Sleight of Hand (Outbreak Task Force)

by Julie Rowe

  Rodrigues turned to Joy. “You passed your firearm qualifications, correct?”

  The question surprised a jerk out of Joy. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Rodrigues got up and went to the large safe on the floor set into the wall behind her desk, opened it, and pulled out a small lock box. Inside was a Berretta 9 mm, a holster, and some papers.

  “Our people have found themselves under fire during the course of two separate investigations within the last year. Homeland Security has made the decision to allow us to be armed in the field.” She looked at Joy. “Yes or no?”

  It had been a couple of years since she’d touched a weapon outside a firing range. Firing at another human being wasn’t something she wanted to do, but if someone did take a shot at Gunner or her, she wouldn’t hesitate.

  “Yes.”

  Her boss handed her the papers. “Sign these.”

  A minute later, she was checking the weapon.

  “Gunner?” Rodrigues asked.

  “No, thanks,” he said, his voice flat. He cleared his throat and tried to smile, but it looked uncomfortable on his face. “I’d prefer not to go armed.”

  “Will my carrying a weapon be a problem?” Joy asked him.

  “No.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s a personal choice.”

  “This right to carry firearms is new.” Rodrigues gave them a half grin. “All law enforcement agencies were supposed to be notified, but I doubt very few are aware of it.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Joy said.

  Gunner got to his feet and nodded at Rodrigues. “We’ll let you know as soon as we have any new information beyond lab results.”

  Joy followed him out of the room.

  Neither of them spoke as they headed back to the office they shared.

  As they re-equipped their sample collection kit and gathered the tools they’d need for this wider forensic investigation, she asked with caution, “Are you sure you’re okay with me carrying?”

  Gunner’s smooth movements came to an abrupt halt, but only briefly. He continued packing as he said in a careful tone, “I don’t have any problems with you being armed, but handling a gun myself?” He shook his head. “The sound of a shot, the smell of gunpowder, the inevitable thunk as a body hits the ground—any of it takes me nowhere good.”

  “PTSD?”

  “PTSD, anxiety disorder, depression—it’s all part of the fun merry-go-round I’ve been on the last two or three years.” His voice was so full of sadness and despair it squeezed her heart with frozen fingers until every breath—every beat—bled viscous red blood.

  She understood how easy it was to be sucked into the waking nightmare of memory. So many of the soldiers she served with struggled with the same or similar mental illnesses. She struggled with them, too.

  After a moment, he said, “Unfortunately, I think I over-shared with my last psychologist.”

  She canted her head to one side. “Over-shared?” Was that even possible?

  He paused to meet her gaze, and for the first time, she saw regret in his eyes. “The woman couldn’t…” He stopped, then tried again. “She was afraid of me.”

  “Afraid? A psychologist?” Surprise made her voice rise.

  He shrugged. “I spent three years, on and off, in a part of the world where war, guns, and bombs were part of everyday life.”

  “That shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone,” Joy said, angry on his behalf. “The news footage coming out of there didn’t hide much. You did a lot of good there, saved a lot of lives.”

  “I guess hearing me describe some of the things I witnessed convinced her I wasn’t…stable.”

  “You’re impatient with stupid people and grumpy if you don’t get enough caffeine into you, not dangerous.”

  “Something about me scared her.”

  He was a man with a strong personality and an unfailing drive to do his job to the best of his ability. No matter how horrific, his experiences weren’t something to be afraid of. His psychologist should have been an absolutely safe sounding board. Showing fear could potentially traumatize the person she was supposed to help all over again.

  “Of my eight years in the military, I spent half that time deployed to somewhere unfamiliar, unwelcome, and unsafe. I’ve seen people do horrible…things to each other.” Saying the words didn’t do anything to lessen their impact. “I’ve had men I know, friends, die from bullet wounds and IED explosions.” She shook her head. Too much blood, too many broken bodies and blown-up lives. “Compared with all that, you’re a cuddly teddy bear.”

  He stopped and searched her face. “I’m sorry,” he said, with a wince. “I didn’t mean to…trigger unpleasant memories.” He sighed. “I’ve heard a lot of people claim they understand how I feel, but I didn’t realize… I think you’re the first person who actually does understand.”

  “O…okay,” she managed to get out. “So, we’ve managed to establish we’re both a little beat up. Yay us. We should start a club, go old school and get decoder rings.”

  He blinked, covered his face with one hand, and started to shake.

  Her stomach turned into a block of ice. Oh no, she’d triggered him, too. He was breaking down, losing his shit.

  A laugh boomed out of him, and it surprised her so much she stumbled back, tripped, and landed on her butt on the floor.

  That made him laugh harder.

  “Thanks,” she said biting her lip to keep him from laughing along with him. People were going to think they were drunk. “Jerk.”

  His laugh carried a little too much tension, too much energy. “Decoder rings? When were you born, during World War II?” He held out a hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “No.” She rolled her eyes. “Stop giggling. We have work to do.”

  He cupped one of her cheeks with a large, gentle hand, his gaze warm and direct. “Thanks, friend.”

  She froze at the contact, and her breath caught in her throat. His touch was gentle, yet he didn’t release her or drop his hand.

  She swayed toward him, wanting, needing more of his warmth.

  Surprise entered his expression, followed by…heat? He brought her face toward him.

  A moment of panic mixed with anticipation made her weightless. Was he going to kiss her? That was a bad, bad idea. Even if her body was more than willing to try it.

  She angled her chin higher so his lips would land below her mouth.

  Maybe he’d been planning to kiss her nose, because her move resulted in his lips landing square on hers.

  He immediately softened the impact, making the kiss almost chaste. A simple resting of mouths together, but it ignited a flame deep in her belly, and her breath caught.

  So did his.

  Their lips slid apart then back together again. His touch was firmer this time, his mouth nudging hers to open, giving his tongue all kinds of opportunities to tease hers. That flame flared, and with it came the warning clang that should have been ringing all along.

  She pulled herself away to stare at him with dawning horror.

  She’d just kissed her partner.

  At work.

  In their shared office.

  His hands put pressure on her back.

  When had they gotten around her?

  His eyes flared open, and he stepped back. But when she stumbled, he caught her with both arms. Joy gazed up at him, unable to look away from the sexual hunger on his face, and gulped great lungfuls of air.

  Gunner’s cheeks were red. “I’m so—”

  She pulled away and held out her palm to stop him. “If you apologize for kissing me, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Which will last about another ten seconds, because if you finish that sentence I will shoot you.”

  He raised an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth.

  He was going to say it, she knew he was.

  “I apologize for not asking for your permission first.”

  She glared at him. “Saved by a technicality.”
r />   He laughed, a genuinely happy, intimate sound—something she’d never heard come out of him before. “Are we…good?”

  She patted her sidearm. “If we’re not, all I have to do is find a deserted ravine to hide your body in.”

  So, you kiss him, then threaten him with murder? Great going, idiot.

  Her threat made him laugh harder.

  He was holding his stomach with one hand around his middle while wiping his eyes with his free hand when someone knocked once then walked into their office.

  Walter River looked at Gunner like the other man had lost his mind, then he looked at Joy and said, “He’s laughing.”

  “Yes, I know.” She crossed her arms. “And at my expense, too.”

  River studied Gunner carefully. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile before. This”—he waved a hand at the doctor—“is troubling.”

  “Why?” she asked. Laughter was a reasonably healthy response to stress.

  River was still looking at Gunner, his expression concerned. “Did you put something in his coffee?”

  “You mean aside from three teaspoons of sugar he shovels in? No.”

  “Then what happened?”

  For some reason, that question made Gunner laugh harder.

  Joy studied River. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  “Nope,” he said, bracing his feet apart while he considered Gunner.

  “Fine. We got into a discussion about why he doesn’t carry a gun, and well…” Her face heated, and she sighed. There really wasn’t a good way to explain it. “Suddenly we’re creating a club for people with battered souls, complete with decoder rings. Then he accused me of being my mother.”

  “Oh.” River grinned and nodded. “I get it.”

  He did? Well, that made her the odd man out, because she had no idea why Gunner was still laughing.

  “Stop,” she hissed at him. “More people are going to want to know what’s going on. You could give someone a heart attack.”

  He cleared his throat and tried to talk, but the second he looked at her, he started chuckling again.

  She rolled her eyes and went back to packing her gear.

  River chuckled, too. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, it was just so—” Gunner searched for the word.

  “Juvenile, silly, inappropriate?” River offered helpfully.

  Bastard.

  “What do you need, River?” she asked, as grumpy as Gunner on a bad day.

  “I just wanted to check in to make sure you two were good to go.” The smile slid off his face. “This could go sideways on us damn quick.”

  Yes, let’s redirect this conversation to something she was good at. Dealing with sick people.

  “You were in El Paso,” Joy said. “What should we look for?”

  “Dead bodies in bathrooms, science experiments in places they don’t belong, and college kids who really think they won’t be the ones who get hurt.”

  “Thanks,” she said dryly. “That really narrows it down.”

  “We’re dealing with weapons we can’t even see,” River said, his tone deadly serious. “Assume everything can kill you, and you probably aren’t wrong.” He took a deep breath and continued with, “The kids in El Paso had been brainwashed to believe there wouldn’t be anyone left to prosecute them, so watch your backs.”

  “Between Joy’s aim and my ability to irritate the shit out of people, we’ll get to the bottom of this,” Gunner said.

  River shook his head. “That is the worst promise to do a good job I’ve ever heard.”

  “Picky,” Joy said to Gunner.

  “He’s getting married,” Gunner replied with a perfectly straight face. “He’s probably still trying to decide on the china pattern for the gift registry.”

  River flipped them both the bird then left the room muttering, “I fucking hate working with smart people. Hate. It.”

  “Ha, you know you love us,” Joy shouted. She waited a couple of seconds before glancing at Gunner. River had walked in at an awkward moment, and she wasn’t sure what the status of their partnership was. Getting frisky was a sure way to ruin a good working relationship. “How badly did we screw up?”

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday 7:30 p.m.

  Gunner didn’t like the worry he saw in Joy’s face. She held her body too stiff, like she was ready to absorb a blow. Maybe she’d had to during her years in the Army. Plenty of assholes went into the military because it was the only way to legally kill people. Those guys, and he’d met a few, could fuck up a church service.

  “As you so accurately pointed out earlier, I’m a jerk, not an asshole. We’re fine.”

  She cocked her head. “What’s the difference between a jerk and an asshole?” The question sounded serious, but her lips twitched with the beginning of a smile.

  “A jerk is someone who is occasionally dumb, but not malicious. An asshole is someone who hurts people because he likes it.”

  The smile flashed across her face. “That is a very…direct and distinct explanation. Thank you. You are, indeed, a jerk, not an asshole.”

  “Just so you know,” he added. “If you want to get rid of someone without having to shoot them, I’m your guy.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  He closed his eyes and mentally gave himself a kick. Idiot. “I mean, I’m armed and ready to irritate the fuck out of them.”

  “I can live with that,” she said, her voice soft. She gave him a shy smile then went back to her packing.

  That smile impacted his system like napalm, frying more than a few brain cells and turning his cock into a steel rod. It had been so long since he’d felt any kind of attraction to anyone, he wasn’t sure what to do.

  Pound his head against his desk a few times, maybe?

  She was right. That kiss had changed something between them. He wanted more.

  Impossible, unless he was aiming to get demoted to an asshole, which he wasn’t. He’d been riding the edge of civilized behavior for more than a couple of years, but one of these days, he was going to crash. Crash and burn.

  If he had an emotional connection with Joy beyond friendship, he might take her with him.

  Hurting Joy was never going to be an option.

  Okay then. He could do that. That being nothing. Not one thing of a personal nature, because if he did what his hormones were telling him to do, it would be everything.

  He focused on his go-bag, finished getting his shit ready, then they both left the office and headed toward the van they’d been assigned. It was waiting for them, along with a member of the supply team.

  “I’ve added a half dozen clean suits for both of you, so you can go from one site to another. A safe-disposal bin is also inside.”

  “Thanks,” Gunner said to the man.

  Joy echoed him, and they got into the vehicle, Gunner driving. Joy gave him the first address, and he drove out of the underground parking area.

  “It’s after dinner,” Joy said, looking out at waning sunshine.

  “Yeah.” When she didn’t add anything, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Something tells me we can’t waste any time.”

  “We can’t,” he agreed. “This—multiple incidences of contaminated food or beverages in college housing causing death—is a nightmare. The logistics alone are enough to give me a headache.”

  She didn’t say anything, didn’t nod or smile, or even make eye contact.

  “Joy,” he said.

  “Hmm?” She glanced at him, but it was too quick, too casual.

  Alarm bells went off in his head. “Earth to Joy, come in.”

  Finally, a frown. “What?”

  “I need your help to get this job done the way it should be.”

  “What do you mean, the way it should be?”

  “You spent all that time in the Army getting assholes organized and all pointed in the same direction. We’re going to need your organizing mojo at every site.”
r />   “Organizing mojo? What the hell is that?”

  “Your superpower.” He paused, picturing her in a tight superhero outfit. “What color would you like your cape—lab coat white with an organizational chart for your superpower symbol?”

  “Gunner, you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Nah, I know where it is, but seriously, what’s the likelihood of all those different law enforcement people working well together?”

  “Negative one million.”

  “Exactly.”

  She stared at him. “You’re acting weird and saying even weirder things.”

  “I don’t know, maybe seeing a house full of college students wearing their own vomit, with a couple of dead bodies thrown in for fun, was more than my poor brain could handle.”

  “Your brain is not poor.”

  He laughed. “Out of that entire statement, you protest the description of my brain?”

  “And you’re laughing again. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh, an actual happy sound, before today.”

  That was taking the observation too far. Mirth deserted him. “I’ve laughed before.”

  “Sure, but it was loaded with sarcasm and was usually at someone else’s expense.”

  “Right, because I’m a jerk.”

  The silence from her side of the vehicle was deafening. What was going through her head? “Are you saying you prefer to work with the jerk rather than the professional doctor?”

  “Can’t I have both?”

  Yes, you can, any way you want. Fuck, if he said that he’d be justifiably out of a job. “Are you saying you like it when I’m a jerk?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but closed it again before saying anything.

  He waited while she frowned and stared blankly out the windshield. A few seconds later, his patience was rewarded.

  “Your grumpy irritation with anything not relevant to the job at hand cuts through a lot of bullshit.”

  “People need to learn to focus on the problem and not clutter their attention with nonessentials,” he said with just enough tentativeness to make it a question.

  “Yes. That.” Her grin was the kind you give to a kindred spirit. A friend and buddy.