LINKED (The Bening Files Book 1)

by Rachel Trautmiller

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  DISCONNECT

  LINKED

  Copyright © 2014 Rachel Trautmiller

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles without the prior written consent of the author.

  Cover Design by Rachel Trautmiller

  Published by RT-Miller Publishers

  This book is a work of fiction. When real establishments, organizations, events or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements and all characters in this novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  To Derek

  For teaching me that coming home isn’t a battle to be won, but a victory all the same.

  CHAPTER ONE

  April 2000

  The monster had resurfaced. Special Agent Jordan Bening sat across from him at Binion’s Ranch Steakhouse on Las Vegas’s famous Freemont Street.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Garrett Birmingham stuck a piece of steak into his mouth, then pointed his knife toward Jordan’s meal. The man’s green eyes swept over him and the plate of untouched salmon as he chewed.

  Birmingham picked a speck of lint from his dark suit. “You haven’t said one word since you sat down.”

  There was nothing to say. Nothing that wouldn’t get Jordan into a heap of trouble. He pushed his plate toward the center of the table where a small candle burned as brightly as it could against the fading light, like one person standing against a million.

  “Don’t you think we should catch up?” Birmingham stuck another bite of steak into his mouth, then dabbed the corners of his lips with a napkin. “Don’t you have questions?”

  Oh, yeah. He had questions. Accusations. But he couldn’t voice any of them here. Not yet. And if things kept going the way they were—never.

  The other man tapped his fingers on the linen-covered table. “I’ve given you time. I’ve given you space.”

  Jordan held back a scoff.

  “Don’t you think we should have some semblance of a relationship? Cassidy would want that. She’s gone and—”

  Oh, no way. “Did you have something important to discuss, Mr. Birmingham?

  A red hue crept up his face. “Enough is enough, Jordan.”

  He threw his napkin on the table. He stood. “I don’t know what you expect from me. From this.” He gestured to their surroundings. “Whatever it is, you’re wasting your time.” No amount of chitchat could make this encounter pleasant. He’d known that before tonight and still he’d ended up here.

  B.J. Robinson, his long-time friend and co-worker, would say that subconsciously Jordan had come seeking closure. He didn’t need closure. He needed justice, would seek it until his dying day. This shared meal wasn’t the answer and the fact that he had come only made him look like a joke.

  “I’m getting on a plane in a couple of hours.” The man’s eyes simmered with an emotion that Jordan had seen before and no longer feared. Birmingham could pretend that he was calm and rational. Jordan knew the truth.

  “I know you’re into older cars. You should take a look at the Camero I just restored.

  Birmingham hadn’t restored anything. He’d probably paid someone else to do it.

  “I’ll pass.” Jordan stared down at him, every muscle in his body tense. He knew better than to show one ounce of anything other than calm boredom. He forced himself to unclench his fists and turn away.

  “I saw your little friend the other day.”

  Jordan’s spine stiffened. Why did he automatically think of her? His ‘little friend’ could be anybody.

  In another universe, maybe.

  “I would have said hello, but she doesn’t know me. And, well, you know how people can get frantic, especially in a city this size.”

  Jordan contemplated reaching for the SIG Sauer in his shoulder holster, aiming it at Birmingham’s face and demanding answers. Instead, he turned toward the man and gave his best imitation of an unaffected smile.

  “I don’t have a clue who you’re talking about.”

  “I’m always amazed at what time does to people.” The older man sipped the Pinot Giorgio with a Grinch-like smile. “She used to follow you around as if the two of you were linked by an invisible chain. And now…” He swirled the white wine in his glass, his eyes trained on Jordan. “Who knows? She could be in trouble up to her ears.”

  If he stood before the monster for one more second, he’d jump down his throat and rip out his intestines. The thought of what he might do made his stomach churn. “Have a nice flight.” As if Garrett Birmingham hadn’t destroyed ten years of self-therapy with his careful words, Jordan turned and walked away.

  He couldn’t let Birmingham get to him—or anyone else he cared for.

  ###

  By the time Jordan finished his cold shower, he’d talked himself into and out of several scenarios.

  He couldn’t go looking for McKenna Moore. It wasn’t up to him to protect her.

  Besides, if she really was in danger, someone else with the FBI or local law enforcement should handle it. He wasn’t the right man for the job.

  He exited his room at Caesar’s Palace and took the elevator to Club Pure on the Casino level. He grabbed his cell phone and punched in Robinson’s number. Whom was he kidding? He had to check up on her. No harm in that. Just a friendly, hey-how-are-you-doing, see-you-later sort of thing. Then he’d repeat history and, knowing McKenna, she’d hunt him down. The end result wouldn’t be pretty.

  But it might be interesting.

  “Robinson,” SAC Robinson answered on a yawn.

  Jordan shook himself back to the present and pressed his cell phone closer to his ear. “Any news?”

  “Birmingham’s private jet is scheduled to leave around midnight tonight, Pacific Time.” He paused. “Nice of the prick to look you up. What’s it been, nine or ten years?”

  Jordan grunted. Whatever the count, it hadn’t been long enough. Birmingham never appeared unless there was some benefit. What was Birmingham after this tim
e?

  Robinson cleared his throat. “He wants to rattle your cage. Get you worked up over nothing.”

  Jordan turned toward the crowd at Club Pure. “I don’t think it’s nothing.” His watch indicated three hours had elapsed since his meal with Birmingham. “I’d let this blow over—”

  “McKenna’s a friend.”

  Jordan tugged at his shirt collar. “I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.” He wasn’t sure today was the day he should show up again. Maybe he ought to give her some warning. Send her a postcard. That would give him time to adjust to the whole idea of seeing her again. It wouldn’t solve his suspicions concerning Birmingham, though. It wouldn’t make the nightmares end.

  “What else did Birmingham say?”

  Jordan pinched the bridge of his nose and filled Robinson in on the specifics. Every word would stick with him for a long while. Maybe forever. So would the way Birmingham had appeared smug and self-assured, as if he had some devilish plan cooked up.

  The clicking of a pen from the other end of the line, caught his attention. “We could take that as a threat, but I’m not sure it would accomplish much more than add clutter to our desks. He didn’t specifically name McKenna. For all we know he could have been talking about Betty Boop.”

  “Thanks for the optimism, but I’m not feeling glass half full.”

  “You going to find McKenna and warn her?” The crunch of something came over the line followed by some loud chewing. “I’d like to see my best agent in the office on Monday, versus the alternative.”

  Jordan touched the diamond ring that hung on a silver chain beneath his shirt. “I haven’t decided yet. Can we tail Birmingham?”

  “Give me a valid reason that HQ will approve and I’ll be on it like maggots on garbage. If I find anything else, I’ll call you. And Jordan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You owe me.”

  “Right. Anytime.” He flipped his phone shut and clipped it to his belt, releasing a burst of air he hadn’t realized he’d held.

  Inside the club, servers circled through the tables near the dance floor. A fast-paced rhythm beseeched dancers as more people poured inside hoping to get a glimpse of some pop-star.

  In the overwhelming sea of faces, only one mattered. No sign of her yet. McKenna wasn’t going to like what he had to say. The last time he’d seen her she’d been funny, intelligent, extremely kind and of course, independent. He doubted much of that had changed, especially the independent part.

  Nope, she wouldn’t like him standing guard over her. He didn’t like the idea himself.

  If he could get around it, he wouldn’t tell her. Or maybe he’d avoid her altogether. Jordan shook his head. He’d been doing that for far too long.

  He approached the bar. “Guinness, please.” The sharp scent of alcohol filled his nostrils as a server passed him with a tray full of sloshing cups. He’d have one drink with McKenna and fill her in on what she needed to know. Then he’d head home and forget his encounter with Birmingham.

  Not possible.

  A woman wearing a gold, strapless top rubbed up against him in an effort to get to the bar. She glanced at Jordan out of the corner of her eye, then grinned, wide and flirtatious.

  He scanned the crowd, making his lack of interest known. He’d need a long shower to rid himself of every accidental look and touch.

  A dark haired man in a blue Armani suit squeezed past a group of women dressed in flamboyant outfits. The man in the suit smiled, making the mole above his lip move upward.

  Mole man seemed familiar. Jordan shrugged it off. He wished he could do the same with Birmingham’s thinly veiled threats.

  A new surge of people entered the club. McKenna and a girl he recognized from their childhood walked toward a table in his direction. A handful of crazy visions swirled in his mind and none of them had to do with McKenna’s silky black dress or the dark brown curls that flirted with her creamy skin and plush lips. Normal men would figure out a way to approach her—a way to take her home. All Jordan could think about was death. Her death. He didn’t know if he was overreacting to Birmingham’s words. He just knew he couldn’t lose the battle. Again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rupert Dillon had no idea.

  McKenna Moore wasn’t any of the things he’d said. Least of all a robot. Robots didn’t work as Special Agents with the FBI. Didn’t sit in clubs with friends and celebrate birthdays they didn’t feel like celebrating.

  She shook her head, tried to concentrate on her surroundings. On the pulsating fluorescent lights sweeping the dance floor. The steady thump of music filling the club. The rush of people filing through the doors, crowding every nook and cranny in the place.

  Amanda Nettles nudged her. “Thinking about that CIRG position at Quantico again?”

  If only her thoughts were centered on her dream job with the Critical Incidents Response Group. “Not quite.”

  “If I were you, I’d be dreaming about the new Assistant SAC.” Amanda sipped her Bud Light. “Tall, dark eyes, dark hair and washboard abs. Just what I ordered.”

  “I prefer short, bald and housebroken.”

  Amanda pushed her dark hair from her shoulders and sighed. “Think about this logically, will you? The new Assistant Special Agent in Charge will more than likely be a guy. You’ll be working together. You’ll share an office. There’s a fifty percent chance you might actually like him. Maybe more than like him.”

  Here we go again. “Uh, huh. Sure.”

  “Maybe it would help you forget Rupert Dillon.”

  Leave it to Amanda to broach a subject best avoided. McKenna sipped her drink. “I’m over it. Stuff happens. Relationships don’t work out. You move on. But not with a new co-worker.”

  “How about an old one?”

  McKenna couldn’t help smiling. “No.”

  Amanda scrunched her lips to one side. “Fine. Sooner or later I’ll get the Rupert story from you. Don’t make me use my resources with CMPD.”

  “I’ve got everybody you work with at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department in my pocket. Besides, there’s no story.” Maybe if she said it enough times it would become truth. Why did it even bother her? Why had everything he’d said stuck with her this long?

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are a heartless robot who knows less about being a woman than a six-year-old boy.

  “How about a wild love affair?”

  “What?”

  “The whole ‘falling in love’ with a co-worker’s out so what about a love affair?”

  “Just because it’s my birthday doesn’t mean I have to jump ship and become…” Non-robofied?

  Amanda smiled as if she knew McKenna’s thoughts. “Okay, maybe a ‘love affair’ is a little drastic for you. How about a torrid affair? You know, cute guy, great personality, maybe kind of funny. A dozen ridiculously romantic dinner dates, some long conversation—no strings attached. And everyone lives happily ever after.”

  “You’ve been reading too many romance novels. How about we drop this idea? I’m fine with the way things are.” Mostly. Things would change once she got that CIRG job. A fresh start.

  “If you aren’t careful you’ll wake up fifty, at the pinnacle of your career with the Bureau and at ground zero everywhere else.”

  Rupert had said something along those lines.

  Wrong. They were way off base.

  McKenna licked her lips, dashed the thoughts from her mind.

  “Don’t get me wrong. If anyone has their life mapped out, it’s you. We were, like, thirteen when you decided how everything would be. You even had a little outline made out, if I remember right. You were so excited about it that I even tried to make one.”

  “Didn’t yours include becoming a professional chef?”

  “Yeah, but my outline never really survived past sixteen and my first date. Those things are always unrealistic.” Amanda glanced around the club. “People change. Kids grow up.”

  McKenna hadn’
t. At least her master plan hadn’t. Gun courses led to extra-curricular classes in high school, then to early enrollment in Duke University’s Criminology courses.

  Would she someday wake up and regret her choices? Look around and have a house full of cats, lots of gray hair and no hope of having anyone to laugh about it with?

  Not possible. She wasn’t ready for marriage and two-point-five kids right now. There were so many things she wanted to accomplish first.

  “Here’s to being three years away from thirty.” Amanda raised her drink toward McKenna’s.

  The clink of glass on glass got lost in the noise of the club. She took a sip of a fruity concoction one of the servers had suggested. “Can’t wait.”

  “It’s your birthday. Relax and have some fun.” Her gaze strayed to something behind McKenna. Her brow crinkled before she refocused on their conversation. “Maybe meet one of these…eligible bachelors surrounding us.”

  “What are you staring at?”

  She shook her head, smiled. “Nothing. Thought I saw my tall, dark, and handsome dream man.”

  McKenna rolled her eyes.

  “He’s not exactly how I pictured him. He’s more you’re type. At least I think he used to be you’re type.”

  “I have a type now?”

  Amanda shrugged. “He’s headed this way.”

  “What? Who’s headed this way?” Her heart took a serious nosedive. Please, not Rupert. Anyone but him. What could he be doing in Vegas?

  Amanda startled, dug inside her purse, and retrieved her phone. She glanced at the LCD screen.

  “Don’t even think about it, Amanda.” Her stomach started to gurgle.

  “Sorry. I’ve gotta take this.” She brought the phone to her ear and walked toward the club’s double doors.

  Thank you, Amanda.

  A warm hand touched her shoulder. She prepared for the showdown she knew would come. She didn’t want to turn around. Didn’t want to deal with more insults disguised as possible truths.

  “Hey, Slick.”

  Only one person ever called her by that nickname. Her heart skipped against her chest and her muscles relaxed. She’d know his voice anywhere. She’d know him anywhere. Even if he’d grown three heads and twenty arms in the last ten years.