in their conversation.

  With a glance down the hallway, I see why. Cameron is approaching, flanked by his security escort of two men in suits.

  Eric Cameron is an older man, well into his 60s with thick gray hair and bifocals. He’s still sharp though, charismatic, and hasn’t lost the twinkle in his eyes.

  “Scott,” he says, approaching us. “Reagan. It’s good to have you with us. I appreciate your help.”

  “Of course,” I reply, trying to ignore how nervous I am. Yes, he’s my boss and I’m around him almost daily, but he is also a powerful member of Congress. Being around him is like being in the same room as your high school principal or the President of the United States. The need to be on your best behavior, even though you haven’t done anything wrong, is intense.

  “Now, just so we’re all clear,” Cameron says, “it’s paramount that anything you hear in there is kept to yourselves. This investigation requires absolute secrecy. We can’t have outsiders picking up on anything about this investigation, and most definitely be careful about where you discuss this. I suggest you avoid talking about it in public or outside the office.”

  “We understand, sir,” Scott assures him.

  “Good.” Cameron scans the growing number of people in the hallway. “Let’s g
et going then.”

  A member of Cameron’s security detail opens the heavy door to the committee room. We move inside, one after another with Cameron leading the way. Someone tries to follow on our heels, but James stops them, throwing up a forceful hand. “Sir, this is a closed door hearing,” he says. “Members and staff only.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Nic

  My phone vibrates again.

  That’s the third call from my father in the last thirty minutes. Not good.

  I leave the office I’ve been waiting in for almost an hour and step out into the white marble hallway of the Cannon House Office Building. Leaning against the bronze plaque that announces this office belongs to Congressman Arnoldo Moretti, the representative from New York, I call him back.

  “Nicola?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I tug at my tie, loosening it.

  “What do you know?”

  I quickly confirm that the corridor’s empty. “Nothing yet. He still hasn’t shown up.”

  He responds with silence.

  “As soon as I know, you’ll know.”

  “Make sure you do.” He hangs up without another word.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Trying to get the frustration coursing through me under control, otherwise I might hit something. I know I’m on the clock. I know he wants answers, and I don’t like waiting for them any more than he does, but that’s the price you pay when you’re relying on someone else for the information. You wait.

  A little encouragement never hurt anyone though. I pocket the phone, and yank the door to Moretti’s office open.

  “When is he actually going to be back?” I ask the girl sitting behind the front desk. “Not when you expect him, not when he should arrive, but when he’ll actually be here. In the flesh.”

  “Umm . . .” She nervously pulls her lip between her teeth, clicking at something on her computer. “I don’t know,” she admits. “He was supposed to be back before your appointment. I’m sorry.”

  “Well,” I raise my brow pointedly, “can you call him? I do have other things to do today.”

  “Of course, Mr.—I don’t think I caught your last name?”