A Kiss to Kill Page 6

  A medic had checked over their cuts and bruises at the Coast Guard facility in Portsmouth, then Rebel and the Coasties from the RB-M had endured a meticulous two-hour debrief by Homeland Security on what exactly had happened on the Allah’s Paradise.

  The Coast Guard was part of the Department of Homeland Security, and DHS had apparently contracted STORM to track down some kind of “trigger” referenced in an e-mail intercepted from an al Sayika operative. Well, didn’t it just figure they’d send the one STORM agent on the planet who could tie her in knots and blow her world to smithereens?

  After their debrief, Alex had driven her back to NFO, just over the bridge. The two of them now sat side-by-side squished into her postage stamp-sized work cubicle, attempting to come up with some kind of plan for how to proceed with the case of the exploding yacht. Which, somehow, they had ended up working on together.

  Not that anyone had asked her.

  But unfortunately, she’d already used up her daily quota of Divine Intervention mere seconds after Alex had dropped that unnerving bomb.

  Mind if I stay at your place?

  She’d been struck into dumbfounded silence at his total departure from their long-established platonic—their maddeningly, frustratingly, and no doubt very wisely platonic—relationship, after which she’d stammered out some nonsense about working late while she frantically tried to sort out her reaction to that bolt out of the blue.

  Luckily, she’d been saved from an actual coherent verbal response when Lieutenant Montgomery had summoned him to a conference call between the Coast Guard and STORM Command regarding how to go about reaching the sunken yacht to search it for the unknown “trigger.” They believed the terrorists had blown up the yacht either to destroy it, or to conceal evidence that would lead them to it.

  Alex was to lead the search. Which meant there was no way possible for her to avoid working with him.

  For the rest of the morning, every time she felt he was on the verge of bringing up the whole can-I-stay-with-you subject again, she’d managed to head it off at the pass. But she knew her moment of reckoning would soon be nigh and he would demand an answer, whether she was ready to give it or not.

  Did she mind his presence in her apartment? Possibly in her bed? Was she really ready for this?

  What on earth should she say? More importantly, what on earth should she do?

  Meanwhile, she was stuck sitting thigh to thigh with the man in the tight confines of her cubicle, feeling embarrassment creep up her neck at his deliberate study of the pictures and other personal items she had pinned to her partition walls. Thankfully, she hadn’t put up her favorite photo of him—determined to have a fresh start and all that—which she’d had prominently displayed in her New York cubicle before transferring south four months ago. How mortifying would that have been?

  Mentally she steeled herself and sat down in the chair crammed next to him, indicating the file she’d just plopped onto the desk. “This is everything we’ve been able to dig up on the owners of Allah’s Paradise and her ports of call over the last ten weeks.” Perhaps not surprisingly, her last stop had been in Louisiana. The state seemed to be a favorite of al Sayika for some reason. “No reports of a missing nuclear trigger in the U.S. or anywhere else,” Rebel told him. Despite two other agents plus herself working diligently on information-gathering for the past few hours, the jacket was depressingly thin. “How ’bout your people? Any luck?”

  Alex picked up the file but didn’t open it. “A bit. Nothing on a missing trigger, either. But Darcy was able to run the fingerprints from the dead guy’s gun you picked up, as well as our wounded prisoner’s. Found matches.” He slid a pair of printouts over to her. “Their names are Hassan Mina and Gibran Allawi Bakreen.”

  She looked at the reports in surprise. “But we ran both those sets of prints here at the Bureau, and nothing came up. Not from AFIS, the military, or NCVIC.” The usual fingerprint databases.

  “STORM has other resources,” he said.

  “Like what?” She’d dealt with STORM Corps briefly during the Gina Cappozi rescue back in December, but everyone associated with the outfit had been pretty tight-lipped. Especially Darcy Zimmerman. Her respect for the woman’s abilities rose considerably.

  He regarded her for a moment, as though even he was weighing how much to say. “STORM Corps is one of the best PMCs—private military contractors—in existence. We’ve been hired by nearly every major international company at one time or another, and a couple dozen foreign governments. Rescue and retrieval missions, mostly, but also sensitive strategic operations that possibly corrupt local military or law enforcement can’t be trusted to carry out. Part of our contract is a clause that gives us absolute access to all clients’ intelligence databases.”

  Wow. “And these companies and governments trust a PMC enough to allow that?”

  “They have no choice. STORM Corps isn’t just any random PMC. We’re in big demand worldwide and can pick and choose our jobs. It’s a deal-breaker clause.”

  Incredible. Her bosses would kill to have access to that level of information. No wonder he’d hesitated before telling her. “Don’t your clients cut you off after the mission is over?”

  He smiled. “Darcy is really good at her job. So are all our other comp specs.”

  “I’m beginning to see that.” But better she didn’t. “And what else has Darcy found out about our unsubs? Are they al Sayika?”

  “Suspected,” he said. “France had the dead guy on a terrorist watch list, and the wounded one in custody is wanted for questioning in Sweden in conjunction with the foiled kidnapping of a member of parliament.”

  She gave a low whistle. “So the yacht being in Chesapeake Bay so close to Washington, D.C., that’s probably no coincidence.”

  “Definitely not. The bay gives ready access to the Potomac River, which runs practically straight to the White House. I think it’s a pretty safe bet our boys were planning something nasty, with D.C. as the target.”

  “And possibly involving a nuclear trigger.” The thought raised the hair on the back of her neck. “But what, exactly?”

  “That,” he said determinedly, “is what you and I are going to find out.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” she asked, ever practical. Even with the two men’s names, they had precious little to go on. And their only living suspect was in surgery for his gunshot wound and wouldn’t be available for questioning for hours, if not days.

  Alex leaned back in his chair. “First thing is to search the yacht. If we’re lucky, we’ll find the trigger somewhere onboard.”

  “Unless that blur of movement I saw before the ship exploded really was another terrorist jumping overboard, and he took it with him,” she said with a frown.

  “We should be able to tell from our search how many men were on the boat.”

  “True. Except for one minor detail,” she reminded him. “That yacht is now at the bottom of the bay.”

  “Not an obstacle,” he said evenly. “Ready to go diving?”

  She hiked her brows. “Excuse me?”

  He gave her what might have passed for an impish smile, except it didn’t quite reach his half-lidded eyes. “You and me. Sexy wet suits. Sharing oxygen. Finding booty . . .”

  The double meaning was a little too obvious to miss, but she pretended anyway. “Alex, you know very well I haven’t been scuba diving in years.” They’d always talked about her getting recertified so they could dive together, but it had never happened.

  The curve of his smile didn’t alter, but something distinctly unhumorous dimmed the sexual glitter in his eyes. The air shifted like quicksilver. “That’s not what I heard.”

  For a second she was confused. Then she realized what he must be alluding to: the trip to the Caribbean she’d taken in January with SAC Wade Montana. Someone must have told him about it. Helena most likely, since she and Alex had still been happily engaged at the time. Or maybe Gina or Rainie. Rebel had stayed in touch with
both women after Gina’s rescue last December.

  She looked Alex in the eye. “You heard wrong,” she said.

  He shrugged but didn’t look away. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I can recertify you myself.”

  “Since when?” she asked, surprised. This was new.

  “Since I got bored at Haven Oaks and did the full instructor course there. Commander Quinn can fax your recert to the boat if you pass. Which you will.”

  She straightened at the part he’d glossed over. “What boat?”

  This time, his lips curved for real. “STORM has arranged a cabin cruiser for us.”

  The man was just full of surprises today. She arched her brows again. “What, the Coast Guard’s ships aren’t good enough?”

  “Let’s just say we have some specialized equipment.” As he said it, he finally broke eye contact and looked down at the file he still held in his hand.

  She was getting a little tired of hearing how great STORM’s resources were. What was the FBI? Chopped liver? “Such as . . . ?” she asked.

  “Besides,” he said, adroitly sidestepping her question, “I don’t like being dependent on other agencies.” He opened the file and began to peruse it. Completely avoiding her gaze.

  A curl of suspicion threaded through her. “Alex, what are you not telling me?”

  At that, he did look up. Aloud, he said nothing, but in his expression she could read the answer perfectly. Plenty.

  Just then, Special Agent in Charge Carballosa came around the corner of her cubicle. “Made any headway yet?” he asked.

  Alex switched focus to the SAC. “Still too early to tell,” he said with a straight face.

  Her boss held out an envelope to him. “This was delivered for you.”

  “Thanks.” Alex took it, ripped it open at the end, and shook out the contents. A set of keys dropped onto his palm. “Excellent. Our transpo.” He shot her an unreadable glance.

  Carballosa made to leave. “You good to go, Haywood? Clear on your orders?”

  Hold on. “What orders, sir?”

  The SAC’s gaze flicked between Alex and her. “Mr. Zane didn’t fill you in?”

  A desperate feeling tightened her gut. “Apparently not, sir.”

  “A task force will be up and running by end of day to deal with this situation,” he informed her. “STORM Corps is working with DHS and the Coast Guard. You’ve been assigned to coordinate exchange of info between the Bureau and STORM Corps.”

  Relief spiraled through her. Was that all? “Be happy to, sir.”

  “Good,” he said, and made to leave. “Call me personally with an update at least twice a day.”

  Wait. “Where will you be?” she asked.

  “Right here,” he said. “Mr. Zane said you’d be out of the office for a few days.”

  Out of . . . ? Her stomach dropped. “Why would I—”

  “You’re on loan to STORM for the duration, Haywood. From now on, you’ll take your orders from them”—Carballosa gestured at Alex—“through Mr. Zane, here.”

  Her jaw dropped in consternation. “But—”

  “And Special Agent Haywood?”

  She stifled her cry of protest. “Yes, sir?”

  “You make damn sure we find that trigger before whatever shit these fuckers’ve got planned for this country hits the fan. Understood?” With that, SAC Carballosa turned on a toe and disappeared around the corner of the cubicle.

  Good thing, because she couldn’t have squeezed a word past her blossoming outrage to save her life.

  And she really didn’t want any witnesses to the homicide she was about to commit.

  She rounded on Alex. “Under your command?” she ground out.

  He regarded her with glittering eyes. “Has a certain ring to it, I must say.”

  She clamped her jaw. “Look. I don’t know what’s gotten into you about . . .” She stopped, unable to say it.

  One golden brow quirked in blatant challenge.

  She felt her face flame, but lowered her voice and gritted out, “I don’t know where you got the idea I would just fall into bed with you now that you’re free, but—”

  “No?” He snorted, anger hardening his expression. “Really?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  “You’ll fuck an asswipe like Wade Montana five minutes after you meet him, but not the man you’ve been in love with for five years?”

  Indignation surged through her. “How dare you—” She broke off, infuriated not so much because it wasn’t true . . . but because it was, and they both knew it. “Wade is a good man.”

  But she still chastised herself for her weakness in getting involved with Wade in the first place, and had done so since succumbing to his whirlwind seduction at the precise moment when she’d been at her most vulnerable—right after Alex and Helena had set a date for their wedding.

  How could she have known their engagement would be called off less than two months later and they’d break up for good?

  Not that that should make a difference. Alex had made his choice of women very clear long ago, and only a desperate fool would allow herself to accept second place in his heart.

  No matter how much she loved him.

  A woman had her pride.

  Of course, no one in this conversation, least of all Alex Zane, had mentioned anything about hearts. Or heaven forbid, love.

  “How dare you?” she repeated, anger at herself fueling her outrage.

  He leaned into her space. “Our kiss this morning, that’s how.”

  She leaned backward, dashed by the cold truth of that, too. “Y-you caught me off guard.”

  Again, he gave a derisive snort. “Fucking bullshit.”

  “Language, Zane,” she admonished.

  “Pretend all you like, angel, but I know you want me. Dump the bastard.” He leaned closer and murmured coaxingly, “Be with me.”

  How long had she wished and prayed to hear him say those three little words? Well. Or three little words to that effect.

  “You’re not being fair,” she murmured.

  “How so?” He reached for her. He curled his fingers behind her neck and pulled her face toward his. “You don’t love him. You can’t possibly love him.”

  That’s not what she’d meant. She and Wade had decided to keep things casual and non-exclusive after that disastrous trip to the Caribbean, and had since drifted apart pretty much permanently. No, she didn’t love him. How could she? “That’s not the point,” she said.

  “I’m not asking for a commitment, Rebel.”

  Yeah. That was the point. Alex didn’t want her, he only wanted sex.

  As though sensing the direction of her thoughts, he brushed his lips tantalizingly over hers, and said, “I’ll be with you for as long as you want me, angel. I promise.”

  Her heart gave a stutter. Could he really mean that?

  Why not? Alex Zane was the most loyal person she knew. When he gave his word, he kept it. He’d proven that over and over again in the past. With Helena, for instance.

  But could Rebel really trust him now? Being a virtual prisoner of war, going through such unspeakable horrors for so long, it must have changed him. How could it not have?

  Was he still the same man he’d been before his ordeal? And even if he was, could she live with the knowledge that she was his second choice and always would be?

  He pressed his lips more firmly to hers. Warm. Persuasive .

  “Trust me,” he urged softly.

  Could she?

  She swallowed heavily. Torn as never before. She needed time. “Let me think about it,” she said.

  He gave her a masculine, satisfied smile, as though her answer were already a given. “Take all the time you need.” He kissed her one last time. “Now let’s go pack you an overnight bag. We’re moving onto the boat.”

  FIVE

  “MCPHEE.”

  Sarah punched the blinking line on her desk phone, hoping against hope it was the corone
r calling to let her know the autopsy of the Dumpster vic had been postponed indefinitely. Or better yet, had been moved up unexpectedly and, oh, hell, she’d missed it.

  “Detective McPhee, this is FBI Special Agent in Charge Wade Montana.”

  Sarah picked up a pen in surprise. “Yes?” she said cautiously, glanced at the clock, then quickly scribbled down his name, the date and time. “What can I do for you, SAC Montana?”

  “You ran a fingerprint search last night, on a woman named Asha Mahmood.”

  Speak of the devil. Sarah’d gotten back to the station late last night after interviewing witnesses—none of whom had seen anything, surprise, surprise. But someone in the medical examiner’s office had also been burning the midnight oil and e-mailed over a clean set of the vic’s prints. So she’d run them, and come up with the name, an address that upon investigation this morning turned out to be fake, and not much else.

  “Yes, I ran her prints,” she said. One thing she’d learned in her varied encounters with the agents of Uncle Sam: never volunteer anything to a feeb. Always make them ask.

  “May I ask what it was about?”

  She smiled wryly. At least he was polite. Nice voice, too. Smooth. Cultured. She could just picture him in his natty blue suit and red-striped tie. Or was he more of a Men in Black with reflecto sunglasses guy?

  “May I ask why you want to know?” she returned just as politely.

  There was a pause. Yeah, here it comes. She didn’t know what, but federal interest in a case or a vic always spelled trouble, no matter how nice the guy’s voice.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he said.

  She was shocked, shocked. “Oh. Well. What a coincidence,” she said pleasantly. “I can’t, either.”

  “Detective McPhee,” he said with studied patience, “I would sincerely appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”

  “And what matter is that, SAC Montana?”

  He sighed. And to her surprise, chuckled. “Okay. I surrender. Tell you what. Why don’t we meet and discuss this over lunch? My treat.”