by Tess Diamond
For a moment, he just stood in the room with her, and she flushed in embarrassment. God, was he going to watch her?
But then he gestured at her. “Hurry up,” he ordered. And closed the door.
The bathroom was tiny and typical. Shower, bathtub, sink, toilet, mirrored medicine cabinet over the sink. Kayla scrambled for the cabinet, blinking hard, trying to get her eyes to focus. Her head felt like spikes were being hammered slowly into her temples. She needed to get free. She needed . . . something—a tool. With her hands bound, she was useless. She needed something sharp.
“Sharp,” she whispered to herself, trying not to make any noise as she pawed through the medicine cabinet. She kept having to stop and lean against the sink, the black spots dancing in front of her eyes.
There was a knock at the door. “You have one more minute.”
“Just a second,” Kayla called.
“You don’t need this long,” Grayson said.
“I’m a girl,” she said back, closing the medicine cabinet as softly as she could and bending down, carefully easing the sink cabinet door open. Please, please, let there be something. “I’m taking care of girl stuff. You don’t have any pads.”
There was a pause. She hoped she’d grossed him out, the jerk.
“Fine. Just hurry.”
“I’m trying,” she said. Her fingers closed around something cool. Something metal.
Scissors.
They were kind of small, like from a sewing kit. But she could make them work. She had to. She grabbed them, straightening up from her crouch too fast in her excitement.
The world swayed. It felt like the floor was dropping out from underneath her.
No. No. She couldn’t pass out. Not yet.
Kayla desperately tried to blink away the darkness. She needed to hide the scissors on her. She needed to tuck them into socks or her skirt or . . .
Her knees began to shake so hard they buckled. She hit the floor with a badly muffled cry.
“What’s going on?” Grayson asked.
The doorknob began to turn.
Kayla’s fingers tightened around the scissors.
No . . .
Chapter 35
Maggie hated awkward car rides, and unfortunately, her drive with Jake to SouthPoint headquarters was one of the most awkward she’d ever had. He’d been waiting for her in the driveway, clearly wanting to talk about what they’d just done, but when she’d told him about the connection between the senator and the SouthPoint CEO, he switched gears instantly.
He had insisted on driving, and she reluctantly agreed. As they drove farther from the town, the awkwardness had reached its breaking point. The knowing kind of tension combined with an acute awareness that he’d given her the best orgasm of her life made Maggie squirm in her seat. When they both reached for the radio dial, their hands had brushed and she’d gone bright red, wanting nothing more than to thread their fingers together, to relish the feeling of his skin against hers.
She had to do something. There was only so much commenting on pretty trees and local historic landmarks she could do before it became obvious she was just trying to fill the silence. But what else could she do? Should they talk about what had just happened? Or should she just focus on the case? If she hadn’t gotten a new tip, would he have just gone home—or would he have been waiting at her car because he wanted something more?
As time stretched on, she reached forward and started to fiddle with the radio just for something to do, anything to break the silence. After scanning through a few stations, she settled on classic rock.
Jake snorted.
“What?” she demanded.
“Rock, really?”
“Let me guess,” she said. “You like country.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. If he had been wearing a hat, she was sure he would have tipped it. She wondered if he’d spent his childhood riding horses and roping cattle, or if the drawl was merely for show.
She had a feeling nothing about him was for show. He was 100 percent grade-A American cowboy turned soldier turned security specialist. An interesting career trajectory, to say the least.
An interesting man. In so many ways. Being in his arms had made her feel more exciting, more alive than she’d felt in years.
“I bet you and the Man in Black could trade some stories,” Maggie said.
He grinned, and she couldn’t help but smile back at getting it right. She liked it, this bickering, this surprisingly effortless teasing.
“Johnny Cash knew love,” Jake said. “The good and the bad.”
“He certainly put June through a lot,” Maggie agreed.
“Some people are worth fighting for, don’t you think?”
She glanced over at him, the seriousness in his expression making every part of her tighten with awareness. He was the type who would fight for his woman. Who’d make her the center of his world.
“We’re here,” Jake said, before she could decide how to respond.
Maggie looked away from him and out the window, startled. He’d pulled up to a warehouse where greasy oil drums and muddy oil drilling trucks were lined up in rows behind a chain-link fence. Jake drove through the open gates and parked. Several single-story prefab metal buildings stretched across the property, most of them locked up tight.
Maggie got out of the car with him, and they headed across the lot toward a two-story building that looked like an office.
“Hey,” someone called behind them. “Can I help you?”
Maggie turned and looked the man up and down. He was older, with salt-and-pepper hair, and wore a flannel button-up shirt with the sleeves pushed up. He had on a hard hat, and there was a black smear of oil across his forearm.
“Let me take care of this,” she said to Jake in an undertone.
Before he could respond, she smiled at the man, walking up to him. “Hi, I’m Special Agent Kincaid with the FBI.” She flashed her wallet at him so quickly he didn’t have time to look closely. “I’m looking for the manager of this facility.”
“My boss is out for lunch,” he said. “You’re gonna have to come back later.”
Maggie wasn’t that easily dismissed. “This is time sensitive, so we’ll have to ask you some questions right now. What’s your name?”
“Tom Jennings,” the man said. “Look, what’s this about?”
“An investigation,” Maggie said. “Do you know who Senator Thebes is?”
“Sure,” Tom said, nodding. “I voted for him.”
“Have you ever seen him around here?”
He frowned, looking genuinely confused. “Why would a senator come here?”
“What about the name Max Grayson?” Jake said. “Does that ring any bells?”
Tom shook his head.
“How about Roger Mancuso?” Maggie asked.
Again, Tom shook his head, looking even more bewildered.
“Are you sure?” Jake asked, pulling his phone out of his pocket and swiping the screen until he’d located Mancuso’s photo. He held it out to Tom. “Have you seen this guy around?”
The man took the phone, squinting at the screen for several seconds. “He does look kinda familiar,” he said.
Maggie’s heart leapt. She wanted to pounce, but forced herself to remain quiet. It was never a good idea to apply pressure when someone was trying to remember something.
Tom took off his hard hat and scratched his head, handing the phone back to Jake. “He looks a lot like Joe. Same eyes, same chin, same big nose.”
“Who’s Joe?” Maggie asked.
“Guy who used to work here. Good guy. Great worker. Always picking up the slack. Always pulled overtime. Never complained. It was really sad what happened. He got killed over in Riyadh, working on the pipeline.”
Killed? Maggie’s mind raced. Was Mancuso’s plot all centered around revenge? Or was he trying to cover up a murder?
“How did he die, exactly?” Jake asked.
“Car accident,” Tom said. �
�It sucked. He was one of my best guys. If I’d had ten of him, this place would be running smoothly.”
“Would you happen to have his file still?” Maggie asked.
Tom looked at her, eyes wide. “That’s private, miss.”
“Tom,” Jake cut in with a smile. “What would it take for it to be not so private anymore? Three hundred? Four?”
Before the man could answer, Jake had pulled out four hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them over. Tom took the money automatically.
Jake’s method was smart, Maggie thought approvingly. Once someone has cash in hand, it’s that much harder to give it back.
Tom looked down at the bills with a surprised expression. “I—I don’t—” He stuttered.
“Five hundred then,” Jake said, as if he was being hardballed. He placed the final note in Tom’s hand, and the man’s fingers closed around it.
They had him.
“No one has to know,” Jake advised him.
“Well, okay,” Tom said, pocketing the bills. “Come on.”
He led them into the building, where they followed him down a hall and then into an office filled with file cabinets. They stood in silence, waiting for a few minutes while he looked through one.
“Here it is.” He turned, taking a file folder out of the cabinet and handing it to Jake. He pointed to the copy machine in the corner. “It’s an old one, so you have to do it a page at a time. I’m heading out. I didn’t see you, okay? Lock the office door behind you when you leave. I can give you fifteen minutes. Then I’ll come back to set things straight and secure the building.”
Tom left. Maggie could tell he just wanted to get out of there. Good. That meant he wouldn’t talk, especially if he felt ashamed or nervous about taking the bribe.
“Okay,” she said. “Time to copy.” She flipped open the folder, marked “Joe Tiller.” Walking over to the copy machine, she positioned the first page on the glass. A shadow fell over her, and Jake’s arm brushed up against her.
“You have it upside down,” Jake pointed out.
Maggie had to force herself to hold still. All she could think about as he reached over, the warmth of his body pressed along her back—who knew there were so many nerve endings in her shoulders?—and flipped the piece of paper over.
“You okay, Goldilocks?” he asked, and she didn’t have to turn around to know he was smiling that cocky, self-assured smile. He knew he was affecting her—and he liked it.
She wanted to punch him in the face.
She wanted to push him against the wall and kiss him.
The problem was, she couldn’t figure out which she wanted more.
Chapter 36
“Can I see the copy of the newspaper article about the accident again?” Jake asked.
Maggie handed it over.
They were sitting in the back seat of his SUV about two miles down the road from the SouthPoint headquarters. After copying the folder’s contents and locking the office behind them, they’d hightailed it out of there before Tom returned. Once they were far enough away, Jake had pulled over so they could pick through Joe Tiller’s file.
They’d spread the files out on the back seat, sitting so close their knees kept brushing as they sifted through the papers. He kept looking down each time they touched, and even fumbled with the papers in his hands when she leaned over.
“Am I distracting you?” she asked, an eyebrow arched.
He grinned, sheepish. “Always.”
She rolled her eyes, secretly pleased as she scanned the calendar in front of her. She frowned as she mentally added up the hours.
“Damn, this guy worked a lot of overtime,” she said, glancing up at Jake. The look on his face made her pause. “What?”
“I’m reading through the report on the accident that killed Joe,” Jake explained. “It seems like a hit to me.”
Maggie straightened in her seat, papers slipping all over her lap. She leaned forward, inhaling the subtle spiciness that seemed to cling to his skin. “Really?” she asked. Who in the world would want to put a hit on a blue-collar oil worker?
“I’d put money on it,” Jake said.
Maggie took the article from him, reading through it. “I don’t see it,” she said. It seemed like a normal article reporting a tragic car accident. “What am I missing?”
“It’s too clean. There’s no follow-up by law enforcement. It was just . . . dropped. Because all the details were just right. Tidy. Perfect. All of this, actually.” He gestured to the papers spread across the front seat and dashboard. “This entire file.”
Maggie frowned. “That’s what Grace said about Mancuso’s apartment.”
“Grace?” Jake asked.
“The FBI profiler,” Maggie clarified. “She’s great. Without even knowing it, she keyed in on Grayson not being an authentic persona. She told me that everything about his place was too perfect to be real . . . like he was playing a part.” She looked down at Joe Tiller’s work schedule. “You think Joe was playing a part too?”
Jake nodded. “I don’t think Joe Tiller’s his real name. Spooks don’t use their real names.”
“What?” Maggie couldn’t help but scoff. “You think he was a spy?”
“I spent a long time in the Middle East, Maggie,” he said, his voice so serious her skin began to prickle. “I worked mostly covert ops. I have a lot of experience working with intelligence pros. You learn how to spot the signs. And when I was over there, I saw hits like this go down all too often.”
“Are you sure?” Maggie asked. She looked at the article again, trying to read between the lines and see the clues he’d found. “We’re not in a movie. And this guy is dead. Unfortunately, Mancuso’s not.”
“Tom didn’t say the picture I showed him was Joe,” Jake reminded her. “He said it looked like Joe. Roger Mancuso had two parents and a brother, remember?”
“So . . . maybe Joe was Roger’s brother—a spy who was killed in the Middle East?” Maggie said, trying to follow him down his theoretical rabbit hole. She shuffled through some papers, pulling up one of Joe’s travel schedules. “He did spend a lot of time over there.”
“Joe Tiller is actually Joe Mancuso, Roger’s brother. The fake name, the job at SouthPoint was probably his cover,” Jake said.
“Or maybe his mission,” Maggie offered, her eyes lighting up. “If investigating SouthPoint was the assignment, then that file Mancuso wants so much will tell us why—and lead us to who killed him.”
Jake nodded.
“Whatever the senator’s hiding about SouthPoint must be incredibly corrupt—something big that will dirty a lot of hands—including Thebes’. If Mancuso’s brother was a threat to exposing that, killing him would be seen as an easy solution to a problem.”
“So this is very personal for Mancuso,” Jake mused. “Family’s always personal.”
She nodded. “It’s about revenge and justice. That’s why it never felt like it was about money or Kayla—it’s all about Senator Thebes. He’s involved in something big and crooked with the company. Mancuso blames him for his brother’s murder, just as if he was the one who drove Joe off the road,” Maggie said. Thebes had proven repeatedly he was ruthless when it came to protecting his reputation. “I mean, for all we know, Thebes could have ordered or paid for the hit on Joe.”
“It’s entirely possible,” Jake said. “But what does that mean for the profile?” Jake asked.
Maggie licked her dry lips. “It means Mancuso will do anything,” she said in a hushed voice. “He’ll justify any act—killing Kayla, shooting a cop, even his own death. He’ll do anything to ruin Thebes. He’s got tunnel vision. Even if Mancuso was just your average petty thief before his brother’s death, he suspects Thebes is somehow involved in Joe’s murder. So he’s got a powerful motive. You’ve got to love someone a lot—like a brother—to go to war for them like this.”
Jake swore under his breath. He reached out, his arm settling around her shoulder, drawing her clo
ser. She let him, closing her eyes for a moment, wanting nothing more than to sink into his warmth and never leave. She pressed her cheek against his chest.
“He’s all in,” she whispered, her heart sinking.
Jake pressed a kiss on her temple. “I know,” he said.
Kayla was just collateral damage at this point. Mancuso may not fit the standard kidnapper/murderer profile, but he’d do anything to accomplish his goals. He might not slit her throat, as he’d threatened to, but if Thebes didn’t give in, he’d kill her somehow. She was just a pawn in his bigger game of revenge.
He’d do anything to take his brother’s murderer down. Sacrifice anyone.
Even himself.
Chapter 37
The Royal, an old-school, exclusive restaurant, existed only to serve important men doing important things over expensive scotch. The booths were made of studded leather, the cigars cost more than Maggie’s electric bill, and the oysters were imported from Australia at a hundred bucks apiece—wholesale.
“Miss! Excuse me, miss!” The hostess tried to stop her, but Maggie ignored her as she and Jake breezed past her station and into the dining room. The opulent burgundy rugs were so plush that her heels sank in a good inch deep. It made her feel slightly unsteady, as if she was walking on a sponge.
“There he is,” Maggie said, pointing to the corner booth where Frank was sitting with a man so neatly put together that the part in his hair looked like he’d combed it with a ruler. She was pretty sure he was the head of the Armed Services Committee. Crap. Frank wasn’t going to be happy with the interruption, but desperate times . . .
“Miss!” The hostess had caught up with them.
“I’ll take care of her,” Jake said. “Go on.” He turned to the hostess and flashed her a smile.
Of course he’d go for the charm. Annoyed but grateful, Maggie rolled her eyes and walked over to the booth, clearing her throat. Frank looked up midslurp, an empty oyster fork at his lips. He coughed. “Maggie, what in the world are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you,” she said.