The Matchup

by Alice Ward

He nodded but didn’t verbally confirm. “I can see that you’re heartbroken. Take it from me, any kind of undercover agent is not easy to love. They lie for a living, Mr. Boyd.”

  “Yeah, I know.” My heart was barely beating. Everything inside of me ached. She’d been so dishonest, yet… what? How could you love someone you didn’t even know? “Can you please tell me what happened at least? I have to know.”

  He was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry. That’s classified information.”

  I was getting angry now. “I understand, but you need to understand that I was part of the operation. I helped—”

  The man chuckled and stroked his bushy mustache. “Mr. Boyd, I’m sure your, um, services were appreciated. I’m sure if they are needed again in the future, the young lady will be in contact with you.”

  This was getting me nowhere.

  I’d been used. Discarded. I didn’t want to make things worse by continuing to make a fool out of myself… or being hauled off to prison for beating this smug-ass man half to death.

  I rose from my chair, mustering every ounce of dignity I possessed. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t bother to stand. “Good day, Mr. Boyd.”

  Just as I reached the door, it clicked open, saving me the embarrassment of trying to break it down.

  Stalking out, I realized I had no idea what to do next.

  No, that wasn’t true. I did know.

  It was over.

  She was gone, and I didn’t know where.

  “May I be of assistance, sir?”

  It was the woman from the security desk. I shook my head and went in the direction of customer service. I had a jet to catch. A life to put back together.

  There were police everywhere. Crime scene tape. A body under a tarp.

  I hoped it was Smith. It was a man. The size gave it away.

  An hour later, I was in the air, staring down into the ocean. Taking out my phone, I scrolled through world news updates. Nothing.

  Would a shooting in a small island airport even warrant a headline?

  “Coffee, Mr. Boyd?”

  I shook my head. “Scotch, please. Breakfast of champions.”

  The attendant simply nodded. “Right away, sir.”

  Completely dejected, I refreshed the screen, hoping some news report would appear. Nothing.

  I drank scotch and refreshed. Nothing.

  Again, when the attendant poured my second drink. Nothing.

  A thought occurred to me. The airport shooting might not’ve been making world news, but it might certainly spread like wildfire with staff and crew.

  “Jacob?”

  The attendant turned back to me. “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you or the pilots hear any rumblings about a shooting in the airport?”

  His eyes grew wide. “Yes. You were very lucky to have just missed the action. From what I understand, the situation was very tense for a while.”

  I refreshed my phone again. Nothing.

  “I was hoping for more information, but it doesn’t seem to be making the news.”

  He tapped his lips. “Did you YouTube it?”

  “What?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Every person with a smartphone probably recorded the action and had it uploaded within seconds.”

  I began tapping at my phone. “You’re brilliant.”

  He beamed at me, then stepped closer to watch over my shoulder. “There it is. Maldives Airport Shooting.”

  Sure enough, he was right.

  I tapped play.

  The video was jerky and the person recording it had been late to the game because three men were on the ground being handcuffed. I recognized one of them as Smith.

  Damn straight.

  But where was Sloane?

  Frustrated, I scrolled for additional titles. “There,” Jacob said. “Maldives Airport Shooting, Part II.”

  I tapped, and disappointment had me sagging in my seat. In this video, Smith and the two men in black suits were being hauled away by airport security personnel as well as some hippie-looking dude and another guy in a pink shirt.

  “Freeze!”

  The person recording jumped and whirled around, the video image a blur until it stabilized.

  My heard squeezed. It was Sloane, and there was a man behind her, his arm around her throat. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her eyes huge in her pale face.

  “Oh my,” Jacob breathed from behind me.

  People were screaming, and the person recording was running, so I missed an exchange of words. Behind a column now, the person stabilized their phone, then zoomed in.

  As I watched, Sloane lifted a finger, clearly trying to communicate with the female agent in front of her.

  Oh no. The man was talking, something about a trade.

  She raised a second, and I thought I understood. My heart was a roaring monster in my chest. “Don’t do it,” I told the phone, my anxiety ratcheting in degrees.

  But she did.

  When the third finger lifted, Sloane became a blur of swinging elbows and twisting body.

  I jumped as the gunshots rang out. One. Two. Three.

  The man collapsed against the wall, and for a moment, I could breathe again.

  “No!”

  It was a female voice, and suddenly, I understood. The agent was rushing to Sloane, who was looking at her in disbelief.

  Red — the color of fire.

  Yellow — the color of sunshine.

  Together, the combination simply looked evil. Wrong.

  There was so much blood.

  The video stopped as the woman I loved was falling to the floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sloane

  Five weeks later…

  Tendrils of steam floated up from my cup of herbal tea, playing with one another as if they were happy dancers, moving to a slow rhythm. Miranda elbowed me gently, regaining my attention.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I set the cup down on the table. “I’d owe you change.”

  She rubbed my arm, her face filled with sympathy. It was an emotion I had grown to hate the past few weeks.

  “You still miss him.” It was a statement, not a question. And I knew the look on my face answered it anyway. She nodded, knowing all too well what I was going through. As female agents, we all faced falling for men who thought of us as breakable little girls who needed their protection.

  We were far from that.

  I swallowed. I used to be far from it anyway.

  Resting my hands on the wheels of my wheelchair, I pushed myself to the window of the rehab center that had been my home for exactly twenty-nine days. I had a gorgeous view of the parking lot and a tiny green strip of grass beyond. I wheeled away and faced my room instead.

  It wasn’t much better.

  Though an effort had been made to brighten the sterile space, it was still a hospital room at its core. A vase of fresh flowers Miranda brought for her visit sat beside the bed. A quilt my mother made spruced up the metal bed as did the one tossed across the rocking chair.

  It made me feel old.

  Used up.

  Depressed as all hell.

  Although I was fighting it, constantly reminding myself how lucky I was, the depression settled around me like a wet blanket, especially at night.

  In the dark, as my legs spasmed from the day’s exertions, I had too much time to lie awake and remember. And those memories always spiraled around him.

  The way he looked at me. The way we moved together. The way my heart was simply happier when he was at my side.

  And I threw it all away.

  For what?

  My ego?

  My need to prove my independence? My badassness? My loyalty to an old friend?

  “Stop it.”

  I glanced up at Miranda. “Stop what?”

  “Whatever is causing this wrinkle…” she poked me between the eyes, “to exist.”

  I blew out a breath and forced my face
to relax. “Better?”

  She sat down on the rocking chair so I didn’t have to crane my neck up to look at her. “Much. Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. What’s there to say?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Well, you could start with how it felt to take a few steps by yourself. That’s a freaking big accomplishment in such a short amount of time.”

  I smiled. She was right. I did take steps. Not on my own exactly, but close enough. Using the bars for support, my legs had moved five full steps.

  The bullet caught me as I was turning, entering my abdomen and glancing off my T12 vertebrae, causing the bone to fracture. Although my spinal cord wasn’t severed, the fracture pressed on the sensitive nerves. I was taken to a local hospital for immediate surgery to remove the resulting hematoma and stabilize the vertebrae, taking pressure off the cord.

  As a result… I was lucky. I could feel my legs, and my therapists felt sure I’d be able to walk again in a few months, although it was doubtful I’d be running any marathons in the near future. Or ever.

  Leaning forward, Miranda took my hands in hers. “I need to tell you something.”

  My stomach immediately began to churn. When Miranda arrived unexpectedly, I knew there was a purpose behind the visit. We drank tea, did some idle chitchat, but now the time had arrived. “Go ahead, tell me.”

  She took in a deep breath. “Zane has gone online, offering a million-dollar reward for any information on you.”

  My eyes popped open, and I gripped the sides of my chair. The room did a few revolutions around me as I attempted to breathe. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  Rolling the chair to the table where my iPad lay, I tapped the screen, then tapped again. Shit. Miranda was right. There, so achingly gorgeous I nearly hugged the device to my chest, was Zane. I tapped play and closed my eyes as his voice filled the room.

  He held up my picture. “This is a woman I’ve known as Sloane Anderson…”

  I was leaning against the railing outside our little bungalow. It was my profile and I was smiling up into the sun. “I don’t remember him taking this,” I murmured.

  He held up another. I was asleep, my hand under my cheek, my hair falling into my face.

  “I’m very worried about her, and I’m offering one million dollars for information regarding her well-being.”

  Another. I was laughing.

  “If you know her, tell her that there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not searching for her, that I’m not thinking of her, dreaming of her.”

  Another. Walking toward him.

  “We didn’t know each other long, but she made a profound impact on my life.”

  Another. Me wearing snorkels.

  “I miss her.”

  Another. I was asleep on his chest. He was in the photo too. It was on the boat after the snorkeling trip, I realized.

  I smiled. Zane was a better spy than I was.

  “Please, if you have seen this woman, please tell her I’m sorry.”

  I frowned. Sorry for what?

  “And Sloane…” He looked directly into the camera, those green eyes gazing directly into mine. “I love you. I miss you. I’m worried half sick about you. Please… put me out of my misery. One word. Just one. Call me.”

  The offer of the reward popped up on the screen and I laid the iPad in my lap.

  Miranda’s hand came down on my shoulder. “He’s right. There hasn’t been a day since you were shot that he hasn’t called or dropped by the office. Even though I’ve been tempted a number of times to just tell him where you are, I’ve kept my promise.” She tapped the iPad. “But now, with a million dollars on the line, there is no HIPPA regulation, no change in identity that will stop someone from cashing in.”

  She was right.

  A tear fell, and I swiped it away. But another one followed. Then more.

  “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

  It was a terrible admission. All ego, no soul. But there it was… I couldn’t face the sympathy I knew I’d see in his eyes.

  Her voice was gentle. “Isn’t it better than not knowing?”

  I met her eyes. “He’ll stay. He’ll feel like he has to. Because he’s an honorable man—”

  She quirked her brow. “For a total hot ass playboy.”

  That got a laugh out of me. “Yes, for a playboy or anyone.”

  Even before the shooting, Zane considered me to be someone he had to watch over, keep safe. I looked down at my legs. And now?

  “Honey, why is him staying so bad?”

  I swallowed the emotion that threatened to strangle me. “Because I’m not the same woman he met. I can’t do the same things I once did. I can’t…”

  Make love? I actually had no idea if that was a possibility.

  “It’s just better if he forgets about me. Then he won’t feel compelled or whatever to take care of me or some shit like that.”

  Miranda frowned, her jaw growing tight. “Better for whom? Did you look at his face? His eyes? Did you see the strain there or are you so caught up in your own pity party that you can’t see what’s in front of you?”

  My fingers itched to slap her. “Is that what you think?”

  “Yeah, it’s exactly what I think. And I’ve been thinking it for a while now, but like everyone else, I’ve been tiptoeing around you.” She stood, jamming her fists on her hips. “Not anymore.”

  “Don’t you tower over me. Just go away!”

  “No!”

  I stared at her, then dropped my face in my hands. She was right. I knew she was right. She knew that I knew that she knew that she was right. Or something like that.

  I needed to face this. Face him. Put both of us out of our misery. It was the fair and honorable thing to do.

  “Okay.”

  Miranda sank back into her chair. “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, I’ll call him.”

  She closed her eyes in relief. “I’m glad.” When she opened her eyes again, she was grinning. “On behalf of me and everyone in the office, thank you for doing this.”

  “Was he really that bad?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Bad isn’t the half of it. Matthews threatened to arrest him a few dozen times.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. And for the record, Matthews is in complete agreement that you should get in touch with the poor man. He said if he thought you’d follow orders, he’d actually order you to do so.”

  “Is he still mad at me for getting shot?”

  She rolled her eyes again. “He would have preferred that you didn’t. But he’s proud of you. For a rookie, you did good.”

  I snorted and look down at my legs. “Well, I rookied myself right out of the field.”

  “Have you thought anymore about working in the crime lab?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, actually. I think catching bad guys like that could be fulfilling too.”

  “That’s great. I—”

  “Sloane?”

  Both of our heads swiveled to the partly opened door, only to find an ancient-looking woman peering at me through the six-inch crack. Miranda answered for me. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Are you Sloane Anderson, young lady?” She pointed a gnarled finger at me.

  Well… shit.

  The woman grinned at me, her dentures pearly white against her wrinkled mouth. “You are, aren’t you?” She cackled, a distinct wicked witch kind of sound. “It’s her, Ethel,” she called out to someone who apparently didn’t have very good hearing and took off on her walker. “We’re rich!”

  I looked at Miranda and groaned.

  “Well, if you want that million dollars, you better beat that old woman to the punch,” I told her and she laughed.

  “Actually, if things keep going the way I hope they’re going, I’ll have my own personal sugar daddy to fulfill my every wish.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Spill.”

&nbs
p; Miranda Moore actually blushed. “Remember the man who spoke to me at the airport before all holy hell broke loose?”

  I nodded. “Tall, dark, and handsome?”

  “Well, he and I have been chatting the past few weeks, and he re-offered his offer for me to visit.”

  I wasn’t sure if my smile would fit on my face it felt so big. “And you’re going?”

  She giggled. Miranda Moore giggled. Clad in the usual FBI garb — black suit, white shirt, sensible footwear — such a joyous sound should have never been allowed to escape. “Next week. I have some time off coming up, so I thought… what the hell.”

  My heart squeezed. “I hope you have a wonderful time. Take yourself some of that boho chic clothing though. You rocked that look, girl.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  I wished I was going with her. I wished so many things.

  She squeezed my hand. “You’re going to call him?”

  I squeezed hers back. “Yeah. I’ll put him out of his misery.”

  And me out of mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Zane

  The smell of bacon filled the air as I stepped into the breakfast nook off the kitchen. When I left the island, I went to my parents’ place in Scranton. I just didn’t want to be alone or go to another exotic location.

  It was only supposed to be for a few days, but I was still here most of the time, weeks later.

  Acting like a lovesick puppy.

  Sloane haunted me. I saw her virtually everywhere. Even her scent lingered on the clothes I brought home.

  I tried to find her.

  God, did I try to find her.

  At first, her coworkers were mulishly silent, but lately, the looks of sympathy they shot me wounded me to the core.

  I’d come to the belief that Sloane Anderson wasn’t her real name. If it was, the two best private investigators in the damn country couldn’t find her. The only Sloane Anderson they found of the right age and physical description was apparently dropped on this earth by aliens only a few years ago. Five weeks ago, they apparently came back to get her.

  She’d disappeared as mysteriously as she’d appeared.

  I didn’t think she was dead. If that was the case, surely someone would have told me. Not even huge men in SWAT jackets could be so cruel.

  Then, where was she? Why wouldn’t she see me? Talk to me. Write me a note.