Double-Cross

by Meredith Fletcher

  “All right.” Lackland and his partner left the room.

  Leaning against the side wall, Riley watched Sam go through her forms. He wondered what it would be like to face her in combat. Even with the size difference he had over her, it would be a close match. She was much better at martial arts than he was. Every move was smooth, fluid. Her focus was complete.

  Watching the single-minded purpose she maintained, Riley envied her ability to stay calm. Eleven days had passed since she’d had a conversation with anyone. He’d put her in the cell and walked away. She had never tried to talk to any of the people that brought her meals. She was good at waiting. Riley didn’t think he could have lasted this long.

  Stone Mitchell felt certain that the process might take a little longer, but the director was confident that Sam would break in the end. Riley didn’t think that was the case at all. He’d pushed at Mitchell to let him interview her.

  With the turn of events that had happened that afternoon, Riley knew the director wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. Despite St. John’s personal agenda, she had good friends. Those friends also had a certain amount of political pull.

  Riley wondered if those women would stand by Sam so adamantly if they knew what she was accused of doing.

  Sam went through a series of cool-down exercises.

  Riley looked at the smooth lines of Sam’s small breasts, made visible by the way the soaked sleeveless shirt clung to her. The loose, baggy sweat pants couldn’t hide the swell of her hips or the long legs for her build.

  At precisely 11:00 p.m., the room went dark.

  Riley blinked at the darkness. He closed the door to the security room, shut down the computer monitors, and switched out the room’s lights, dampening the light in the room, as well. He stood in the darkness for a moment, listening to his heartbeat in his ears and feeling the power of it in his chest.

  He stared at the dark monitor and thought he could make out movement. He actually couldn’t, but he knew what was going on. Somewhere in that darkness, Sam St. John was stripping off for her nightly shower.

  Unable to stop himself, Riley tapped Lackland’s keyboard, shifting the camera feed over to the backup systems while he used the manual controls. The monitor blinked, then fuzzed for a moment and presented a green-tinted picture. Another moment passed and picture cleared.

  The night-vision-capable cameras planted in the room revealed Sam St. John as she pulled the sweat-soaked top over her head, unveiling her dark bra and gleaming flesh.

  Riley’s breath caught in the back of his throat at the sight. His arousal was immediate and painful.

  Nine days ago he had discovered that Sam waited until after lights-out to take her shower before going to bed. He’d walked in on the two agents watching the surveillance camera and listened to the derogatory comments they’d made at Sam’s expense. Riley had shut the night-vision capabilities down and stood watch for the next hour.

  The next day Riley had transferred the men from the detail and brought in Tom Lackland and a female agent who had been reassigned that evening. With the female agent in the room, Lackland hadn’t used the night-vision capability. There had been no need, and the female agent would have protested and probably reported him.

  Knowing that two male agents were in charge of surveillance that night, Riley had decided to step in to maintain Sam’s privacy.

  Not exactly what you’re doing here, is it? Irritated with his inability to control his impulse, Riley reached for the control.

  At that moment Sam skinned out of the sweatpants. In the artificial-light enhancement, Riley couldn’t see what color her panties were. They probably matched the black or navy or dark green of her bra. Riley knew those colors were possible because he’d checked the list of clothing Sam was issued. He hadn’t intended to; he’d just thought about that while looking over her list of personal items inside the cell.

  His gaze traveled up the expanse of legs and over Sam’s slim, rounded bottom. Other cameras in the room provided different views, but he keyed in the one from the rear. His mouth went dry and his pulse beat at his temples.

  Sam stepped out of the sweatpants and placed them in the dirty clothes hamper along with the sleeveless shirt. With a sinuous movement that was sexy as hell by nature rather than design, she reached behind her back with both hands and unfastened her bra, stripping the material away.

  Riley’s gaze followed the swell of her breasts. He breathed in, as though he could catch her scent through the monitor if he tried hard enough. He barely stopped himself from tapping the keyboard and shifting the cameras to look at her from the front.

  Then she hooked her thumbs in her panties and hiked the wisp of cloth down over her rounded buttocks. In spite of her slim build, she had generous hips. As active as she was, as small as she was, Riley hadn’t expected that.

  A growl sounded in the surveillance room. Riley realized with a start that the sound came from him.

  On the screen, Sam tossed her underthings into the dirty clothes hamper and stepped into the shower. The opaque plastic prevented the night vision from penetrating the shower walls, but her shadow still showed through. She turned the water on and stood beneath the spray for a while, luxuriating in the feel of the water cascading over her body.

  The night vision was sensitive enough to pick up the rising steam that clouded Sam’s body and occasionally hid her completely from Riley’s view. The view tortured him. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. All those times he’d watched Sam on the racquetball court, all those times he had seen her on the mats sparring with opponents, he had wondered what she would look like nude.

  Now…he almost knew.

  A few minutes later Sam turned the water off. The clouds of vapor thinned and disappeared. He closed his eyes as she stepped from the cubicle, intending to give her privacy. But he opened them seconds later, unable to stop himself. He exhaled as he realized Sam had picked up the towel she’d placed on the floor and wrapped it around herself.

  After she was dry, Sam dressed in bra, panties, sweatpants and a tunic top. The clothing was virtually sexless, but Riley couldn’t get the sight of her out of his head.

  In the dark, Sam trailed her fingers down the wall and found her way to the bed. She lay down on her side, facing the wall and tucked into a ball.

  Riley knew that some observers who didn’t know Sam St. John’s history might think she’d curled up into a fetal position. Riley knew that she had just assumed the best defensive position she could against someone who might attack her while she slept. Her back and shoulders could take more punishment than her face or front. He had no doubt that she’d wake at the slightest touch, the slightest sound.

  Sam’s foster years hadn’t been pleasant. And Riley knew the reports he’d read only revealed part of what she had been through.

  He watched her sleep. After settling in, she was still. He envied her that. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since he’d brought her in.

  Finding her hadn’t seemed like he was doing his job; it had felt more like a betrayal.

  Riley switched the night vision off. Reluctant to leave, he triggered the audio pickups in the room. He increased the volume till he could hear Sam’s breathing, slow and steady.

  She slept.

  For a moment Riley listened to her, made himself realize that she was all right. And he told himself Sam’s situation was going to change tomorrow. That realization didn’t make him feel much better. The change still wasn’t going to set her free.

  He hated the conflict that raged within him. Sam didn’t deserve to be free. He’d seen the digital recordings that Mitchell had gotten from British intelligence.

  There was no way she wasn’t guilty.

  On the twelfth day, the cell door opened without warning.

  Sam stood in the center of the floor in a relaxed martial arts L-stance, right foot back and perpendicular to the left foot forward. Her arms hung at her sides, but she could lift them instantly to defe
nd herself if she had to. She stared at the swinging door and imagined that the air outside the room felt and tasted a lot different from what was trapped in the cell with her, but she knew that wasn’t true.

  When Riley McLane stepped into the room, Sam experienced mixed feelings. Anger came first, which she expected, but hope and attraction came as well. She forced the hope away. She’d learned a long time ago that hoping for something was nearly useless. The only thing that truly mattered was the ability to make something happen.

  The attraction was confusing. She’d always noticed an undercurrent of it when she was around him, but now the sensation was like a live thing. She didn’t know what to do about it and couldn’t help standing there feeling very much like a deer in headlights.

  During the past twelve days, it seemed as though not a moment had passed that she hadn’t thought of Riley McLane. Of course, those thoughts were mixed. Sometimes she missed him and other times she wanted to kick his teeth in for taking advantage of Rainy’s funeral to capture her.

  Confronted with him now, she didn’t know how to respond.

  “St. John,” Riley said in a deadpan voice. He carried an armload of clothes that included a teal blouse and wheat-colored slacks. There was even a pack of hose. “You’ll need to get dressed.” He offered the clothes.

  Sam stood her ground. “No one told me when checkout was.”

  Riley grimaced. “Don’t be a smart-ass.” He wadded up the clothes and fired them off his chest like a basketball pass.

  The clothes separated in midflight. Sam had to scramble to keep them from hitting the ground. For a moment, she considered letting them scatter, but the opportunity to get dressed in slacks and a blouse instead of sweats was too enticing.

  You’re getting weak, she chided herself. But she consoled herself with the fact that if she could recognize her weakness, she wasn’t really weak. Getting dressed in those clothes was something she deserved, but she didn’t have to have it.

  “Where are we going?” Sam asked.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Riley told her. “Get dressed.”

  “Now we’re on a timetable?” Sam took her time and sorted through the clothing. When she got to the bra and panties that had come from Victoria’s Secret, one of her guilty pleasures and one that Rainy had empathized with yet teased her about, she knew Riley had been to her home. Knowing Riley and the men with him were watching embarrassed her. She kept her head down, cheeks flaming in spite of her attempt at iron control, and didn’t make eye contact.

  The bra and panties weren’t hers, though. These still had the price tags on them.

  And that’s a weakness of yours, Riley McLane. You didn’t have the guts to go through my panty drawer. Sam was mildly surprised. During the time she’d known Riley, she’d felt certain he was the kind of agent that could do anything.

  “We’re on a timetable,” Riley said.

  “And I’ll want a shower and some privacy.” Sam glared up at him.

  “We don’t have time for a shower.”

  “We,” Sam stated coldly, “aren’t taking a shower.”

  One of the two agents standing at the open door snickered.

  Riley looked vastly irritated, but his cheekbones showed a little color. Sam knew she’d struck a nerve. “We need to go now.”

  “Then I can go barefoot and in sweats.”

  “St. John, now isn’t the time to be difficult.”

  “Oh? Is there going to be a time later? See, I didn’t get the itinerary. I’ve just been locked away for the last twelve days and left without human contact. Not exactly conducive to gaining a positive response from a subject.”

  “Nobody thought we needed a positive response.” Riley returned her glare. “A lot of people still don’t think we need one.”

  Sam let that hang for a moment, then—because she couldn’t help herself even though she knew not to ask—she asked, “What about you, McLane? Do you want a positive response?”

  Too late, Sam realized that the question could have dual meanings. The two agents minding the door grinned at each other.

  Riley looked more irritated than ever. “Take a shower. Get dressed. You’ve got ten minutes.” Without another word, he turned and left the room, closing the cell door behind him.

  After he’d gone, Sam was surprised to find out how alone she felt. A lump rose to the back of her throat. She didn’t want to admit how scared she was, but she was. And she did. She didn’t like doing it, but she’d always tried to be honest with herself.

  Quickly she laid out the clothes on the bed. When she got to the business-cut jacket, she discovered a package in the pocket. A plastic bag inside the pocket contained deodorant, perfume and a few makeup items. After twelve days of being without those things, Sam felt as if she’d discovered a treasure trove.

  The small perfume bottle shouldn’t have entered the room at all. The bottle could be broken and the shards used for a weapon or to slice her wrists. A small disposable razor lay at the bottom of the bag.

  Sam weighed the bottle and the razor in her hand. Only grim determination and a lot of time would have made the disposable razor a threat. But the bottle was a different matter.

  Was Riley that certain of her? That she wouldn’t use the shards as a weapon? Or that she wouldn’t try to commit suicide out of guilt for whatever it was she was supposed to have done? Or because of the futility she had to be feeling about being locked up and not being able to get free?

  Or was he just giving her a way out?

  The possibility crept into Sam’s mind without warning. She felt chilled to the bone.

  Never in all the years that she’d spent in one foster home after another had she felt like ending her life. She’d always dreamed that there would be a way out. She had known that eventually she would grow up and she could be on her own.

  But what about now? she asked herself. Her hand trembled slightly, and she instantly got frustrated with herself. For all she knew, she was paroled, on her way to freedom. Of course, Riley McLane hadn’t acted that way. Or maybe he was just upset because he believed she was guilty of whatever it was she hadn’t done.

  She made herself stop speculating. She didn’t have any answers. She had questions, but they weren’t the right ones she needed to ask.

  Despite the fact that Riley had wanted her to hurry, she stayed in the shower long enough to put the razor to good use. When she finished, she truly felt clean for the first time in days.

  Someone banged on the door as she started getting dressed. Each piece, from the underwear to the hose to the slacks and blouse, felt like battle armor sliding into place. Her confidence grew.

  “We’re late,” Riley growled through the door.

  “Another minute,” Sam called, starting on the makeup by touch since she didn’t have a mirror. Riley had even provided a brush. When she finished, she walked to the door.

  “—father always told me a woman would be late to her own funeral,” a man was saying. He fell silent as Sam stepped through the door.

  Riley stood out in the hall. Dark, wraparound sunglasses masked his eyes.

  The other two agents stared at Sam.

  “Wow,” one of them said in a low voice.

  Sam almost blushed. She didn’t make eye contact with either of the two men. Instead she waited without saying a word.

  “Let’s go.” Riley gestured to the other end of the hall. “Director Mitchell’s office. You know the way.”

  Sam started walking.

  “Wait, Agent McLane.” The agent who spoke produced a pair of handcuffs. “We need to cuff her.”

  A shudder passed through Sam despite her resolve not to show a reaction. The long trip back by plane with her hands manacled in her lap and covered by a jacket had been claustrophobic. Going to the bathroom, even with a female agent along, had been embarrassing. The worst part had been the way kids had stared at her.

  “No cuffs,” Riley replied.

  “Standard operating procedur
e—”

  Riley wheeled on the speaker, freezing the man in midstride with the handcuffs swinging before him. “Isn’t something we’re worried about today, Gautier. Got that?”

  Gautier hesitated for a moment and looked thoroughly pissed. “Got it. But if she gets away—”

  “No,” Riley said. “No getting away. And, Sam, if you try, if I have to shoot you to stop you, I will. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Sam said. As she looked at the stony glare he gave her, she knew that he meant what he said. She also thought she saw a flicker of sadness in his dark eyes. But when she turned away, she felt his hard gaze on her, tracking like a sniper’s cross hairs.

  Chapter 8

  “H ave a seat, St. John.”

  “No, sir,” Sam replied, forcing herself to remain calm. The fact that Director Stone Mitchell hadn’t addressed her as “agent” spoke volumes. “I’ll stand.”

  “Suit yourself.” Mitchell didn’t sound like he cared. He flicked his gaze to Riley. “No handcuffs?”

  “My decision,” Riley said.

  Mitchell waited expectantly for an explanation.

  Riley didn’t give one. He stood between Sam and the door, to one side of the director so that he could intercept her if she chose to try to attack Mitchell.

  “Not a good decision, Agent McLane,” Mitchell said.

  “She’s here.” McLane hesitated. “Sir.”

  Opening a folder on the desk, Mitchell said, “How’s your shoulder?”

  “Better,” Riley answered. “I’ll probably be released any day by Medical.”

  “Probably so.” The comment coming from Mitchell sounded like a threat. The director glanced up at Sam. “You’ve been quiet for twelve days. You haven’t asked to see anyone. You haven’t asked to talk to anyone.”

  “Would it have done any good?”

  Mitchell’s flat expression didn’t change. “No.”

  Sam knew the man was baiting her, offering hope only so he could yank it away. She’d seen him work an interview before.

  “We won’t let you talk to anyone until we are ready,” Mitchell said.