“So … what? You decide to come home and … and … break up with me?” Suddenly Jimmy's erratic behavior over the past year made sense—in a backwards, twisted, utterly imbecilic way.
“I didn't know what else to do. I thought you'd be safe if I—”
“You should have come to me, or, God, at least told Decker!”
“I thought—”
“That I'd just let you go?” Tess asked him. “Oh, well? Thought he was the love of my life, but I guess it didn't work out?”
He was silent again, for such a long stretch of time that she stood up, putting some distance between them, afraid that if she didn't, she'd smack him.
But he didn't answer her and he didn't answer and she got tired of waiting. “Don't you shut down on me now,” she said, all of her anger and fear and frustration coming to a boil. Her voice got even louder—she couldn't help it. “Don't you dare!”
“I was scared,” he shouted back at her. “All right? I was fucking terrified. I've never gone up against anyone like these motherfuckers. I have never searched so hard and so long and come up so empty. That doesn't happen to me, Tess. I can do this job with my eyes closed. I'm better than everyone—except for these guys. They want me dead, and they'll go through you to do it!”
There was a knock on the door. A voice from the other side. “Everything okay in there?”
Great. It was Jules Cassidy, come to see what all the shouting was about.
The fastest way to get rid of him would be to give him a visual, so Tess quickly crossed to the door. Opened it. The light was on in the hall, and she squinted in the brightness.
The FBI agent was actually wearing Mighty Mouse boxer shorts, a Juicy Fruit T-shirt, and a rueful smile, his hair charmingly rumpled and his feet bare, as if he'd rolled out of bed.
Stopping on his way to get his sidearm, which he held loosely but with total authority.
“Jimmy's feeling better, but I don't think he's quite ready yet to be shot for being a jerk,” she told Jules. “But thank you. I'll stick to yelling at him for now.”
He laughed his surprise, even as he looked past her to do a quick visual sweep of the room. Tess, too, glanced back to where Jimmy was in bed, his arm up, covering his eyes, his nose tucked into the crook of his elbow, his misery apparent.
“We're clear,” Jules said, and Tess realized that he was wearing his miniaturized headset—an earpiece that was about the size of a large hearing aid, with a microphone that was aimed vaguely toward his mouth.
She and Jimmy had been given similar headsets, so they would always be in the communications loop.
“I'm sorry we woke everyone,” she apologized.
“Nah,” Jules said, good-natured as always. “It's barely nine o'clock. I turned in early because I'm still on eastern time. I figured it'd be better for me to stay on that schedule. That way I can take the morning watch and not have it, you know, kill me.”
“Still,” Tess said.
“The timing was good,” Jules reassured her. “We'd scheduled a drill for nine thirty, so … We're going to be running worst-case scenarios pretty much constantly over the next few days. Tomorrow, if Jimmy's up for it, we'll do several where we get the two of you, plus Robin and Ash, into the security room. See how long it takes us.”
The security room doubled as a panic room. Once its door was locked, it would take a tank to blast through the reinforced walls.
“Late morning's probably best for that,” Tess said. “Let Jimmy sleep in as long as he can.”
Jules nodded, his smile kind. “We'll figure it out tomorrow. Hey, as long as he's awake, take his blood pressure and temp, okay?”
“I will.”
“Tell him I'm glad he's feeling better enough to get the verbal ass-kicking he deserves. And be sure to throw in a you're a freaking idiot or two for me, while you're at it.” He nodded at the door. “Don't forget to lock it.”
Sophia was going to be sick.
The man in the hospital bed was a stranger—a frail, desiccated old man who looked as if he'd lived far longer than the slightly-less-than-sixty years she knew her father to be.
Of course, considering his years of drug abuse, plus nearly two decades of hard time in a foreign prison, it was amazing he was still breathing.
It was only if she squinted and tilted her head that she could see a shimmering ghost of the vibrant, laughing man with the long, sun-bleached, dirty-blond hair that she'd known all those years ago.
The rush of memories was dizzying—playing Frisbee with him in what looked like a park but was, in fact, royal gardens, her father turning the potential trauma of getting chased away by soldiers on horseback into just another game. It was he who insisted she dress in boys’ clothes, giving her precious freedom as they traveled through countries where women and girls were treated as second-class citizens.
She remembered him reading to her, always reading, his voice slow and lazy, but still melodic even when he was stoned. She remembered him singing to her, too—Lord, he'd loved his guitar.
She'd carried it with her for months after he'd vanished. She'd nearly died fighting to keep it from being stolen, and, badly beaten, she'd wept— not over her scrapes and bruises, but over the guitar's loss, over having failed him.
And over her realization that he was never coming back.
“Hey,” Dave said, his voice in her ear, in tune with her as always. “Okay, it's okay, I've got you. Hold on to me and just breathe, all right, Soph?”
She nodded, closing her eyes against the nausea that swirled around her, as he pulled her down the hall, all but carrying her, his arm strong and warm around her waist.
He was speaking to someone in his team-leader voice—commanding, authoritative—and within seconds, he'd found her some blessed privacy in a bathroom, and had closed and locked the door behind them both.
Sophia went right to the sink and ran cool water on her hands and wrists, splashing it up onto her face, her makeup be damned. Dave hovered, pulling paper towels from the rack on the wall and holding them out for her.
“How can I help you?” he asked as she dried her face, his voice as filled with his concern for her as his eyes. “Tell me what you need.”
Sophia had to laugh—it was either that or cry. “You mean, besides a trip to Hawaii and a new car? A Prius, I think. Or maybe one of those cute little Smart Cars.”
Dave smiled, but it wasn't enough to hide his worry as he pushed a stray lock of her sodden hair behind her ear, his fingers gentle against her cheek. “Seriously, Soph. Just say the word and we're out of here. Seeing your father shouldn't make you physically ill.”
“I'm okay,” she said. “It was just… weird. I'd hated him for so long that… I'd forgotten how much I loved him.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and he didn't hesitate. He pulled her close and tucked her in against him, enveloping her in his arms, his chin against the top of her head. “I'm so sorry,” he murmured, his voice a rumble in his chest. “I can only imagine how hard this must be. It's completely okay if we just go to the hotel—”
“No.” She shook her head. It had taken her a day to decide to come to Boston, another day of travel—heading east, they'd lost three hours of daylight. She was jet-lagged and nauseated and needed a shower, a hot meal, and some seriously tender lovemaking, followed by a full night of sleep. But only after she did this. “I want to see him. Talk to him.” She pulled back to look up at Dave, wiping her eyes with the crumpled paper towel in her hand. He didn't look convinced, so she said it again. “I want to.”
“He'll still be here tomorrow,” he pointed out.
But she shook her head. “No. We're here now. And I don't want to tempt fate. Will you do me a favor and—”
“Absolutely,” he cut her off. “Whatever you need.”
She had to smile at that. “One of these days, you're going to say that, and you'll find yourself repaving my driveway.”
“With a smile on my face, and a song in my heart,” Dave t
old her. He was dead serious, too. “What do you need me to do right now?” He figured it out before she could answer. “Distract Maureen.”
Sophia nodded. “I don't want to do this in front of her,” she said. “I'm sure I'm going to do it wrong; I mean, I haven't read Miss Manners recently, so I don't know the correct etiquette for a reunion with a long-lost father.”
Dave smiled as she'd hoped he would. “Consider it done,” he promised.
And then, because he was so solidly Dave, she dared to ask for more. “Do you think you can keep her out of the room and still… come in with me?”
“You want me in there?” he asked, as if he didn't quite believe her.
“Very much,” she whispered.
He nodded, holding her gaze. “Then I'm there,” he said, as if it were a given, written in stone.
“She's extremely …” Sophia searched for the right word.
“Domineering?” Dave volunteered. “Pushy? Bossy … ?”
“I was going to say bitchy,” she told him. “Entitled and a little mean.”
“Frightened,” Dave countered, “because her little brother, whom she loves, really is dying this time.”
He was right. The nurse had told Sophia that her father was going to be moved into their facility for hospice care in the morning. “That, too,” she admitted.
He kissed her—a sweet brush of his lips against hers. “Nurses, bless their souls, have expert level ratings when it comes to the world's Aunt Maureens. Give me about twenty seconds to delegate, and I've got your back.”
“Thank you,” Sophia told him, and he kissed her again.
“Anytime.”
He released her, and she turned to check her hair in the mirror over the sink. Her eyes were red and swollen and most of her makeup had been washed away.
“You look beautiful,” Dave told her—another absolute. “Let's do this.”
“I'm ready,” she said, although she wasn't quite sure she meant it.
But when Dave held out his hand, and she took it?
She was.
Someone had definitely been in Tess and Nash's apartment.
Decker went through the place carefully, but found no sign of robbery, no sign even that the place had been searched. Which didn't mean it hadn't been. It just meant that whoever had done the job had chosen a covert method—as opposed to a toss-and-run.
He probably should have used his secure satellite phone to call for backup, except there wasn't anyone to call. Jules, Sam, and Alyssa were all precisely where he wanted them to be—guarding the safe house, where they'd moved Nash and Tess yesterday morning. The last thing Decker needed was for any of them to leave their posts.
Besides, what would he say? Nothing's been moved. Nothing big, that is. But I'm pretty sure I sense a molecular disturbance. Someone—besides me—has been in this apartment, sometime in the last week, moving the air around.
Back in the hospital, Decker had spoken to Nash only briefly about the men who'd tried to blackmail and then murder him. The conversation had been short not only because Nash was easily exhausted, but because he honestly didn't know much about them. He believed they were somehow connected to the Agency, an organization for which Deck, too, had once worked. But Nash didn't know that for sure. Whoever they might be, they were, he'd stressed to Decker, the most formidable of opponents.
So after Deck had walked through the apartment twice, he'd gone out to his truck to get the bug sweeper that he kept behind the front seat. It wasn't until he went over the place thoroughly—and found no electronic surveillance devices—that he got the duffel bag down from the shelf in the master bedroom closet. It was exactly where Tess had told him it would be, above a tidy row of her clothing—mostly dresses and feminine versions of business suits.
He refused to let himself get too distracted, although there was one dress—formal, floor-length and slinky—that made him stop and look. It was gold and it glittered, with a set of string-like straps that he couldn't quite figure out, but that he guessed, when positioned properly, would leave most of Tess's back exposed. Most of her front, too—the neckline of the dress was cut almost down to the waist.
And yeah, perv that he was, he couldn't not touch it, and the soft fabric slipped seductively through his hands before he left the closet and set to work opening the drawers in the big dresser beneath the front window, doing what he'd come here to do—pack up a few things for his friend.
Not a lot, and nothing that would lead anyone who came in to search the place to believe that Nash was still alive. A stack of his favorite, comfortably faded T-shirts in rich colors, and an old sweatshirt—things that Tess might've wanted to wear to bed.
Deck then went through his friend's underwear drawer, searching for the Holy Grail of boxer briefs—a pair that was red-and-blue-striped.
Several weeks ago, Decker had gone to Target and bought Nash new socks and underwear. No way was he going to come here and remove clothing that Tess herself would never wear—not after taking such great pains to make sure their enemy believed Nash to be dead. But the substitute briefs Deck had purchased were apparently “ ball-crushingly uncomfortable” and “like wearing sandpaper.”
Despite his delicate hindquarters, Nash couldn't remember the brand or style of briefs that were his favorites—only their red and blue color. Hence Decker's current scavenger hunt.
And there they were, red and blue, in the middle of an impressively huge stack of underwear. As Deck pulled them out, he had to admit that they were exceedingly soft to the touch. And yet they were cotton—truly a miracle of modern science. He made a note of the brand and the size, refolded them, and put them back on top of the pile.
He'd head for the mall in the morning, on his way out to the safe house. Nash was also going to need workout gear. Shorts. Sweatpants.
Jeans.
The irony there was that Nash had more pairs of jeans on the shelf in the closet than a man would need in an entire lifetime. And Deck was going to be buying him yet another pair.
And they probably wouldn't be soft enough, either.
Next item on his list was… He found the pile of novels right where Tess had said they were—on the table next to her side of the bed—and put them into the duffel. She'd also wanted her bathing suit—he'd have to remember to pick up a new one for Nash, too. Her favorite slippers, her running shoes.
He'd found everything and was zipping the bag when he heard it.
A sound from the living room that signaled more than a mere disruption of air molecules.
Deck grabbed his sidearm from his shoulder holster as he both dove for cover and spun, weapon raised, to face his attacker.
Who screamed, dropped the laundry basket she'd been carrying, and fell backward onto the tile floor, her hands in the air. “Don't shoot, it's me, don't shoot!”
Jesus, it was Tracy Shapiro, the Troubleshooters receptionist.
Decker immediately stood down. Figuratively. In reality, he slipped the safety back onto his weapon and flopped back on the plush carpeting, closing his eyes as he waited for the buzz-rush from the adrenaline at least to stop surging. With the jolt he'd gotten, it wasn't going to start to fade for a good long time.
“What,” he managed to ask, “the hell… ?”
“I'm sorry,” Tracy gasped. “I rang the buzzer, but I guess you didn't hear me.”
He turned his head to look at her. There was no way he'd missed hearing a buzzer. Was there? Damnit, if he had … He rolled up into a sitting position as he holstered his weapon beneath his short-sleeved overshirt.
“Maybe it's broken,” she continued to prattle. “I mean, I pushed the button, and I assumed it buzzed but that I just couldn't hear it from out in the hallway so—”
Decker cut her off. “How did you get in?”
She fished in the front pocket of a pair of jeans that were right out of 1972. They fit her like a second skin, cut low on her hips but flaring out at the bottoms. “I have a key,” she announced, pulling one fre
e and holding it up as Exhibit A. “Tess gave it to me when they—when she—moved in.”
As she re-pocketed it, her T-shirt rode up, exposing a smooth expanse of tanned, toned skin and, yes, a belly-button ring in a bright shade of blue. It figured Tracy would have one of them. As if those jeans weren't enough to turn the hetero male portion of the population into one giant hard-on.
Back when Decker was ten, he'd had a babysitter named Mary Kate Sullivan who wore hip-huggers nearly identical to these. Over three decades later, and he still hadn't recovered.
“I live upstairs … ?” Tracy now reminded him.
“I know.” Deck nodded as he pushed himself to his feet. She'd helped Tess and Nash find this apartment. Tracy and Tess had been friendly. Not good friends, not particularly close, but certainly neighborly.
“Are you here to get Jimmy's things?” she asked.
He felt himself go still. Why would she think he was here for Nash's things?
“Because I can help,” she continued, gathering up the clothes that had fallen out of the laundry basket when she'd dropped it, quickly refolding some of the T-shirts. “There's a Goodwill box at the grocery store down the street, although you might want to take his shoes to a consignment store. There's one that specializes in designer brands. Shoot, I forget the address, but it's over near the zoo.”
And Decker realized that when Tracy had said get Jimmy's things, she'd meant get as in pack them up and move them out of the apartment—which is what people did when someone died.
“No,” Deck told her. “Thanks, but I'm just here to pick up some stuff for Tess.”
Tracy believed him, her eyes somber. “How is she?”
“Hanging in,” he lied as he held out his hand.
Again, she bought it as she let him pull her up. “How are you?”
Most people didn't dare to ask him that. But the concern in her eyes was genuine.
And warm.
And for several long seconds, Decker found himself thinking about a phone conversation he and Tracy had had nearly two months ago. She'd told him she was available, if he ever needed anything, and being male, he'd thought she'd implied something else entirely. Something that included the exchange of bodily fluids. And while he'd stayed silent, figuring out what to say in response, she'd realized that her words could have been taken as a sexual invitation, and she'd furiously backpedaled, letting him know that that wasn't what she'd meant at all, that she'd meant she was here if he should ever need to talk.
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