Internal Affairs

by Jessica Andersen

  “Maybe for you to complete your mission, whatever it was,” Sara said cautiously.

  “Damn it,” he said, which she took as his way of saying she was right. But when he let up on the gas, she realized that wasn’t the only thing bothering him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He turned haunted eyes toward her. “Two things. One, when we turned off, the chase car kept going on the highway. And two, I recognize this neighborhood.”

  Her stomach clenched into a hard, hurting knot. She looked around them and saw nothing familiar; she’d never been there with him, didn’t know of any reason why he would recognize the area. They were maybe a half hour south of Bear Claw, in a typical suburban area that had little to distinguish it aside from its lack of distinguishing characteristics. This close to the highway, there were fast food and coffee shop drive-throughs on just about every corner, liquor and convenience stores, and a variety of more specialized shops. As they moved farther away from the highway, the commercial strip gave way to modest houses and multifamily dwellings, some in decent shape, others tending toward shabby.

  It wasn’t the sort of place the Romo she’d known would have hung out. But the man he’d become drove with quiet self-assurance, clearly knowing the way to his destination. Whatever that was.

  Swallowing hard, she said, “You’re starting to remember what happened to you?”

  “Not remembering, precisely. But I know the way.” He let the hybrid roll to a stop and pointed up and across a couple of blocks. “See that one up there, with the falling-down awning over the window? I’m pretty sure I lived there.”

  “Not while I knew you,” she said immediately.

  “No. Not then. After.” His eyes were hard and remote, his jaw locked, his body language somehow more aggressive even though he was simply sitting in the driver’s seat.

  He looked like a dangerous stranger. The realization warned Sara that for the first time since the day before, she wasn’t so sure of Romo’s innocence. Their attackers had let him live, gunning down Fax and Tucker instead. But why?

  “Either they need something from me, or they still think I’m on their side,” he said, as though she’d asked aloud. Then again, it stood to reason that the question would be at the forefront of both of their minds.

  Sara blew out a breath. “Were those men chasing you, or herding you, making sure you went where they wanted?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  An icy chill shivered through her. “Which means they could be waiting for you in that house.”

  “I know.” Parking the hybrid where they sat, he unhooked his seat belt. “Stay here. I’m going to check it out.” He glanced at her. “I have to know.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but could tell from his expression there was nothing she could say to change his mind. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out the revolver and held it out to him. “Take this.”

  He stilled and looked at her, eyes dark. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.” It was a gesture of faith in the absence of evidence. She thought they both needed it.

  He took the weapon, his fingers grazing hers. “Thanks.”

  “Be careful.”

  He left the engine running and she stayed put as he climbed out and sauntered along the sidewalk, past the house he’d indicated and then around the back. He reappeared a few minutes later at the front door, did something with the lock—she didn’t think she wanted to know what he’d done or where he’d learned to do it—and let himself in.

  There was no sign of anyone waiting for him, at least not that she could see as the door swung shut at his back, leaving her staring once again at the house. She told herself to stay put, told herself to do as he’d ordered. He was the professional; he knew what he was talking about. She’d be safer in the hybrid, and he’d be safer in the house if he didn’t have to think about protecting her.

  It was all very logical, all very reasonable. And the arguments were still spooling through her head as she killed the engine, pocketed the key, locked the doors and headed across the street.

  ROMO HELD HIMSELF TENSE and wary as he moved into the house, somewhat disappointed to find it empty. He’d been looking forward to pounding on someone who had the answers he sought. Since there wasn’t anyone to “question,” he was left with the house itself. Unfortunately, it’d been stripped of whatever personal touches it had once possessed. The single sad and lonely piece of décor was a heavily framed picture in the kitchen, showing an insipid child holding a sunflower.

  He’d lived there, no question about it. He’d known how to jimmy the lock without effort, had known where to push on the dead bolt to pop it loose. He knew that the short entryway hall opened into a TV room with stained wall-to-wall carpeting and mismatched secondhand furniture, with a dingy kitchen beyond. He knew that the two doors off the main room led to a bedroom on the right, a bathroom on the left. But beyond those location-based memories, he didn’t know jack.

  The rooms held little more than basic furniture. There was no sign of how long he’d stayed there, whether alone or with company, and what he—or they—had done there.

  “Come on, come on,” he chivvied his brain, trying to remember something, anything. He had a feeling that all he needed to do was pull up one viable memory on command, and the rest would cascade from there. But recall remained stubbornly out of reach, leaving him frustrated and adrift.

  He was acutely conscious of time passing, the weight of the gun in his pocket and the knowledge that Sara was sitting outside in her silly little car, unprotected. He had to get back to her, and make sure the guys in the chase car were really gone. Before the explosion he would’ve seriously considered heading out the back and disappearing. His shoulder was sore but usable, his head clear. Even Sara had admitted he was strong enough to go off on his own. But there was no way he could leave her now. Their attackers had seen her, had probably known all along that Romo had gone to her for help. They’d just been biding their time. Question was, how much longer would that last? He feared the answer would be “not long.”

  “What is the damned mission?” he muttered, crossing the room and sticking his head in the bathroom, then the bedroom. “Why did they want me here?” At first when the car had peeled off the chase, he’d assumed there would be someone waiting for him at his destination, some sort of information, or a threat. But the utter emptiness of the place didn’t make any sense.

  Unless there’s a message, he thought out of nowhere.

  He wasn’t sure whether a memory clicked in his brain, or if it was just the one thing that jarred in the whole place, but he moved back into the main room, crossed to the kitchen and stood staring at the hideous print of the smirking child holding the half-wilted sunflower. He felt around the edge of the picture frame, thinking it might conceal a safe. It turned out to be nothing more than a frame hanging on a bent nail, but his fingers found a flat button on one edge.

  Just as he pressed the button, the doorknob turned and the front door swung inward.

  Swearing, he palmed the revolver and had it trained on the doorway as a lean, elegant figure stepped through, hands raised.

  “It’s just me,” Sara said, shutting the door at her back. “I couldn’t sit there any longer. Find anything?”

  Before he could curse her for startling him, for walking into a situation she wasn’t trained to deal with or for just generally making him crazy, a new voice interjected, coming from the kitschy, message-recording picture frame.

  “You have something we need, Sampson.” The voice was cool and sharply enunciated, and came with a sense of cold, reptilian violence. Without knowing how he knew, Romo was certain it was al-Jihad. The recording continued. “We’ve left you free this long because we’re giving you a chance to do the right thing. Deliver the stolen information to me within forty-eight hours of this message. If you do not, the people you once cared for will be killed, one at a time, until you do…starting with Dr. Whitney. Agent Fairfax a
nd Detective McDermott were a warning. We can get to anyone, any time we want. Remember that when you try to figure out whose side you’re really on.”

  Romo cursed bitterly, helplessly, as the recording ended. Not looking at Sara, he punched the button again, but somehow it had been jimmied to be a onetime-only message. Not that he really needed or wanted to hear it again. The words, and the threats, were burned into his cortex.

  “Did you…” Sara began, then trailed off. Swallowing audibly, she tried again. “Who was that? Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  “It was al-Jihad,” he grated, turning on her. “And he wants information. But what information? And where the hell am I supposed to deliver it?”

  “We need to figure that out pronto,” she said pragmatically. Her eyes were hollow with fear and her lower lip trembled faintly, but she didn’t weep or wail. It might’ve been easier if she did, because then maybe he could’ve packed her off into protective custody in defiance of the terrorist’s claim that he could get to anyone, anywhere. Surely she’d be safer with her own people than with him? But that was just it, he knew. They didn’t have a clue yet who was safe and who wasn’t. More, he was rapidly losing confidence that he could keep Sara safe, at the same time that her safety was becoming paramount to him.

  She shamed him. She humbled him. And damned if he didn’t think he was falling for her all over again.

  Chapter Seven

  Desperate for a status report on Fax and Tucker, Sara directed Romo to one of the area’s ubiquitous convenience stores and bought a cheap disposable cell phone.

  As Romo pulled them away from the curb and headed the hybrid back toward the city, Sara dialed Chelsea’s number, her throat closing when Chelsea answered on the third ring. Chelsea had been Sara’s employee and friend. And Sara had nearly gotten her fiancé killed.

  “Hello?” Chelsea repeated.

  “Chels,” Sara said softly. Do you know that it was my fault? she thought, but didn’t say.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then a long, shuddering exhale. “Sara.” There was a wealth of relief and grief in the word.

  “How are they? Are they going to be okay?” Sara’s voice broke as grief, guilt and tears clogged her throat.

  “I’m on my way to the hospital now—” Chelsea broke off, clearing her throat. “They’re both going to be okay. Fax was stunned and knocked around, and cracked a couple of ribs. They’re watching him for internal bleeding, but the outlook is good.”

  Sara’s lungs had locked on the recitation, as the list of Fax’s injuries brought home just what a terrible situation they were in. She’d wanted to hear “he’s fine, just got the wind knocked out of him.” It was what she’d expected for a man who’d always seemed a little larger than life, even back when she’d first met him and none of them—except Chelsea, of course—had been certain he was the deep-cover agent he claimed, instead of the fugitive the law considered him. For a man like Fax to be laid low…it was almost inconceivable.

  “What about Tucker?” she whispered, tears blurring her vision.

  “He’s in surgery.”

  Sara’s heart constricted and she stifled a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Chelsea said. “They were following up on something for the task force and wound up ambushed.”

  She didn’t know, Sara realized. Fax hadn’t told her that she’d been the one to set up the meeting. Then again, it stood to reason. She’d demanded the utmost secrecy from both Fax and Tucker. They hadn’t even told their wives.

  For a moment, Sara was tempted to confess everything. But then she thought of the recorded message and its overt threat. She had put Fax and Tucker in the terrorists’ crosshairs by setting up the meeting. She wasn’t going to repeat that mistake and endanger any more of her friends.

  “I’m almost to the hospital,” Chelsea said. “Are you on your way?”

  “No,” Sara said softly. “I’m not. But believe me, I want to be there.”

  There was a moment of silence before Chelsea’s voice changed and she said, “Sara, what’s wrong?”

  “I’ve got to go.” Sara gripped the phone tightly, wishing there was another way but not seeing it. “Tell Cassie…when you see her, tell Cassie to check those fabric samples again for a sebaceous donor. She’ll understand.”

  “That’s good, because I don’t,” Chelsea said, her voice gaining a note of pique. “If you’re in some sort of trouble—”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sara interrupted with a lie. “Just tell her. And tell Fax and Tucker I’m praying for them.” She hung up before she lost her nerve entirely, glancing at Romo. “Fax is okay. Tucker’s in surgery.”

  He didn’t say anything, just reached across the space separating them and gripped her hand briefly in support. The gesture served only to remind her that they were, from that point forward, on their own.

  “We can’t go to anyone else for help,” she said dully. The need and necessity of avoiding the people she cared about clutched at her, digging in claws of concern. “It’s too dangerous.” She glanced at him. “Cassie will find your DNA in whatever sweat deposits were left on that shirt. It’ll take a couple of days, though, because they’ll be focusing on the scene of the blast. By then it might not matter, because as soon as Fax and Tucker wake up, they’ll remember seeing you.”

  “We hope,” Romo said with a vague gesture to his own skull.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Sara began.

  He cut a look at her. “Go on. What are you thinking, hypnosis?”

  “Close, but not quite,” she said, forcing her mind back on the practicalities when fear and grief threatened to swamp her. “I don’t see you as being all that susceptible. I was thinking more along the lines of sodium thiopental.”

  That got his attention. “Is that anything like sodium pentothal?”

  She nodded. “Same thing, different name.”

  “Where were you planning on finding truth serum?”

  “The hospital.” At his sharp look, she elaborated, “It’s only a truth serum on TV and in the movies, really. Us medical types prefer to think of it as the first step in general anesthesia.” She paused, and when he didn’t say anything, continued. “There’s no guarantee it’ll do anything but really relax you, making you more likely to talk. But if the memories are close to coming through, what could it hurt?”

  His mouth twisted in a wry grimace. “What, indeed?” He sent her a long, slow look. “You sure you want to hear my stream of consciousness?”

  Aware that his mood had gone suddenly dark, more so even than before, she frowned. “What are you afraid you’ll say?”

  “I don’t know,” he said grimly. “But I don’t want you to…despise me.”

  I won’t, she started to say, but didn’t because she wasn’t sure that was something she could promise. What would she do if he described himself murdering someone in cold blood? She wasn’t sure she could handle that, whether or not the victim was one of the terrorists. So instead of going with the quick, too-easy lie, she went with the truth. “We’ll deal with whatever happens, Romo. It’s not like you’re trying to impress me, right?”

  He shot her an unreadable look. “What if I am?”

  “Then trust me enough to let me load you up with truth serum.” She’d intended for it to sound flip, but somehow it didn’t. It came out more like a challenge. A test.

  After a moment, he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” It wasn’t until that moment she realized she hadn’t really expected him to go along with the idea. New man or not, Romo wasn’t the sort of guy who’d willingly strip himself bare…at least not mentally.

  Despite everything, though, it was the passing thought of him stripping himself physically that stuck in her head as he drove them to the second of two area hospitals where she had staff privileges as a pathologist. She knew it was probably transference, her brain’s efforts to distract her from thinking about less pleasant topics. An
d, as they went over the simple plan and Romo parked the hybrid in the hospital’s guest lot, she decided to go with the delicious mental image. She was doing what needed to be done, damn it. She deserved a nice moment.

  Thinking that, and thinking she could very well be down to forty-six or so hours of safety based on the timeline in al-Jihad’s threat, she leaned across the small car and touched her lips to Romo’s. The kiss was brief, though suffered nothing in the way of warmth or zing. And when she pulled away, she saw the same knowledge in his eyes.

  “For luck,” she said.

  “For luck,” he echoed, and pressed the revolver into her hand.

  She recoiled a little and would’ve insisted that he keep the weapon, but knew he had a point. Al-Jihad had given Romo two days to find and deliver the stolen information—whatever the hell it was—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take Sara beforehand, as added pressure. Not to mention that the task force was going to figure out her involvement sooner or later.

  She forced her lips into a smile. “Lucky for me this particular hospital doesn’t have a metal detector on the way in.”

  “Even more reason for you to take the gun,” he said grimly. “You’ve got ten minutes.” His expression made it clear that he hated the plan, even though they’d been unable to come up with one that would keep them together while she snuck into the hospital and filched the necessary supplies. “If you’re not back out here by then, I’m coming in after you.”

  “Don’t come in,” she said, because they’d been over the idea already. “You won’t be able to get past the front desk without ID, which you don’t have because you’re dead. I, on the other hand, have all the right identification. I’ll be fine.” She hoped.

  Leaving him to stew in the car, she headed to the staff entrance of the medical center. She couldn’t go to the larger city hospital, because that was where Fax and Tucker had been taken. It was sure to be swarming with task force members who would wonder why she wasn’t with her friends, waiting for word on the injured men. So the medical center it was. She’d spent far less time there than at the hospital, but she was there every week or so, helping with on-site pathology when the occasion called for it. She knew her way around well enough. As an added benefit, the center was weekend busy, with more walk-in cases than doctors to handle them.