Her Lone Wolf

by Paige Tyler

  Landon wandered over to the first filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. Inside were neat rows of folders, each marked with an alphanumeric tag on the upper right-hand corner. He picked one and thumbed through it. The pages inside were covered in some kind of foreign language he didn’t recognize. He put the folder back and closed the drawer, then glanced at his watch.

  “Eighteen minutes,” he told Ivy and Kendra.

  He moved down the row of filing cabinets, picked one, and opened the top drawer, then grabbed a folder at random. At least this one was in English.

  It was an after-action report describing how the CIA had captured a man in September 2002. The man, a freelance American assassin, had been in the process of carrying out a job for the Russian mob when a CIA field team had stumbled onto him. The interesting part of the report was that the man was a shifter—apparently the first one the DCO had ever encountered. The shifter, known only as Adam, had been hired to kill a Ukrainian oil tycoon attending a diplomatic function in the States. The CIA stopped him, but the effort it took to bring down the shifter—in the words of the lone field agent who’d survived—was extraordinary.

  Landon threw a quick glance at Ivy and Kendra. Ivy was rifling through a filing cabinet as Kendra called out numbers. He checked the time.

  “Twelve minutes,” he told them, then went back to skimming the report.

  It essentially told the story of how the DCO Committee had decided to bring Adam on as an operative. Not everyone was thrilled about the idea, but they finally agreed to do it, making all traces of Adam’s capture by the CIA disappear.

  The file described how a team was built around Adam, with the express purpose of both supporting him and making the shifter disappear if anything went wrong. Nothing new there, Landon thought, remembering his first briefing with John when the man had informed him that one of his jobs would be to kill Ivy if it ever looked like she might be captured.

  Within a year after starting the shifter program, Adam had gone rogue, murdering most of his own team before being killed. Some members of the Committee—with Dick Coleman leading the charge—wanted the shifter program canceled and the shifters already identified exterminated. The report didn’t give details, but somehow John had stopped them.

  Landon checked his watch. Five minutes. He looked up to see Ivy hurrying from one file cabinet to the next as Kendra called out numbers.

  He’d never have time to read the rest of the file and still look around. But the stuff in his hand was too good to leave behind, so Landon shoved it in his bag, then moved on to the next cabinet.

  He skimmed as many files as he could. Damn, the entire existence of the DCO was spread out in these cabinets.

  Then Landon saw a word in the next folder that stopped him cold—Stutmeir—the name of the former East German intelligence officer who developed the hybrid strain and had Ivy tortured. He narrowed his eyes. What the hell?

  There were no dates in the file, but from what he could tell, someone in the DCO had been in contact with Stutmeir well before he started kidnapping scientists and making hybrids. If Landon didn’t know better, he’d say Stutmeir had worked for the DCO at some point. But why hadn’t this come up during their initial briefing on the man? John had acted as if he’d never heard of Stutmeir before then.

  “Okay, hon,” Ivy called from the other side of the room. “We’ve got what we need. Let’s go.”

  He closed the file and shoved it in his pack with the other one. He’d read it later.

  Landon’s head whirled like a tornado as they left the repository. While he was damn happy they’d gotten the evidence against Clayne, all he wanted to do was get a closer look at the files he’d stolen. The DCO obviously had a history with Stutmeir, and Landon wanted to know exactly what it was. But even more importantly, he wanted to know why John had never told them.

  * * *

  Clayne and Danica took the evidence—a VHS videotape and the original arrest report—to a deserted warehouse near the Port of Baltimore. The report contained written transcripts of what was on the tape, detailed forensic analyses, as well as the original evidence itself—fingerprints, blood, hair, fibers, and glass fragments taken from the crime scene—all of which were in neatly labeled plastic evidence bags.

  Clayne built a fire in a fifty-five-gallon drum the city’s homeless probably used for heat in the winter. Then he slowly tossed each piece of damning evidence, one article at a time, and watched it burn.

  Neither of them spoke until every last piece of paper had turned to ash and they were in his Charger heading back to his place.

  “Do you think Dick has copies of that stuff anywhere else?” Danica asked softly.

  Clayne considered the possibility. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Even if he did, they’d only be copies, like you said. A good lawyer would have a field day with the chain of custody and pointing out how the video could have been manipulated prior to Dick copying it. And he wouldn’t have any of the actual physical evidence. Without that, none of it would hold up in court.”

  At least he hoped it wouldn’t.

  “You’re probably right.” Danica leaned back against the headrest with a sigh. “I guess now all we have to worry about is that FBI review board.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “Not if you resign from the Bureau and come back to work for the DCO.”

  She snorted. “I’m sure Dick would be completely on board with that.”

  “Screw Dick,” he growled. “He doesn’t have anything to hold over our heads anymore.”

  Danica was silent. “The DCO still has that stupid policy about partners not getting romantically involved.”

  “We can do what Ivy and Landon do when they’re at work.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Do you honestly think you can pretend that we’re just professional partners again? Dick knew we were sleeping together before, and he’ll know it now. He’d have me fired in the first week for violating DCO policy.”

  He scowled as he pulled into the parking space that came with his apartment and cut the engine. She was right. He’d never been any good at pretending.

  Danica reached out to lace her fingers with his. “Where I work isn’t important, babe. What’s important is that we’re together.”

  Clayne leaned over to kiss her tenderly on the mouth. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was actually looking forward to tomorrow, and the day after that, and the next one after that. The woman he loved more than anything was back in his life for good, and nothing was going to take her away from him again.

  Chapter 13

  Danica woke the next day to the early morning sun shining through the curtains. She smiled and snuggled up against Clayne’s warm body, more than willing to stay right where she was for the rest of the day. It was the weekend and she was due some extra sleep. Between tracking McDermott, the flight to DC, and getting back the evidence Dick had been holding over Clayne’s head for years, she was exhausted.

  Then again, she might also be tired because Clayne was determined to make up for lost time when it came to sex. Not that she was complaining. Yeah, he was wearing her out, but she was happy.

  She turned her head on the pillow, watching Clayne sleep peacefully beside her. His hair had fallen across his forehead and she had to resist the urge to reach out and brush it back. She felt like pinching herself to make sure all this was real. She had found something special with him and lost it, only to find it again. How had she gotten so lucky?

  As much as she wanted to stay in bed with him for the rest of the day, the endorphin high she was on forced her to get up and do something. Like go for a run. It was either that or jump Clayne, and he needed the sleep maybe even more than she did. She’d leave him a note telling him where she’d gone.

  She eased out of bed carefully so she wouldn’t wake him, then tiptoed over to the suitcases she’d yet to unpack and dug through them for her running clothes. She hadn’t gone on a serious run since before the serial killer case had l
anded in her lap. That was a long time for her.

  She’d already put on her yoga pants and sports bra and was slipping into her shirt when the bed creaked behind her.

  “Where are you going?” Clayne asked, his voice husky with sleep.

  She pulled her hair up in a ponytail as she turned to give him a smile. “Jogging. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “Wait up. I’ll go with you.”

  He tried to claw his way out of the blankets, but she threw them back over him and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Since when did you start running?” she asked as she put on her shoes.

  “I run all the time.” When she lifted a brow, he added, “I chase bad guys, don’t I?”

  “Not the same thing.” She finished tying her sneakers, then leaned over to kiss him. “Stay in bed. You were pretty energetic last night. I know you must be tired.”

  Clayne grinned. “Maybe a little tired. But in a good way.” He ran his finger down her cheek. “Don’t be too long.”

  “I won’t.” She kissed him again, long and slow. Okay, if she didn’t leave right now, she’d never go for that run. She pulled away, forcing herself to her feet, then grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. “I’ll call when I’m on my way back so you can warm up the shower for me.”

  A grin spread across his face. “Don’t tire yourself out too much. I have plans for that body of yours.”

  Mmm. That was something to look forward to after a run—even better than a warm shower. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  Clayne chuckled.

  Once outside, she headed for one of the running paths that ran along the Potomac, then set the music on her phone, turned up the volume, and gave herself permission to zone out and enjoy the scenic view of downtown DC. But rather than losing herself in Lady Gaga’s lyrics, she thought about Clayne. Who was waiting for her back at his apartment right now with a warm shower and a hot body. The image made heat pool between her thighs.

  Danica made it a mile more before turning around. Running was highly overrated anyway.

  She was still fantasizing about making love in the shower with Clayne when another jogger came around the curve in the path from the opposite direction. She didn’t pay much attention to him, other than to note that he ran really freaking fast. It wasn’t until she got close enough to see his face that something seemed familiar about the guy. She took in his angular features and sandy blond hair, trying to place him, but couldn’t.

  He slowed his steps to a more leisurely jog the closer he got. Did he think he recognized her, too?

  It wasn’t until he was almost even with her that she finally remembered where she’d seen his face—on a guy she and Clayne had put four bullet holes in back in Sacramento.

  Crap.

  Danica tried to dart around him, but the shifter was too fast. He lunged at her with a growl, grabbing her arm and jabbing something into her chest. The pain was horrendous and completely debilitating, and she only had a fraction of a second to think about Clayne waiting for her back at his apartment before everything went black.

  * * *

  Clayne was lying in bed thinking about how he and Danica would spend the day. Sex to start, for sure. Then maybe breakfast at a diner he knew nearby. Then… Who cared? They had the whole day to themselves. He was still grinning when his cell phone rang.

  He grabbed his cell from the nightstand, his grin broadening when he saw Danica’s name on the call display. Maybe she’d decided a run wasn’t the kind of exercise she’d been looking for.

  He thumbed the answer button. “On your way back already? What, you miss me?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line, then a low, rough, all-too-familiar laugh. “Does she miss you? Probably. But on her way back? Don’t think so. I’m afraid your woman is going to be a bit late for breakfast. Or whatever it is you leidolfs do in the morning.”

  Clayne jerked upright in bed, terror stabbing him like a knife. He had no idea how it could be possible, but the voice on the other end of the line belonged to the same psycho he’d talked to in the FBI’s field office in Sacramento. The same psycho who’d viciously killed six men. The same psycho they’d shot four times. And he had Danica’s phone.

  “What kind of game do you want to play now?” Clayne snarled. “I killed you once already. You want me to do it again?”

  A short, harsh laugh. “I guess cats really are terrible at playing dead, aren’t they? Then again, we do have nine lives. But don’t worry, there’s no game this time. No clues to figure out, no deadline to race against. I just called to tell you that I’m going to kill your woman—slowly and painfully. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. I’ll make sure her body is easy to find, though. I owe you that much after all the fun we had together. You lose, Leidolf.”

  Then he hung up.

  Clayne’s claws were digging into his palms before he even knew they were out. He threw back the blanket and grabbed his jeans from the floor where he’d left them the night before, yanking them on as fast as he could. His hands shook so much he could barely button it. He forced himself to calm down as he shoved his feet into his boots, forced himself to override the fear welling up and threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn’t lose Danica now, not after all this.

  Where had she said she was going running? She hadn’t. Where could she have gone running? Anywhere. But he could track her—he knew her scent and could follow it anywhere.

  He put on a fresh T-shirt and ran out the door. He picked up her scent immediately. He sprinted down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the people in his path like it was a slalom course.

  He veered onto the running path. Why the hell hadn’t he gone with Danica? When he got her back, he’d go jogging with her three times a day if she wanted.

  If he got her back.

  The word echoed in his mind, mocking him as his boots pounded the pavement.

  Clayne didn’t even know how far he’d run before her scent disappeared.

  He skidded to a stop and backed up until he found it again. Then he dropped to one knee and sniffed the ground. She’d been lying right here. But at least there was no sign of blood.

  He sniffed again. McDermott’s scent was there, too, overlaying hers. How the hell could that be? He and Danica had each put two large caliber bullets through his chest. He knew for a fact that both of Danica’s had pierced the shifter’s heart. Not even a hybrid could live through that.

  Clayne straightened and started down the running trail again, following McDermott’s scent instead of Danica’s this time. It led to an empty parking lot a hundred feet away, then stopped. He spun in a circle, fear rearing up again, roaring loud and long. Danica was gone and he had no way to find her—not in time. McDermott would torture her; then he would kill her, just like he killed those men out in California. An image of her lying in a pool of blood with her throat ripped out flashed before his eyes, and a growl rumbled low in his throat.

  He forced the animal down. His human side—his human intellect—was the only thing that would save her now.

  He sucked in a deep breath, then took out the cell phone he barely remembered sliding in the pocket of his jeans on the way out the door. He scrolled through his list of contacts until he came to Ivy and Landon’s number, his thumb hovering over the screen. What help could they give him? He didn’t even have any clues to follow this time. All he knew was that McDermott wasn’t dead and that he had Danica.

  Clayne scrolled down the screen until he came to Kendra’s number. If anyone could help him find Danica, it would be her.

  “Hello,” Kendra mumbled, her voice groggy with sleep.

  He skipped the pleasantries. “It’s Clayne. I need you to trace Danica’s cell phone.”

  There was silence on the other end, then Kendra’s voice came back, sharper and more focused. “Her cell phone? Did she…leave you again?”

  He swore. “No, she didn’t leave me. Can you trace it or not?”

 
; “Not from home. I have to go to the office. It’ll take me about twenty minutes to get there, though.”

  “Shit,” he muttered. “That’s too long.”

  “Clayne, you’re scaring me here. What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t have time for this. “I need to find Danica’s cell phone. Please tell me you can do that.”

  “I can call the twenty-four-hour mission hotline and get the duty officer to run it, but if I do it that way, everyone will know about it,” she said. “Including Dick.”

  “Do it,” Clayne told her.

  If it got him a location on Danica, he’d deal with Dick later.

  “Stay on the line,” Kendra told him. “I’m going to put you on hold.”

  A minute went by, then another. A pair of joggers passed, giving him a wide birth.

  “Okay,” Kendra said. “They ran her cell. No luck.”

  “What do you mean?” Clayne barked. “I thought you guys could track those things.”

  “We can. But not if the person powers down the phone or yanks out the SIM card.” Kendra let out a breath. “What’s going on, Clayne? Is Danica in trouble?”

  Clayne didn’t answer. He lowered the phone and stared off into the distance. That son of a bitch had known Clayne would try to track Danica’s cell.

  No scent to follow, no cell phone signal to lock in on, no clues to figure out. There was nothing left to tell him where she was. The need to howl out all his rage was so overwhelming he almost threw back his head right there in the middle of the trail.

  But as a gut-wrenching pain began to settle in his stomach, a little voice in his head told him that wasn’t true. There was a way to track her.

  Kendra was yelling at him over the phone, trying to get his attention. He hung up on her and shoved his cell back in his pocket.

  Clayne took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He forced himself to relax, trying to sense Danica like he’d done when they’d been chasing McDermott in the forest that night. But for whatever reason, he couldn’t feel her. He turned his body one way, then the other like an antenna hoping to improve his reception. It didn’t help. Maybe Danica was already too far away for him to pick her up? But he refused to go down that road. If he did, it would mean he wouldn’t find her at all.