So Wrong It's Right

by Julie Johnson

  Our gazes lock like magnets, charging the air between us in the length of a heartbeat. I tell myself to look away but I’m completely transfixed. Lost in a deep blue sea, remembering exactly what it felt like to have those indigo eyes three inches away… that body pressed close… that mouth moving against mine with urgency and heat and passion.

  It’s probably the last thing I should be thinking about, given the circumstances, but I can’t seem to force my brain to stop replaying our stolen moment against the motel wall, when we set aside our grudge match and struck a temporary truce. One sealed with an unforgettable kiss.

  Look away from him, you idiot!

  No good will come of this!

  It’s all too easy to ignore my own advice.

  The moment drags on far longer than it should. I feel heat rise to my cheeks when Agent Sykes clears her throat gently.

  “Anyway…”

  Conor’s eyes cut away to focus on her. “Status report?”

  “Evelson and Kaufman are attempting to geo-target Petrov’s cellphone to get a beat on where he’s headed.” She gestures toward the men on the sofa. “We’re also actively monitoring traffic cameras and deploying drones all over the city, trying to figure out where he went when he left the airport.”

  Conor’s jaw tightens. “Is a team in place at 29 Merriweather?”

  I jolt at the mention of my home address.

  “Yes. We’ve got snipers on a neighbor’s roof and SWAT on standby.”

  He nods tersely. “Where do we stand on the Evanoffs?”

  “They’ve been off the grid since last night. I assume they’re lying low, waiting for Petrov to arrive. Now that he’s in the country, they’ll likely rendezvous with him to deal with—” Sykes’ eyes flicker to me. She shifts nervously on her shiny black shoes.

  “Paul,” I finish for her, filling in the blank. My heart clenches with guilt when I think about him in Righty and Lefty’s not-so-gentle hands. “Do you think… is there a chance he’s still alive, then?”

  “They won’t kill him. Not yet, anyway.” Conor’s lips are a flat line. I notice all the warmth has fled his eyes. “His uncle will want a chance to deliver his own brand of justice to your husband.”

  A shiver moves through me.

  Conor sees it. His frown grows more pronounced. “Don’t worry. We’ll do our best to get him back to you before any permanent harm comes to him.”

  Back to me?

  “What—” I start, but he’s already turned to look at Lucy.

  “Any leads on their location?”

  She sighs. “Nothing solid yet.”

  “Sir, if I could interject,” one of the agents on the couch chimes in. Kaufman, I think. “We’ve got a B.O.L.O. out with all local BPD units for the vehicle they used to flee the scene. Think we may have a hit on the license plate. A sedan matching the description was just spotted parked outside an apartment building in Eastie.”

  “What’s the address, Evelson?”

  Oops. Not Kaufman.

  The agent rattles off a street in Orient Heights.

  Conor glances at Sykes with raised brows. “That’s the Petrov apartment where Paul Hunt’s been staying.”

  She nods. “Can’t be a coincidence.”

  “We swept that area yesterday. There were no signs of their car,” he mutters. “Why go back now? They have to know we’re monitoring all known Petrov properties…”

  “Maybe they thought it would be safe since we’d already done our sweep?” Sykes shrugs. “No one ever accused the Evanoffs of being particularly bright.”

  A muscle is ticking in his jaw. “Something feels off about this.”

  Her blonde brows are by her hairline. “Be that as it may, boss… we’re obligated to at least check it out.”

  “It’s too easy.”

  “Or maybe we just got lucky for once,” Sykes retorts. “Either way…”

  Conor runs a hand through his hair, then gives a shallow nod. “Do we have vests here?”

  “Hallway closet. I’ll get them.” She walks out of the room without another word.

  He turns to me. “Hunt—”

  “You’re leaving,” I say softly.

  “I have to take point on this.”

  I nod. I’m afraid to open my mouth — afraid, if I do, I’ll beg him not to leave again. Not to leave me again.

  He takes a stride toward me, a conflicted look on his face. “Evelson and Kaufman will stay here with you. We won’t be gone long.”

  I nod again.

  He takes another step closer. His voice goes low. “Hunt—”

  Whatever he’s about to say never makes it out of his mouth, because Sykes walks back into the living room carrying two black kevlar vests. They look heavy, judging by the way her arm muscles are straining as she passes one to Conor and straps herself into the other.

  My heart pounds a mad tattoo inside my chest as they prepare for the raid — loading up on ammo from the gun locker hidden inside the kitchen pantry, communicating back and forth with the tactical team at the Bureau. I’ve never felt more useless. I might as well be a piece of furniture; some decorative fruit bowl, sitting in the corner of the room with no purpose at all.

  “SWAT is en route,” Sykes tells Conor, double checking the safety of her gun. “Ready to roll?”

  “I’ll meet you at the car in two.”

  She nods, waves at me, and disappears outside.

  Alone in the kitchen with Conor, I suddenly don’t know where to look or what to say. Nothing is settled between us. In fact, after the kiss we shared earlier, things are more confusing than ever.

  I’m not sure whether we’re friends or enemies, whether we still hate each other, whether anything from here on out will be different. The only thing I am sure of is… there’s an undeniable part of me that’s terrified by the prospect of him putting himself in danger.

  Despite the heavy protective vest he’s wearing, despite the three guns I know he has strapped to various parts of his person…

  I’m so unbelievably scared that if he walks out that door, he’ll never come back through it.

  Inexplicably, I find myself wanting to cross the room to him. To close this frozen distance between us, wrap my arms around his waist, and beg him not to go.

  But that would be absurd.

  He’s a grown man. A badass FBI agent. The head of his division.

  He can take care of himself.

  He’s done this before.

  He’ll be fine.

  Still… no amount of reassurance is enough to stop the next words from popping out of my mouth.

  “Tell me you’ll be careful.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I’m always careful, Hunt.”

  My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I just…”

  His brows lift. “What?”

  “I don’t know how I’d handle any of this without you,” I admit in a whisper, my voice barely audible. “I… I need you here. I need you with me.”

  He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak… but his eyes are suddenly warm. So warm, they’re practically burning into mine as he stares at me from the threshold of the open door.

  “Plus,” I add nervously. “If you don’t come back, who’s going to boss me around and do that death-glare thing when I start to ramble and call me by my last name in a very severe tone that would probably be intimidating under different circumstances, but sort of pales in comparison to the bad guys with guns running around, continually threatening my life?”

  His lips tug up at one side. “Glad to know my services are appreciated.”

  I try to smile back at him, but my lips aren’t cooperating. “Good luck out there.”

  Conor turns and starts to walk out the door. At the last second, he pauses with his hand on the knob. He doesn’t turn around, but his gruff voice carries back to me.

  “Shelby.”

  Every muscle in my body tenses. “Conor?”

  “I’ll be back before you know it.”
/>
  Then, he’s gone — the door swinging shut behind him with finality.

  For a long, frozen instant, I stand there in the kitchen, hardly able to draw breath. After a minute, I realize it’s because something is lodged firmly in my throat.

  My heart.

  To distract myself from thinking about the Eastie raid, I take the longest shower of my life, standing beneath the hot torrent until the entire bathroom is fogged up with steam. When the water finally runs cold, I find a hairdryer in one of the vanity drawers and blow out my long locks into soft, summery waves, taking far more care than I usually would.

  I tell myself it’s merely a way to pass the time. A stalling tactic to keep my anxiety at bay.

  Certainly not because I want to look nice for someone…

  The lie would probably be easier to swallow if, afterward, I didn’t upend my toiletry bag using all my best products to achieve the perfect sultry red pout and smoky eye combination. I’m not generally a big makeup fan, preferring a fresh, natural look for most day-to-day outings, but this particular morning I find myself going all out.

  Mascara, eyeliner, lipstick.

  The whole shebang.

  To complete the ensemble, I pull a casual white linen sundress out of my duffle and slide on a pair of brown leather sandals. It’s the most put-together I’ve looked — and felt — in days.

  Not bad for a neurotic, sleep deprived gal on the run. I smirk, examining the final results in the mirror. Not bad at all.

  Back in the living room, Evelson and Kaufman are still hard at work on their laptops. Neither of them so much as glances up when I pass through on my way to the kitchen. I can’t help but admire that level of concentration.

  The clock on the wall informs me it’s not even nine in the morning. It feels more like midnight to me — probably because I’ve had about twelve cumulative seconds of sleep over the past few days. My internal clock is upside-down and backwards. Yawning cavernously, I put on a pot of coffee and settle back against the counter to wait.

  Again.

  Waiting seems to be my new specialty. It’s practically all I’ve been doing lately, whether waiting for rescue in a dining room chair, waiting to be questioned in an FBI interrogation room, waiting for answers in a crappy motel room…

  Waiting for him to come back.

  Time is ticking by in achingly slow increments. Despite my rather elaborate getting-ready routine, not even two hours have passed since Lucy and Conor left. I assure myself they’ll be back soon as I pull three mugs from the cabinets and fill them to the brim with coffee.

  Balancing a steaming cup in each hand, I make my way slowly into the living room. “Hey, I thought you guys could use some—”

  My words dry up.

  My feet go still.

  Evelson and Kaufman aren’t typing. They’re on their feet, phones pressed to their ears, both talking rapid-fire into the receivers. There are twin expressions of fear and anger on their faces as they stare across the room at the television screen mounted on the wall. And believe you me, seeing two badass dudes with giant muscles looking fearful…

  It’s enough to make my hands shake so badly, several drops of coffee spill onto the hardwood floor.

  Moving in slow motion, I pivot around to look at the television. The sound has been muted but the picture is crystal clear. As is the headline blaring across the bottom of the screen.

  EXPLOSION AT EAST BOSTON APARTMENT COMPLEX

  There’s a field reporter talking into a microphone in the foreground, but I barely see her. My eyes are fixed on the building behind her. The one that’s currently consumed by flames, a raging inferno bursting out every window, eating its way through the panels of the roof, devouring wood and stone alike. A living, breathing monster of fire.

  A new headline flashes across the screen.

  SEVERAL CONFIRMED DEAD AT SCENE

  Both coffee cups hit the floor, shattering into pieces on impact.

  Chapter Eleven

  TAKE IT OFF

  I watch the clock.

  One more hour.

  Still no news.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drumming my restless fingertips against the surface. Evelson and Kaufman are long gone. They left me here alone as soon as we saw what happened during the raid. I’m not sure where they went.

  I’m not sure I care.

  There’s no room in my head for anything except a single thought. It’s more of a prayer, actually, repeated to the heavens over and over until the words lose all meaning. Until they’re nothing but useless syllables strung together with fragile hope and a shaky sense of faith.

  Please be alive.

  Please be alive.

  Please be alive.

  I couldn’t watch the news coverage anymore. The networks are spinning a bogus story about a gas leak in the condo complex — whether the result of an FBI coverup or sheer journalistic ineptitude, it matters little. They don’t have the answers I’m so desperate for.

  Before they took off for the scene, Kaufman and Evelson told me there was an ambush at the apartment. They didn’t know the details — just that, as soon as the SWAT team stepped through the front door, they unknowingly triggered a special gift left behind by the Evanoffs.

  The whole room exploded.

  And, with it, several FBI agents.

  Please not him.

  Please not him.

  Please not him.

  I drop my face into my hands, struggling to breathe. Struggling to believe this is my new reality. Kidnappings and firefights and explosions. Fraud and blackmail and death.

  My life has become an action movie.

  But it’s so strange… because those onscreen heroines I’ve spent years watching in films, cheering for in theaters… they’re pictured on the front lines, battling it out blow by blow with the bad guys. They lead the charge into every fight, their courage never faltering. And in the end, they always, always, always walk away victorious.

  I’m learning the hard way that real life is nothing like the movies.

  There are no assured victories. No easy paths to defeating your enemies. No soaring scores to spotlight the importance of a particularly poignant moment.

  Sometimes, the heroine isn’t perfect.

  Sometimes, she’s not a born warrior at all.

  She’s just a normal girl, pulled from the sidelines into the fray.

  And maybe she doesn’t fight battles against dragons or Vikings or vampire lords. Maybe the biggest battle she ever has to endure is also the hardest one of all — the battle to hold on to the thin thread of hope that things will work out in the end. Even if there’s no award-winning script to guide her way. Even when the fortunes appear dire. Even when the odds are stacked against her.

  I look up.

  I watch the clock.

  And I hope.

  There are certain moments that, even as they’re happening, you know you’ll remember with perfect clarity for the rest of your life. Fragments of time you’ll look back on in fifty, sixty, seventy years and replay in your aging mind with razor-sharp acuity.

  Every element. Every facet. Every detail.

  The sound of a car door slamming.

  The sight of a man stepping into a sun-drenched kitchen.

  The smell of smoke and fire and sweat.

  The feel of arms coming around you, holding you close.

  I fly from my seat. One minute I’m at the kitchen table and the next I’m standing in front of him, staring up into his face. His beautiful goddamned face, still streaked with black from the fire. He reeks of ash and looks like hell.

  I don’t care.

  I don’t think.

  I don’t wait.

  I hurl myself against his chest, arms going tight around his waist, head tucking in the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. Hugging him fiercely, as though I’m afraid that letting go, even for a moment, might make him somehow disappear.

  He’s alive.

  He’s breathing.


  He’s here.

  For a minute, he just stands there unmoving. But after a while, I feel his arms lift from his sides — tentatively, like he’s not entirely sure whether he’s doing it properly — and slide around my back. His soot-stained fingers press against my white dress, tugging me into him. Closer, closer, closer. Until we’re pressed so tight together I can barely breathe.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Breath doesn’t matter. I don’t need air in my lungs. I don’t need anything except this. Him. Here with me, alive and sturdy and blessedly retaining the full use of all four limbs.

  Releasing a shuddering breath, Conor’s chin lowers to rest on the crown of my head. I feel the tension go out of him in a gust as he allows himself to sink fully into the embrace. Surrendering to his own need for comfort after a day of flames and fear and uncertainty.

  I lose track of how long we stand there, twined together. Taking comfort in a wordless embrace. When we finally pull apart, I don’t let go. Not completely. I keep my fingers laced with his as I peer up at him.

  For once, his emotions aren’t closely guarded; they’re brimming over, burning bright at the the surface, exposed for the world to see. His face is etched in sadness, his eyes are red with grief.

  It damn near breaks my heart.

  “Oh, Conor…”

  He sighs when I say his name. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  His jaw clenches as he struggles to find the words. “I was still in the hallway when the bomb went off. Got tossed into a wall. A few bumps and bruises. Nothing serious.”

  “That doesn’t sound like nothing,” I argue. “Getting thrown—”

  “Hunt.” He cuts me off sharply. “There’s more. You need to prepare yourself.”

  “What? What is it? ”

  His eyes hold mine, full of anguish. He hesitates a beat, then murmurs just one word. “Sykes.”

  “No! No.” My heart is lead, my stomach stone. “No, she can’t be—”

  “She’s still alive,” he assures me immediately. “But it’s… it’s not good. She’s in the ICU. Critical condition. They don’t know whether she’s going to make it through the night.”