Gray Wolf Security: Back Home

by Glenna Sinclair

  “It just seems personal to you. If I’m going down for this, I want to know what it’s all about.”

  “If you do your job right, no one’s going down for it.”

  “And the evidence you have on me? Are you going to pull it out every time you have something you want my help with?”

  “Is that what’s worrying you?” she reached over and touched my arm, her long nails scratching the tender skin of my inner wrist. “You know I wouldn’t hurt you, baby. We have too much fun together.”

  “Including the time in Florida when you left me holding the bag?”

  She laughed. “That was just business, babe. You know that.”

  I did. But it didn’t change the fact that I knew what she was capable of. “I want the file when this is all over or I’ll tell Erin the truth.”

  “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the ass,” she snapped, her nails cutting into me briefly before she jerked away. “Besides, you’ve already told so many lies, she won’t believe the truth.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you do. That bitch is cold as ice.” Elizabeth grew a little thoughtful. “I kind of admire her. It must make it easier going through life not caring about anyone but yourself. Less mess.”

  I shook my head. “You got it all wrong.”

  She inclined her head slightly. “You like her. I told you to be careful about that.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Listen. You keep your dick in your pants and I’ll give you the file when this is all said and done, okay? Just…watch your back with that one. I’d hate to see you get yourself in trouble for the wrong reasons. Gray Wolf? It’s not what it seems to be.”

  Chapter 18

  Erin

  I sat in a corner of the lobby and watched her leave, her shift dress tight enough to show off every secret clothes were ever designed to hide. I was almost envious. Not because of her curves—she was curvy, alright, but the kind of curvy that didn’t come from working out three times a week—but because of her confidence. If I had confidence like that, I could command any room I walked into.

  The moment she was out the door, I slipped into the stairwell and walked up to the fourth floor. The corridor outside her room was empty. I glanced at the security cameras, making a note to hack the system and rid my face from the recording when this was done. Another of our dear founder’s brother’s gadgets was a little machine that could mimic any electronic hotel room card key. I was in the room in a matter of seconds, the machine working its magic almost as fast as having the real thing. I slipped it into my pocket and stepped inside, careful to close the door behind me.

  If I were a blackmail file, where would I hide?

  The room was fairly large, a king size bed the primary focus. There was long, low dresser that also acted as a work desk, a couple of chairs, and a small table under a tall window. I searched through the desk drawers first, hoping she was careless and left things in obvious places. Apparently not. The closet seemed like the next best option. There was nothing in there, however, except for her clothing, a couple of empty suitcases, and a man’s shirt that had fallen back behind the cheap little valet stand.

  Boone’s shirt?

  I held the shirt against my face for a moment, imagining I could smell him on it. But in reality, all I could smell was her perfume.

  Were they lovers? Had they made love in that bed?

  Why did the idea bother me so?

  I dropped the shirt where I found it and walked around the room, lifting the mattress in hopes of finding a file under it. Nothing. The bathroom also yielded no results except for her perfume. Back in the bedroom, I ran my hands along the walls and floor of the closet, searched the drawers again, finally feeling like an idiot when I stumbled over the safe set in the wall between the closet and bathroom.

  The code wasn’t hard to figure out. She hadn’t changed it. The default code on these things was always 1-2-3-4. She could have made it harder, but she hadn’t. Was that over confidence on her part? Or was she hoping someone would find the file?

  There was more than just Boone’s blackmail file in the safe. There were a dozen, most with names I recognized, some with names I didn’t. I wasn’t surprised to see my own name on one, Joss’s on another. There were files for each of Joss’s family members, too, the one on McKelty with scribbled notes referring to what Boone had told her on the phone this morning. She'd believed him enough to write it down. That had to be a good sign.

  His file was at the bottom. I tugged it free, opening it just long enough to see a copy of an autopsy. I closed it and started to close the safe, but thought better of it. I tugged Joss’s file free and found myself looking at articles about some car accident in Illinois a little over a decade ago. Carrington’s held pictures of him with some blonde woman leaving a restaurant that looked vaguely familiar. But the file I really wanted to look at was mine.

  I sat in a chair and braced myself. It was just paper, but it felt like it weighed a ton. I had a good idea what I’d find inside and I wasn’t disappointed. The first piece of paper on top was a copy of the same article someone had dropped on my table at the mall. It cut through me to look at the headline, to imagine what my mother had gone through the three days I was missing.

  Underneath, as Boone had suggested, were pictures taken by the police when I was discovered and in the hospital, after my wounds had been cleaned. I’d never seen them before. There was a certain degree of morbid curiosity that burned through me. I knew the scars, but seeing the wounds that had left them there was almost fascinating. The girl in the pictures was so unrecognizable that it was hard to believe it was me. She looked like a stranger, so traumatized that she emotionlessly stared straight into the camera. No tears.

  The pattern of bruises, the cuts and burns, spoke of horrific torture. There were so many pictures, documenting each and every mark. I didn’t even remember some of them, the marks on my back that I could no longer see, the marks on my throat that had mostly healed without leaving scars—those I didn’t remember. But the slash along my ribs that took eighty-two stitches to close…that one I remembered clearly. That was their parting gift.

  I think they thought I would bleed out. Or the smell of blood would attract an animal big enough to do what they couldn’t. They were cowards, my attackers. When it came time to finally free me of my misery, they couldn’t do it.

  I didn’t realize I was crying until a tear marred the bottom edge of one of the photographs. I brushed the tear away, suddenly angry. I slammed the file shut, trying not to think of what went through Boone’s mind as she forced him to look at this, at those pictures of that poor, pathetic girl. Had he seen his sister in that girl? Had he thought only of what she’d gone through? Or had he felt compassion for this girl, too?

  Did he see that girl every time he looked at me?

  She was beautiful once, that girl. She had long, thick, dark hair and the bluest eyes. She’d been so pretty that night in her party dress and the makeup she kept hidden under the bathroom sink. Her mother thought she was too young for things like that, but the girl thought she should be allowed to do what she wanted. She thought she was grown up enough to handle any adult situation.

  She’d been wrong.

  I still wasn’t grown up enough to handle the aftereffects of what that girl had to face, but I didn’t think any person, child or adult, should have to handle anything like that.

  I gathered up the things I wanted to take with me, shoving the files in my bag. I set everything back to rights, down to the order the files were in in the safe. There was no reason for her to suspect I’d found her right now. In fact, it would be best if she didn’t figure it out at all.

  Unfortunately, my timing was terrible.

  I opened the door and there she was, just as surprised to see me as I was her.

  Chapter 19

  Joss

  Leaving was harder than I imagined it would be. Mabel shed
a few tears and Kirkland held me tighter than he usually would have at the security checkpoint.

  “Promise you’ll keep me in the loop.”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  “Don’t do anything crazy, Jossie.”

  I smiled. “Have I ever done that?”

  “A few times. So, please…”

  I reached up and kissed his cheek lightly. “Go home and enjoy your babies, Kirkland. Because, unfortunately, they do grow up to be teenagers.”

  He laughed. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  When I got on the plane, I stared out the window, watching the clouds go by, trying to ignore the friendly overtures of the businessman in the seat beside me. I kept twirling my wedding ring around my finger, memories like dreams floating through my mind. Carrington was a good man, a good father. He’d always been so good to me, even back when I wouldn’t speak. He pulled me out of my darkness, he and McKelty. If not for that child…but she hated me now. And he didn’t trust me.

  I was beginning to wonder if there was something about me that made it impossible for me to find happiness. It seemed so self-serving to ask myself such a question, but these things seemed to keep happening to me. There had to be a reason, right?

  When the plane landed, I was surprised to find Mike Spencer waiting for me at the gate.

  “How did you get through security?”

  He shrugged. “An FBI badge should come in handy for something.” He slipped the carry-on bag off my shoulder and gestured for me to follow him. “We’ve had reports of activity in Mahoney’s circles. I thought you’d want to be apprised immediately.”

  “What’s going on?”

  He glanced down at me. “It’d probably be best to wait until we get to my office.”

  He escorted me to his car, politely holding the door open for me. He was quiet on the drive, tapping his hands against the steering wheel to some music only he could hear. I stared out the window at the familiar city that I’d called home for nine years, nostalgia burning in my chest.

  I wondered what McKelty would think of the little farm town where I’d grown up in Illinois. Would she hate it? Probably. Would she be safe there? More than likely. Maybe safer than in Florida with Carrington’s mother.

  Mike’s office was typical of a law enforcement agent with more cases than he could possibly keep up with. There were files everywhere, balanced on the edges of chairs and scattered across his desk. Old coffee cups and fast food containers were mixed in with bags that held evidence on his cases, an indication of his single status. But there were pictures of his kids, buried behind the paperwork, showing that the warm smile he rarely shared had been passed down.

  “We’ve been monitoring your husband’s phones, as you know. And his offices and home.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “The possibility that another attempt on his life is imminent requires us to be diligent.”

  “We’ve talked about all this, Mike,” I said with a ghost of a smile. “Why are you acting like we haven’t been working together on this for weeks?”

  He picked up a file and held it up, not handing it to me but displaying it like I should know what was inside already. “You have an operative named Erin Brayden?”

  “You know I do. She’s on the list I gave you of the operatives who’d be guarding my family.”

  He hesitated a moment. “A short time after you left town, she met a man in a local bar.” He took a picture from his file and handed it to me. It was a mug shot of a good-looking dark haired man. “Francis Boone. He goes by Boone, a con artist who likes to take advantage of vulnerable women.”

  “My operative is dating this man?”

  Mike shrugged. “It’s not clear what their relationship is. She met him in the bar and then he sought her out days later while she was with your husband. He gave her something, we think it was some sort of business card.”

  “So?”

  “So, the following day, he moved into her house.”

  “You think he’s blackmailing her.”

  “I think he could very well be involved in the conspiracy to take your husband out.”

  I dropped the picture back on Mike’s desk as I stood. “One of my operatives wouldn’t do anything to hurt my family. Especially Erin.”

  “How do you know? She’s only worked for you for a few months.”

  “Because I know her. I know her story.” I paused in the doorway. “The last thing she would allow to happen would be for one of my girls to be hurt in any way. She’s not working with the Mahoneys.”

  “Then why would she allow a known gigolo to move in with her?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea, but I can assure you there’s a good reason.”

  “Joss—”

  “It’s been a long few weeks, Mike. I’d really like to go home and get settled in before I have to dive back in to all this.”

  He studied my face for a long moment. “It came to my attention that you’ve made a reservation at the Collingsworth Hotel. Is there something I should know?”

  “It’s personal.”

  He paused, then crossed to me, his hands hesitating before they moved to rest on my shoulders. “Joss, I’ve been there. I know what the end of a marriage looks like. If you need anything—”

  I touched the back of his hand. “I appreciate it, but I think it would be best if you gave me a little space right now.”

  He inclined his head, disappointment radiating from his eyes. “Of course.”

  I turned away, not entirely sure why there were tears burning in my eyes. Was it the compassion he’d offered? Compassion that I haven’t felt from my husband in months? Or was it the ordeal I knew was coming next?

  This was going to be an incredibly long day.

  Chapter 20

  Erin

  She pushed me back into the room with her fist slammed into the center of my chest. I stumbled, but regained my balance quickly, swinging out with my own fist before landing a kick into the center of her stomach. She fell back into the newly closed door, a burst of air flying from her lips. I moved in, slamming my hand into the side of her face not once, but three times, knocking her hard against the wall. She responded more quickly than I expected, catching me in the ribs, right above the scar that still marked my body.

  Elizabeth was good. She knew how to fight almost as well as I did, but her style of fighting was more street fighting than the ordered technique I’d been taught in the military. She was breathing hard before we’d been at it for more than a few minutes, but that didn’t dampen her enthusiasm.

  Lamps smashed on the floor and chairs overturned as we struggled. I had the upper hand until I allowed her to get a little too close to the bedside table. She reached inside and managed to grab the handle of a small caliber pistol.

  Fuck!

  I managed to turn her away from me and push her against the wall, but she slammed the back of her head into my nose, stunning me for a brief second. It was long enough for her to get off a shot, but it missed me and ricocheted off the ceiling.

  I hoped no one was home upstairs.

  I grabbed her wrist and we struggled over the gun. I knew where to put pressure to force her muscles to spasm, but she kept moving, keeping me from getting a good hold. And then I made the mistake of stepping back in hopes of getting better leverage. She took advantage of the movement and aimed the gun at my shoulder, firing.

  Hot, fiery pain burst through my body, but it wasn’t the victory she’d clearly anticipated. She relaxed her grip on the gun and I was able to grab it. I slammed the grip against the side of her head and she crumpled immediately. I turned the gun around and aimed it at her, all the reasons why she should die playing through my mind. Jealousy was the biggest, the idea of she and Boone sharing this bed burning hotter than the excruciating pain in my shoulder. And that was plain stupidity.

  But then I thought of those pictures she had of me, of the little girl whom she was gathering information on. That was a better reas
on to put a bullet through her brain. But if I did that, we’d never find out whom she was working for.

  I slammed the butt of the gun into her head a second time, then turned away, dropping the weapon into my bag as I rushed into the bathroom to hurriedly create a makeshift bandage out of paper towels, rubber bands, and sanitary napkins with shaking hands. I charged out of the room, giving Elizabeth one last glance. She’d be out for a while and she’d have one hell of a headache when she woke. But she’d live.

  I was wearing a heavy leather jacket over my light sweater, so no one noticed the blood I could feel trickling down the length of my arm despite my efforts to stop the blood flow. By the time I got to my house, however, it was dripping from my fingers. Boone wasn’t home, which was probably a good thing. I let myself in and reset the alarms, holding my arm up and ignoring the biting pain as I moved through the living room to the bedroom so that I wouldn’t drip on my cream colored carpet. Once in the master bathroom, I peeled off my jacket and bandage and was rewarded with the sight of my blood soaked shoulder, a dark hole in the center of the pale sweater material that was slightly singed around the edges. I slowly moved my arm, reassured that all movement was intact. Though I would be more than a little sore, the bullet likely hadn’t touched anything important.

  At least, I hoped not.

  I peeled the sweater over my head with one arm, smearing blood over the side of my face. There were bruises forming there, so it all just kind of blended together. I’d have to come up with some logical explanation for my visible wounds tomorrow, but luckily Elizabeth liked to hit below the neck. Most of the bruises would show up on my ribs and abdomen, not my face.

  Blood was oozing steadily from the wound on my shoulder. I grabbed a towel out of the cabinet, wishing I’d chosen crimson towels rather than white, and pressed it to the wound. Pressure was supposed to stop the bleeding, but this bleeding looked steady and never-ending. It needed stitches and antibiotics, but a doctor would ask too many questions.