Hushed Guardian: Brandon's Story

by Shandi Boyes

  I’m taken back when I discover Izzy with her back braced against the shelves. Her face is colorless, and she looks like she’s been crying. I haven’t dealt with a crying girl for years. I don’t know if I have what’s needed for this job, but I have no choice but to suck it up. Izzy spotted my approach the instant the door creaked open.

  “I heard you had to work through your lunch break.” I join her sitting on the floor before leaning in to bump my shoulder against hers like an A-grade fucking moron. I told you I’m not cut out for this shit.

  She cleans away the blobs of mascara under her eyes while saying, “Yeah. I think Alex is more watchful than either of us perceived.”

  I delivered the coffees to our office as per Harlow’s request. Since Izzy was on deck, I gave them to her to distribute with the hope Alex would fail to notice she had arrived late. Either annoyed his coffee was stone-cold, or smarter than he looks, Alex took his annoyance out on Isabelle by demanding she work through lunch for her tardiness.

  Once the mess is cleared from Izzy’s face, I ask, “Why are you crying?”

  She hands me a photograph that has scarcely chewed cookie dough racing up my food pipe. This is an image I anticipated seeing in Tobias’s files at some stage, but it shouldn’t be in the evidence Isabelle is scanning in the Bureau’s mainframes.

  My eyes snap to Izzy when she says, “Ophelia Whitney Petretti was only nineteen years old when the car she was driving was struck by a B-double truck that veered onto the wrong side of the road. She was killed on impact.”

  I swallow several times in a row to force down the bile scorching my throat before taking in the photograph Isabelle is convinced is Ophelia Petretti more diligently—brown hair, light brown eyes, and the tiniest heart-shaped mole on her neck. I’ve seen them all before, however, this woman’s name isn’t Ophelia. It’s Olivia. Isn’t it?

  Isabelle must be mistaken. She’s confusing a woman once under protective custody with Isaac’s deceased girlfriend. A mishap is understandable. I almost had a coronary when I ran into a woman I was convinced was Olivia during my first consignment at Ravenshoe. The resemblance was uncanny, but thankfully, she was years too young to be Olivia.

  That doesn’t mean I didn’t search her credentials to back up my claims. The stranger’s name was Emily McIntosh. From the polite apology she gave when she bumped into me, I wondered if she had any clue on how closely tied her family is with the Italian cartel. Her father could have been as high as Col in the Petretti entity if Col’s father had granted birthrights to the children his whores birthed. Since he refused to acknowledge Emily’s father in his family hierarchy out of respect for his wife, Emily’s grandmother refused to give their son his last name.

  Although Emily is Dimitri’s first cousin, I couldn’t locate any evidence that they had met. They live one town apart but have starkly different lives. Emily’s family lived close to the poverty lines when she was a child, but I’m confident in saying it was Dimitri who got the short end of the stick. He grew up thinking blood and gore were normal. I’m shocked he’s as stable as he is.

  A sob rumbling in Isabelle’s chest returns my focus to the present, and has me stupidly saying the first thing that pops into my head. “I read the police report on her accident over the weekend. It’s always sad when you hear of any life being taken too soon.”

  I’m not lying. I did read the report on Ophelia and CJ’s accident. It just wasn’t because I felt sorry for them. It was because the officer on the incident report was the same officer who was killed during a routine traffic stop years ago. He was another connection that proves how tightly woven the mafia entities are that we’re chasing.

  The crazy notions filtering through my head double when Isabelle hands me a second photograph. It’s a picture of Isaac and Olivia together. It’s time-stamped a few hours before the time cited in the traffic incident report of Ophelia’s death.

  “Isaac and Ophelia were a couple?” You have no idea how hard that question was for me to articulate. I worked it through my head a million times, and I still nearly said Olivia instead of Ophelia.

  When Isabelle nods, I think with my rational head instead of the one spiraling out of control. “You have to tell Alex you’ve unearthed the connection between Isaac and Col Petretti. This will get you off coffee and filing duties in an instant.”

  Always end every hard truth with a joke is something my mom always suggests. It’s supposed to smooth out any awkwardness before you leap into the bigger hitting stuff. I don’t see it working quite as well for me this time around, but when you’re drowning in shit, you take any life raft offered.

  Eager to practice my swing, I leap up from the ground before spinning around to help Isabelle off the floor. The adrenaline surging through me has me yanking on her arm a little too sharply. Her chest slaps mine, producing an unexpected moan from her O-formed mouth.

  Horrified by her body’s response to our closeness, she takes a step back before straightening the crinkles in her blouse. Once she has everything in order, her eyes stray back to the copier only capable of scanning one page at a time. I felt sorry for Isabelle when Alex shunted this task on to her, but in a way, I also understood his objective. He has a compromised Honey Pot. That’s a death sentence for some supervisors.

  “I don’t have time to type up a report on their relationship. This scanning will take me months as it is.” When Isabelle shifts on her feet to face me, I wipe the riled expression off my face. “You spent your weekend going through Col’s file. Eventually, you would have discovered these photos yourself.” She gives me a pleading look, having no idea how much she’s asking. “If you’re willing to type up the report, I’ll let Alex believe you discovered the photos.”

  “I don’t want to take your credit, Izzy.” It also isn’t a conversation I want to have with Alex until I have all my ducks lined up in a row.

  “You’re not taking my credit, Brandon,” Isabelle assures, stepping closer. “You’re helping me out. I’m snowed under here.” She waves her hand across the stacks of boxes she still has left to scan. In a normal office, a task like this would take a day or two at most. But since the copier here requires manual loading of each page, Izzy will be stuck in here for months. “This isn’t even a small dent in the boxes left in the conference room.”

  I take a few minutes to deliberate on a response. In all honesty, my initial reply is hell-to-the-fucking-no, but a bit of pondering breaks a small ray of sunshine through the thick cloud hovering over my head. If I disclose the information Isabelle unearthed to Alex while revealing I could have a possible connection with our target’s past, I won’t have to include my discussion with Dimitri in our conversation. It’s a win-win really. I get to keep an informant’s identity undisclosed while ensuring the Bureau continues hunting the right man.

  Relief floods Isabelle’s eyes when I jerk up my chin, approving her suggestion for me to compile the report to present to Alex. “But you’ll get the credit for finding the connection between Isaac and Col.”

  I leave the supply room like I have a rocket strapped to my back. I should go straight to my desk to commence drafting my report, but instead, I head to the roof for some privacy. And perhaps to assure myself I’m not going crazy.

  When several long minutes of sucking in fresh air doesn’t budge the elephant from my chest, I dig my cell phone out of my pocket and dial a number I rarely use.

  “Petretti’s Restaurant, are you making a reservation or placing an order?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat before saying, “I wish to order the Peking duck. I heard the orange glaze is divine.”

  The hostess says nothing. She just patches me through to the private number I’m requesting. When Dimitri answers two rings later, I crack like a teen under pressure. “Can you send me a photo of your sister?”

  “What?”

  “I need a photo of your sister. A photo of Ophelia. The Bureau has some on file they believe are her. I want to double-check that they are
her. They make fuck-ups all the time. This could be a fuck-up.”

  “All right. Calm down. Which contact?” Dimitri’s tone reveals he’s only doing this because of the heads-up I gave him about the IRS. If it were for any other reason, he would have hung up by now.

  After sweeping the area to ensure it’s free of nosy-parkers, I say, “The secure email server Grayson set up two years ago.”

  “The one you told me to only use in dire circumstances?”

  “Yes!” I run my fingers through my hair when my voice ricochets off the rooftop. “This is an emergency. I need a photo as soon as possible.”

  Since nothing but sheer desperation is echoing in my tone, my phone pings two seconds later before Dimitri advises me to check my emails. I fumble so much I almost drop my phone when I lower it from my ear. Fear isn’t something I readily feel, but I’m certain it’s the cause of the shaking of my hands when I log into my email to download the image Dimitri attached to an email that will disappear within thirty seconds of me opening it.

  After taking in the image Dimitri sent that unequivocally confirms my Olivia is Isaac’s Ophelia, I squash my phone back against my ear. I’m tempted to smack it against my head another six times for good measure, but hold my punishment for a more appropriate time. “When did Ophelia die?”

  “Six years ago—”

  “Not the year. The actual date.”

  I know the answer I’m seeking. I read her death certificate three times this weekend and have the ability to retain anything I read, but my brain is nothing but puree right now. I’m stunned I can talk, even more so when Dimitri replies, “January 14th.”

  It reveals I have more than a minute connection with our target’s past. It could completely fuck me over.

  I bedded a mafia princess.

  A mafia princess who had supposedly died nine months before we fooled around.

  Fuck!

  21

  Brandon

  Alex’s head pops up from a family planning clinic brochure he’s perusing when I knock on his office door. Since it’s the same family clinic he requested me to hack into while on bereavement leave almost a year ago, I dither the reason for my visit for the umpteenth time the past four weeks. I understand the pain you experience when the woman you love leaves you, but I can only imagine how bad it feels to discover a receipt in her name at a clinic known for abortions.

  I can’t get over the fact Melody cheated on me, but the disbelieving gasp that left Alex’s mouth when I confirmed an R. Myers had attended her appointment at Westminster Family Planning Clinic two months after they separated made me realize it could have been much worse. Melody destroyed us, but Regan destroyed something of Alex’s he can never get back. That’s a fierce burn for any man to digest.

  When Alex arches his brow, prompting me that I’m the one interrupting him, not the other way around, I grind out the first excuse that pops into my head. “That report you wanted on Colt Enterprises has been uploaded to the Bureau’s servers.”

  He slouches low into his chair. “Anything I need to be aware of?”

  I shake my head before spinning on my heels and stalking back to my desk. Today isn’t the first time I’ve tried to come clean about my connection with Ophelia Petretti. My first attempt was the morning after I discovered Olivia Wilde, once an informant for Tobias, is Ophelia Petretti, Isaac Holt’s supposed ‘deceased’ girlfriend. Alex was adamant if it wouldn’t grant him an arrest warrant for Isaac, he wasn’t interested in anything I had to say.

  He’s always been a hard-ass, but it’s grown substantially worse the morning he, Isabelle, and I had an unintended strategy meeting in the conference room at HQ. He has his sights set on one man, making him not only blind to how dangerous revenge is, but he also has no clue to the rift it’s causing his team and family. I doubt he’s even aware how deeply undercover Grayson went weeks ago. That’s how far his head is up his own ass.

  I’ve only just reached my desk when Alex whizzes by. “I’ll be back in around an hour. Keep an eye on things for me until then.” I glance behind my shoulder, certain he’s talking to someone else.

  When I fail to find anyone around me, I stray my eyes to his. “Me?”

  “Keep playing the dumb card, Brandon. You have everyone here fooled.” Alex shoves the pamphlet for the family planning clinic into his pocket before shifting on his feet to face me, placing on his jacket at the same time. “Except me.” His words are projected at me, but his eyes reveal the real recipient of his scorn. He’s doubting no one but himself right now. He’s wearing the same look now he had last month when I told him Westminster didn’t lodge electronic documentation on the procedures their patients have. “I want Isaac’s movement sheets logged before I return.”

  Stealing my chance to say they’re already uploaded, he leaves HQ. I slump into my chair before firing up my computer so I can sort through the information I was working on before my real job overtook my pretend one. There are so many threads Grayson and I are picking at, my head feels overloaded. It also feels empty. Don’t ask me how you can have two contradicting responses. I’m just telling you how it is. My fuck-up with Olivia, sorry, correction, Ophelia, almost cost me my career before I joined the Bureau. However, it was nothing compared to what it cost me personally. She’s the reason Melody and I haven’t spoken in years.

  I’ve always been pissed that Melody wouldn’t give me the chance to explain myself, but when I sat down and truly looked at the facts, I understood her hesitation. The way Olivia tried to manipulate me should have disclosed her true entity long before Isabelle did, but I brushed off her nastiness as a consequence of grief.

  Even to this date, details are sketchy, but one fact has never altered. I met Olivia the night her brother was abducted. Tobias needed the man assigned to Olivia’s watch on the ground. Since I wasn’t yet qualified for field service, I volunteered to babysit an alleged ‘harmless’ informant.

  When Olivia was made aware of the reason for the change-up, she was clearly emotional. Since it was the anniversary of Joey’s death, I wasn’t fairing much better. We didn’t react to the instant attraction we felt until after we’d consumed two bottles of wine with a greasy pizza and pasta combination.

  The instant it was over, I knew I had fucked-up. It wasn’t the fact I’d slept with an informant that had me instantly regretting my decision, it was the bitch-flip I seemingly turned on while fucking Olivia that had me backpedaling. We fucked, there’s no doubt about that. It wasn’t a sweet, let’s-take-it-slow lovemaking session, but not at one stage did Olivia ask me to stop, slow down, or any of the other words you’d expect to hear when the other half of your fuckfest isn’t in it. She screamed for more, begged me to go harder, then initiated a second round the next morning when we woke in a groggy, twisted mess.

  It was then that she mentioned how much trouble I could be in if I didn’t do as asked. I stared at her, shocked as fuck at her gall. She wasn’t just attempting to blackmail me into sleeping with her again, she wanted information she wasn’t privy to. Hell, at the time, I wasn’t even privileged to the files she wanted.

  When I refused to bow to her demands, she said she’d say the event we undertook the night before wasn’t mutually agreed upon. I told her to go ahead with her plans, aware intimidation was the highest form of flattery.

  I assumed she’d back down.

  I was dead fucking wrong.

  She hung me out to dry, her deception only losing steam when she found another sucker to sink her claws into. The last I heard, they married within weeks of him being assigned to her case. Yep, you heard me right. He was a fellow agent. As far as I’m aware, he still works for the Bureau, although I don’t know in what position or where. Tobias pulled me so far off Olivia’s case. Up until four weeks ago, I hadn’t heard her name in years, much less had an awareness of her real identity.

  I wish I had paid more attention. Not only would it have saved Tobias months of grief, I wouldn’t be feeling the scold of Olivia’s
burn years later. Fortunately for me, I got out after one sting. Her husband can’t say the same thing.

  My thoughts shift from the past to the present when a ding on my computer demands my attention. It’s a ping announcing that one of the many names I logged into Ravenshoe Domestic Airport’s servers months ago found a match. Although the visitor isn’t one of the big hitters the Bureau has been chasing the past ten plus years, he’s definitely of interest.

  While grabbing my coat off the coat rack, I dial Alex’s cell phone, cursing when I hear it vibrating on his desk. I could leave him a message stating Albert Sokolov, right-hand man to Russian mafia cartel leader, Vladimir Popov, has decided to pop into Ravenshoe for a visit, but I’d rather produce evidence along with my findings, so I head for the door before his voicemail greeting is halfway done.

  “Michelle, if Alex returns before me, tell him to check his emails.” I set it up so any alerts are automatically forwarded to Alex’s email.

  Michelle gives me the same gaga face she always does Alex before nodding. “Shall I tell him where you’re going?”

  I consider a reply for all of two seconds before shaking my head. “No. I don’t want him chewing me up and spitting me out for having an early lunch.” I could tell her where I’m going, she’s technically the same rank as me, but since Albert’s visit skims along the line that separates my personal life from my work, I’m not so eager. If Albert is here for Isabelle, more than legalities could be at play.

  “I’ll keep it our little secret.” Michelle’s tone indicates she’s hoping I’ll pay my restitution with more than an iced mocha from Harlow’s. She’s shit out of luck. It’s been a while since I’ve played sheet-twister, but I’m not that desperate. Even if she wasn’t pushing forty, and agents aren’t technically informants, it’s still a no-go for me.