by Misty Evans
Caroline pulled out her cell phone—her personal one—from her bag.
Mitch raised a brow. “Is that your Bureau phone?”
“No. This is one of my Dad’s company phones I carry. Only my family has the number. When it rings, I know to answer it. I took the battery out of my Bureau phone again. That alone might get me fired, but I wasn’t risking them being able to track my location. Even if Donaldson thinks I’m licking my wounds, he’s a bastard and I wouldn’t put it past him to try and catch me taking a mini-vacation when I’m supposed to be sick.”
She called the rental car company—her father had an agreement in place with all the big rental companies for his employees, so she wouldn’t have to use a credit card—and was directed to wait at the entrance to the airport office. Wait they would, but they’d stand at the end of the building, away from the office windows. Maybe she was paranoid, but an FBI agent traveling with a federal fugitive and a disgraced malcontent made for a great headline.
Where’s my gun?
Caroline laughed at herself. Suicide might be the only way to get her stupid self to give up on Mitch. She glanced over at him, casually leaning against the light pole, his long, dark hair once again slicked back into a ponytail. His lean body clad in worn jeans and a short-sleeved graphic T-shirt that read, I am not a minion of evil. I’m upper management.
Stupid-self let out a little sigh. Something about this man drew her in. Every time. His looks alone could devastate a woman. Throw in the caustic humor and the balls-to-the-wall attitude and Caroline had been sunk from the first second she’d spotted Mitch Monroe.
Where. Is. My. Gun?
Sensing her attention, he lifted his face and met her gaze, smiling at her with that caught-ya smirk. Well, so what? They both knew the chemistry between them. They knew before the night they’d dropped into her bed and caused the angels to sing and they certainly knew it now.
Leaving Brice to his phone and answering posts on his all-important blog, she wandered over to Mitch. “Hey, sailor.”
“Hey, Caroline. You were thinking naughty thoughts about me.”
“In fact, I was. Only they involved my gun.”
He threw his hand over his heart, but his quirking lips gave away a laugh. “Evil woman.”
“I can’t help myself.”
“I know. That’s what I love about you.”
Love. There was a word she’d never uttered out loud about Mitch. Maybe she’d thought it a time or two—or twelve—because stupid-self liked to daydream about happily ever after. Well, stupid-self better wise-up. Happily ever after didn’t include visiting Mitch in a federal prison.
“What you love about me,” she said, “is I won’t turn my back on you. I love that about me too. Most of the time. My loyalty has burned me in the past, though.”
“Not this time. I’ve got your back.” He reached up, ran his finger down the side of her cheek and as much as she knew it was coming, that instant zzzppp, the little buzz that happened whenever Mitch touched her, made her flinch. Like always, she craved getting closer to him so she leaned in and did just that, because—well—why not? Brice was obsessed with his phone and no one here knew them so she could pretend for just a few seconds that happily ever after really did exist.
She tilted her head, studied the strong angles of his face, the dark eyes and softness around his lips. “You had my back last time, too. It still blew up.”
Two years ago, when Mitch and Grey had first started hunting a serial killer, they’d zeroed in on a foreign diplomat, but couldn’t get Donaldson to sign-off on pursuing their suspect. Mitch had come up with the genius plan of having another supervisor—namely Caroline who’d just been promoted and was a baby in the relief supervisor arena—enter a report outlining all the evidence into the FBI’s system. Without entering it, the report wouldn’t have been part of the case file and might as well have never been written.
But Mitch, having that giant conscience when it came to people he cared about, had gotten cold feet when the hell-storm came down on them and told Donaldson he’d stolen Caroline’s password and entered the report himself.
None of it mattered. Donaldson, being Donaldson, did his magic and the report disappeared.
“Mitch, I don’t blame you for involving me in The Lion’s case. I’m a big girl and make my own decisions. These things you do are for the right reasons. I know that about you. But this time we could both lose everything.”
“But if I’m right, you’ll be a hero.”
“And what about you?”
He shrugged. “I never cared about glory or power.”
“You’re a liar. There’s something you want, and I’m not talking about this case. I’m talking about Mitch Monroe the man. Down deep, what do you want from life?”
Tilting his head back, he blew air through his lips. “I want peace. No more running. That’s all.”
“So when this is over and we clear your name and Tommy’s, you’ll be happy?”
“Not entirely.”
Classic Mitch. Caroline huffed. “Well, big boy, if I’m putting my career on the line, I’d like to know what the hell we’re fighting for here.”
He turned to her, stared right into her eyes, not wavering for even a half-second. “I want you, Caroline. Then I’ll be happy.”
The look on Caroline’s face said it all. Shock. Total and absolute. Her jaw dropped and she tried to form words, but nothing came out. In her eyes, Mitch saw a hint of fear. He’d scared the big, tough FBI sniper.
Way to go, idiot. “Don’t worry. I know I’m too fucked up for you, but I wanted you to know. I’m not in it for a single night this round.”
Her mouth slammed shut and she looked away. Glanced at Brice to make sure he was still absorbed with his phone. Then she simply stood, staring out at the runway, uncomfortable silence descending as the oppressive heat added to Mitch’s discomfort. Damn, he was sweating in places he didn’t know existed.
At least he’d said it. He’d never lied to her, but he’d dammed up his feelings for so long, danced around his attraction to her knowing she’d shut him down, he’d hoped his admission would bring him some relief. Her hair, her smile, the way she moved…it all screwed with his internal system. He wanted her and he wanted her bad. He knew she wanted him. But of course, he was a fugitive, not just from the FBI, but on the run for murder now as well.
Caroline didn’t like messes, and he was one big fucking mess.
He slipped his sunglasses on. The shuttle arrived, saving him from any more embarrassing admissions and hopefully the heat. At least she hadn’t slapped him. Or spit on him. He’d imagined both scenarios when he finally put that he wanted her into words.
At least, he’d finally said it. One thing he’d learned in the past year, you never knew when you’d meet the bullet with your name on it.
The three of them boarded the shuttle, riding in silence to the car rental building. Caroline went inside to rent the car, Brice and Mitch hung out by the fleet in the parking lot.
“Got a thing for her, huh?” Brice said, squinting in the late afternoon sun.
Mitch ignored him. “Think I’ll have time to work on my tan while we’re here?”
“If we don’t end up like Tommy.”
Any other day, he’d have knocked Brice cold for that flip comment. Today, the guy spoke the truth and Mitch respected him for that.
Mitch idly scanned the cars. He liked the flashy red Mitsubishi. Or the Cadillac SUV.
The silver Prius. That’s the one Caroline will pick.
A minute later, she came out of the rental company and dangled keys in his face. “I’ll drive.”
Of course she would. And what do you know? She made a beeline for the silver Prius two rows back.
“Fuel efficient and extremely roomy,” Caroline said.
“Extremely cramped,” Mitch said, trying to fit his frame into the front seat.
Brice hopped into the back. “My contact said he’ll meet us at the Le Fe
ria farmer’s market in thirty. He’s pretty nervous, but he’s bringing us information he says might help.”
The car’s GPS—certainly not her phone app with that squeaky voice—gave Caroline directions, and they wound their way through the city. Traffic was heavy this time of day with people heading home from work. They parked half a block from the farmer’s market and walked the rest of the way.
All around them were rows of white tented booths displaying everything from sunglasses to baked goods to jewelry and wood carvings. If the heat was a factor in the attendance, it didn’t show. People wandered the rows, bumping each other as they passed, and Mitch couldn’t decide if being in the crush hid him safely in the throng or left him trapped. If he had to run, he’d be taking people out on his way.
“Big place,” Mitch commented, eyeing a booth with green plastic aliens wearing miniature Roswell T-shirts. “Where exactly is your contact meeting us?”
“Don’t worry.” Brice acted interested in a booth with homemade salsa in every flavor imaginable. “He’ll find us.”
Caroline scanned the crowds of people milling by. “He knew Tommy, right?”
“Yeah.”
They continued to meander and stop here and there. Halfway through the booths lining both sides of the road, a man in a Red Sox baseball cap and sunglasses nodded at Brice.
“Here we go,” he said, taking them behind one of the larger booths and following the guy to a nearby picnic bench.
Brice and the man shook hands and exchanged a few comments. Brice introduced Mitch and Caroline. “This is Ethan Grimke. ATF.”
Mitch shook Ethan’s hand. “Thanks for meeting us.”
Ethan nodded and tipped his cap a little lower, further shielding his face. “I shouldn’t be here, but Tommy was a crack agent. If there was something I needed, he was there for me. It’s my turn to do something for him.”
Caroline, who’d stayed standing, smiled at Ethan. If anyone was watching, they’d think Ethan had just said something humorous. “Who do you think killed Tommy?”
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t know. None of us do. I’ve been waiting for the ballistics report, the forensics report, anything. Nothing has showed, and there’s no one left at this ATF office who even knows the name of the operation Tommy was involved in. It’s like the whole operation disappeared…or never existed. I mentioned it to my boss and he said to keep my nose out of it, but a little bird in the system told me the case has been sealed.”
Mitch’s skin prickled. “Sealed? Why?”
Ethan shrugged. “You tell me. Everyone is on eggshells. Taskforce members working with Tommy have been fired or sent off to other offices in other states. The bigwigs are tight lipped, and the case is sealed.”
“Shit,” Brice said.
Shit was right. Mitch wondered if they’d come all this way for nothing, but the sealed case file only confirmed what Kemp had told him. There had to be a reason the White House would invoke Executive Privilege. “Tell me what you can about that night. The night Tommy was killed.”
Ethan swallowed hard, fished his cell phone from his pocket. “I was the first one on the scene. I suspected something was going down with him because he called me that day. He sounded off. That night I gave him a call, just to check in. We made plans to meet for a few minutes. He said he had to make a couple of stops and would meet me at a bar on the corner of the street where he was killed. I parked in the bar’s lot and cleared some emails while I waited for him. Then I heard shots and jumped out to see what the hell was happening. I found him on the edge of the lot near the sidewalk with a gun lying on his chest. An AR-15. Right on his chest, like a message from the killer. He was dead, but I tried to resuscitate him. Didn’t work. Some woman tried to help and I told her he was gone already. I called it in, but while I was waiting for backup to arrive, I snapped photos of the scene and the gun.”
He shook his head, his voice trailing off. “It still haunts me. I don’t know what went wrong. Did someone find out Tommy was FBI or did they just get pissed at him for something and shoot him point blank? He never even drew his weapon.”
The former agent in Mitch wanted to see the pictures. The man in him didn’t think he could handle photos of his dead friend. “What do you think?”
Ethan shrugged. “With the case sealed and no information coming out about it…” He let the words hang. “When Brice called me, I thought you might want to at least see the photos. I wasn’t on the taskforce so I’m out of the loop on whatever they were doing, but there’s chatter about Balboa, the gun runner we’ve been watching, being involved. He’s got a huge cartel that goes back and forth across the border. Hell, it could have been one of his rivals. When I asked my ASAC about it, he made sure I got the message it wasn’t my concern. Right now, I’m waiting like everyone else. Maybe if you see the photos, you might pick up on something I missed, or be able to rebuild the crime scene.”
Without the reports, they were at a dead end. They needed to know what the ballistics report revealed about the bullets and type of gun used to kill Tommy. With that, they could trace the serial number on the gun, if it still had one, and find out who owned it.
Ethan tapped the touchscreen on his phone, his gaze skating over the people nearby.
Brice, too, was on high alert. He watched the crowd as he spoke to Ethan. “Anyone know you have those pictures besides us?”
“No one,” Ethan said. Seemingly satisfied that no one was watching, he brought up the first photo.
Mitch’s stomach turned to acid. There was the scene: Tommy, a bloody mess. A black assault rifle next to his body.
Ethan pointed at it. “That’s the one he had lying on his chest. I had to move it to perform CPR.”
Pressure filled Mitch’s throat. His voice was trapped in a deep well. The danger came with the job, regardless of the letters that followed your name. ATF, FBI, DEA.
“Mitch?” Caroline had moved close and was leaning over his shoulder to eye the photo. Her voice was soft next to his ear. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he bit out the word, his voice hollow. He took the phone from Ethan and entered his cell’s number and Caroline’s email address into Ethan’s contacts. “Send us all the pictures, okay?”
Ethan nodded as Mitch handed the phone back. “I hope you can find out what’s going on. Tommy was a damn good agent.”
The pressure was back in Mitch’s throat. Tommy and Kemp were the closest things he’d ever had to brothers. Now, they were both dead.
Good thing he still had Grey. One friend left in the world. Helluva life.
Mitch shook Ethan’s hand. “Watch your back.”
Ethan stood, gripped his hand hard, and cuffed him on the shoulder. “You, too.”
Caroline rushed through the hotel room door with Mitch and Brice on her heels. The door smacked against the wall and she glanced at it not really caring, but the sound distracted her from her raging thoughts. Forget the door. She needed to get her laptop fired up and look at the photos Ethan had emailed.
“Caroline—”
“Shut up, Mitch.”
The crappy faux wood desk was shoved into the corner of the room next to the windows and she hustled to it while fumbling with her briefcase. She hit the button to boot up the laptop and plugged it in while it whirred. No sense in wasting her battery.
Mitch’s big feet landed next to her, his body close—too close—and she caught a whiff of his soap. That clean, salty air smell.
“Caroline, slow down.”
“What’s up?” Brice asked.
Mitch turned back to him. “Give us a sec.”
“No. He’s fine,” she said. Being alone in a hotel room with Mitch would be a mistake. Whatever his problem was with her looking at these photos, he’d turn into the master she knew him to be and talk her into something. How pathetic was she? She knew—knew—how persuasive he could be and fell for it every time. And she didn’t even know what it was he was about to talk her into.
Her
difficulty with this situation came with standing in front of him, this man who had brought her equal amounts of pleasure and pain, and knowing her intelligence—her common sense specifically—was seeping from her body. No. Not seeping.
Gushing.
“Caroline, I need to talk to you.”
She looked up at him, met his gaze, so focused and unyielding, and the gushing continued.
Caroline glanced at Brice. “Go get settled in your room. I’ll call you when I’ve got the pictures.”
Mitch followed Brice to the door and flipped the safety latch.
The laptop dinged and she typed in her password, her fingers flying over the keys. Mitch grabbed her elbow and tugged. “Stop. Please. What do you think you’re going to do with these photos?”
“Well, gee, Mitch. I’m not quite sure.”
“You going to call someone at Quantico and offer to send them over?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I’m not. We need a plan for these photos. You’re moving too fast.”
She breathed in, closed her eyes for a second. He’s right. Of course he was. This was Mitch, and as crazy as he made her, as risk-oriented as he was, he typically had amazing instincts.
“I think the plan is, we study the photos and see what’s in there. I’d like to get a look at that rifle. We’re assuming it’s the murder weapon, but how do we know? It could have been a plant.”
“We need the ballistics report,” he said.
“Please! First of all, the case is sealed. Second, this happened three weeks ago and it involved a federal agent. Even if they unseal it, which who knows why they would, they’re not going to release reports until they have this thing all nice and tidy. It could take months. Right now, we need to figure out if the gun in this photo was the murder weapon and where it came from.”
Mitch narrowed his eyes. “Serial number. If Ethan got close enough, we can get the serial number.”
Now he was thinking. “We still need the ballistics report. They could be back already, but without me making a few calls, I don’t know how we get that.”