Secret Agent Boyfriend

by Addison Fox

  Kinley twisted the throttle and sent the small boat revving back toward the massive and eerily quiet ship.

  There was a Jacob’s ladder hanging on the side of the ship. That ladder was only lowered when people were getting off. Otherwise it was stowed. There was no one around, the ominous absence of the engine and the fog that still lay thick around her completely muffling all sound. That persistent chill seeped through her. A chill of apprehension.

  She cut the engine and anchored the little boat. Pulling out her cell, she tried to find a signal so that she could call her boss. No luck. “Damn,” she swore under her breath, torn between investigating herself and persisting in reaching her boss. What if there were CGs up there in distress and her inaction inadvertently caused someone to die? After setting down the phone, she grabbed the knotted rope sides, set her sneaker onto the first rung and pulled herself up. She looked up the side of the vessel but there was no visibility whatsoever. It looked like the fabled ladder that led to the clouds and heaven.

  The churning in her stomach left her clammy, but she swallowed hard and climbed, pressing the foreboding back with a sheer wall of determination.

  It was the fog and the anniversary of her father’s death that triggered the haunting memories, the fear, the pain and the realization that she wasn’t really safe in the world. Ever. The terrorists would have killed her, too, had chased after her, but the fog had deterred them. It had saved her life, yet it wasn’t a friend. All she’d heard were the gunshots.

  She’d never even seen her father die.

  The boat dipped in a swell and her eyes popped open. She took a breath and heaved it out as she started to climb again. When she reached the rail, she hauled herself over, pulling out the SIG Sauer handgun at the small of her back. She flipped off the safety and chambered a round.

  She still couldn’t see a damn thing. Crouching low, she sidestepped her way across the deck, heading for the bridge. She kept quickly checking her six, leading with her slightly bent elbows and the black-as-hell weapon.

  “CGIS! Is there anyone aboard? Identify yourself!”

  Only her voice echoed back to her, sounding tinny in the thick fog that enclosed her.

  Then suddenly she tripped and flew forward, and she was back on the London street again, stumbling and falling to the pavement, landing right alongside her father’s frozen face and his open, dead eyes.

  It took her a moment to push back the panic and turn her head. As she did, the fog lifted on a sudden breeze. She cried out and scrambled backward.

  Blood was on her hands, smeared on her weapon and down the length of her body. Staring at her with open dead eyes was a man dressed in a Coast Guard uniform. She turned to look behind her and was met with a similar grisly scene. Another man lay prone, more blood, more staring eyes.

  “Ohmigod,” she said softly, rising and trying her best to ignore the metallic smell of the blood and the red. Pearled drops dripped off her forearm as she raised her firearm and moved again, this time stepping over the body and checking the deck in front of her.

  She was breathing hard, clammy sweat beading and running down her temples and her back.

  As the sun rose, the ship became more visible. Crouching, she circled the bridge and approached the open door. Another no-no on a ship at sea. All doors were always closed and secured. It was a hardcore CG rule.

  When she breached the door and glanced quickly inside, she found no threat. Just more bodies, obviously deceased. Without pausing, she did a check of the rest of the ship, and found one more dead. She lowered her weapon and headed back toward the bridge and the radio, stepping over each body. Six in all.

  She searched for, but couldn’t find, the logbook that would identify the vessel. Walking back outside, she leaned over the side of the railing, but there were no call numbers on the hull. No name, either. Back inside the bridge, she picked up the mic. Taking a breath to calm the trembling in her body, she pressed the transmission button and said, “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Special Agent Kinley Cooper aboard the unknown Coast Guard vessel, unknown Coast Guard vessel, unknown Coast Guard vessel at position 37.0431°N, 76.2933°W. The vessel is drifting on the tide. I repeat. The vessel is drifting on the tide. No call numbers, no name, no logbook. Request immediate aid to secure the vessel. No medical personnel are required. All crew aboard are dead—six in all. Request contact of Coast Guard Investigative Services special agent in charge Kirk Stafford. Engines are silent. But there is no visible damage to the vessel. It is intact and has not yet run aground. No hostiles aboard. Over.”

  A male voice responded, the quality distant with a humming sound each time the speaker pressed the mic. “Unknown Coast Guard vessel, this is the United States Coast Guard vessel Point Sharon. Break. Break. Request the description of the vessel. Over.”

  “Eighty-two-foot Point-class cutter. Over.”

  Kinley rested against the console, attempting to collect herself. She was more than rattled. Was there ever a time when such a scene wouldn’t faze her?

  “Special Agent Cooper, sit tight. United States Coast Guard vessel Point Sharon is en route. Alerting United States Coast Guard, Sector Hampton Roads. Alerting SAC Stafford. Over.”

  “Roger that, United States Coast Guard vessel Point Sharon. Over and out.”

  She set down the mic and took up a position near the door. The bridge had a clear view of the bow, but the starboard wasn’t visible. Better to keep her guard up just in case she got company.

  Even as she stood watch, her mind was going fast and furious. How could this have happened? This was an elite, combat-ready force. It was hard to believe that someone could have gotten the drop on them, boarded a United States Coast Guard vessel and murdered everyone aboard. It was a light crew for this class of vessel. Normally, fifteen men manned a ship of this size. Were they also looking at a possible hostage situation with nine men missing?

  * * *

  As soon as the Point Sharon pulled up next to the drifting ship and the preliminary introductions were out of the way, the crew got the engines started and piloted the ship over to the Hampton Roads docks for crime-scene processing.

  Still on the Point Sharon to keep the crime scene as pristine as possible, Kinley stood at the rail as the ship docked. Her boss, Kirk, waited on the dock with a crime-scene team. He was a tall, compact man, a runner like her with a buzz cut and even though she knew he was older than her, he had a boyish face with a set of intelligent brown eyes. Once the gangway was lowered and he was aboard, she briefed him on how she’d found the ship.

  He took her arm and drew her away from the team.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said immediately.

  “You shouldn’t have boarded that ship without backup.”

  “I tried to call you, but they had a wireless jammer on board on the bridge. No cell signal and I was concerned about casualties.”

  He searched her eyes for a moment. Gave her a nod of approval. “You did good. Why don’t you use the head to clean up? Then get on identifying our guys so we can notify their families and get this investigation under way. I want to know what the hell happened here.” He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her.

  She took it and nodded. Her running clothes weren’t the ideal outfit at the moment and she was grateful for his thoughtfulness. She walked to the head and turned on the tap, taking a deep breath. She looked at her face in the mirror, one she had lived with for a long time. The delicate features were blank and controlled. It had been a long, long time since she had felt the emotion she’d felt today. The combination of the fog and the memories had seriously shaken her.

  She was good at compartmentalizing; she shoved everything into a box and tamped down the lid. She had a job to do. That was the most important thing she could do for her father right now. He was gone, but she would be damned i
f she’d let terrorists or drug dealers kill her comrades and get into the US without a fight. She needed to do her job, not just for herself but for him.

  She set the jacket down, slipped a paper towel under the stream and wiped at the dried blood on her arms until it was sponged clean. After that was complete, she cleaned the blood off her weapon and set it back in her holster before shrugging into the jacket.

  When she came out of the head, she snagged one of her team members and got a mobile fingerprint scanner. Now in front of the first victim, a black man, the one she’d initially tripped over, she took in the position of his body. He was lying facedown and obvious bloody gunshot wounds peppered his back. Caught by surprise was her first thought. Sympathy for him and his family made her sigh softly. Her throat tightened. Losing a family member was so…devastating. He was someone’s son, and a husband according to the ring on his left hand. She frowned. No weapon. Anywhere. Had the hostiles taken it? Using the device, she crouched down and reached for the dead man’s hand, separating his fingers and pressing his index finger against the pad of the reader. She looked down at the screen and waited for his identity. Nothing showed up. Figuring she must not have gotten a good reading, she repeated the process, but the reader still returned no information.

  She walked over to the next victim and followed the same procedure. Again, no reading. Kinley moved to the next victim, but this time the reader returned an identity.

  Cameron Dixon, Petty Officer Third Class, assigned to the USS Matthew Robinson, destroyer. She looked for a laptop and typed in the information, and found out that the Matthew Robinson was currently docked at Naval Station Norfolk. She checked the remaining dead men.

  She approached Kirk and said, “Sir, these men are not showing up on the reader as Coast Guard personnel. The only victim that I got a reading on is a naval petty officer.”

  His eyes went bleak, his body stiffening. “What is a petty officer doing on a Coast Guard cutter in one of our uniforms?” he growled.

  “Could be there was some kind of undercover joint operation, but that seems unlikely considering his low rank.”

  He nodded. “Contact NCIS at Naval Station Norfolk and alert them.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “Looks like our ME has his job cut out for him today,” he murmured.

  * * *

  Special Agent Beau Jerrott turned over and smiled at the sweet blonde who was getting dressed in the light from the rising sun. Her name was Daisy, just like the pretty flower.

  “You sure you have to go back to DC today, Beau, honey?”

  “Aw, chérie, duty calls and I’ve gotta get back to the city.”

  She thrust out her bottom lip and finished zipping up her dress. “Too bad,” she said, softly dropping down on the edge of the bed and pressing a kiss to his mouth. “You are simply one of the most gorgeous men I have ever laid my blue eyes on. Face of an angel.”

  He chuckled. “I’m no angel,” he said.

  She pulled away the sheet and looked down. “Nope, flesh-and-blood man. Much better. Ooh, look, you have something special for me.”

  He laughed and looked down at himself. He was a man and waking up with an erection was routine. “I’d say we had a good time last night.” She sent her hand through his hair, her blue eyes full of carnal lust. He smiled, one hand slipping to the zipper on her dress, the other hiking it up on her thigh. “I don’t have to leave exactly right now—” His cell phone rang just as he was pulling her back down on the bed.

  She sighed and gave him another kiss. “I’m so tempted to stay and be very late for work, but it looks like duty is calling right now, Mr. Special Agent. You ever in Norfolk again, give me a call.”

  He grabbed his cell and smiled at her, cupping her jaw and running his thumb along the plump curve of her cheek. “Jerrott,” he said into the receiver as she rose. Giving him a look of regret, she picked up her purse and slipped out his hotel room door. She paused and blew him a quick kiss. He covered his heart and smiled.

  “You left yet?”

  Beau sighed, his eyes following the pretty blonde to her car, then focused on what his boss, Special Agent in Charge Christophe Vargas, was saying. “Just about to. What’s up?”

  “Just received a call from SA Michael Steele back at Naval Station Norfolk. There’s a situation over in Hampton Roads. Dead petty officer on a CG cutter. They requested that you do a look-see and report back to him.”

  “Roger that.”

  Beau pushed back the covers and rose, stretching. Padding to the bathroom, he took a quick shower and dressed. After pulling out a power bar from his stash, he opened the wrapper and took a bite as he grabbed up his firearm. He tucked it into the shoulder holster and snagged the handcuffs and his ID. He stowed one in the case next to his weapon, and the ID in his back pocket. He pulled up the handle of his suitcase as he grabbed his black leather jacket off the hotel coatrack and left the room.

  Once he stored his bag and polished off the power bar, he settled into the driver’s seat. He entered the address for CG HQ into his GPS and pulled out of the parking lot.

  The trip was quick. He parked and pulled out his ID to make his way to where the cutter was docked, CGIS guys crawling all over it.

  Walking up the gangway, he stopped the first person he saw. “Who’s in charge?”

  The tall blond guy pointed to a trim man with a buzzed military cut in blue slacks and a white button-down, standing at the bow of the ship. “Special Agent Stafford.”

  Beau walked up to him. “Special Agent Stafford. Special Agent Beau Jerrott, NCIS. I hear you have a dead petty officer aboard?”

  “We do.” His cell phone rang and when he looked at the number, he said, “I’ve got to take this. See SA Cooper.” He immediately turned away and spoke into the receiver, “Yes, sir?”

  Beau turned to look for SA Cooper, whoever the hell he was. His eyes snagged on a woman in a CG jacket, running bra and black shorts standing near six covered bodies. He was confused by her for a moment. Not exactly professional gear, but the jacket threw him. Was she a witness?

  There was something about her that kicked him right in his solar plexus and almost made it hard to take his next breath.

  Her hair was a deep, burnished auburn.

  Kryptonite.

  Redheads were his Kryptonite.

  What a freaking knockout, and that wasn’t an overstatement. He guessed five-seven, one-twenty. Was she trying to play down her looks with that pulled-back hair and no makeup, no jewelry, nothing to enhance or draw the eyes? She’d failed. It only heightened her natural beauty. Her bone structure was lovely, delicate, feminine, her features equally so, her skin flawless, improved by the freckles across her cheeks and nose. There was something in her stunning face, some kind of…struggle. Her fists were clenched, her jaw tight. He immediately wanted to wrap his arms around her but didn’t understand why.

  His eyes traveled down her curvy, gorgeous body, the skin of her midriff creamy and soft looking. He took a breath. Her belly button was pierced, but he couldn’t make out the pin. He wanted to get closer, but shook his head to clear it.

  Protective instincts didn’t normally surface unless he was in rescue mode. This woman seemed a little out of her element, a little lost, and for some damn reason, that made him want to be her knight. Immediately wary of those types of feelings, he took a mental step back. Not exactly the role he was used to playing. The one that suited him was a complete and utter rogue. That was why he normally went for the tough, confident women who knew how to play his game. Like Daisy. Easier that way.

  Compelled, he stepped away from the occupied Stafford and toward the woman and the bodies. As he approached, she looked up, and it almost stopped him in his tracks. Her eyes were green and he had to reassess his little-lost-waif impression after seeing the steel in those thickly-
lashed, straightforward emerald eyes.

  Her gaze locked on his and for a moment they just stood there, the intensity of the connection almost tangible.

  He was surprised to see the way she sized him up, the flash of censure in her face and then her eyes narrowing just slightly, as if he was some kind of threat. She intrigued him all the more and that was damn bad. He didn’t want to be intrigued. Good thing he was heading out and back to DC after he was finished here.

  “Who are you?” she said, taking in his leather jacket and tailored pants, the steel from her eyes threaded through a voice that was both commanding and sultry.

  His ID was still in his hand and he brought it up. “Special Agent Beau Jerrott, NCIS. I was invited to this shindig. Who are you?”

  She straightened, realizing that she’d been rude. “This is a crime scene, so I’m being a hard-ass to protect evidence. I’m Special Agent Kinley Cooper.”

  She didn’t offer her hand, but he liked that she didn’t apologize. “Cooper? I was told to speak with a Cooper.” He might like to charm the pants off the ladies, but when it came to his job, he was just as hard-core as he’d been on the teams. He switched gears. She was a professional and a fellow agent, which made her off-limits.

  “You found her, then.”

  He’d found her all right, he just had to think of her as an investigator and not as a woman. It was not going to be an easy task. “Could you brief me?”

  She explained how she’d just gone running—which explained her attire—when she’d heard the popping noises and the metal scraping.

  He looked down at the bodies. “Which one is mine?”

  She indicated the covered body at the end. He walked over and removed the sheet. He swore softly in Cajun French. He was just a wet-behind-the-ears kid. His black hair was military regulation, Caucasian, strong Roman nose and jaw, all and all a nice-looking kid, just barely a man. His lips tightened, a mixture of anger and regret for the loss of life. No matter how many times he looked at a body, it never got easier. He took in the Coast Guard uniform. “It’s a fake,” he said softly, examining the ribbons.