Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Her hand on Wyatt's arm stilled. He reached up and took her fingers. Sandra lifted her head and found his eyes staring into hers.

  "What’s wrong," he asked.

  She looked away. "I-I. . ." She couldn't tell him. She went to move away from him, but Wyatt's arms pulled her into contact with his warm body. Her head came up and she looked into his eyes. He was too good-looking and the situation was too intimate.

  "Sandra, I know yesterday was traumatic, but time will take care of that. We'll get over it. Don't worry. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

  He'd misunderstood her expression. She'd forgotten the car bomb and her inability to sleep comfortably the previous night. It was why Wyatt shared her bed, why she'd awakened in his arms, wearing nothing more than a T-shirt, and why she was more miserable than she'd ever been before.

  "Look at me," Wyatt said.

  She hesitated before raising her head.

  "I understand," she said, deliberately allowing him to be­lieve he'd touched on the reason for her pained expression.

  She felt so good. Wyatt had warned himself not to get into this situation. Last night she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder and he'd held her through the night. Now he didn't want to let go. He wanted to hold on to her for the rest of the day, forget that there was anything they should do or be cautious about.

  He wrapped his arms around her, tightening them. Her face came up close to his. He knew better. He'd told himself to let this one pass, to keep everything simple and leave the sexual part out of it, but right now with her this close, with her body touching his, he couldn't. Her fingers were light, as if she didn't want them to feel his skin, but they couldn't help it. He couldn't help it, either.

  Something other than the two of them had entered their relationship. Something that knew them better than they knew themselves but each refused to acknowledge it. Wyatt lifted her chin closer to him. His heart slammed into his chest when his lips touched hers. He pushed back, surprised at the impact of the simple contact.

  Sandra's eyes were wide and expectant. Her hand came up and caressed his cheek and his mouth covered hers. He leaned forward rolling her into the mattress as his mouth took on a life of its own. His tongue slipped between her teeth and the nectar was his undoing. Her mouth was hot and his entire body took in her heat, combining it with his own. Why they didn't burn the sheets off the bed he'd never know.

  Her legs wrapped around his. The smooth surface of her shaved thighs met the roughness of his and the friction drove him crazy with need. His hands reached under the hem of her extra large T-shirt, the only garment she was wearing. Slowly he let the fire burn in his palms as they traveled over her, caressing the flat plane of her stomach, then moving to the rounded globes of her breasts. She moaned a low, guttural, primal sound when he touched them.

  Wyatt's mouth left Sandra's to seek, taste, and touch her neck and arms in a direct map to her breasts. He could hardly contain himself when he reached the darkened nipples. Her hands buried in his short hair as her head thrashed back and forth on the pillow in a sexual frenzy. Wyatt wanted to satisfy her. He wanted to swing his body over hers and enter her, but he wasn't ready yet. He was enjoying the feel of her thighs and arms as her fingers kneaded and massaged the skin at his shoulders and neck. His tongue laved and sucked at her breasts as his arousal intensified, the night sounds that escaped her throat pushing him forward to the breaking point.

  "Wyatt?" she moaned, her fingers scratching at his shoul­ders.

  Wyatt pulled the T-shirt over her head and stopped to gaze at her in the half-light. She was beautiful, her body like a vessel of expensive wine. He devoured it, kissing her belly, her breasts, her arms until he made his way to her mouth, which was hot and ready for him.

  He slipped his hand between her legs. The same pulsating warmth pushed his erection harder. Control slipped rapidly and the something between them grew to unlimited propor­tions. This time Wyatt swung his leg across Sandra.

  "Protection, Wyatt," Sandra whispered, her voice urgent and breathless.

  Wyatt stopped. For a single moment he hung suspended above her. Then he collapsed.

  "What's the matter?

  He didn't answer immediately. His arms gathered her to him and he held her. He couldn't tell if the trembles that passed between them originated with him or with her.

  "Wyatt?" Sandra prompted.

  "I don't have any," he said.

  She, too, went still beneath him. Then she was shaking. He raised his head thinking something was wrong—and it was. Sandra was laughing.

  What started as a silly smile on her part became uncon­trollable mirth. She threw her head back and laughed out loud, letting the tension of the week’s run, the near-death situations, and the police chases exorcise themselves through uncensored laughter. Wyatt laughed too. After a moment he wiped away the tears that rolled down the side of her face.

  "We'd better get dressed and go to meet Jeff," Wyatt said releasing the charged atmosphere that followed the laughter.

  While Wyatt took his shower, which she hoped was cold, Sandra regained her composure and took the laptop computer from her backpack and opened one of the files Wyatt had sent to her. She tried to concentrate on the screen but images of Wyatt's naked body in the shower behind her kept interfering with her concentration. She should be glad they didn't have a condom. She should be able to concentrate on the problem, to be logical and methodical about the situ­ation, but all she could remember was how good he felt lying on top of her, how good his mouth felt against hers, and how alive she felt right now.

  The shower stopped. Sandra jumped up as if he could hear her thoughts. Self-consciousness overtook her. Her shirt was too short and her legs too exposed, and the image of water flowing over Wyatt had her body aroused and ready for him.

  "Damn!" she cursed. Why didn’t either of them have a con­dom?

  ***

  Sandra showered and dressed in yesterday's clothes and tried to concentrate. She went back to the files, opening a dif­ferent one. She had several word processing programs on the hard drive. None of them would read these disks. Then she went to an internal editing program. The encrypted files spanned the entire width of the screen and scrolled about at lightning speed. He'd risked his life to get these and they were unreadable!

  She knew what an encryption algorithm was. In a pinch she could even write one, but she had no idea where to begin to find out what was hidden here.

  Now they had two mysteries. First the riddle of the stones had to be unraveled and now these files. She had no doubt that one would enhance the other, but finding someone who could read them would be a problem. They could ask Jeff, but if they were as complex as she assumed they were, it would take him at least a month to figure them out.

  As much as she wanted to believe she and Wyatt had a future together—and after their episode in the bed she was sure she wanted one—she knew it wouldn't span a period long enough for Jeff to make a difference.

  Closing the file, she replaced it with another one. The screen directory showed the same unreadable information. She was about to close the file when some­thing struck her as strange. Looking closer at the screen, she found one file that wasn't encrypted. It was in Japanese. Now, what could that mean?

  At ten-thirty they left the hotel to meet Jeff. Returning to his house or even the lab could be dangerous, so they'd arranged to meet at an address in the North East section of the city. The taxi let them out on Fort Totten and Buchanan and they walked the last mile, clinging to each other like two lovers strolling in the rain. It was Wyatt's idea, but Sandra agreed to it just to be able to touch him.

  Before they'd gone a block, they were soaked to the skin. She tried not to shiver, taking the need for caution from some inner radar that communicated itself to her. They approached the apartment complex on Hawaii Avenue from the farthest distance to the designated address.

  Cars whizzed past them spraying water and making them even wetter, their clothes he
avy and difficult to walk in. Wyatt took the worst of it. Sandra's fingers were stiff and cramped, but she continued walking without complaint. They ducked into the apartment complex and circled the courtyard before climbing the front stairs and immediately exiting on the other side.

  Sure there was no one following them, they found apart­ment 3J and knocked on the metal door. It creaked open like some horror movie sequence designed to scare the audience. Sandra's heart leapt to her throat. She gripped Wyatt's hand in a bone crushing squeeze.

  Wyatt put a finger to his mouth to keep her from saying anything. She couldn't speak if she had to! He edged the door open wider and they looked inside. The lights were all on. They could see nothing. The television played softly in a cor­ner.

  Wyatt took the first step inside. Sandra pulled him back. "Maybe we should go."

  "You stay here. I'll go in," he told her. He pushed her out of the doorway and stepped inside. Sandra followed, crouch­ing. She'd seen the two men who'd gone into the motel room seconds after she'd left it. They had had guns. She and Wyatt were unarmed.

  She shadowed Wyatt's movements and was behind him when they discovered Jeff lying on the floor, blood soaking into the cream-colored carpeting.

  "Jeff!" she shouted, and pushed past Wyatt. In a flash she was next to him and lifting his head. Wyatt pressed his hand to the man’s neck, searching for a pulse.

  "He’s alive," he announced.

  "Jeff?" Sandra called.

  Jeff's eyes fluttered open. "Sandra, you came."

  "Jeff, what happened?"

  "I. . .didn't. . .tell. . ." His voice was weak and he coughed between each word.

  "Call an ambulance!" she ordered Wyatt. Jeff grabbed her arm. His grip was weak. She took his hand and squeezed it. Tears clouded her eyes.

  "No . . . time," he coughed.

  "Jeff, did they take the stones?" Wyatt asked.

  He shook his head, a crooked smile on his face.

  "Where are they?" Sandra asked.

  "Ninety-five," he said through his cough.

  He was slipping fast. Sandra doubted he'd be able to tell them where the stones were.

  "Ninety-five, what?" Wyatt asked. She could hear the con­trol in his voice.

  "Ro— 95. . .147. . ." Blood seeped out of his mouth. Sandra pressed her hand against her stomach, fighting her own bile.

  "What does that mean?" she asked. "Jeff, what is Row? Jeff?"

  Wyatt put his hand on her shoulder. "He's dead, Sandra."

  "He's not dead." She glared at Wyatt. "He can't be dead. He can't be dead." Tears sprang to her eyes and rolled freely over her cheeks. "He can't be. . "

  Wyatt came around behind her. "We have to get out of here." He took Sandra's shoulders but she shrugged him off. "Sandra, you can't help him. We have to go." He pulled her to her feet and led her to the door.

  Sandra looked back. "He was my friend."

  "I know, honey." Wyatt's voice was sympathetic as he closed the door and led her away. They retraced their steps back to Fort Totten. No taxis appeared on the heavily traveled road, so they walked. Oblivious to the rain pelting her face and head, Sandra walked in a daze. Salty tears mingled with the rainwater as they got farther and farther away.

  At Buchanan Street they turned toward North Capital and were lucky enough to find an empty cab.

  "Hyatt on Third Street in Southwest," Sandra in­structed the driver.

  Travis Green walked under the train trestle near the Hyatt Regency Hotel. He'd been stationed there to watch for Senator Randolph. It was broad daylight and raining. Travis found it difficult to be unobtrusive in this area. There was a lot of road traffic and no place to park except in underground lots. A car on the street would be noticed by the many patrolling police cars.

  Pedestrian traffic wouldn't be as conspicuous during the lunch hour, but at this time of day his continuous walking made him more the hunted than the hunter.

  Across the street he'd seen another man. He was obviously watching the place or Travis Green was no government agent. That was the problem with this town, everyone watched eve­ryone else. Between the two of them, they couldn't keep the place properly in view. Cars drove in and out of the off-street entryway. It was impossible to see inside each one or to tell if they went to the garage or turned back onto the one-way street at the side of the building.

  Whoever designed this building didn't do it for unob­structed observation. It was time he went inside. He'd use the men’s room in the restaurant and get a cup of coffee. He hoped there were different people in the coffee shop this time. He'd been in twice already and he didn't want to be recog­nized.

  A taxi turned left at the light while he waited on the op­posite corner. It disappeared into the hotel driveway. He crossed the street, checking for the other man observing the comings and goings of the building's traffic. He was still there—watching. Travis had a mind to go over and ask him who he was looking for. He didn't like not having all the facts of a job. If he'd been sent to stake out this building, why was someone else given the same assignment and why wasn't he told?

  As the cab pulled away from the curb, Wyatt whispered in her ear. "Are you all right?"

  Sandra nodded.

  Wyatt pulled her against him, encircling his arm around her shaking shoulders. Her muffled cries joined the water already soaking him. He knew better than to believe she was all right. He also knew how she felt. He'd had the same numb feeling when he found out Chip was dead. Now, two people had died over the stones and he had no idea where they were. Row 95147 didn't mean anything to him. He was sure it was also a mystery to Sandra, but now wasn't the time to bring the up. She needed a period of mourning. But it would have to be short. When they checked in and were alone he could talk to her. Meanwhile, he'd just hold her close.

  Wyatt paid the driver with the last of his cash when the taxi stopped under the off-street entryway. Before they entered, Wyatt stopped. "Do you want to get the room and I'll meet you there?"

  "We're not checking in."

  She bypassed the lobby entrance and went to the tower en­trance. Pulling the glass doors open, she went inside. Wyatt followed her. She walked as if she knew where she was going. They passed the restaurant, which looked empty, then Sandra punched the button for the elevator. Inside she hit the button for the top floor, and when it required a passcode to Wyatt's surprise, she entered it.

  "Where are we going?" he asked when the doors slid closed and the small car began its ascent.

  "Among other places to get a change of clothes."

  The ride was short. Since the Washington Monument was completed in the 1860's, no building in the city could be built taller than the Capitol. Few of them had more than eight floors. The elevator opened and Sandra turned left on her way out. She went directly to Suite 8008 and knocked authorita­tively on the door.

  "Whose suite is this?"

  The door swung inward. "My sister's," Sandra said. "Wyatt, this is my sister Annie, or you might know her as Suzanne."

  "You two look like something the river threw back,” Annie said. Where have you been?"

  "Can we come in?" Sandra asked.

  She stepped back and they filed in.

  "Don't stop there," Annie said. "You're dripping all over the carpet. You." She pointed at Sandra. "Use the bathroom over there." Wyatt followed her line of vision. "Senator." He brought his attention back to her. "There's another bathroom through there."

  Wyatt started in the direction she pointed. Before he closed the door he heard her pick up the phone.

  "Jordon, you'd better come over here." She paused. "And bring a change of clothes, everything from the skin out."

  Chapter 10

  Colonel Samuel Parker carried a feeling of unease since leaving the briefing meeting this morning. He continued to look over his shoul­der, scanning the rearview mirror while he drove. Unable to ditch the unnerving impression of being followed, he saw anyone or any­thing.

  Instinctively, he knew someone was there
. He shouldn't have told them. Normally he was a cautious man. He'd lived his life being cautious. The Army had taught him that. He didn't volunteer for assignments and he didn't offer informa­tion unless it was asked for. When he'd been approached to talk to Wyatt, on the heels of a phone call from the senator, he'd agreed. That had been his mistake. He was livid when he found out the car had a bomb on board and that he had been a party to attempted murder. He was an officer and he would never willingly lead a friend into a trap. They must have known that when they asked him to aid Wyatt in finding the component.

  They couldn't arrest him. He didn't have the component with him and they needed to know where it was. Wyatt was operating in the dark and he didn't know it. Sam was asked to assist, help Wyatt get out of the Pentagon and loan him a car so he'd have transportation. They were only going to put a tracking device in the car. Sam was patriotic. He was career army. His dad had been in the military and he’d lived all over the world. He loved this country. He’d seen how people in other countries lived and while this one wasn’t perfect, it was better than any other place he would choose.

  Project Eagle was explained to him. While Wyatt worked in Chip Jackson’s office, Sam had been told that the device was vital to the protection of this country. That if it fell into the hands of our enemies, another 911 could and would likely reoccur. But their statements were lies. He knew that know. They’d bombed his car.

  "Tracking device,” he muttered. “Some tracking device.”

  When Wyatt led them to the component everything would be over, they told him. Wyatt wouldn't even be charged with anything. They'd even make sure the woman he was with would also go free. Sam knew that woman wasn't just any­body. She was the daughter of the powerful Senate subcommittee chairman.

  Parker had been smart enough to get that in writing. He'd secured the document in his safe at his home. He'd checked on it last night before he went to bed and this morning when he got up. It was still there. Sam Parker was a cautious man. He'd made copies of the document and put one in a new safety-deposit box, a box he had only opened two days earlier. As an added safety he'd scanned the document into the com­puter and encrypted the file in the Project Eagle Directory. As Wyatt spent his hour making a copy of that directory, he'd taken the document out of the building.