by Misty Evans
When he rolled sideways and sat up, she hooked her arm around his waist. “Wait. Please. I want to explain.”
Her request was met with silence, but he hadn’t moved either so she took that as his willingness to listen. “This isn’t a big deal,” she said, loosening her hold, but moving closer as she sat up and focused on the back of his shoulder and the lean curve of sloping muscle. Yeah, that’s it. Focus on the shoulder. Distract yourself. If she faced him, met his gaze, even in the dark, she’d chicken out. “I’m letting you off the hook. That’s all. We had fun and blew off some major steam, but I want you to know, I don’t expect anything else from you. We’ll just chalk it up to a fun night and let it go. Call it a freebie. No emotional cost involved.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, this can’t happen again. If it does, I’ll fall a little bit more in love with you and I’ll scare you off. I don’t want that. If nothing else, I want us to walk away from this as friends. So, I think we should just not sleep together anymore. I’m sorry. I know I sound like…”
“Hope, do you ever shut up?”
What now? Here she was trying to be honest and admit her shortcomings, something she’d never—as in ever—done before and he was being...well...mean. “I don’t think there’s any call for that.”
She snatched her arm away. Before she could get far, he latched onto her arm.
“Just...give me a second, will you? I’m processing everything you said and you were jabbering and I couldn’t think.”
She did that. Jabbered. Her mother told her that all the time and insisted it was some sort of nervous tick. For all Hope knew, it could have been. She did tend to babble when anxiety set in.
“I’m sorry.”
“And quit fucking apologizing.”
“Hey!”
He held up his hand. “I don’t like the idea of not doing this again.” He let go of her, turned to her and cradled her cheeks in his hands, the touch so gentle that part of her, the sane, rational part that had convinced her not to fall in love, sent up a protest. How did he expect her to stay distant when he touched her like that?
Slowly, she pulled back, but he held on. “No,” he said.
“No?”
“I don’t like that idea.”
“Now I’m confused. You said no relationship.”
“I know. I’m a worse liar than you. A fucking disaster of a liar.”
“You are?”
“I am. Let’s see where this goes. Who knows, we’re both so screwed up we might make a great couple. You the hopeless romantic and me the hopeless non-romantic. Wouldn’t that be a pisser?”
“Sure would.”
He laughed. “Yeah. What do you say? Wanna give it a try? See if we can keep from killing each other?”
Her body responded, inching closer to him, seeking that closeness, that connection, they’d had just a few minutes ago. Hormona wanted a replay.
And it appeared she’d get it.
“I’d like that,” Hope said. “Now screw me blind again.”
Hope was snoring softly as Brice slid out from under her arm. He eased out of the bed, careful not to wake her. While she seemed to be satisfied and content after their lovemaking, he felt like his nerves were on fire. He needed to get up. He had to move.
Darkness had bathed the bedroom in shadows. Hope’s blond hair stood out against the blue sheets like a soft, warm light guiding him home. Her tussled locks fanned out on the pillow, a few strands falling across her face, the ends blowing out on air puffs from her snores.
Gently, he took one of the strands and rubbed the silkiness between his thumb and index finger. She’s falling for me.
He’d heard it in her voice, seen it in her eyes. She claimed she wanted to go slow and make sure the feelings she had for him were real, but he’d known they were real—at least for her—before the words even left her mouth.
You’re in a pickle now, Brennan.
Except, he’d been in pickles before, and they felt nothing like this. He should have been happy that Hope wanted to take things slow. He should have been forcing her to stop things, in fact, before they went further. Instead, he wanted to climb back into bed and wake her up in the most lascivious way possible.
Dropping the strand of her hair, he moved back. He hadn’t been lying when he told her he wanted a real relationship. Dinners out, movies, the kind of relationship normal couples had. How long had it been since he’d had that type of relationship with a woman?
Too long.
He and Hope we’re completely incompatible, and yet, here he was, acting like a horny teenager who had the whole world by the tail. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, his pulse skipping around like a chipmunk on crack. He wanted to hunt down every single threat to Hope’s happiness and kill it. At the same time, he wanted to prove to her that he wasn’t a schizo paranoid freak, jumping at every possible threat out there. He wanted to be the man he saw in Hope’s eyes when she looked at him.
Normal.
Not some washed up former ATF agent who spent his days and nights in a cave trying to prove the government was out to screw all of them.
It was an amazing feeling, normal. One he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe had never felt.
Yet, their current situation was anything but. Picking up his jeans, he quietly tiptoed out of the bedroom and drew the door with its broken lock closed behind him.
After slipping on his jeans, he grabbed up the stacks of emails and other papers in the living room and took them to the kitchen.
He’d seen a dry erase calendar on the side of the refrigerator. His mom had had three of those when he was growing up, as she tried to keep six kids and all of their extracurriculars organized.
A marker dangled from a string on the side of the calendar. Brice set the stacks of info he had on the cheap kitchen table and rummaged around in the cabinet drawers until he found some tape and a pen.
Then he went to work.
Up went the names of all the men involved, who they worked for, where they lived. Every scrap of information he had went on the board, including a bubble with the twenty grand he and Gerard had found in Kostas’s house. He was absorbed with creating a timeline when his phone dinged with the text from Teeg.
Incoming was all it said.
Thirty seconds later, there was a knock at the door. Three knocks, actually, with a pause, and then another series of three knocks.
Caroline.
Ever vigilant, Brice still pulled back one corner of the drapes and glanced out the window to double check. When he saw who was with Caroline, he let go of an inward grown.
Mitch, a.k.a. Robin, was standing on the porch with her.
Against his better judgment, he opened the door. Mitch took one look at him and lifted an eyebrow. “Are we going shirtless these days?”
Caroline pushed inside and set a soft-sided pink suitcase and a drab black garbage bag on the floor. A briefcase with a long strap hung across her body. She gave Brice an exaggerated once over. “I bet Miss Denby enjoys it.”
Mitch scowled. He, of course, was wearing one of his usual smart ass T-shirts. This one read, I have a black belt in sarcasm and a degree in smartass.
Caroline glanced around. “Where is Hope? I want to meet her.”
Brice, still holding the door, rubbed his eyes with his hand. “She’s sleeping. Rough couple of days, you know.” He motioned for them to leave. “Thanks for the clothes. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.”
No surprise, Mitch ignored the blatant hint. He scanned the living room, then poked his head into the kitchen. “Not bad.” He caught sight of Brice’s work in progress on the fridge. “Hey, what’s this?”
Brice rolled his eyes and gave Caroline an irritated look. “You had to bring him, didn’t you?”
She shrugged. “I know he’s a pain in the ass, but sometimes he’s also a damn good person to have on your side.”
Shutting the door, Brice locked it and shook his head.
> “Is this a conspiracy board?” Mitch said from the kitchen. “I love a good conspiracy board.”
Brice followed Caroline. It appeared that, whether he liked it or not, Mitch was staying. He’d taken off his jean jacket and hung it on a kitchen chair, and now stood staring at the dry erase board with his feet planted and his arms crossed. He’d already grabbed a marker and was drawing lines between people, places, and events such as the DDOT unblocking the bridge right after the justice was killed.
Brice had taped Dr. Block’s, Joel’s, and Charlie’s pictures to the top of the board and started his timeline leading up to Chief Justice Turner’s death. A paper with a question mark for a picture hung next to Charley and Joel, representing the anonymous “my guy” referenced in one of the emails. Could it be Kostas? Or was it the killer?
Along with tape, Brice had found some colored sticky notes in the kitchen junk drawer. The dry erase board contained a bunch of shorthand memos on the sticky notes at every junction of the timeline and around the border. He kept moving them around in different configurations based on the emails and texts he and Hope had organized, trying to find a link or some kind of pattern. Anything that could give them their next clue.
So far, he didn’t have a solid theory that involved Joel, but the nagging feeling at the base of his neck wouldn’t let up.
“Got coffee?” Mitch asked, glancing at the kitchen counter. “Looks like it might be a long night.”
Going through the material with Mitch was the last thing Brice wanted to do. However, he was out of theories and his concentration was terrible because all he kept thinking about was crawling back in bed with the sexy, young thing in the other room. Having a new set of eyes on the board might not be terrible.
“Make your own coffee,” he said.
Robin grinned, knowing that was the equivalent to Brice letting him stay and help.
“I’ll make it.” Caroline lifted the briefcase strap over her head and hung it on a chair. She went to the cabinets, pulling them open one by one. “Unless you like straight mud, you don’t want Mitch in charge of the coffee.”
As she pulled a can of Folgers from a top shelf and loaded the coffee pot, Brice stood next to the fridge and began to walk her and Mitch through his timeline.
Pointing at a blue sticky note at the top of the board, he gave them the background. “Kenton Labs is an American pharmaceutical company whose biggest drug is Donazem. Dr. Martin Block is the lead scientist. He’s been working for years on this drug. His career was made when Donazem succeeded. Now, Kenton is battling to protect their patent on Donazem in order to block other companies from releasing generics.”
He explained the details of the drug and the ramifications if the patent ran out. “Chief Justice Turner was prepared, from all accounts, to deny a hearing on extending the patent. Six months ago, he ruled on a similar case in favor of other companies wanting to market generics of a drug. If Turner denied the hearing, that was it. Within thirty days, Kenton stood to eventually lose billions. It would cripple the company, possibly forcing it into bankruptcy.”
He pointed to Charley’s picture and a yellow sticky note. “Charlie Winslow is a lobbyist for Winslow-Skirka. Kenton is one of their largest accounts and he’s done them proud before. If Kenton goes bankrupt, Winslow-Skirka also stands to lose revenue big time. He might even be ousted from his own company. From a credible source, we know that Charley spoke to Chief Justice Turner on multiple occasions and may have even tried bribing him in order to get Turner to hear the case.”
Next was Joel’s picture and a pink sticky note. “Joel Bigley is a clerk with the Supreme Court. At one time, he worked exclusively for Turner, but Turner didn’t like him, and apparently didn’t trust him, so he passed Joel onto another judge. An entitled little prick, Joel is known for having loose lips, but he’s never received more than a wrist slap because his parents are influential in D.C. By his own testimony, he accepted a vacation package to Barbados from Charley in December and we believe strongly that he may have been feeding confidential information to Charley about court proceedings and plans, including the fact Turner was going to deny the hearing for Kenton.”
At the bottom of the board, Brice tapped a green sticky note. “Finally, there’s the fact that Teeg found this information on the Deep Web about a hit being put out on Turner. The bridge closure is probably bogus, a way for the assassin to trap Turner on his way to work and make it look like a road rage incident. While Hope and I were on that bridge the other night investigating a supposed pothole repair, she was nearly run over by a car. I don’t think it was an accident. She’d questioned Joel about the cases on Turner’s docket earlier that day, and then called the DDOT asking about the reason the bridge lane was closed. I think she stirred the pot and someone came after her. I still have to look into the DDOT and see if I can find a link between anyone there and Charley.”
“What’s that?” Caroline pointed to a yellow note.
“Turner’s security detail. Guy’s name is Tony Gerard. He and I did some snooping at the taxi driver’s house. We found a large cache of cash, wrapped neatly and hidden in his closet.”
Caroline hmm-ed under her breath. “Bribe.”
“Or payoff,” Brice said.
“Who’s ‘my guy’?” Mitch asked, referring to the paper with the question mark.
The smell of coffee filled the kitchen. “Not sure, but I feel like he’s the missing link in all of this. Could be the cabbie, the DDOT link, or it could be the assassin himself.”
Caroline found a set of mugs and lined them up next to the pot. “So you think this Joel guy is involved with the hit or just Winslow?”
“I’m waiting for Teeg to get me Charley’s emails and texts since November.” Brice rubbed his eyes again. He was running low on sleep, but the edgy buzz under his skin would never allow him to relax. His sixth sense about cases told him he was close to busting this thing wide open. “Charley references this ‘my guy’ in a response to Joel, but I need the original email to figure out who he was talking about.”
“Oh.” Caroline scooted over to her briefcase and took out a handful of papers. “These are from Teeg. Maybe what you need is in here.”
A shot of hope ricocheted around inside Brice’s chest. The hum under his skin intensified. He snatched the papers from Caroline. “Thank you, but lead with that next time, huh?” He started thumbing through them, scanning dates and names.
“You’ve obviously got this under control,” Caroline said, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Mitch. “But we could stick around and help.”
Brice dropped into a kitchen chair, never taking his eyes off what he was reading. “Not necessary.”
Mitch pulled out the chair with his jean jacket on it and sat down, making himself at home. He grabbed a stack of Joel’s texts from the center of the table.
Brice pause in his reading and looked up. “What are you doing?”
Mitch cocked his chin at Caroline. “Have a seat, babe.” He handed her a second stack of papers and glanced at Brice. His shoulders lifted and fell in an off-handed, totally Mitch Monroe, shrug. “I’m curious. So sue me.”
Caroline took the papers and the third and final chair. “Besides, you’re part of the team, now, Brice. We’ve got your back.”
The last team that had claimed to have his back was gone. Some dead, others disappearing into the stratosphere.
The old paranoia flared low and sharp in his gut. His automatic response was to tell Caroline and Mitch to get lost or they could end up as good as dead over helping him. He had too much red in his ledger as it was; he didn’t need to add more.
Especially since there was now a Deep Web target on his back.
Dropping his gaze back to the papers in his hand, Brice continued to scan them as his mind circled ways to get Mitch and Caroline to leave without having to be downright rude. He liked Caroline and knew how stubborn she could be. She wouldn’t be easy to get out of the house, but he could do it. Mitc
h on the other hand…
One thing he learned about Mitch was that the guy was a bulldog. The more you resisted his help, the more he pushed his way into your business.
And then Brice’s gaze fell on a series of emails going back and forth between Charley and a person with a weird, coded name from December regarding a trip to Barbados. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“What is it?” Caroline asked.
Brice zeroed in on his board. “It seems Charley was in Barbados with Joel, and there was another man they met there.”
“So?” Mitch said. “All three of them went to Barbados. Big deal.”
It was a big deal if the buzz under Brice’s skin was to be believed. “Joel claimed that Charley couldn’t use the tickets he’d bought for the vacation package and they were nonrefundable. He said that’s why Charley offered them to Justice Turner, and when he refused to accept them, Charley offered them to Joel.”
His pulse was jumping around again. He went to the board and tapped the timeline, holding the paper up with the other. “According to this email, that’s not true. Joel and Charley met in Barbados that weekend, and they met with another guy.”
“They enjoyed some fun in the sun with each other.” Mitch leaned back in his chair. “It’s not a crime.”
“No,” Brice said, tapping the board again. “But planning the murder of a Supreme Court justice is.”
“Big assumption.” Caroline stood, coming over to face the board as she scanned Brice’s notes. “You need more than a lying court clerk and a coincidental trip by these three men at the same time to the Caribbean.”
Brice held out the paper to her. “It was no coincidence, I’m sure of it from reading these.”
Before Caroline could take the copy of the damning emails, the bedroom door squeaked open—Jesus, I hope she has clothes on—and Hope stepped into the hallway wearing Brice’s T-shirt and sleep tousled hair. Damn, she was cute.
Oblivious to Mitch and Caroline, she stared straight ahead at the wall and rubbed at her eyes. “Hawk?”
“Uh, Hope? We’ve got company.”