by Jackson, Pam
Chapter 13
He didn’t dare move toward her; he just sat there on the worn, wood plank floor. He exhaled and rubbed his hand against the course scruff beginning to grow at his neck and chin and wondered how the hell he’d gotten himself into this mess. All he could do was watch this beautiful woman fall to pieces. She’d captured his heart from the moment he snapped those first photos of her outside her office building several weeks ago. He had tried to separate his emotions from his assignment—just do the job and move on. Then he had rescued her, and with each glance and every subtle touch from her, his heart pounded in his chest. He wanted her, and not just to hear her moan as he penetrated her soft folds. He wanted her to be with him, always—in his arms until they both turned to dust. Damned if he knew how, but he loved her, and he hardly knew her—and it still felt so right.
Why did she come back for him at the grove? She fought for him, risked her life for him. She was so fucking stubborn—her foolish act of bravery had left tension coiling in his stomach. He tried desperately to push her away, but his feelings for her only came back stronger and more insistent.
This was the worst weight he’d ever felt on his heart.
He felt more for Andie than he’d felt for Aksana. With the simple thought of that name came the grisly vision. He had cared deeply for Aksana, he had tried to protect her, but she had died. She was tortured and brutalized at the hands of his enemy, simply because he had let his guard down and allowed himself to care. And now he was allowing it to happen again.
He wanted Andie more than anything he’d ever desired. His head was cloudy when she was near him—her sultry smell of sweet pomegranate with a hint of seductive musk tantalized his senses, the curves of her body tormented and teased his own muscular flesh with every step she took. And those beautiful eyes—all she had to do was glance at him, and his heart would squeeze like a fist.
And here she was, this beautiful, sweet, proud woman, reduced to a sobbing heap in the corner of a broken-down hunting shack. Scared to death of the world and now scared to death of him—that could be the one thing that would kill him. Her pain.
The truth. He needed to tell her the truth and then walk away.
“Andie, please look at me,” he pleaded, praying she would understand all he was about to explain.
She didn’t look up, but her sobs were subsiding.
“The truth is, I am not currently active in the military. I was Special Forces, but I left years ago for a career with the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. ICE. It’s a division within the Department of Homeland Security.” He blew out a sigh, then murmured something resentful under his breath. “I work undercover within the U.S., and sometimes overseas.”
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were wet and sparkled like cut emeralds. “You’re a spy?” she asked, her tone confused and horrified.
“No, I’m not a spy. ... Well, not exactly.” He shook his head, unsure how to explain all the details. “It’s complicated, Andie.”
“What does ICE want with me?”
“Actually, the FBI has been watching you. Because of Giovanni Tivoli and his underground ties to certain terrorist organizations. They need you to testify. They’ve been building a case against one of Tivoli’s clients, but nothing could stick, until ...” He paused and slid closer to her position. “Andie, we need your help.”
These were dangerous waters he was navigating. How could he protect her? His explanation to her would be weak as shit, and this case was a mess. She was the asset in this investigation. Super Agent 101, you don’t fuck the asset, and more importantly, you don’t fall in love with the asset. Someone will always die.
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Andie wiped her eyes and stood up. She didn’t want him close to her, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to trust him, not just yet. She walked to the sofa and sat down.
He stayed seated on the floor, but he swiveled to face her before speaking. “I know this is all hard to swallow, but I will explain as much as possible without jeopardizing the case. I’m sorry, Andie. Truly, I am. I didn’t mean to hurt you with my lies, I only did it to protect you.”
“Well, let me be the judge of that. I want my own answers, too.” Soft, scared Andie was fading. Hopefully, she could regain some composure and leave this shack with a little bit of her dignity intact.
Clay reluctantly nodded in agreement. “Do you remember the man who came to your office the other day, the Latino?”
“Yes,” she said.
“His name is Vincente Ospina. He is a Venezuelan national. He deals in money laundering for terrorist organizations, human trafficking, narcotics, and antiquities smuggling. He also has an unhealthy obsession with torture and murder.” Clay growled out a curse and then continued. “For years, the FBI has wanted to nail this son of a bitch, but he’s Teflon. Then we got a break. There was a large amount of communication between Ospina and Giovanni Tivoli, but there were no sales or transactions between them. It sent up a red flag, since Tivoli contacted Ospina, and you rarely see dapper, asshole antiquities dealers contacting evil death lords without a damn good reason. Something smelled fishy for sure, but by the time the feds were able to get a wire tap, all they got was chatter about an old diary, Claudius Smith, and something of enormous value hidden in a cave somewhere up here in the mountains.”
“Yes, and I guess that’s where I come in,” she muttered under her breath.
“Yes, it is. They needed some leverage on your boss—maybe catch him mixed up in illegal antiquities trading elsewhere so that he would help us with Ospina. But, as it turned out, we couldn’t catch Tivoli dirty either—or at least nothing worth holding his feet to the fire for.” He shifted his eyes to avoid her face. “So then we put our surveillance on you, thinking you might be the link,” he said.
“Don’t you mean ‘weak link,’ Clay?” She dismissed his thin attempt to hide the FBI’s opinion of her intestinal fortitude as she tried to wrap her mind around all the pieces of this complicated puzzle. “So he’s the buyer—Ospina,” she said, knitting her brows. “Do you believe that this man, Vincente Ospina, knows what the Atros Fallis can be used for? Tivoli could just have told him that the book itself was worth millions.”
“I don’t know, Andie. You’re the expert with that magic book or whatever the hell it is, and what it’s capable of doing. You said yourself that you never saw Tivoli so lathered up about any other antiquity before. One thing I do know, if Tivoli did inform Ospina of the gold formula, and if it really does work, Ospina will be an extremely dangerous adversary with unlimited capital for any terrorist group he wishes to fund. He would be the untouchable money man for sure.” He rubbed the back of his neck with splayed fingers and dug them into his taut muscles. “Ospina owns a private island off the coast of Venezuela, and he’s been shipping an abundance of materials there from multiple warehouses in the Tri-State Area. Nothing the feds can get a look at, they were just able to look at invoices of medical supplies. It’s all legal. A legit business supplying private amb ...”
She interrupted him. “Ambulances, right?”
“Yeah. How did you know?” He snapped his head up to look at her. “The ambulances have been coming and going for weeks now, but we can’t get a warrant—not enough evidence. Besides, the FBI and ICE would look extremely insensitive if we raided a company that was supplying bandages and medical tape to private ambulance companies. It’s all about damage control lately, and not offending the bad guys. It’s goddamned ridiculous, and just makes my job that much harder. But the DOJ won’t touch anything that isn’t rock solid and tied up nicely with a little red bow.”
“Tivoli,” she said as she pulled an elastic hair tie from her pants pocket. She pulled back her long, wheat colored strands that were almost dry from the heat radiating from the wood-burning stove. She took time to collect her thoughts to explain Tivoli’s operations, knowing all too well that her ass was on the line. She was privy to secretive details that now made her an accomplice instead of a w
itness. “That’s how he gets items around customs and transports them to clients.” She felt Clay’s eyes boring a hole through her and judging her like a common criminal—which she was. “Police feel awkward when they search an ambulance, especially one with an elderly person hooked up to an oxygen bottle. It works like this: He’ll have a mule claim they need medical assistance at the airport. They get a ride in a wheelchair straight through TSA with a carry-on bag full of stolen antiquities that are disguised as Gypsy trinkets or souvenirs, and then waiting outside in a fire lane is one of Tivoli’s personal ambulances—ready to transport the smuggled cache to the highest bidder. The bigger artifacts are placed in shipping containers and disguised as medical supplies. There is usually a false wall and compartment within the container, not very deep because everything is measured and weighed. Giovanni has extremely bright engineers working out the details for his operation. It’s an art in itself to smuggle relics in and out of the country.”
That was the first time she had called Tivoli by his first name to Clay, and she cringed, realizing she did have a personal relationship with her boss. Why she had stayed so long, even after so many years of his advances, and with the knowledge of his black market ring, was beyond reason. She sighed heavily with guilt and wondered how long her jail sentence would be.
Blood money, and you let it happen. Now it’s on your hands, Andie. Come clean.
Clay stared at her with sorrowful eyes. She was guilty, and she was painfully aware she deserved a punishment for her ties with Giovanni Tivoli.
Andie continued spilling her guts; it was the least she could do at this point. Purge it all. “I told you, he has people eating from his hand in every branch of local government, including a fair share of cops and judges. They’re all getting a fat paycheck from Tivoli. He has people all over the world in his operations, and now I’m sure he’s made a deal with Ospina to control South American customs agents as well. Tivoli is probably moving something around in those ambulances for Ospina, but damned if I know what it is.”
“Shit, if only we knew this before.” He shook his head and rose to his feet. He quickly reached for the tomahawk that just moments ago Andie was wildly wielding, and he cleaved the axe head into a thick, wood stud for safety. He took a seat in front of the laptop and punched in what looked like security codes to open locked files.
Andie met him at the table, but this time, she made sure to keep a considerable distance from him. She didn’t need to inhale his powerful masculine scent to send her hormones racing over the edge and into his perfectly fitting pants—this was definitely not the time for that.
“Is there any way you can list the specifics of Ospina’s medical supplies? An invoice? The wholesaler?” she asked, teeming with curiosity. Sensing that Ospina was not the humanitarian type after the display of rage he showed in her office—and after Clay’s description of his personal appetite for terror and torture—she figured Ospina was hiding something, but Clay and his fellow feds didn’t know what to look for to get a warrant to kick down his door.
“Yeah, sure, I have invoices that date back to last year.” He started punching at keys on his laptop. “Here it is. Looks like your average medical inventory for emergency care—two-by-two and four-by-four gauze, sterile saline, cases of Nitrile gloves, hydrochloric acid, iodine—”
“Wait! Iodine and hydrochloric acid! Clay, that’s it!” Andie gasped, gazing at the screen and the copies of several invoices. “Don’t you think there’s an excessive amount of liquid iodine being purchased? How many calls do you think private ambulances get for simple scrapes or bruises—it’s not like you put that stuff on everything.” She pushed back several thin strands of hair that hadn’t quite made it into her ponytail, and she ignored Clay’s curious look. “The amount of hydrochloric acid being delivered is way over the top, too. And you definitely don’t use hydrochloric acid to treat an injury.”
“You’re right, and I agree,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “We noticed that, too. But I told you, it’s a weak case—simply not enough to get a warrant. We can’t bust somebody for iodine abuse. And the hydrochloric acid is low-grade; you can get that shit at a pool store, for Christ’s sake! If there was one bag of fertilizer on that invoice we could possibly get our warrant, and that’s only if I kiss legal justice ass down in Washington.” His eyes stayed unflinching on her face. “C’mon, Andie. What’s with the iodine and hydrochloric acid? I knew you would have the answers, darlin’. That’s why I needed to push you for the information. We knew you were hell bent on coming up here, and Paul said you blew through several red lights the morning you left your apartment, but we just didn’t know what you were after.”
“Wait. Paul? Paul Krause, the forest ranger? How did he know I ran through several red lights?” She turned her head like a guard dog on alert. “He’s not a park ranger, is he? He’s been watching me, too? How many more of your goons have been taking photos of me? Do you have any good shower shots, Clay? Did you get your rocks off on those pictures?!” She was confused, pissed off, and painfully aware that with every question she asked, her knowledge of his deception would go deeper. “You need to answer some of my questions, Clay. I deserve an explanation!” Nausea was churning in her stomach.
She meant nothing to him; she was simply a material witness with incriminating information on his suspect. He would interrogate her, get his answers, and then leave. She would never see him again—and at this moment, that was fine with her.
Yeah, you keep trying to convince yourself that he means nothing to you, Andie.
He finally pulled his gaze away from the computer screen. His answer didn’t come right away, but when he spoke, his voice was low and ashamed. “Paul Krause is FBI. Like I said before, this was originally an FBI investigation, but when Paul realized that Tivoli was searching for info on Claudius Smith and the Ramapo Mountains, he called me. Paul and his team thought it was a little flaky that a man like Vincente Ospina suddenly found a new fascination with early American trinkets. That’s when they pulled me temporarily from ICE, briefed me, and assigned me to your case.”
“Why? Are you an expert in American Revolutionary War folklore?” She was trying to be sarcastic, and she was insulted by his use of the term “trinkets” for artifacts that were important in the country’s early history. She wanted to hurt him—break his heart, the same way hers was breaking now. She was just another file in his laptop, and she was thankful she hadn’t become a notch on his bedpost.
“No, I’m not an expert in Revolutionary history!” he spat out. His eyes sparked with anger. “But Paul was my team sergeant for my unit in Special Forces. We worked together for years, and I trust that man with my life—in fact, I owe him my life. He knew my family lived up here, and that I know these woods better than I know what the inside of my apartment looks like back in DC. He asked me to run point on this investigation because I was familiar with that crazy old legend. I took over the majority of surveillance for him six weeks ago.”
“You’ve been watching me for six weeks? Were you in my apartment? Answer me, you son of a bitch! Were you in my home?!” She was close to vomiting, and she needed to sit. From his silence, she knew the answer to her question. Her head began to pound, and when she reached the couch, she placed her head close to her knees to fight the urge to throw up in front of him.
“Andie, please. You have to understand that this is my job.” He winced, and his jaw went rigid. “That didn’t come out right. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, it did. It came out exactly right, Clay.”
He nodded with shame. “To answer your question, yes. Agents were in your apartment with a legal warrant—but it wasn’t me. The search already took place before I joined the surveillance team.”
She lifted her head, and her anguished stare met his. “Betrayal is part of your job, right, Clay? Just tell me the truth, you owe me that much.” She wanted the truth, but honestly she didn’t think she could withstand much more of this deceit from someone s
he had started to care about so much, and so quickly.
“Ask away. No more lies, I promise,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender.
“Was that even your house where we stayed? And how did you get your hands on a rare Jonathan Pillars paper? And what’s the real story behind your injured leg?” The questions were popping out of her mouth so fast, she was afraid she might ask him how many vulnerable women he’d bedded in the last year for the sake of his job. She stopped herself from asking that question, realizing just how hypocritical it would be coming out of her own mouth.
“Yes, that is my house.” He pressed his fingers against his temple as if trying to suppress an oncoming migraine. “I inherited it after my aunt and uncle died, and all the stories about my family were true—I didn’t lie to you about that.” Frustration was rising in his voice, and he took a moment to collect himself. He shot up from the table and went to the front of the cabin to peer out one of the small windows. “As for my injury, my last case with ICE was transporting a young witness back to a safe house. We were ambushed by the crew that was under investigation. I tied on a tourniquet and protected her until my backup showed.”
“And how did you save her? Protecting vulnerable females seems to be your thing,” she said sharply.
“I killed them all, Andie. And I enjoyed it! Satisfied yet?”
“Whose place is this?” she asked, less abrasively. She was trying not to antagonize him as much, especially after his last remark.
“It really is Luke Myers’ place, but he’s in Florida until the end of May, and I knew it would be vacant. I asked Paul to set it up as a secondary safe house. He left me a stash of new equipment and weapons, just in case our position at my house was compromised. I’m good—real fucking good—at what I do. I usually have multiple secured weapons locations when I’m on assignment—you never know when the shit will hit the fan. Better to be over prepared.” His sniper-like gaze penetrated the glass window. His arms were folded, and he leaned against a horizontal wall stud that was being used as a shelf for an old wine jug. “This time I fucked up good—I should’ve never let you get this deep. I let my own curiosity about Claudius’s cave and that ridiculous legend get the best of me. You should’ve been under witness protection hours ago. Paul and I would’ve wrangled up the rest of the players. All we needed was your testimony.”