by S. E. Harmon
She nodded jerkily. “It’s not. I didn’t have anything to do with this. I give you my word.” She lifted a shoulder. “For whatever that’s worth.”
WHEN I went outside, I found Danny still on the phone, jean-clad butt resting against the car. He hung up quickly and straightened. A frown creased his brow. “How’d it go?”
“About what we expected.” I shrugged. “She seems really broken up about it. I don’t think she could fake this kind of emotion.”
He shrugged. “She stays on the list. When you lie once….”
“Yeah, yeah. But I’d say this moves Brock up a few notches. He doesn’t seem the type to take his girlfriend leaving him for another woman lightly.” I gestured at his phone. “Who was that?”
“We dumped Brock’s phone records. He’s been calling his uncle a lot lately. He lives down in the Keys.”
I tilted my head thoughtfully. That was about a good two-hour drive. “You think he could be holed up somewhere down there?”
“Could be. Local PD seems to think the property is some sort of growhouse. And Brock’s uncle is a bit of a gun nut, so we’re going to approach this one a little differently.”
“You mean we’re not going to chase Brock across every obstacle known to man?”
“I didn’t say all that.” He grinned. “I’d definitely bring your Converse. Just in case.”
Chapter 18
THERE WAS one highway that made me feel like I was in the Miami the movies portrayed. It was the kind of thing that made me homesick. For different people, home meant different things—a field of golden wheat, waving gently in the breeze, or the endless blinking neon lights of the city. For me, home was sunshine so bright it hurt your eyes. Heat rising off every metal surface. Palm trees and blue skies.
And when that particular highway narrowed down to one lane in either direction? It was vintage eighties television. I almost expected the guys from Miami Vice to appear in outdated suits on a speedboat. Nothing but endless ocean on both sides and the occasional palm tree. It was our PCH. Our Route 66. I’m fairly certain it was sacrilege to ride down that stretch of highway in anything but an old-school drop-top and aviator shades, but commit sacrilege we did—in Danny’s Edge with the windows rolled up tight.
It was too hot for that TV shit. At least he pulled back the sunroof. And I wore shades—big black aviators I found in his glove box. They made me feel as though I should be wearing a flight jacket and landing something. Kevin and the rest of the team had piled into two SUVs and hit the road as well, but we passed them miles back. Miles. I have no excuse. My foot is 98 percent lead.
After a quick stop for gas and snacks, the rest of the drive was relatively quiet. Mostly because Danny took any drive over an hour as an opportunity to catch up on his beauty rest. I glanced over to find him making a pillow out of his hoodie. Quite an exaggerated process it was too, with lots of fluffing and grumbling.
By the time he finally sighed and laid his head on the lumpy, navy-colored bundle, I chuckled. “For God’s sake, we’ve been on the road for less than an hour. You’re supposed to be keeping me company.”
“I am. Don’t you enjoy the nice, even cadence of my breathing?”
“It’s like Bach to my fucking ears,” I said dryly.
“You should take this as the ultimate compliment. Usually I can’t even look away from the road when someone else is driving. Even Kev. And he outscored me in tactical driving.”
“I suppose there’s a way to snatch a compliment out of that,” I grumbled. “Thank you.”
“Despite your tendency to use long stretches of road to chatter like a magpie.”
“You can never stop when you’re ahead.” I swatted him on the arm. “Now wake up or I drive us into the ocean.”
“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “Talk to me, then. And not about work either.”
Talk about something other than work. I puffed out my cheeks as I thought. He wasn’t talking about politics and celebrity gossip—being that he had no interest in the first and I had no knowledge or interest of the latter. Our work is what we’d bonded over. Followed by sex. And then, depending on how tiring the last round was, more sex.
It was safer that way. In a real conversation, eventually the listening ended and you had to contribute some of your own thoughts. Your emotions. Your past. That was a bit of a minefield, as far as I was concerned.
Although talking was supposed to go both ways. It would certainly give me an excuse to pick Danny’s mind. I decided to test the waters a bit. “So I can ask you a question?”
“I guess.”
Well, since you sound so enthusiastic about it. “Why didn’t you tell me about your father?”
“God, I should’ve known,” he said with a heartfelt groan. “Can’t we just talk about sports or something… like normal guys?”
“I don’t know anything about sports,” I retorted. “But I guess we could talk about us instead.”
He paused. “So what do you want to know about my father again?”
That’s what I thought. “All those weekends when you said you had ‘family business.’” My fingers tightened on the steering wheel almost reflexively. “Why didn’t you just tell me? It’s not like I don’t deal with criminals all the time.” From the safety of my desk. But still.
“I didn’t want it to change the way you looked at me. Knowing that I was the son of a criminal. Didn’t want it to change things.”
“It would’ve changed where we kept the knives, yeah. But nothing else.”
“You’re a riot.”
“I could have gone with you. Supported you. I would’ve liked to meet your dad. No matter what mistakes he’s made, he’s still your family.”
“Whatever Pollyanna vision you’ve concocted is not reality. You don’t know this man.”
“Well, whose fault is that?”
“I didn’t want—” Danny appeared to take a deep breath. “I didn’t want you in the same room with him. The same building even. Just… just trust me on this, all right? My father is not a man you want to meet.”
“Okay.” I forced myself not to argue. If I contradicted every single thing Danny revealed, he’d never confide in me again. “So what’s he in for?”
“Murder,” he said shortly. “Some guy he used to work with. They had an argument, and things went bad. It was fairly idiotic. He was always better using his fists than using his mind. I think the prosecutor called it a one-punch homicide. Such a fucking waste.”
My jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.”
“Long time ago.”
I realized I could say any number of things at that point. PC things to try and make it better. But sometimes you couldn’t make it better. Sometimes you had to let it be exactly what the hell it was.
“Thank you for telling me,” I finally said.
He closed his eyes and nuzzled back into his makeshift pillow with a sigh. “You’re welcome.”
It was almost poetic in its irony—both of us so determined to go at life alone that neither of us could unbend enough to let the other in. Both so determined our relationship would fail that we were afraid to let it begin. Hell, I’d been so sure of our failure, I put entire states between us. And even as I set up plants in a condo that felt sterile and uninviting, I refused to acknowledge that I’d apparently rather live without Danny than lose him. It made little sense. Most things regarding love didn’t.
I frowned. “I have another question for you.”
“Fuck,” Danny groaned. “I should’ve called an Uber.”
“Why do you think we broke up?”
No response. I risked a quick glance away from the road. His forehead was smooth and unlined, lashes dark and thick against his cheeks. Nice and peaceful.
I snorted. Big fat faker. “You going to ignore me?”
One thick, sooty eyelash flickered. “If at all possible.”
“You said ‘that’s not why we broke up.’ When we were in the kitchen. What did you mean by that?�
��
“That was like four days ago.”
“Well, you’re here. I’m here. We have nothing but road and time.” I sighed in frustration. “If we don’t examine the past, then we’re bound to repeat it.”
“Repeat it,” he parroted back. “Doesn’t that imply that…?”
I gripped the wheel tighter, if possible. Yes, it certainly did imply that which must remain unspoken. Yes, we could only repeat anything if we tried again. Implied message? I wanted to try again. And if Danny didn’t say something, anything, in the next five seconds, I was probably going to let the car drift into the concrete barrier.
“You never trusted me with your secrets,” he said finally.
“That’s a little hypocritical.”
“You asked. That’s my answer.” When I glanced in his direction, I saw that the tips of his ears were pink. “You were… unavailable to me.”
“I was unavailable?” I couldn’t hide my snort. Hell, I might be trying to get to the bottom of things, but I was still a guy. “Jeez, Irish, cry me a river.”
Danny chuckled softly. “Fine, make fun. It may be a little Dr. Phil, but you were closed off. And what the hell do we have without trust?”
I could feel his eyes on my face as he waited for some sort of response. But what could I say? What did we have without trust? If I trusted him, I’d tell him that Ethan had been riding with us since we left the gas station. I glanced at the ghost, and he gave me a sanguine smile as if to say “Your move.” I drove in silence, my tongue thick and heavy in my mouth.
Danny arched a brow. Apparently he didn’t miss the fact that I clammed up about trust. “I’m guessing I can get some sleep now.”
My jaw tightened. “Yep.”
WE TRACKED Brock down in a ramshackle house in the Keys that had seen better days. So that was a success. Go team. Only there were two parts to the project—apprehension and arrest. We were still working on the arrest part.
A bead of sweat trickled down my nose, and I swiped at it. Couldn’t afford to have blurred focus. Now that I was part of an eight-person fugitive team. Only God above knew how that had happened. Four on the front of the house and four on the back.
It was times like that I realized what it meant to be an FBI agent. Despite how various popular shows made us out to be 30 percent Rambo, 30 percent Bruce Willis in any Die Hard movie, and 40 percent Rainman, I always thought of myself as more of a scholar.
We didn’t ride in on our white horses and solve the case from the bumbling, know-nothing police of Mayberry. We worked together, and each branch of law enforcement played a role. We were just one cog in a great working machine, and when it worked, it was fucking beautiful.
My part of that machine usually involved puzzling out clues in a well-air-conditioned room in DC. Sometimes it was in a room that local law enforcement requisitioned for our team. Also air-conditioned. My part generally did not involve donning my FBI flak gear to raid a house. Despite what Criminal Minds said.
Whenever I balked, Graycie loved to remind me that I had, in fact, had many years of tactical training. I’d passed the physicals and earned my stripes. And apparently someone had decided that qualified me to crouch in scratchy shrubbery and get Kevin’s “six,” as he put it. God. It took me a good five minutes to realize that Rambo Jr. meant his back.
I heard them shout in the front and identify themselves so Brock would have no doubt of who, exactly, he was aiming for when he decided to open fire. “Police,” a deep baritone boomed. “Brock Johnson, we’ve got a warrant. Open up.”
“I’m coming. Give me a minute.”
“Open the fucking door!”
“Give me a minute!”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Johnson,” Gonzalez growled.
I sighed. At least give the man something he had a chance of complying with.
“This is your last chance,” Gonzalez hollered. “Open the door or we’re coming in for you.”
I felt a surge of nerves that had nothing to do with my role in apprehending Brock. If I had my choice, Danny would be back there with me, in the “probably won’t see any action” zone. Instead of in the front, behind a couple members of SWAT. But that wasn’t my decision, and I had to trust that he knew how to do his damn job.
Kevin sent me some strange hand signal from his position pressed under the window. I’d never been any good at charades. That hand signal could’ve been “who’s on third,” “I gotta pee,” or—I squinted… American Sign Language for “hairbrush.” I decided ignoring him would be my best bet.
There was a boom as the tactical team hit the door and a shrill, panicked scream sounded somewhere in the house. Kevin threw up yet another gang symbol for me to interpret, and I threw up my hands in exasperation.
“What?” I hissed.
“They might be coming out this way.”
“How is this”—I threw up the strange hand signal—“they might be coming this way?”
“Shh,” he shot back.
Yeah, that would so be the last time I got Kevin’s six. Or five—or three or any other coded term Kevin decided I needed to know outside of paintball.
“Male suspect secured.” The message in my ear was a welcome one, but I maintained my guard.
Beams of light crisscrossed the unkempt lawn as the tactical team moved swiftly through the house to clear it of suspects. Various calls of “clear” echoed throughout, and I felt the tension leave my shoulders when my radio finally crackled. “Female suspect secured. We’re clear.”
So the glass sliding up above my head was an unpleasant surprise. My eyes flew upward, but suddenly everything seemed on fast-forward. The window was fully open, and suddenly I was falling. My gun went flying as I tried to untangle myself, but something heavy pinned me down.
“FBI,” I yelled into a pant leg of some sort, frustrated as my words came out in one muffled, jumbled noise. It sounded less like a threat and more like Charlie Brown’s teacher had decided to join our little party. I tried again as I grappled with the struggling suspect. “Stop resisting. Stop—”
A hand connected with my eye and my vision exploded with stars. Despite the fact that it had probably been accidental, a surge of anger rushed through my veins and gave me the strength to push the guy back. He hit me again, square in the face.
All right. That one was no fucking accident.
I momentarily debated whether I should continue to fight or search for my gun. He was taller than me. Bigger than me. Maybe hopped up on something. Hand-to-hand combat probably wasn’t my best bet. The next blow to my temple decided it for me. Gun. Go for the gun. I scrabbled for my weapon in a pile of dank leaves.
I felt one hand on either side of my head as the hooded man lifted my head up, just far enough to clear the ground, and brought it back down. Hard. Hard enough to make my eyes water. I felt my head being lifted in the same motion again and realized with clarity as clear as Baccarat crystal that the fucker was trying to bash my skull in. AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” blared out of the windows of a passing car, long enough to get to the chorus. Jesus.
At least I was getting my butt kicked to a dope-ass beat.
My hand made contact with the cool metal a split second later, and I brought it up between us just as my head was going down a third time. My assailant froze as I jammed the gun against the soft skin of his belly. How do you want it?
His breath sawed through his lungs as he clearly debated his options. After one more glance at the dangerous metal, he let my hair slide from his fingers.
Clint Eastwood would’ve managed to say something cool. Something Dirty Harry-like. “Make my day.” Or “Do you feel lucky? Huh? Do ya, punk?”
All I could manage around my own huffed breaths was, “FBI. Show me… huff… your fucking… huff, huff… hands.”
TABITHA AND some buff guy in black SWAT gear hauled the suspect off me, and I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the spinning in my head and the ache of my face. I gingerly holstered my weapon, well awar
e that there were a few leaves clinging to it. I’d just have to worry about that later. I brought one questing finger to my eye and winced. I was going to have one hell of a shiner. Again.
Kevin suddenly appeared in the line of vision of my one working eye, a worried expression wreathing his face.
“Where the hell were you?” I croaked.
“It happened so fast, and I wasn’t even sure what I was hearing. By the time I came back to check, you guys were grappling,” he said, his tone defensive.
“This thing.” I pointed at the dark shape of his weapon on his hip. “It’s called a gun. You squeeze this trigger-looking thing and bullets come out.”
“You two were so tangled up, I couldn’t get a good shot.”
“I would’ve taken an okay shot,” I said and rubbed the back of my head gingerly. No blood at least. That was the upside to getting my head bashed in the grass. I wasn’t going to lie—it was a short list.
“You did fine.” He patted me on the back, and I wanted to bite him. Oblivious to how close he was to losing a finger, Kevin continued. “The important thing is that we’ve got everyone in custody, and no one got hurt.”
That wasn’t quite accurate. My fingers stole to my injured head again, and I prodded the soft spot as I absorbed that information. Wait. Is there even supposed to be a soft spot? “So who were the suspects that they grabbed in the beginning?”
“The aunt and uncle.” Kevin winced. “The uncle wasn’t supposed to be home, so our count was off.”
And here comes the cavalry. I gave Danny a weak wave as he strode into the backyard and made a beeline for me. His expression was tight and pinched, but his hands were gentle on my face. “What the hell happened?”
“You tell me. Does the term ‘suspect secured’ mean something different down here?”
“Your eye looks awful,” he muttered and rubbed a thumb across my skin. “And now I have to kill someone.”
Some of the team were milling about, giving us appraising looks, and I eased Danny’s probing fingers off my face before we attracted even more attention. “I’m fine.”