God, she didn't need this right now.
Startling Symansky, she climbed out of bed and donned her running shoes. A brisk run around and around the motel might clear her mind. At the very least, the exercise would tire her out and allow her to get some sleep.
* * * *
Pounding the pavement failed miserably. A hot shower proved equally ineffective. So when the alarm went off at an ungodly early hour, Katrina still stared at the ceiling. In the past, she'd always been able to push everything out of her mind but the assignment at hand. She'd been single-minded, determined, focused. Her focus had pushed her through rehab, until her broken limb showed no signs of the former injury. That drive had pushed her to return to finish her undergraduate degree. It had kept her going when she worked full-time in the counseling unit at Rikers Island and pursued her doctorate degree full-time at John Jay University, studying on the bus ride from Manhattan to Queens and back again. All of her drive and determination had been necessary to successfully complete new agent training and become an FBI Special Agent.
Less than a month with Braedon Powell and all of that deserted her. He became a constant presence in her thoughts. She'd believed herself immune to men. Ha. Maybe it just took the right man to insinuate himself in her life.
The right man. Was that what Braedon was? The possibility frightened her.
Kicking back the covers, she rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom before Symansky responded to the alarm. Exiting a few minutes later, her temporary roomie greeted her, turned out in her uniform, prepared for the day ahead. Sheesh, did the woman own anything other than her uniform and sleepware? She immediately regretted the uncharitable thought since most of her wardrobe consisted of prim dark suits with white silk tops and Royal Robbins pants. The past month on the AT had provided her with the longest stretch of time out of “uniform” in ten years.
She strapped on her bat belt and all the necessary equipment and shrugged into her bullet-proof vest and jacket while her roommate made use of her turn in the facilities. She stared in the mirror as she pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail and looked for something—whatever it was that attracted Braedon Powell. She'd be darned if she saw it. She still looked like the same competent, polished Special Agent she'd always been. Her insides may have been a mess, but her outsides remained unchanged.
She and Symansky exited the room, waiting on the gravel parking lot for the men to make an appearance. As she stood there, she noticed a woman charging in their direction. Her hand jerked and reached for her weapon. When she recognized the new arrival, her hand fell to her side.
"Major Dalton-Greene, I didn't expect to see you again."
"We received word that you're moving on a target we've had under investigation for a number of months. We believe he is working in conjunction with the Ramos family drug cartel."
"And you haven't moved on him?” Katrina struggled to comprehend allowing a suspected drug dealer to continue to ply his trade.
"We have maintained surveillance in hopes of one of the members of the organization, preferably Mr. Ramos, making an appearance. Since that doesn't appear to be a possibility, the Air Force Security Agency requests to be a part of the raid in order to preserve any evidence vital to national security."
"Are you implying that the FBI isn't capable of protecting national security?” The hair on the back of Katrina's neck bristled.
"Not at all. It is merely that this investigation has eaten up a great deal of time and manpower and the AFSA would like to be a part of this aspect of our case."
"Fine. But the FBI is the lead agency in this little venture.” Gads, she hated cross-jurisdictional politics.
"Aww, you ladies were too quick to settle that. Howard and I were hoping for a cat fight. Preferably one involving a little mud wrestling."
Her heart kicked up a beat as Braedon approached. He looked so handsome, so unrumpled, standing there in all his gear. Heaven help her, she had it bad.
"Always a pleasure to see you again, Powell.” The major stuck out her hand. “And to know you haven't changed."
"Ed, I've changed more than you know.” He shot a meaningful glance at Katrina.
The too observant Air Force officer studied both of them. “I need to speak with the Special Agent in Charge, if you'll excuse me."
"Morning, Katrina, Sandy.” Braedon turned his attention to her as the major strode off.
"Good morning, Braedon.” Sandy smiled at the fellow agent, making Katrina grit her teeth.
And then she caught the glances firing back and forth between them. Hmph. Screw them, they weren't funny.
Howard arrived, sparing Katrina from a retort, followed closely by Griffin and Dalton-Greene. Everyone assembled, they climbed into the ever-present panel truck and headed off. Low spirits prevailed, everyone positive this raid would end like the others, with no sign of the UNSUB. Even the Air Force intelligence officer feared the worst, only in her case that could be a crack in the carefully constructed case the Air Force Security Office had been building, in conjunction with the FBI, Katrina learned. Given the nature of this particular raid, an FBI SWAT team had been assembled, over the objections of the disgruntled local authorities. So much for not stepping on cross-jurisdictional toes when it came to potential issues of national security.
Oh, yea, this had disaster written all over it in big neon yellow block letters.
Upon arriving at the staging area, the occupants of the truck learned that the SWAT team had already deployed and was in position. Katrina took up her place on the right, Dalton-Green on the left, and Braedon in the center. Once again, Griffin and Symansky provided cover.
The trailer resembled so many rural trailers, skinny and squat plopped in the middle of a piece of land. The trees encroached on the house, protecting it from prying eyes and making a surprise approach easier. The detritus of a meth lab scattered about the ground—large plastic tubs, soda bottles sucked in on themselves, plastic tubing, boxes of decongestants. The blacked out windows prevented them from seeing in, but it also prevented anyone inside the trailer from catching their approach. As they closed in, the telltale smell of cat urine further confirmed the presence of cooking meth.
Katrina darted from tree to tree, gauging her progress against the others. Watching Braedon for signals, she advanced with his gestures. He stopped, a pained look on his face. He pointed to his feet, drawing attention to a trip wire, a tripped wire. A hail of bullets sprayed the air.
"Get down.” Braedon's unnecessary command cut through the automatic fire.
She dove for the ground. A burning sensation at her shoulder slowed her draw for her weapon. Warm and wet, blood flowed down her arm, dripping from her elbow. Probing at the area, it felt like a flesh wound, like the bullet grazed her and kept going, a better scenario than having a bullet lodged in her arm. Fortune smiled on her, the injury on her right side, away from Braedon, lessening the chance he'd wave her back.
The spray of bullets stopped as abruptly as it began. She pushed to her knees, watching the windows, searching for the location of the gun, their darkness making the task difficult. Braedon stood first, stepping over the wire, the disgust on his face evident. He'd be blaming himself for that for a long time.
Shitfuckdamn. Braedon watched his step, now that it was too late. He should have anticipated booby traps. He'd endangered the entire team with that stupid mistake. Erika and Katrina stood now that he'd gotten up. Katrina's knees wobbled as she got to her feet. Had she hurt herself when she hit the ground. Oh shit. Had she been hit by a flying bullet? He wanted to wave her back, but he knew she'd never do it. But if she'd been injured, he'd throw her over his shoulder, her anger be damned.
The SWAT team materialized from the trees, weapons drawn, prepared to advance. Braedon gestured for them to hold their positions. He wasn't prepared for them to storm the castle. Not yet.
Lifting his hand above his head, he waved Katrina and Erika forward. As they cleared the last of the trees, th
e front door slammed open to reveal a man of average height and medium build with a semi-automatic assault rifle in hand. His left hand.
His heart raced, threatening to beat out of his chest. Drawing deep breaths, he corralled that energy and prepared to advance.
"Stop right there."
Braedon held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed that both Erika and Katrina had drawn down, weapons pointed at the man. He didn't know if they'd been spotted, but did his best not to give away their presence just in case.
"What do I gotta do to keep you pigs away?"
Braedon shook his head, unsure what the man meant and if he was even hearing him correctly. He sounded like he had marbles in his mouth.
"I know you pigs been tryin’ to find me. But I been smarter than yous. I found some of you first and took care of you."
Their UNSUB. They'd found him. The hair on Braedon's arms stood on end as the man continued.
"He told me you pigs hunted me. He told me what I had to do."
"Who told you?” Katrina stepped from behind the protective tree, her gun at her side. He wanted to wave her back, but he needed her expertise.
"God told me.” He swung his weapon in Katrina's direction and Braedon's heart lodged in his throat.
Great, they were dealing with a strung-out, hallucinating, meth addict. He studied the man on the tiny porch as he approached inch by inch. As he closed the distance, the man's face and form became clearer. His clothes hung on his frame, the drug taking away his appetite. His pockmarked skin and sunken cheeks attested to chronic drug use.
"God told you?” Katrina engaged him.
"Yea. He speaks ta me at night. He told me who the pigs were and I took care of them, made sure they'd never find my place. And now I haf’ to take care of you so you cain't tell nobody.” He lifted the assault rifle, hesitating, his eyes darting back and forth, deciding who to shoot first.
The delay allowed Katrina to level her weapon and fire. Two rounds penetrated the man's body, one in his shoulder and the other in his knee. He went down, his rifle clanking to the ground first, his screams echoing through the trees. Erika charged the porch first, kicking away the rifle. Braedon followed, cuffs in hand. He yanked the man's hands behind his back, dragging an ear-piercing from his lungs as he slapped the cuffs on his wrists.
Katrina followed at a slower pace, arriving at the same time as Jack and Symansky. She clung to her weapon with a white knuckled grip, her hand shaking. Her skin had a pale cast to it. As she turned to read their now-in-custody UNSUB his rights, he noticed a streak of red on her arm. Gripping her left shoulder, he spun her, getting his first look at the blood coating her upper arm.
"You've been shot."
"It's just a flesh wound. I'll be—” Her knees buckled as she spoke.
Braedon caught her before she hit the ground, holding her close as he picked his way across the uneven ground to the command truck. Symansky raced ahead and he heard her calling for an ambulance and state police back-up as he climbed in the back. Katrina's lips trembled as he held her, praying she remained conscious.
"You should have told me you'd been shot."
"I told you, it's just a flesh wound."
"You sound like that knight in the Monty Python movie.” He affected a bad British accent. “It's just a flesh wound.” The bad joke brought a smile to her too pale face. He'd never seen a person with a tan look so chalky. “I love you, Katrina Boyd, so don't you ever do something so foolish and scare the shit out of me again."
Griffin arrived at that most inopportune moment and Braedon didn't have another moment alone with her.
Chapter 9
Braedon spent the next two days filling out paperwork, being interviewed by district attorneys, and generally dealing with the Mickey Mouse bureaucratic nonsense that accompanied the end of an assignment. The military and the FBI had that much in common. That and the desire to waste an entire forest to harvest the paper necessary to make all the forms.
Two long days in which he hadn't been able to talk to Katrina. They'd been ordered not to make contact until all the ends tied up. Standard procedure, but frustrating nonetheless. One that left him unable to see her since he'd dumped the “L bomb” in her lap. He hadn't meant to, not like that, but his emotions had taken over when he'd seen her hurt. Memories of the other women he'd loved and lost—his sister and his fiancée—overwhelmed him, leaving him with one overriding emotion. He refused to lose Katrina.
As soon as humanly possible, he headed to her apartment.
"What are you doing here?” Only her face was visible through the crack in the door.
Braedon's heart sank to his knees at the battle-weary look on Katrina's face. Hell, he was tired, too. He'd spent the past forty-eight hours trying to make sense of their entire assignment. With the formalities at Bureau headquarters straightened out, his next priority—his biggest priority—involved making things right again with the woman in front of him. Life wouldn't be worth living if she didn't let him back in hers.
"We need to talk.” He tugged his baseball cap down over his forehead.
"I've said everything I needed to say."
"But I haven't. You owe me that much."
With a shrug, she stepped aside and allowed him in. It was all he needed and more than he'd hoped.
"How's your arm?” His stomach still tightened at the memory of all that blood.
"Doctor assures me I'll be good as new physically in a week or two. The bullet just grazed the muscle, so there's no permanent damage, just a scar."
Physically, but not emotionally. She'd just given him his opening. Grasping her left hand, he led her over to the couch and sat down next to her. She wiggled her hips until she scooted herself to the far corner of the sofa. Then, she pulled her legs up, wrapping her good arm around her shins and resting her chin on her knees. Fine, if she wanted to play emotional and hard to get, he'd let her. He'd beg, plead, and drag his balls through broken glass to make his point and win her back.
"I'm glad to hear that."
"Look, Braedon, don't feel guilty about my shoulder.” Damn, she still read him too well. “If your reflexes hadn't been top notch, we might have kept right on walking, straight into the gunfire. Your quick thinking saved all of us. Thanks.” She stared at her fingernails as if the answers to all their questions rested in her cuticles.
The vein in his temple throbbed. She'd never acted this way around him before; she'd been in his face and up front. “No thanks are necessary. Don't you know how much you mean to me?"
"I know you think you love me, but—"
"No buts. I love you. You are not responsible for the accident that killed my sister. She is."
"Braedon, I—"
"No, you need to listen to me. I loved my sister, but that doesn't change the facts. The accident was her fault and hers alone. We—my parents and I—have always been thankful the passenger wasn't killed, as well. I'm especially thankful now that I know said passenger. It's all because of her—you—that I found my heart again. I lost it so long ago. I didn't think it'd ever turn up again. If things had gone the way I'd planned, I'd be celebrating my tenth wedding anniversary right about now."
He held up his hand to keep her from saying anything. He had to get this all out.
"I was engaged to be married until my fiancée, Serena, was killed in a training accident.” Turning away from the tears in her eyes, unable to see her cry for him, he continued. “I stopped caring after that. I thought I had nothing to live for. I became the best damn Combat Rescue Officer ever, not to mention a bit of a pig.” Maybe God wouldn't strike him down for that understatement. “I liked my life that way. Greta was the last in a long line of one-night stands, who turned out to be the daughter of a high-ranking, powerful man. One who made me pay when I wouldn't marry his precious little girl. But how could I? I didn't love her. I got handed my ass on a camo platter, pulled some strings, and ended up working for the FBI in Philadelphia. I d
idn't have a heart and I didn't trust women, but good God I wanted you. Before I knew it, I fell in love. Don't ask me how, but you broke through all my barriers."
The only sound in the room came from the clock, the incessant ticking inordinately loud. Katrina rested her chin on her knee, her hair spilling over her shoulder. He wanted to tangle his fingers in the silky stands, to trace the soft skin of her cheek. Only years of training kept his impatience at bay. Hours ticked by, maybe just minutes, who the hell could tell? She kept her face schooled impassively blank, damn her. His heart thudded low in his chest, and his stomach hurt so bad he wanted to hurl. Nothing revealed what was churning behind those eyes in that oh-too-intelligent mind of hers.
With a stretch, she sat up, crossing her legs. “I'm not a replacement for any woman."
She wasn't shoving him out the door. He could work with this. “I know that. She's my past and you are, I hope, part of my future."
"All my life, I've been told that things happen for a reason, that He has a plan. Maybe I survived and you got kicked out of the Air Force so that we could meet and fall in love. I don't know, but I don't want to question it anymore. I want to feel what you make me feel.” Her gaze locked with his, capturing him. His heart began to speed up. “If you hadn't showed up at my door, I would have called you."
He offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
"Do you really love me?"
"I'll say it over and over if you want me to."
"Once is enough.” She flashed a tentative smile. “For now."
The desire to sweep her into his arms, to his lap, overwhelmed him but he refused to risk hurting her. He settled for tangling his fingers in her hair, all soft and loose and in her face. “Oh, Kat, do you know how much I love you?
"I'm beginning to get an idea.” Her eyes lit up, a fire the color of brilliant topaz burning him to his soul.
He leaned closer, his approach blocked by her knees. Slipping his hand under her legs, he slid her onto his lap. Her good arm twined up to wrap around his neck. That was all the encouragement he needed. Angling his head, he lowered his face to hers, only to find his approach blocked by the brim of his hat.
Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2] Page 13