The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  “The interpretation of which can be nice and fluid.”

  Will’s gaze met hers. “Yes.”

  “How did you connect it to her?”

  He sipped his coffee. “An email communication to her CIA address transmitting the GPS coordinates of the cache location was uncovered.”

  “Uncovered by whom?”

  Will only looked at her.

  “I see,” Cheyenne said. “What about the source of the email—who contacted her?”

  “The message bounced off a hundred different servers, worldwide. It was impossible to trace.”

  “But you have suspects?”

  Another unblinking look.

  “Besides me, I mean,” Cheyenne said sarcastically.

  “How did she die?”

  Rafe’s quiet question sliced between them like a clean, lethal blade, and Cheyenne’s heart fluttered again.

  Will met her gaze, and for a moment she saw the man who lived within the machine: bleak, battered, steeped in guilt. Painful and raw. She wanted to look away, because it was so much safer if he stayed a jackass. But she didn’t. It wasn’t in her to run.

  Even when she should.

  “Did you kill her?” Rafe asked bluntly, and Cheyenne wanted to hug him, even though it was not something with which she’d ever been comfortable. Instead, she held her breath, because she wanted to know, too.

  “No,” Will said. “She was killed in Grozny, in the Chechen Republic. The official record states she was killed in the line of duty by pro-Russian dissenters, who presumably believed her to be an American spy.”

  Cheyenne arched a brow. “And the unofficial record?”

  “She brokered at least three deals for the weapons—one to a Columbian cartel, one to a jihadist movement out of Pakistan, and one to a Chechen rebel faction. She sent all three bogus coordinates. My guess is the Chechens discovered the double-cross in Grozny and took her out of play.”

  “Why was she in Grozny—officially?”

  “She wasn’t. Not officially. But if I were to hazard a guess, I would assume her mission had something to do with an exchange of intelligence between the CIA and the Chechens—a convenient time to meet with the rebels and offer them a couple of dozen dirty bombs without any suspicions being raised.”

  “How do you know they don’t have the cache?”

  “I don’t. Not for sure. But chatter leads me to believe she hadn’t delivered the weapons—or their true location—to anyone. I think they’re still sitting where she left them after she stole them.”

  “How do you know all this?” Rafe asked with a frown.

  Will only blinked at him.

  “Because you don’t look like no hacker,” he continued. “And that’s what you’re talking about. I know, ‘cause I got a friend who’s into that big time. Intercepting communications and tracing them back—that takes backdoors, and a shitload of servers, and someone who knows how to get in and out without getting caught. In and out of the CIA.” He shook his head. “That ain’t wolf territory. That takes a fox.”

  Cheyenne began to laugh. She couldn’t help it; she was really beginning to dig Rafferty Humboldt.

  “Yes,” she added. “Do tell.”

  But the waitress arrived at that moment with a tray overflowing with plates, and they were silent as she set them all out on the table. Blackheart had so many there was hardly any table left.

  “There’s butter, ketchup, mustard, hot sauce and maple syrup. I think that’s everything. Can I get you folks anything else?”

  Just looking at it all made Cheyenne’s stomach hurt.

  “I hope not,” she said.

  “No, ma’am, thank you. Looks wonderful.” Will used his dimples again, and the waitress preened as she refilled his coffee cup before walking away. He looked down at Cheyenne’s chicken fried steak and said, “That looks good, too.”

  “Seriously,” she snorted. “You have one of everything.”

  That pale, glinting gaze met hers. “I’ll share mine if you share yours.”

  Which, inexplicably, made her blush. She shoved a forkful of steak into her mouth, and ignored him and watched as Rafe dug into his burger with relish, something she took as a sign that their conversation hadn’t scarred him for life. They’d just begun to eat when Will’s phone beeped.

  He pulled it from his pants pocket, checked the number, and then put it back.

  “Your fox?” Cheyenne asked sweetly. “Maybe you should return home to the den.”

  Will only shook his head. “Sassy pants.”

  She’d show him sassy—

  “You think I know where they’re at,” Rafe said abruptly. “Don’t you? That’s why you’re here. ‘Cuz you ain’t found them—even though you hacked her email and probably her phone, too.”

  Will took his time, cutting his waffles into neat little squares and drowning them in syrup before responding. “Your mother was brilliant, Rafe, and she’d been in the game for a long time. She knew how to play without getting caught. That’s why I came to you. You were…a surprise.”

  Cheyenne pushed her plate away, regretting the food that was beginning to solidify in her belly. Pain flitted across Rafe’s face. One by one he pushed his French fries into the lake of ketchup he’d poured onto his plate, as if burying them at sea.

  “Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you know who my pop is?”

  Beside her Will stilled, and every alarm bell in Cheyenne’s head began to clang obnoxiously.

  “No,” he said softly. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  And she knew it was a lie.

  She tensed instantly, anger turning her slow boil at his unhidden interrogation into a hot, steady simmer, but Will slid his hand beneath the table, wrapped it around her thigh and squeezed. She started at the intimate hold, and the unexpected lash of heat that arrowed through her veins stole her breath and infuriated her. His touch was heavy and warm and urged caution—fucking calming her—and she didn’t appreciate it, not one bit.

  “Easy,” he murmured in a low voice, just for her. His thumb stroked the outside of her thigh, slow and easy, and for a moment every part of her focused on that touch, one that seemed to spread far beyond its limited reach, streaking along every vein until she felt it brush her pulse, her lips, the hollow of her spine.

  “I will stab you through the heart with my butter knife,” she muttered under her breath. “I swear to God.”

  “Such bloodlust.” His eyes went to her mouth, where they lingered.

  Her breath locked in her throat. Her mouth throbbed beneath that look, and other parts of her were stirring, too, damn him.

  “Heart, stab, knife,” she repeated.

  But his hand only tightened on her, his long fingers digging into her flesh, pressing against the seam of her cargos where it traced her inner thigh, and deep within, every part of her responded. She grew warm and damp and ready. A wholly physical response, without concern for time or place or circumstance.

  Just desire, adamant and piercing and totally foreign.

  Will turned away abruptly, and his hand closed into a fist atop her thigh, his knuckles pressing hard into her. Cheyenne felt her heart pound in the back of her throat, in her temples, at the notch of her thighs.

  “When was the last time you saw your mom?” he asked Rafe, his voice rough. He removed his hand, picked up his fork, and stabbed a piece of waffle.

  “Last August,” Rafe replied, watching him with narrow eyes.

  “That long ago?”

  “She didn’t like me.”

  Will’s fork scraped his plate. “What do you mean?”

  Rafe looked at Cheyenne. “He didn’t know her.”

  Such weariness in that gaze. It hurt to look at. “No,” she said.

  “She didn’t like you?” Will repeated, frowning.

  “She didn’t like anyone,” Cheyenne said.

  “Not even her own child?”

  “You saw where she left me,” Rafe muttered.

  Will’s
hand tightened on his fork until his knuckles pressed white. He stabbed another piece of waffle. “She didn’t email you? Send you letters? Communicate in any way?”

  “I don’t have email,” Rafe told him. “And I told you: she didn’t like me.”

  A painful moment of silence punctuated that statement.

  “Who else is looking for them?” Cheyenne asked. “Are the Chechens, the cartel and the jihadists going to come knocking, too?”

  “You won’t have to deal with them,” Will said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I will.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We don’t need a goddamn babysitter!”

  Will watched Cheyenne stride away from him and told himself it was okay to look. She had a fine ass; he was a healthy heterosexual man. There was nothing wrong with looking.

  It was the touching he had to curb. Wrapping his hand around her firm, sleekly muscled thigh had been bad. He’d only meant to soothe her, to douse the spark before it caught flame and burned him—and damn it, it had worked—but the sense of possession that gripped him was dangerous.

  She didn’t belong to him. She never would.

  No matter how much he was growing to like her. Last night might have left him aching and hard and furious with loss, but it changed nothing. They were not meant to be.

  He’d gone to Cheyenne with the assumption she was Georgia’s collaborator, but their confrontation had shattered that certainty, and Will wasn’t sure what to think. Which left him with one of two choices: take at face value what Cheyenne told him or assume it was all lies. His gut told him she spoke the truth—her pain had been raw, as palpable as the ache in his lung—but he no longer trusted that judgment. So it was a roll of the dice, another fucking risk: to trust. But he had little choice.

  She and the boy were his sole lead. Truth or lie, they were the only way forward. And he couldn’t walk away from them—not considering the identity of Rafe’s father. Standing before the boy, Will had realized instantly who’d fathered him. He hadn’t seen it from afar, but looking into that odd, bi-colored gaze, it was obvious. Two important pieces of the puzzle had clicked together.

  And Cheyenne, damn her, had seen it. So he’d touched her. When he shouldn’t have.

  “I’m an adult!” she continued furiously. “I don’t need you sticking around—”

  “Like white on rice, baby,” he said.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Above them, thunder rumbled. The Denny’s parking lot was beginning to fill with lunch diners, and Cheyenne wove in and out of the parked cars as she made her way to the Subaru. Rafe followed, far more subdued.

  “We aren’t helpless,” she snarled. “We don’t need you standing sentinel. Go find those goddamn bombs. If someone comes—”

  “Someone will come,” Will interrupted, annoyed. While the view from behind was nice, it was everything he could do to stop himself from wrapping his hands around her and forcing her to stop, to listen, to turn around and look at him. “And I won’t leave you to deal with it alone.”

  “I’m not alone!” she yelled.

  “No,” he said. “I’m here.”

  Which finally made her stop and turn to face him. “Last night, you thought I was her co-conspirator. Now you want to protect me? Go fuck yourself.”

  Will walked up to her, not stopping until she had to tilt her head back in order to hold his gaze. Lemon and verbena. But no turpentine. Her eyes flashed; color bloomed in her cheeks. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his hand itched to free it. No woman had ever affected him so quickly, so deeply; none had ever pushed back like she did, and goddamn it, he liked it.

  “I’m trusting you,” he growled.

  “Well. Be still my heart.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until this is over.”

  “Define ‘over’.”

  “Those weapons, delivered safe and sound, to the US military.”

  “Then you’d better get on that—tick tock, tick tock. Because this is just a time sink. We don’t need you, Will.”

  His hands curled into impotent fists in an effort to prevent himself from reaching for her. He couldn’t walk away. Not just because of the weapons, but because the identity of Rafe’s father made it impossible. It made the boy a target. No wonder Georgia had hid him; he wore bull’s-eye painted by his own damn DNA.

  Cheyenne would have to be told. But not here, not now…not when Rafe stood beside them, absorbing it all like a sponge.

  “What do you think?” Will asked him. “You want someone between you and them? Someone besides her?”

  Cheyenne bristled and opened her mouth, but Rafe nodded and said, “Hell, yeah,” and her mouth snapped shut.

  “I can protect us,” she told him after a moment.

  “I know.” But it was Will’s gaze he sought. “But you’re all I have. If something happens to you…”

  She scowled. “You’re playing me.”

  “No.” The boy looked down at his shoes, which were old and scuffed and clearly too small. “Well, maybe. A little. I like the idea of a bodyguard.”

  “We’re not rock stars,” Cheyenne muttered. “We don’t need a bodyguard.”

  But Rafe only looked up at her, his gaze solemn, his face far too serious for the kid he was, and Will watched her protest die in her throat.

  “Fine,” she bit out. “But he’s going to be a pain in our ass.”

  Rafe glanced at Will with a look that said, see? That’s how it’s done. And Will realized she was right: she had been played.

  “Like white on rice, my ass,” she snorted and turned away to continue her walk to the car. “I’ve been had.”

  Rafe looked up at him as they followed her. “You’ll watch out for her, right?”

  “Yes,” Will told him. “And for you, too.”

  The boy studied him with a direct, unflinching look that made Will fear, for a moment, what he might see. Rage and hate and deep bloody cracks. But Rafe only nodded, as if satisfied with what he found.

  “My ma…she was crazy,” he said in a low voice. “She liked to hurt people. I don’t want her to hurt Cheyenne.”

  Will’s heart beat with painful intensity. He laid a hand on Rafe’s shoulder, painfully aware of the boy’s fragility. “She’s dead, Rafe. I promise.”

  But a dark, twisted smile curved Rafe’s mouth. “You didn’t know her,” he said with a shake of his head. “Being dead don’t mean a thing.”

  “Ambassador Andrew Malik. He’s the connection.”

  “Have you been calling the psychic hotline again, brother? Or did something happen I don’t know about?”

  Will eyed the black sedan in his rearview. Cheyenne was in front of him, weaving in and out of the freeway traffic like a Daytona 500 competitor, and the sky was darkening as the storm that had hovered just on the horizon for most of the morning descended.

  He didn’t know where they were going. Cheyenne had snarled at him when he’d asked.

  “Can you hack his system?” he asked, instead of answering Red’s question.

  “Of course. If I know why I should. What happened?” A long moment of silence. “You met the kid today. Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me the kid is his?”

  Will wasn’t surprised. Red was no dummy, and it wasn’t rocket science.

  “Holy shit,” Red breathed. “Holy shit.”

  Yes. Because Ambassador Malik had been wed to the middle daughter of the Saudi royal family for the last twelve years. They had three beautiful daughters, and the disclosure of his illegitimate son—with a treasonous CIA agent, no less—would not just be a scandal.

  It would be an international incident.

  “He’s the link,” Will said, certain of it. “He had access. Opportunity. Motive.”

  “Motive?”

  “Blackmail’s a bitch.”

  “Christ, she was a piece of shit.” Red’s voice was harsh and furious, and for a moment Will was surprised. Red rarely let his true feeling
s surface; he was dark and droll and deadpan. But he’d lost his brother—his twin—to Georgia’s treachery, and occasionally that rage bled through. Frankly, Will was glad to hear it. It made him feel a hell of a lot more human.

  “We need to know who reached out to her,” Will said, “and told her there were two dozen dirty bombs up for grabs in the Afghan desert.”

  “Malik and Ethan Scott are both West Point grads. They’ve been friends for two decades. I know that makes your gut ache, brother, but I’ve said it from the beginning: Scott has to be involved. Other than you and your boys, he’s the only one who knew about the cache and its location, and he and Malik were both stationed in Kabul at the time. Two and two equals four, my friend. No matter how you shake it out.”

  Except for Will’s gut, which instantly rejected the connection. Scott was married to the daughter of a United States Senator and had been part of the military establishment for the last twenty-three years. He’d been a rumored contender for the Secretary of Defense under the previous administration. It made no sense that he would seek those weapons out for any reason, let alone aid in the massacre of his own troops and get into bed with a crazy, treasonous CIA agent to do so.

  Georgia had been good; but had she been that good?

  Will didn’t buy it, but he wasn’t going to argue. “Let’s start with Malik.”

  “On it.” Red hesitated. “This complicates things.”

  “Yes,” Will said.

  “If you found the kid…”

  “So will he.”

  “Do you think Malik is capable…”

  “Of killing his own kid to protect his ass?” The darkness stirred. It had bled past the deaths of his men, the stolen weapons, the threat of dirty bombs to the civilized world, and escaped the boundaries he’d set. Useless lines. As if he’d any control. And now he found it wasn’t just himself he would fight for. Not just his own interests he would protect. As soon as he’d recognized Rafe, he’d understood protecting the boy was his, too. And Cheyenne, as well. Whether she liked it or not. Mine to keep safe. And while he understood that was not quite right—that the certainty was born within the ruined part of him—he didn’t give a damn. Because it felt like fucking hope. And right or wrong, he held tight. “The bastard committed treason to protect his secret. What do you think?”