by Susan Sey
Patrick held his gaze and wondered for a moment exactly how much Bernard knew. Was he really warning him away from another heist with his long-lost partner, or had he somehow connected the dots and realized that Patrick was running his own little sting operation counter to the FBI’s long-standing desire to put Villanueva in jail? Did Bernard somehow know about the Swiss account with enough cash in it to persuade crazier bastards than Villanueva to put down thoughts of revenge forever? Did he suspect Patrick’s plans to finish off Villanueva himself if the cash didn’t do the trick?
All he said was, “With all due respect, I’ve never really been on the reservation. The FBI and I? We make deals, not alliances. That said, however, rest assured that I quite enjoy my life as it stands. I have no plans to jeopardize it by pulling one last job with a violent thug I left behind years ago.”
It was all true. Each and every word. The problem was in what he hadn’t said. A lie of omission was still a lie, after all. And while he didn’t mind lying to SAC Bernard one bit, it pained him to mislead Liz. But what else could he do? If she knew he’d moved beyond considering making a deal with Villanueva, if she knew that he’d already decided to deal with Villanueva himself rather than let the FBI try to arrest him, she’d only be doubly determined to catch him with her own bare hands. That was the problem with idealists. They were so damned extreme.
Bernard let a few uncomfortable seconds tick by, then said, “In that case, I’ll simply thank you for your assistance in the Donald Brady matter. You’ll forgive me if I suggest that you return to California as soon as possible? In the unfortunate event that Villanueva does engage in any further illegal activity, you’d be wise to learn of it from across the country.”
“I would indeed,” Patrick said, flashing him a look he hoped was full of humble gratitude.
“If you’ll excuse us, Mr. O’Connor, I need to have a word with Agent Brynn.”
“Certainly,” Patrick said, rising and taking the man’s offered hand. He wanted to turn and walk out, just make the break and live with it. But in the end, he couldn’t do it quite so coldly. No matter how much he paid Villanueva, he couldn’t ever see Liz again. It wouldn’t be safe for her, and if he were perfectly honest with himself, he would admit that he didn’t know how many more of these partings his heart could take. He ought to walk right out that door and leave her behind—safely behind—once and for all.
But he couldn’t abide the thought of not touching her just once more.
He turned and extended his hand to her, as if it was a professional courtesy and not a soul-deep hunger to feel the press of her skin against his. “It was a pleasure working with you, Agent Brynn.”
She came to her feet and frowned at him but took his hand. She gave it a brisk pump, and Patrick couldn’t help smiling. It was so very Liz, he thought. After everything he’d put her through these past two weeks she should have refused to suffer his touch. But she didn’t shrink from the difficult and she didn’t give in to pettiness. She simply stood up and put her hand in his.
He knew the memory would have to last him, so he lingered over it just a shade longer than professionally acceptable, letting the feel of that small capable hand carve itself on his brain.
It put one final dent in his heart to be the one to pull away. She just stood there, frowning at him, a wealth of confusion and wariness in those forget-me-not eyes.
“Good-bye, Liz,” he said, and left.
LIZ STARED at the door Patrick had just clicked shut behind him. There had been something chillingly final in that casual little good-bye, and it had arrowed straight into the depths of her soul. What had just happened there?
“I want twenty-four-hour surveillance on O’Connor,” Bernard said, breaking abruptly into Liz’s reverie.
“What?” she asked. Her brain wasn’t firing on all synapses today. If Patrick had planned to dull her reflexes—and she couldn’t say for certain that he hadn’t—he couldn’t have done a better job than stringing together the events of the past twenty-four hours. Between the sex, the sleepless night, the heartbreak, the fear of Villanueva slitting Patrick’s throat on the highway, and this new nagging feeling that she’d lost him just as permanently this very minute, Liz didn’t know which end was up. But she forced herself to focus on Bernard.
“I want twenty-four-hour surveillance on O’Connor,” Bernard said again. “He’s planning something. Guys like that don’t change.”
The caution that had been Liz’s governing impulse her entire life suddenly failed her. She wasn’t interested in listening right now to how people didn’t change. She hadn’t worked for the past twenty years to put the past behind her only to have everybody from her ill-chosen lover to the gatekeeper of her career tell her that it couldn’t be done. It was the final straw that pushed her beyond control.
“Guys like what?” she snapped. “To the best of my knowledge, Patrick O’Connor is one of a kind. If all thieves came just like him, we’d be shit out of luck as an agency because we’d never catch a one.”
“You forget yourself, Agent Brynn.” Bernard didn’t raise his voice, but the temperature dropped several warning degrees.
“No, I just remembered myself,” Liz shot back. “O’Connor’s a source, an independent consultant. Not a criminal, not a prisoner, not even a formal suspect of any kind. If he’s willing to help us work the angles of the Villanueva case, fine. Great. If not, he’s subject to prosecution for any criminal acts he might engage in, just like anybody else. But it’s his decision, and I won’t order surveillance on him just because you don’t like his type. It’s wrong.”
“I could insist,” Bernard said, watching her thoughtfully. The rational part of Liz’s brain wondered what he was seeing, but the rest of her didn’t much care.
“Then you’ll have to take the case out of my hands, because I won’t insult a cooperative and valuable source this way.”
Bernard leaned back in his leather chair, pressed his palms together and regarded her over his fingers. “I could have your badge over it.”
Liz felt her lungs constrict of their own volition, and a panic rose up in her at the idea of losing her badge. It was the only tangible proof she had of what she’d made of herself, of how much distance she’d been able to put between the woman she was now and the defenseless little girl she’d been, the one America had embraced all those years ago.
And that was her problem. The realization hit her like a bolt of lightning, electrifying her, lifting her up and transforming her in ways she couldn’t ever undo. She was that little girl. It didn’t matter what kind of woman she’d made of herself, that little girl would always be the foundation from which that woman grew. The more distance she insisted on between herself and that child, the more precarious her balance.
“You could have my badge over it,” she said, marveling at the cool authority in her voice. “That’s a problem, isn’t it? That justice succumbs to bureaucracy so easily and so often. Is that what’s happening here?”
Bernard looked at her, no sign of temper, nerves or insulted ego visible in that stony face. “Not today,” he said finally. “But be on your guard, Brynn. You’re not objective anymore.”
She nodded tightly.
“Dismissed.”
TWO HOURS later, Liz did the unthinkable. Something she’d never done before in the history of her professional career. She took the afternoon off.
She was heartsick and weary, and there was a cavern inside her chest that wouldn’t stop echoing no matter how much or how fast she talked. Something the job used to fill was empty suddenly. Maybe it had always been empty and it had taken Patrick walking out the door and her boss putting politics ahead of ethics to make her realize it.
She drove to a park and found a lonely, splintery wooden railing. She sat on it and stared out over the Mississippi River Valley until the sky was a great flaming lake of oranges and yellows at her back, and when she made a decision, she knew it was the right one because her soul quieted somewhat.<
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Her badge was a huge part of who she was, but it wasn’t all of her. She was finally ready for the three pieces of her life—her past, her present and her future—to hang together with some kind of integrity. And Patrick O’Connor was one of the only threads that ran through all three. At least she hoped he was. She didn’t care what he thought he’d said to her. She wasn’t going to let it be good-bye.
She angled her sedan toward home, cranked up the radio and drummed her fingers to the beat of the music and her rising anxiety. What did a girl wear to ambush a guy like Patrick? She mentally flipped through her closet for a dress that would bring him to his knees. The blue tulle? The rose satin? And shoes. God, which shoes?
Her house was in shadows when she pulled up, but she wasn’t so distracted that she didn’t notice her door hanging just slightly askew. Relief and joy rushed through her entire body in a single electrifying shock.
Patrick. It was her first thought. Her only thought. He hadn’t left. He cared for her. Of course he did. Why else would he keep breaking into her house? She could take care of herself just fine, of course, but there was something really touching and lovely about his obsession with her safety.
She all but ran up the front steps, an irrepressible smile breaking free and plastering itself all over her face.
“Patrick?” she called as she pushed through the front door. She was damn glad he wasn’t in the habit of arming himself or she’d be more worried about surprising him. “Are you still breaking into my house, or can I turn on the lights?”
“Oh, I’m about done.”
Not Patrick. Oh Christ, not Patrick.
Her blood froze in her veins and every nerve snapped to exquisite attention. One hand went for her weapon, the other for the light switch, but she wasn’t as fast as Villanueva.
She caught just a glimpse of him—sleek, compact and lethally graceful—before a shattering pain crashed through her temple. Her world tilted sideways, blurred and faded, but not before she caught the brilliant flash of the street-lights on a knife blade.
Chapter 24
PATRICK FOLDED a slate gray merino wool sweater and laid it carefully in his suitcase while his sister glared flaming holes into his back.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Mara said, and Patrick turned to give her his best patient face.
“I’ve already been here longer than I’d planned,” he said mildly. “But your counterfeiter is finally in custody and Villanueva is en route to Switzerland as we speak.” Or so reliable sources had indicated. “My work here is done.”
“This isn’t about that, and you know it,” Mara snapped. “You finally have a shot at a normal, decent life and you’re throwing it away because the FBI isn’t serving it up to you on a silver platter. God.”
She threw her hands up in disgust and Patrick hoped she might just walk away for a while. She’d been at him all afternoon and it didn’t look like she was planning to take the evening off. He wondered if his ears were bleeding yet. She stalked into the room and plopped herself down on a pile of Patrick’s freshly pressed shirts. He tried not to wince.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mara,” he said. “Most people with normal, decent lives daydream about moving to California and living my life. I’m not feeling particularly abused here.”
“Oh, shut up. You are so.”
“I am?” He let his brows elevate with the cool mockery that always made her crazy. He was feeling kind of raw. Enough to take a petty pleasure in pissing her off, anyway.
She didn’t take the bait. “Yes. When the hell are you going to get it? You’re my brother. I love you. I want you to be happy. And you know what makes you happy?”
He gave up folding and just pinched the bridge of his nose. “If I let you tell me, will you go away so I can pack in peace?”
“Liz. Liz makes you happy.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. Lying used to be so easy. Why was it turning into such an act of superhuman endurance? “Lots of women make me happy.”
Mara let that bit of ridiculousness pass unremarked. He had to assume that it sounded as pathetic to her as it did to him. “The good things in life aren’t free, Patrick,” she said. “You know that better than anybody. Look at what you paid so I could have my chance at a few of them.”
“This whole Patrick-as-guardian-angel business is getting really stale, Mara.”
“I’m almost done. I’m just saying. Good things are expensive. But they don’t always cost money. Sometimes all they cost is trust and risk and love and faith. Those are things you’ve never anted up, Patrick. And if you want my opinion—”
“I don’t.”
“—I’d say Liz is a damn good bet for you. But you’re walking away from the table without ever laying down your cards to see if you could win. You’re pretending that the FBI scares you or something so you can skip town and do God knows what in your customary solitude. And I think that sucks.”
She rose slowly, came to him and laid a hand against his cheek. He didn’t dare meet her eyes. For once, he didn’t know exactly what might be in his own.
“Just please consider it,” she said. “Trust, risk, love and faith. Is that so expensive?”
Not to give, he thought. But to ask? They were a hell of a lot more expensive than he could ever in good conscience ask of a woman. Especially a woman like Liz.
AN HOUR later, Patrick loaded his suitcase into the trunk of his sporty little car. He could be at the airport in under two hours, depending on traffic. He’d hit the Twin Cities in the heart of rush hour, but he didn’t want to wait until morning to go. He didn’t know if his willpower would sustain him through one more night separated from Liz by nothing but a few miles and some sincere convictions.
The agents tailing him were pitifully easy to make. Patrick slammed the trunk and walked directly to the driver’s window of their car, keeping his hands in plain sight at all times. He’d lived most of his life among some of the more dangerous creatures the human race had to offer, but nothing was less predictable than a nervous cop.
He tapped on the glass and offered a benign smile. The cop in the driver’s seat glanced at his partner, who shrugged, then buzzed down the window.
“Evening, officers.” Patrick widened the smile. “I just wanted to make things easy on you by offering up the night’s itinerary. I’ve booked myself on the midnight flight out of Minneapolis to LAX. I’ll be driving myself in that little car right there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s pretty distinctive so I doubt you’ll lose me, but I wanted you to be aware of my plans in case you wanted to get in touch with your California counterparts to arrange continuing surveillance.”
The driver’s side cop blinked up at him. “Uh, thanks.”
“No problem,” Patrick said, though it stung to be polite to the tangible evidence of Liz’s distrust. “Hope you nail your guy.”
That was a bald-faced lie. Every source he’d been able to tap said Villanueva was already en route to Switzerland. But he gave the door a hearty slap. “All right then. Let’s drive.”
He sauntered back to his car, gave a casual little wave to Mara. She was on the front porch, flanked by her husband and daughter, glowering at him like a thunderhead. She didn’t wave back.
He pointed the little car toward 35 North and watched while the ugly beige sedan fell in behind him. His cell phone jumped on the passenger seat, vibrating itself around in a mad jig to be answered. He frowned at it but didn’t recognize the number. It wasn’t Mara, and it wasn’t Liz, that much he knew.
What the hell. He could use the distraction. He answered.
“O’Connor.”
“Patrick?” Liz’s voice trembled out of the earpiece and hit him like a bullet.
“Liz?” He tried to keep his voice light, but every nerve he had jangled in warning. “Did your cops check in already? I hope they told you I was being extremely cooperative.”
“I need you, Patrick.” Her voice was stif
f, reluctant. Patrick’s gut clenched. Something was very, very wrong here. “I’m with Villanueva. He says it’s time to pay up.”
“Are you all right?” Patrick gripped the phone with slippery fingers, his heartbeat thudding audibly in his head. “Did he hurt you? Christ, Liz, where are you?”
The phone rattled as it switched hands; then Patrick’s ear was full of Villanueva’s oily voice. “Hello, Patrick.”
“What do you want?” Patrick forced the words through gritted teeth. Just tell me where you are, he thought. That’s all I need. He wasn’t a violent person by nature, but if this man had laid one hand on Liz, he was going to beat the living shit out of him. And then he’d get nasty. The FBI could have the leftovers.
“Just what you owe me,” Villanueva said, his voice nearly pleasant. Patrick flexed his hands on the wheel, consciously relaxing his grip before he snapped the damn thing in half.
“What I owe you is sitting in a very exclusive Swiss bank,” Patrick reminded him.
“What you think you owe me,” Villanueva corrected. “It’s not quite what I want from you.”
“And what might that be?”
“A new identity.”
Patrick frowned. “That’ll take time. Who are you looking to be?”
“You’re in the fiction business,” Villanueva said. “I’ll leave that up to you. But I want it all—passport, driver’s license, birth certificate, social security card—along with two-point-five million in cash by tomorrow noon.”
“Where?”
“Oz’s little basement workshop in the dance club will be fine,” he said. “If you’re there by noon tomorrow and the goods meet my approval, your Agent Brynn can live.”
Patrick closed his eyes, forced back the terror and fury until he could speak dispassionately. “And if I don’t? Or if the goods are substandard?”
“Well, killing her does serve a certain kind of justice.”
Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. The pain helped clarify his thinking, if only slightly.