by Vicki Hinze
“What?” She paused, knife midair, and looked up at him.
He sat down in a chair beside her, placed his coffee cup near the jam jar. “Gabby, what I’m about to tell you is extremely sensitive information. I know you’re having memory problems because of the infection—well, we think it’s actually from the vaccine you were given for the infection—but either way, you have to understand that if you screw up, we’re both dead.”
“I’m not a judge.”
“Actually, you are,” he corrected her. “You’re also a pilot, a special operations officer, and a senior covert operative for the U.S. Secret Service’s Special Detail Unit.”
“Special Detail Unit. SDU.” No way could she swallow. Not even dry toast. “And Conlee? Who is he?”
“Our commander.”
“You’re a covert operative, too.” A lead weight buried her heart. “We’re not married.”
“I’ve been your absentee husband a lot of times, Gabby. All those licenses and passports you found—those were your insertion identities from previous missions.” Max explained the Global Warrior attacks on the flight from Paris to Florida, the fruit and cruise ship infections in Texas, and the infestation of the vineyards in California. Then he went on to explain why Gabby had come to Carnel Cove, to investigate Judge Abernathy for judicial corruption in the three Global Warrior cases. Max talked until he told her everything he knew to tell her, and though she hadn’t responded, she no longer looked at him as if he’d lost his mind and she was debating bolting out of the house.
“I believe you—about almost all of it, Max.” She motioned for the carafe of coffee.
He refilled her cup, watched the steam lift off it. “What don’t you believe?”
Ignoring the butter and jam, she bit down on a piece of dry toast, chewed slowly, and finally swallowed. “It’s not that I don’t believe you—you can quit looking offended. It’s that I’m having trouble reconciling my instincts with what you’re telling me on … one point.”
He refilled his own cup and set the carafe back onto the table. “Everything I said is true, Gabby. I swear it.”
A frown creased her skin between her brows. She reached over and touched his neck, let her fingertips slide up his nape, cup his chin, and then she kissed him. Just a taste of a kiss, but when she met with no resistance, she deepened it, and Max responded to her.
She parted their mouths and sat back on her chair. “That’s what doesn’t fit, Max.”
“What?” Breathless from the kiss or confusion, he couldn’t think straight.
“The way I feel about you. The way you react to me. How could this just be a job between us? It doesn’t feel like just a job. I know you and your body. I know it, Max.”
He stiffened. “Yes.”
“So are we really married, too?”
“No, we’re not.”
“Are you telling me we’re just having an affair?” She looked incredulous. “I don’t believe it. I know better than to get involved on the job, Max, and so do you.”
“It’s not like that.”
“So what is it like?” She clearly hated his being evasive. “I heard Elizabeth and Candace. They asked if you were here to kill me.” Gabby clenched her fingers into a fist atop the table. “Is that true, Max?” Fury blazed in her eyes. “Did you come here to kill me and end up in my bed instead? Am I still breathing only because I slept with you?”
“No, Gabby.” He slid back his chair, stood up. “It’s not like that.”
She crowded him and, nose-to-nose, shouted, “Did you come here to kill me?”
Max glared back into a face that looked fragile, on the borderline of being devastated. He had hoped telling Gabby who she was would stir her memories, but that hadn’t happened, and if he answered her question now, he wasn’t likely to be around long enough to keep her alive. “I’m your partner, Gabby. You contacted Commander Conlee at Home Base and asked him to activate me. I’m here because you asked me to come.”
“I work alone.” She said it emphatically, and immediately knew it was true.
“You have worked alone,” he countered. “Until now.”
“Why did I activate you?”
“I don’t know. You told me you had evidence, that I’d get it whether or not you lived, but I haven’t been able to find it.” He leaned back against the counter, some of the steam leaving his voice. “Gabby, we need that information to prevent an imminent terrorist attack.”
“A terrorist attack?”
He nodded. “One threatening the public and our economy.”
He could see the wheels turning inside her mind. “These Global Warriors in Carnel Cove are manipulating the U.S. economy,” she said. “Is that what all the attacks have in common?”
“I think so, yes.”
She sipped from her cup, cradling it in her hand, needing its warmth. Inside, she felt ice cold. “And by extension, they’re manipulating the stability of the U.S. government.”
“By extension,” he agreed, folding his arms over his chest.
A memory winged through her mind. A memory of wet footprints on a concrete floor. Of a man in her garage attacking her. A memory of her killing him.
Gabby dropped the cup. Coffee splattered on the floor, on the hems of Max’s jeans, and the cup shattered. “Oh, dear God, no. No!” Her uneasy stomach slammed into full rebellion.
Gagging, she rushed from the kitchen to the bathroom, and the coffee and toast she’d just swallowed came right back up.
When she stopped heaving, Max came in, wet a washcloth at the sink, and then passed it to her. “Here.”
She took it, swabbed at her face. “Oh, God.”
“You’re too active. You’ve been seriously sick, Gabby.” He passed her a glass of water.
“I feel fine.” She took the cup, stood and rinsed her mouth, then flushed the toilet and turned to the sink.
“Right.” He backed up a step. “That’s why you’re in here vomiting your guts up.”
“Could you be a little less graphic? My stomach is still flipping cartwheels.” She glared at him in the mirror. “It’s not my health, Max. It’s this nightmare.”
“What nightmare?”
She checked his eyes in the mirror. Unfortunately, the man seemed sincere, which meant she’d used good judgment in not activating him before now, if in fact she hadn’t. “My life, for God’s sake. All this? I thought I was a judge. A small-town judge married to a man who spends too much time away from home. Now I find out I’m this … this …” She faltered, unable to bring herself to say murderer.
“Covert operative,” he filled in for her.
“Right.” She gobbed toothpaste onto the brush, inserted it into her mouth, and then began scrubbing her teeth. “It’s a lot to take in, Max. I mean, cutting a man’s throat. It’s not exactly top of the list on marketable job skills.”
He stepped up closer behind her. “Does it help to know you’re really good at it?”
“No!” She tossed the towel at him.
He caught it, laughed in her face.
“What an asinine thing to say to a woman.” How could he imagine something so vile was funny? “You’re a pig, Matthew Grayson. A pig,” she said from around the toothbrush, her mouth full of foam. “I can’t believe I was upset that I’m not really married to you.”
He looked pleased by that comment. Too pleased for it to not be genuine. “I meant you are good at your job, not at killing.” He shrugged, leaned a shoulder against the door casing. “Though, to be honest, you’re good at that, too.”
She bent over and rinsed, shoved the toothbrush back into its holder. “You’d think if I was that good at either, I’d remember it.”
“You’d think so.” He rubbed his neck. “Elizabeth said you kept mumbling, ‘Don’t tell.’ ”
“What does that mean?” She dabbed her mouth dry with a towel.
“Even when you were out of it, you didn’t break your cover. That’s proof of how good you are at your job, G
abby.”
“If you ask me, that’s proof I’ve spent too much time undercover.”
“You thought that, too.”
“I did?” Why couldn’t she remember that?
He nodded. “You told Sybil you were burned out.”
Bristling, she turned and leaned a hip against the counter. The space between them was crowded and the smell of soap on his skin triggered a memory of them making love. That memory was too vivid to not be real. “Max, what exactly is going on here?”
“I told you. The Global Warriors are planning—”
“No. I mean with us. I might not know for sure whether or not I’m married to you—”
“I told you. You’re not. It’s our cover.”
“—but I know I don’t fall into bed with just anyone.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” His expression grew somber and he picked up the towel and dried some water spots on the marble counter.
“You know what I think?”
“What?” He draped the hand towel through its ring to the right of the sink.
“I think you’re deliberately misleading me. I think you’re maybe even protecting me.”
“I’m not.”
“I think you are.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I think we are married—”
“Why would I lie, Gabby?”
“I don’t know why. I just know my life with you feels real and important. It feels …”
“Special?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft.
“Yes.” She glared at him. “Yes, exactly. All this SDU operative nonsense—it has to be a joke. Why are you doing this to me, Max? It’s not funny.”
“I’m not, honey. I swear it.” He reached out for her.
She twisted out of his grasp. “No. It’s not true. None of it. I would know.”
He grabbed her arm, turned her to face him, and then held her pinned between his body and the sink ledge. “I don’t lie to you, and I don’t play cruel jokes on you. Not now, not ever.”
Her heart shattered, leaving a gaping hole in her chest. Her life, all she knew and all that was familiar to her, was … gone. How could that be? How could any of this be?
She stood there, looking up at him, trying to take everything in and make some kind of sense of it. But nothing seemed to fit. Nothing felt right. Except Max. Max felt right. She stepped closer and hugged him, pressing her cheek against his chest.
A flash of them in the lab, of Candace stretching her blouse across a window trying to keep mosquitoes inside, raced through her mind. Max and Gabby in bed, making love. She leaned up and planted little kisses on his neck, jaw, and face—wherever her lips touched.
He lifted her and turned in a circle.
A deafening sound startled them. The window glass shattered.
Max dropped to the floor, and covered Gabby.
Gabby hit the floor hard. Max’s hand cupped her head, slammed her nose to his chest. “What happened?” And what was soaking her ear? It smelled like—
“I’ve been shot, Gabby.”
The director picked up the red phone in his study. There was no need to dial. It was a direct link between him and the Consortium and the security on it was tighter than that provided for President Lance at the White House.
“Yes?” The chairman sounded half asleep.
Considering the time, he probably had been. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“Do we have a problem?”
His phoning near dawn made that a logical deduction. “Yes and no. It’s a mixed bag.”
“Unmix it.”
“The vaccine is proving to be highly effective against the Z-4027 infection. Candace Burke is fine.”
“Burke’s version, or Erickson’s?”
“That’s part of the mixed bag. It could be either. Dr. Swift is investigating now, trying to make a determination.”
“I’m not even going to ask why we don’t know. Just fix it.” The chairman grunted, as if sitting up in bed. “What about Lady Justice?”
“Who?”
The chairman sighed, clearly impatient with the director’s performance on this venture. “The lady judge—Gabby Kincaid.”
“That’s the other part of the not-so-good news in the mixed bag, Mr. Chairman. It looked as if the infection would kill her. But Cardel—”
“The Warrior we haven’t lost?”
Wincing at the sarcasm, the director stiffened. “Yes, sir. The live one.” This was bound to tick the man off. “We haven’t yet located Jaris Adahan’s body, though Cardel has been keeping a close watch on Kincaid. She’s better.”
“Better as in, she’s going to live? Or better as in, she’s not yet in a coma?”
“Better as in, she’s been sitting in her kitchen having coffee and toast with her husband.”
“So you’re convinced now that he is her husband?”
The chairman was asking if she was a judge or the Justice Department investigator Andrew Abernathy suspected her to be, and that question the director still couldn’t answer. He hedged. “Cardel is convinced.” The director rubbed a knot of tension out of his neck. “They were up in the middle of the night arguing.”
“Sounds married.” The chairman paused, and then added, “Have Cardel take her out.”
The director swallowed back a groan. He’d hoped to avoid reporting yet more bad news. “Killing her right now probably isn’t wise. I heard at the Silver Spoon she has no memory. With no memory, she’s no threat. So why increase suspicion by killing her?”
“Is this memory loss permanent?”
“Drs. Swift, Erickson, and Burke think it could be. In earlier studies, Z-4027 caused long-term memory challenges. It didn’t just destroy the paths to specific parts of the brain storing memories. It destroyed the brain cells.”
“Don’t be wrong about this.”
“The doctors all agree.”
“No.” The chairman suddenly changed his mind. “I have a feeling about this. Have Cardel take her out. Make it look like an accident.”
There was no way around it now. The director stared at the antique desk lamp on his desk. “He failed once already and winged her husband.”
“Is there any more bad news coming down the pike?”
The director cringed. “I’m afraid so. A second SDU team is in transit to Carnel Cove.”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Kill Gabby Kincaid—forget the accident, just make sure she’s dead. Find out which of the vaccines worked. Tell Swift he’s out of time. And find that body!” The chairman slammed down the phone.
The director’s ear rang. He slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes. He wasn’t a freaking magician. Where hadn’t Cardel Boudreaux already looked?
He made the call to Boudreaux.
“Yeah?”
“Kill Gabby Kincaid. Forget form and just get it done. By dawn, an assassin team of SDU operatives is going to be crawling all over the Cove looking to bury you. And find Adahan’s body, for Christ’s sake.” Soon Gabby would be dead. Maybe then Andrew Abernathy would back off. He had had enough of people crawling down his throat and up his ass.
“I’ve looked everywhere. Even dove in the mucky water in the cove. Kincaid or that husband of hers must have dumped Adahan in the gulf.”
The water was so stirred up from the storm, an elephant could be in it and not be found.
“I’m finishing this job, but pass the word. After this, I’m retiring.”
Boudreaux could just … disappear. And he would. But there was too much money yet to be made. “I’m right behind you.”
“No, you’re not, though your island and redhead probably seem appealing right now.”
The director was impressed. He hadn’t made the paper trail easy to follow. “One island and redhead aren’t quite enough. I want two. Then I’m right behind you.”
Cardel grunted. “Then you’ll want three.”
He was probably right. “Maybe a blonde.”
“Anything but a brunette. Yo
ur perfect wife is a brunette.”
Surprised, the director paused. Cardel Boudreaux was worth every penny of his fee. “Call me when Kincaid is dead.”
“You’ve got it,” Cardel said, accepting his orders.
The director flipped the phone he’d used for two weeks—that was his limit on any cell phone—and tossed it onto his desk blotter.
“You bastard.”
His wife. Bad break. How much had she heard? The director looked over toward the study door. Three steps inside the room stood his perfect wife, and the look on her perfect face was of perfect horror.
“Islands? Redheaded whores? Orders to murder Gabby?” She grabbed her head and squeezed, as if what she was hearing threatened to explode her mind. “What have you done?”
He didn’t say a word. Just sat there and let her rant and rave, his arms resting on his stomach, his expression calm and collected. He had nothing to fear from her. A perfect image was the ultimate concern in her life, and she wouldn’t let anything—not even murder and other women—destroy it.
“Oh, God.” She gasped, her hand to her chest. “What have you done to the children? To me?” She backed up, bumped a shoulder against the door casing. “Their father, the murderer. Me, married to a murderer. Good God, that’s what people will say!”
He held his silence.
“You’re a monster. A monster! I hate you! Do you hear me, you son of a bitch? I hate you!” Sobbing, screeching, she turned, stumbled, and ran down the hallway and then up the stairs to the second floor.
He lighted a cigar and rocked back in his desk chair. At least they had that one thing in common. They both knew how to hate well.
Lasting marriages had been built on less.
A relentless hard knock at the front door had Candace hurrying to answer it. She peeked through the viewer and saw Gabby and Max. Both looked like death. Opening the door wide, she stepped back so they could come in and saw the blood soaking a tourniquet on Max’s left arm. “What happened?”
“He’s been shot,” Gabby said. “Get Keith.”
Gabby led him into the living room, though Candace couldn’t be sure who was actually holding up whom.