Savage

by Krista Holt

  My mouth opens, and I try to pull in some oxygen, but my chest fights me, not wanting to do its job. I turn my back to the car, struggling to breathe. This has never happened before.

  I try to count. I try to calm myself. Hell, I even recite an old prayer in my head. I’d do anything to remove this pressure in my chest. It seems like hours pass before it eases up, but I know it’s only seconds. The first inhale is a relief. My heart stops wreaking havoc against my ribs, and each breath after that comes easier.

  I try to pull myself together and hide behind the mask I wear when I don’t want to feel things. I’m finally settled enough to face her, but I turn around, and it happens again. The pain. The shortness of breath.

  Through the windshield, I can see Reagan, with her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she cries. And any hope I was clinging to with clenched hands is ripped away. I have to let her go. It’s the only way.

  But it just might kill me.

  CHAPTER 34

  Reagan

  Nic’s body invades the space beside me as he slides into the car. I turn away, wiping the tears from my cheeks. He presses a white handkerchief in my hand, squeezing my fingers closed around the fabric.

  I try to clear away the evidence of my breakdown. Using the mirror, I dab around my eyes, trying not to smudge my makeup any more that it already is. A fruitless effort, really, the white square comes away streaked with black mascara.

  He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. Everything we can share has been shared. There’s nothing left to say. This isn’t going to work. His commitments are pulling him away, and mine won’t let me ignore them for much longer. I’m going to have to come clean . . . about everything.

  The engine quiets as he pulls to the curb in front of my place. “I’ll walk you up,” he says, rough words breaking the silence.

  “I don’t need you to,” I reply. “And I think it’s best if we don’t see each other for a while.”

  “Reagan.” The anguish ripping through his voice almost breaks me.

  “Please. Don’t make this even harder than it is.” My fingers fumble for the clasp on the bracelet. His promise to me. Unshed tears well up in my eyes.

  “Stop.” His hand closes over my fingers, stopping my movement. “That’s yours. I don’t want it back.”

  A sob escapes my tight throat.

  “Don’t cry,” he says gently. “It’ll be impossible for me to walk away if you’re crying.”

  I bite my lip, using the pain to force my tears back.

  “We had some good times, right?” He takes my chin in his hand, brushing away a lingering tear.

  “Yeah,” I choke out. “We did.”

  “I wish this had worked out differently.”

  “Me too.”

  “I will always love you.” His thumb runs over my lower lip. “No matter what. If you need anything, call me.”

  “Don’t be sensible. Not now.” I try to laugh.

  He doesn’t. “I can’t believe this is the end.”

  “It is.” I place my hand over his, pulling them both from my face. “It has to be. If I stay, I’ll regret it.”

  “I wish there was something I could do.” Pain etches itself into the lines of his face. It hurts to look at him. The haunted expression on his face reveals that he’s more affected than I thought he was. “I don’t know what else to say.” He grabs my hand in his, squeezing it tightly.

  “I have to let this go, Nic. You need to let me go, quietly.” I draw a shuddering breath. “Don’t make me hate you. I don’t want to hate you.”

  He exhales harshly. “Let me walk you up.”

  I don’t want him to. It’d be easier not to let him, but he seems so desperate that I can’t refuse him. “Okay.”

  Quietly, we both exit the car. He takes my hand in his before kissing me for a long time. Each one lingers longer than the last, mixing with my tears until he wrenches himself away from me. “Go. Now.”

  Tears stream down my face. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Reagan. Go.”

  “Goodbye, Nic.” I step inside the building. The door closes quietly on my heels. My conscience is screaming at me, telling me not to look back. But I can’t help it. I turn around, and for the last time, I watch him walk away from me.

  * * *

  My phone beeps in the middle of the night, waking me up. The brightness of the screen assaults my eyes as I squint, trying to the read the new text.

  I hope against logic that it’s Nic. My heart stalls in my chest as I tap the message. It’s not from him. It’s from Simmons.

  It worked. I owe you.

  With a strangled shout, I throw my phone across the room. Pulling a pillow over my face, I try to hide from the guilt tearing me apart.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Becca says, too chipper for me this morning. She got back a few days ago, but we haven’t had a chance to talk.

  I glance up from the very large cup of coffee I am preparing. “Hi.”

  She sets out some yogurt and granola for her breakfast. I stir my coffee, wishing I felt like eating.

  “I kind of thought I would stumble upon the Italian this morning. Is he here?”

  I shake my head, willing myself not to cry. “No. He’s not.”

  “Oh, everything okay with him?”

  “No. It’s over. For real this time.”

  She slowly sets a bowl on the counter. “What happened?”

  “Nothing really. We both came to the conclusion that it wasn’t going to work out.” Because he won’t tell me the truth.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep.” I take a sip of my coffee. “That’s it.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I thought you’d be the one person happy about this new development.”

  “Don’t say it like that, Reagan. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy, but this is a surprise. He seemed so insistent.”

  “Yeah, well, persistence can’t surmount everything.” I brush some hair behind my ear. “I don’t really want to talk about this now. I’ll start crying, and I have to go to work soon.” I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye, blinking away the rest of them. “Are you going to work today?”

  She gives me a sad smile. “No, it’s a telework day for me. I’m staying here.”

  I screw the lid on my travel mug. “I should go, otherwise I’ll be late.

  “Can you be home at a reasonable hour? I’ll have alcohol waiting.”

  “I’ll try. Barring any other part of my life imploding.”

  I grab my coat and then hurry out the door to the metro. Waiting with the other huddled masses for the next train. When I finally get to the office, I plaster on a fake smile, hoping it’ll convince everyone.

  “Hi,” April greets me.

  “Morning,” I reply. “Is Scott here?”

  “Yes, he walked in a second ago.”

  “Thanks.” I round the corner of my desk, setting down my purse and travel mug.

  Scott speaks from behind me, “You look . . .”

  “Finish that thought, and I’ll kill you.” I reach over and turn on my computer.

  “Ravishing.”

  “Nice save,” I grumble.

  “Rough night?”

  “You could say that.”

  I couldn’t sleep at all after Simmons’s text. I lay awake, trying to figure out a plan for everything. Nic. Simmons. My life in D.C. Much to my frustration, nothing wants to fit into nice orderly boxes. In fact, if I get one of them in there and close the lid, it explodes seconds later. Like last night.

  Last night was awful. My heart is broken, and as much as I remind myself I did the right thing, I still wonder if it was a mistake. Because I want him, I want everything he promised me. Even now, as I stare at the bracelet I haven’t been able to take off, I know I still love Nic. I’ll probably always love him. Secrets and all. I just can’t sustain myself on what he’s willing to give me. I can’t build a life on half-truths and the few m
inutes of the day he’s able to carve out for me. It’s not enough.

  “Did you need something?” I ask Scott.

  “No. I just wanted to recap our talk from yesterday. We’ve finally got a list of names. Well, a potential list of names, including every single FBI agent on the task force.”

  “What did the committee decide to do with it?”

  “Since the FBI is being a bunch of sissies. They’re going to subpoena everyone on the task force. Even the agents who are undercover.”

  I whistle under my breath.

  “I know, right? If that isn’t going to force them to hand over the whistleblower, I don’t know what will.”

  “Are we even sure they know who the whistleblower is?”

  “No. But they haven’t been very forthcoming, which makes me think they do. If they don’t, at least we can barter with them, ask them for more information in return for leaving their undercover agents off the order to appear before the committee.”

  “Here’s hoping.” I really want this to be over.

  “Yeah, the subpoenas are being issued as we speak. My guess is that the U.S. Marshals will be delivering summons in a couple of hours.”

  I run clammy hands down the front of my skirt. “Does it bother you that we’re potentially ruining someone’s life and all their hard work for a lead that might not even pan out?”

  Scott shrugs. “Not really. The FBI could have cooperated from the beginning. They chose not to.”

  “I guess,” I half-heartedly respond. Typing in my password, I bring up my email account just as the television above my desk broadcasts a breaking news alert.

  Scott reaches for the remote on my desk, turning the volume up. I turn toward the screen just as a man with an overly coiffed hairdo and a sleek pinstriped suit shuffles papers behind a flashy news desk.

  “This just in,” he clears his throat in a pretentious manner, “ladies and gentlemen, there’s been a murder in the halls of Congress.”

  “What the hell?” Scott mutters under his breath.

  “Well, not exactly the halls of Congress,” the news anchor amends, “but close enough. Senator Randall Thomas, ranking member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, has been reported missing by his wife, Grace.”

  “How does missing translate to murder?”

  “No kidding,” Scott says, leaning on the back of my chair.

  “When Grace, Mrs. Thomas, returned home from visiting her family in Connecticut for the holidays,” the anchor continues, “she found a large amount of blood in her bedroom. Senator Thomas had reportedly stayed behind to catch up on some work and his wife traveled out of state alone.”

  “Sure he did,” Scott says. “It wasn’t his penchant for young interns or anything.”

  “Really?” I glance at him.

  “Yeah. It’s a widely known ‘secret’ around here,” he says, putting air quotes around the word secret.

  “He’s like seventy. That’s disgusting.”

  “No argument here.”

  “Attempts to contact him have failed,” the anchor drones on. “His wife is pleading with the public to help find her husband. If anyone has seen the senator or has any information whatsoever, they are urged to contact Capitol Police or D.C. Metro police who are working jointly to locate the missing senator. However, inside sources tell me he won’t be found alive. The amount of blood left in the senator’s bed and on the wall behind his bed would indicate that the senator likely died at the scene.”

  “That’s upsetting.” I turn back to my computer.

  “Yeah.” Scott hits a button on the remote, lowering the volume. “Why move the body if you aren’t going to clean the scene?”

  I grimace. “We aren’t going to play CSI, are we? I can’t even talk about blood without getting queasy.”

  Scott laughs. “Oh, come on. You aren’t squeamish, are you?”

  “I think I might be.” If the knot in my stomach is any indication, I am.

  “Anyway,” he moves on, “I should get confirmation when every subpoena has been served. I think we should get drinks after work, you know, to celebrate our smashing success.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it a smashing success, but I’m game for a drink.” Or several.

  “The W? After work?”

  “Sure.” I’ll have to cancel on Becca, but that might be for the best. I’m not ready for a why we broke up wine fest yet.

  “It’s a date,” Scott replies.

  I wince. I really hope he isn’t getting the wrong idea. I can’t handle one more part of my life in upheaval.

  “I have to step out for a quick meeting right now. I’ll be back,” I tell him.

  “Okay. Whenever I get the confirmation, we’ll head out.”

  “Sounds good.” I grab my phone and my coat, leaving the office.

  My heels sound ear splittingly loud in the marble hallway. Each click taunts me. I’m a fraud. A traitor. I’ve made the conscious decision to betray everything I believe in. It’s unforgivable. And I can’t take it back. I just hope I’m doing the right thing.

  I step outside, and the cold snaps my face the second I push open the heavy brass door. Crossing the street, I head toward a small deserted park covered with snow. My gloved hands move over the screen of my phone, dialing his number.

  “Simmons,” he says gruffly.

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  The line between us gets so quiet I’m afraid the call dropped until he speaks. “We need to meet. It’s still not enough.”

  My mouth opens. “What do I have to do, wear a wire?”

  “No, I don’t want to you wear a wire, but I need something more. It’s not enough yet. My superiors keep kicking it back to me.”

  “This is getting more dangerous, Simmons. I could lose my job if they find out.”

  “If that happens, we’ll get you a new job, but it hasn’t, so don’t worry about it. Can we meet tonight? Nine o’clock?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’ll text you the details.” He hangs up.

  The wind tugs at my coat but I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything except remorse. I never wanted this to happen.

  CHAPTER 35

  Nic

  Everyone reacts differently to pain. Some lean into it. Others pull away. I prefer to go numb.

  I hold his head underwater, callously watching as he thrashes, trying to throw off my grip. He splashes water out onto the concrete floor, flooding my leather shoes. I see it happen, but I don’t feel it.

  Frantic air bubbles break the surface as he gasps for breath. Water soaks the sleeve of my shirt as I force his head in even deeper. Then he stops struggling. His body gives up, going limp.

  I take a deep breath and tighten my grip on a fistful of hair. Jerking his head out of the water, I listen to the first greedy gasps of his water-filled lungs. I toss him to the ground and watch as he tries to cough up the liquid.

  It would be distressing, if I felt anything right now. I don’t. Like an exposed nerve, over-stimulated by everything, eventually even the normal signal for pain gets dulled. Any emotions I might have are locked up tightly.

  “I need names,” I repeat, circling his hunkered body.

  “Man, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please. Stop this.”

  “Do you have names?”

  “No. I don’t, I swear.”

  I study him. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “I have nothing to lie about. I don’t care who you are or who you work for. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. They don’t pay me enough to get water-boarded like an asshole al-Qaeda terrorist. It’s not worth it.”

  “Then tell me the names on the subpoena list.” Movement catches my eye. Enzo is pacing, and it’s making me nervous.

  We keep hitting dead ends. Every time I fail to turn up something useful, I feel my life expectancy shrink. It’s in the cutting glances my father throws my way when he thinks I’m not paying attention, and in the poin
ted threats he disguises with laughter.

  The intern coughs up water and bile, adding to the puddle on the ground. “I can’t tell you something I don’t know. I swear,” he gasps.

  “One more time. From the beginning.” I offer him a chair, ignoring the way he shivers in the drafty warehouse. “What happened when you showed up for work this morning?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Then tell me again,” I yell.

  He shrinks back, his eyes wide. “I got to work late. The metro is a bitch.” My eyes narrow to slits. “Uh, when I got there,” he continues, “the committee was already organizing the subpoenas. I guess they started last night after I left.”

  “Is there a master list?”

  “Yes. I suppose so, but,” he looks at me nervously, “it’s locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I mean it. They didn’t even letting the interns prepare the labels for the envelopes. The labels, I mean, that’s how serious they are about preventing a leak.”

  He stops talking as a coughing fit overtakes him. I pace behind his back. When he finally catches his breath, he speaks again. “The U.S. Marshalls were all in there, guarding the door and shit.”

  “Who would have the list?”

  “A few staffers for sure. Someone had to do the work.”

  “Tell me who!”

  “It won’t work, man. I mean it.”

  My hand itches to drag him back to the water and plunge his head under the surface. I refrain, but if he calls me ‘man’ one more time, all bets are off.

  “What do you mean?” I growl.

  “They take this shit seriously. I mean it, like some high level of security clearance serious. None of that stuff leaves the office. Not on a phone. No copies or pictures. The only way for you to get that list is to walk into the committee room, guns blazing, and get it. Unless you snatch another staffer and get it from them.”

  This kid talks like a frat boy, how he was even offered an internship with the Oversight Committee is beyond me, but it sure wasn’t due to his intelligence. He’s probably somebody’s kid, or nephew, or bastard child. Nepotism and politics go hand in hand in this town.

  I clear my throat. “So, what you’re telling me is there are no copies, nothing on a Blackberry. What about a laptop?”